Unlike most mascots, Mr. Met is not a literal representation of his team, perhaps because the abstract “Metropolitans” didn’t suggest a more obvious candidate. Still, in some ways it’s a curious choice. Mr. Met — with his wide, perpetual grin; his aw-shucks demeanor; and a noggin that would never fit on the 7 train — hardly seems like a native New Yorker. The official Mets biography is vague on his origins: Mr. Met, like a Greek god, simply manifests. “On the first spring morning of ’63, with the dew still dampening Coogan’s Bluff, Casey Stengel, the old skipper of the young Mets, saw a figure in the distance. Deep in the Polo Grounds’ center field stood a fan like no other — a fan clearly born to root for the New York Mets.” It goes on to explain that he can’t talk because he shouted himself hoarse rooting for his team. It can’t help that he has a gigantic baseball for a head, and that his mouth is permanently fixed in a silent grin (or scream).
Sadie Stein, “Mr. Met”, The New York Times Magazine (21 May 2017), 34.