The story probably isn’t true, but does it really matter? So many things about Rickey Henderson blur the boundary between reality and fiction that one day they’ll all probably be accepted as fact anyway.
It goes something like this: John Olerud had joined the Seattle Mariners, one of many teams Henderson plied his trade with, and one day Henderson asked Olerud why he wore a batting helmet while playing first base.
Olerud explained that he once had an aneurysm and wore the helmet for protection.
Oh, Henderson replied, I played with a dude on the Mets who did the same thing.
“Uh, Rickey,” Olerud said. “That was me.”
This story is true, and San Diego Padres general manager Kevin Towers got the voice mail to prove it.
Late in his career, Henderson was shopping around for a team who would take a chance on his aging legs, and called Towers, who signed Henderson twice, to see if the Padres had any interest.
“This is Rickey calling on behalf of Rickey,”’ Henderson said. “Rickey wants to play baseball.”
to cash a $100,000 bonus check.
His reason? He wanted to wait and see if interest rates would go up.
Long before Manny ever thought of being Manny, Rickey was being Rickey. Arguably the greatest leadoff man ever, no one would ever argue that he wasn’t one of the great characters of the game.
Henderson won election to the Hall of Fame on his first try Monday with 94.8 percent of the vote, missing perfection only because there were 28 writers who were either too blind to see his name on the ballot or were New Yorkers who still held a grudge against him for playing poker in the clubhouse while the Mets were attempting to hold on to a one-run lead in Game 6 of the 1999 National League Championship Series.
His talents were so immense that in his prime it seemed like he could steal a base or hit a home run any time he felt the need. His performance was so great that he stole more bases and scored more runs than any other player, had the second-most walks, and banged out 3,055 hits.
And while he may not have always known the names of his teammates, he seemed to always know what his final place in history would always be. When he broke Lou Brock’s career stolen base record in 1991, Henderson lifted third base over his head and addressed the crowd, which included the man whose record he had just broken.
I am the greatest of all time.”
Muhammad Ali might argue that, but Henderson was never shy when pontificating on the object of his greatest love – himself. He almost always did it while referring to himself in the third person, as if he existed on another level no mere mortal could understand.
His place in the Hall of Fame was always assured, though Henderson will go there about as grudgingly as any player before him. He’s 50 now, but only four years ago was batting leadoff for the San Diego Surf Dawgs as he plotted a way to somehow get a 26th season in the big leagues.
If it was up to Henderson he’d still be playing today, because Rickey always wanted nothing more than to be playing baseball. Even now he’s still holding out hope.
“They said I have to be retired to go in the Hall of Fame,” he said in a conference call after the announcement. “Maybe they give me that day or two that I come back and it wouldn’t mess up anything.”
Just wait until Henderson gives his induction speech in Cooperstown, N.Y., on July 26. He may become the first inductee to use the platform to complain that no team will take a chance on him.
nning two, but the ultimate goal never seemed to be about the rings but about himself.
T Park, caught a foul ball and refused to give it up to a nearby kid despite calls from his fellow spectators.
“Everybody was asking me for the ball,” Henderson said. “I said, `You’re not getting this ball. I always wanted to get a foul ball. This one’s going on a shelf at home.”
Just Rickey being Rickey.
—-
Tim Dahlberg is a national sports columnist for The Associated Press. Write to him at tdahlbergap.org
Add A Comment