By BRIAN COSTA
PORT ST. LUCIE, Fla.—During their disappointing 2012 season, the Jets became known for the butt fumble, caused by quarterback Mark Sanchez's unfortunate collision with teammate Brandon Moore's rear end. Across town, the Mets are countering with a derrière distinction of their own: the butt dialer.
That would be Jay Horwitz, the team's longtime director of media relations. Several times per week, and sometimes several times per day, Horwitz accidentally calls a current or former member of the organization. He has mistakenly awakened team executives at 4 a.m., roused coaches late at night and left former Mets around the league puzzled by missed calls from him.
Marc Serota for the Wall Street Journal Jay Horwitz, the Mets' longtime public-relations man, is often on the phone. Unfortunately, he also is often misdialing it.
Horwitz, 67, may be the Cal Ripken Jr. of public-relations men, hardly ever taking a day off. But he is the Barry Bonds of butt dialers, putting up staggering numbers and shattering all records. By now, his career butt dials number in the thousands.
"I swear to God, I don't know how I do it," Horwitz said. "I'm not real mechanical."
Like most butt dials, the ones from Horwitz's phone are caused when it shifts in the pocket of his pants. It usually happens when he's walking or sitting. For whatever reason, he refuses to lock his BlackBerry.
As one of Major League Baseball's longest-tenured employees—he has been on the job since 1980—Horwitz also has a massive contacts list. He estimates there are more than 1,000 numbers stored in his phone. How this happens is a mystery to him, but more often than not, the people he butt-dials are the ones he rarely, if ever, intentionally calls.
"It's so strange because there is no rhyme or reason to who gets called," said outfielder Mike Baxter, the recipient of a 4 a.m. Horwitz butt dial last winter. "He just calls random people."
Even when they're on the field, players aren't safe from the butt dialer. First baseman Ike Davis said he's received more than 100 butt dials from Horwitz, but none confused him more than the one he received during a game.
"When I got back to my locker, I checked my phone and the missed call was from 8:10 p.m.," Davis said. "I'm like, why would he call me at that time? I'm at first base. He sees me at first base."
Players try to seek refuge during the off-season, but the butt dialer finds them. Ex-Met Jason Bay learned that the hard way a few winters ago. "I called him back right away and said, 'What's going on?'" Bay said. "He said, 'What do you mean what's going on?'"
Players have tried fleeing to other teams, but wherever they go, the butt dialer follows them. Ramon Ramirez, a forgettable Mets relief pitcher in 2012, was in spring training with the San Francisco Giants last month when the butt dialer struck.
"I was like, 'Who is this?'" Ramirez said. "I called back, but he didn't answer." A month later, Ramirez is still perplexed by the whole episode. "I don't know why he was calling me."
During a 2010 game against the Rockies in Denver, Horwitz accidentally called ex-Met Livan Hernandez from the Coors Field press box.
Hernandez, who was then pitching for the Nationals, returned the call from his locker in Washington a short while later. The ensuing conversation played out like an Abbott and Costello skit.
"Jay?"
"Livo?"
"You called me?"
"You called me."
To this day, Horwitz accidentally calls Hernandez once a month, for reasons unknown to both men.
Players have even tried escaping to other countries, but the butt dialer has no regard for international borders. Nelson Figueroa was in the Dominican Republic pitching in a winter league recently when the butt dialer struck. It had been three years since Figueroa pitched for the Mets and nearly two years since he last appeared in the majors.
He wondered: Were the Mets interested in bringing him back, at long last? Alas, the only interested party was Horwitz's backside. "His butt's got a mind of its own," Figueroa said.
It isn't as if Horwitz isn't adept at using new technology. He recently joined Twitter. Through his account (@Jay_HorwitzPR), he dispenses vital communiqués about the Mets directly to fans.
For example, just before the start of spring training, he tweeted a photo of himself shirtless in a swimming pool, buoyed by a tube and a pair of floaties, with goggles over his eyes and a snorkel lodged in his mouth. Other tweets have included such updates as "Hy" and "Congrats to $." On March 2, he simply tweeted the letter O.
Still, for all his social media savvy, mastering the BlackBerry has proved difficult for him.
A few years ago, while doubling as the Mets' assistant traveling secretary, Horwitz would often try to email players' flight itineraries to an administrative assistant in the general manager's office. The assistant was a woman named Dianne, but when Horwitz typed in the D, he would inadvertently email third baseman David Wright instead.
Wright was too polite to tell Horwitz, so he became a sort of liaison between Horwitz and the woman. "I would just forward the emails to her and say, 'Hey, here's another one from Jay,'" Wright said. "The whole thing's been going on for years. People are just now starting to learn about how, uh, different he is."
For someone who must remain in constant contact with Mets players and executives, the butt dialing has complicated things a bit. Many players now refuse to answer Horwitz's calls unless he sends a text message saying it is really him.
Horwitz was explaining all of this at a picnic table outside Tradition Field on Saturday when his assistant, Ethan Wilson, called. "Did I do it again?" he said. "This is Ethan. I wonder if I butt dialed Ethan."
Horwitz pressed the BlackBerry to his ear.
"Yes, sir, Ethan. Ethan. Ethan?"
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