Meeting Rickey Henderson

On being the greatest there ever was...

Note: I had this scheduled as a brief detour from the music heroes as a special Christmas post in honor of his birthday. Sadly, Rickey passed away today at age 65.

Rickey Henderson was a hall of fame baseball player, born on Christmas Day in Chicago in the back seat of an Oldsmobile that didn’t get to the hospital in time.

Rickey was what’s called a lead-off hitter, meaning Rickey was the first guy in the batting order. I would argue that Rickey was the absolute best player ever at doing the thing he was paid to do. Rickey’s job was to get on base, and run really fast when the guys after him in the batting order got hits so that he could score runs and give his team an early lead. Rickey is the all-time leader in: lead-off homers, unintentional walks (a way to get on base), and stolen bases (a way to get closer to scoring) and runs scored. So Rickey basically holds the all-time records in every facet of his job. As Rickey once told a sports writer, “If you could split him in two, you’d have two Hall of Famers.”

Rickey Henderson with the Newark Bears. Sir Speedy, indeed. Photo: matt carmichael/rocknroll.net

Rickey got a lot of flak for a thing he said once about how he was the greatest. The context was maybe the problem. But he wasn’t wrong. He just was. And I think it should be ok to say that.

Rickey often referred to himself in the third person like when Rickey called a baseball team to talk about a contract. He didn’t have an agent, like most players. Instead he called up and said, “This is Rickey, representing Rickey.” Rickey was a little quirky.

Rickey played left field, which is the position in baseball that gets the least action and so he’d get bored and kick the grass, turn around with his back to the plate and stare into space. Yet, he was still an amazing outfielder and even one of the best in that, as one of the all-time leaders in outfield putouts. Rickey knew how to play.

Rickey played for a lot of teams, but never on a team I rooted for. So I liked to go see him play against teams I did, and later against the White Sox. I’d sit out by left field and root for Rickey. Lots of people also liked to heckle Rickey, again because he didn’t alway seem focused on his job.

Pam and I once took a trip to New Jersey to see David Bowie and the Polyphonic Spree in concert. Somehow I talked her into also seeing a Newark Bears game. It was kind of like going to the Chicago Dogs — fun, but not the best baseball. Rickey was playing out his final games, not major league material anymore, but not ready to give up the game he loved, either.

I brought my 1980 Topps Henderson rookie card in a little plastic sleeve, hoping that in the informal setting of this tiny minor-league park I might get him to sign it. I had a sharpie just in case. Always have a sharpie. Always.

Anyway, around the 7^th inning I noticed Rickey making his way for the locker room. I rushed off toward the tunnel, card in hand, and hopes on high. I caught him as he ducked in and caught his attention. “Rickey,” I shouted, “I came here from Chicago just to see you play, will you sign!” and lowered my card toward him. I might have exaggerated slightly, in that I really came to see Bowie, but Rickey, too.

Rickey looked up at me, kind of nervously and looked around. I realized he was ducking out and didn’t want to get busted by his manager. “Sorry, man,” he said, “Rickey’s gotta go.”

And the stolen base leader didn’t run, but kind of slinked away.

I can’t say I was disappointed. Because that moment didn’t take away from a lifetime of his being a hero. He wasn’t a jerk about it. Sometimes your heroes can fulfill your dreams, sure. If they don’t, it doesn’t mean they aren’t still your heroes, or shouldn’t be. It just means that they have to go do some hero stuff somewhere else. Like, right now. Even if that hero stuff is just slipping away before their boss catches them.