
On April 1, 1985, readers of Sports Illustrated opened their latest issue to find a story that defied belief: the New York Mets had a mysterious new prospect named Hayden Siddhartha “Sid” Finch, a recluse with almost supernatural pitching ability. According to the article, this unknown pitcher could throw a fastball at 168 miles per hour — nearly 65 mph faster than Nolan Ryan, the hardest thrower of the era.
The article, written by the magazine’s senior writer George Plimpton, was laced with astonishing details and just enough credibility to set the baseball world ablaze. But as it turned out, “The Curious Case of Sidd Finch” wasn’t just too good to be true — it was an elaborate April Fools’ joke.
George Plimpton was already a literary legend by 1985 — a pioneer of participatory journalism and the founder of The Paris Review. He had boxed with Archie Moore, played quarterback for the Detroit Lions, and pitched to Willie Mays, all in the name of immersive sports writing.
So when Sports Illustrated editor Mark Mulvoy approached Plimpton in early 1985 with the idea of crafting an April Fools’ article, it seemed like the perfect match. The assignment: create a fictional athlete so absurd that the story would slowly unravel into satire — but believable enough that readers would initially fall for it.
Plimpton invented Sidd Finch from whole cloth, weaving an impossibly rich backstory. The name itself was a blend of the mystical and mundane — Siddhartha, as in the spiritual seeker from Hermann Hesse’s novel, and Finch, an ordinary surname with literary resonance (think To Kill a Mockingbird).
According to the article titled “The Curious Case of Sidd Finch”, Sid Finch was:
An orphan raised in an English orphanage.
A dropout from Harvard.
A spiritual seeker who studied under Tibetan monks in a Himalayan monastery.
A musician capable of playing the French horn beautifully.
A man who had never played organized baseball.
Yet somehow, he could pitch with unprecedented speed, and — perhaps most miraculously — with pinpoint control.
The story included photographs of Finch in a Mets uniform, wearing a hiking boot on one foot and barefoot on the other, with gangly limbs and an enigmatic stare. The visuals were supplied by photographer Lane Stewart and featured a real person posing as Finch — an art school teacher named Joe Berton.
Several aspects made the hoax extraordinarily effective:
Timing: The article ran in the April 1 issue but made no mention of April Fools’ Day.
Credible Voice: Plimpton’s reputation for blending fact with experience lent the piece an air of authority.
Photos: The inclusion of real, staged photos from the Mets’ spring training site in St. Petersburg, Florida added visual “proof.”
Player Quotes: Plimpton included fictional reactions from real Mets players like Lenny Dykstra and Mel Stottlemyre, which added another layer of verisimilitude.
Some readers were skeptical. Others were enthralled. The Mets’ front office began receiving fan mail for Finch. Sports reporters across the country scrambled to verify the story. Even rival MLB teams reportedly contacted the league office to ask whether the Mets were hiding a secret weapon.
In the following issue of Sports Illustrated, the magazine came clean. The subhead read simply:
“He’s a figment of the imagination.”
Plimpton confessed to the hoax and broke down how the elaborate story had come together. The revelation was met with widespread amusement, admiration, and a touch of embarrassment for those who had taken the bait. But even those duped had to tip their hats to the brilliance of the con.
Four decades later, the Sid Finch story remains the gold standard of April Fools’ sports pranks. It combined artful writing, psychological misdirection, and a keen understanding of the hopes and dreams of sports fans — the idea that somewhere, out there, a baseball messiah could appear, untouched by the system and infinitely gifted.
George Plimpton later expanded the tale into a novel, The Curious Case of Sidd Finch (1987), further deepening the mythos of a character who was never real, but lived vividly in the minds of readers.
Joe Berton, the man who posed as Finch, would occasionally resurface in interviews, reflecting on his surreal brush with baseball infamy. And every April 1st, sports media outlets pay homage to the greatest fake prospect the game has ever seen.
The success of the Sid Finch story lies in its tone — it never tried too hard to be believed. It gave just enough detail to suspend disbelief while tipping its hand to the savvy reader. It celebrated both the absurdity and romance of sports. And it left us all with one lingering thought:
What if it were true?
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