February 22, 2012
Rickey Henderson: I Miss That Guy
As a Giants’ fan of 20-plus years, many people—Athletics’ fans chiefly—have openly wondered why my favorite player of all-time is Rickey Henderson.
He is best known for his 12 seasons with the cross-bay rival Athletics. A San Fran devotee with an Oakland idol isn’t quite the sacrilege of a New Yorker worshiping David Ortiz, but it’s close.
Truth be told, I would have loved Rickey no matter what uniform he wore—given the chance. Ironically, it’s because he played for Oakland, not despite—that I became a fan. Living in the Bay Area meant plenty of local-Rickey coverage, and I soaked it all up—his swagger, his style and most of all, his malapropism and head-scratching statements and actions.
I grew up in a cable-free household during the pre-interleague, pre-Internet era—so exposure to Rickey would have been rare had he worn any other uniform in the early 1990′s.
Sure, Rickey the player was incredible. He could dominate games offensively with his eye, speed and power (I can recite nearly every impact play he made during his unconscious 1989 World Series for the A’s, but I won’t—because it came against the Giants and I’m not here to talk about the past).
A little-known fact: He was on base when Joe Carter of Toronto, where Rickey had been traded to, hit his infamous World-Series walk-off jack in 1993—and his presence forced jittery pitcher Mitch Williams to rush his delivery somewhat—almost surely helping Carter best Williams.
But Rickey the character topped all that. It was definitely fitting that he played primarily left field for he was out in left field, as they say—much of the time.
I can only pray that one day others will look back on my life and share laugh-inducing stories akin to those shared about Rickey:
- Rickey was asked if he owned the Garth Brooks album that has the song Friends in Low Places. “Rickey doesn’t have albums,” he answered. “Rickey has CDs.”
- Or the time someone asked him what he thought about speculation that as many as 50 percent of big leaguers used steroids. “Well, I’m not,” he said. “So that’s 49 percent right there.”
- Or the time he bragged that his Manhattan apartment had such a great view he could see “the Entire State Building.”
- Or the time he settled a feud with Yankees Manager Lou Piniella, saying, “Let bye-byes be bye-byes.”
- Or the time the A’s found a discrepancy in their bank account, and upon investigation, found Rickey had never cashed his first signing bonus—instead framing it on a wall in his house?
- Or his quote during contract negotiations: “All I’m asking for is what I want.”
- Or his message to a GM during a free-agent offseason: “Hi, it’s Rickey, calling on behalf of Rickey. Rickey wants to play baseball.”
- Or his reply to a teammate offering him a front seat on the bus because he had tenure? “Ten-ure? No, Rickey got 15, 16 year (in the major leagues).”
- Or his approach to securing a raise after making the Red Sox roster out of Spring Training:
SOX GM: “Rickey, you signed a contract for $350,000.”
RICKEY: “Yes, but I canceled that contract.”
I followed all of Rickey’s post-Oakland teams and—with the exception of the Dodgers—pulled for them (even Boston, which elicits an internal shudder today). I stood and cheered when Rickey got his 3,000th hit for the Padres in 2001, and simmered inside when press coverage didn’t seem to equal that of Cal Ripken and Tony Gwynn—the two previous men to reach the milestone.
I nearly wept in 2003, after a failed attempt to secure tickets to a sold-out Giants vs. Dodgers game, a game sure to be Rickey’s final one in the Bay Area. I wanted his autograph and would have done anything at any time to get it.
Earlier this year, when a buddy challenged me to name all three of his Oakland uniform numbers, and I could only name two—it felt as if I’d betrayed Rickey personally. Only reciting several seasons of his career stats from memory could cheer me up.
Not once had I ever listened to an entire baseball Hall of Fame speech in my life until Rickey so humbly—yet colorfully—presented his. It didn’t matter that maybe only 55 percent of it was intelligible. Rickey mumbling carries twice the entertainment value of pretty much any other celebrity, in my truly, truly humble opinion.
I truly miss that guy. Unless it’s revealed he clubs seals in his leisure time, or some other deplorable act—he’ll always be my baseball and oddball—hero.
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