How proficient a base stealer was Rickey Henderson, who died this week at the age of 65? To be honest, the only person who ever really caught him was his wife Pamela, who survives him. She was his high school sweetheart and they had three daughters: Angela, Alexis, and Adrianna. They, more than his baseball feats (or “feets”), reflect the measure of the man.
Here’s a guy who was so feared a base stealer that every pitcher facing him had to be thinking, “just don’t walk him, just don’t walk him, just don’t walk him.” Yet he walked more times than any other player in MLB history except Barry Bonds: 2,190 times. How could that be? Well, he was short by athletic standards: only 5′ 10″. And his natural batting stance was a crouch, so his strike zone was minimized. Sportswriter Jim Murray wrote that Henderson had a strike zone “the size of Hitler’s heart.” And he was such a good hitter, including for power, that pitchers were torn between not wanting to walk him, but not wanting to give him anything too good to hit. So they were f*cked either way, so to speak.
Do you enjoy little math facts? Rickey’s MLB-leading number of lifetime stolen bases was 1406. (Nobody else has 1,000.) It’s one SB short of exceeding the second place total by 50%: Lou Brock had 938. Here’s my worksheet: 938 x 150% = 1,407. He holds the single season record of 130 (1982), and went over 100 three times.
He scored 2,295 runs — more than anyone else in MLB history: 50 more than Ty Cobb.
Rickey’s unique genius was his ability to read pitchers when he was on base. Not for what pitch they were going to throw, but for whether they were going to pitch to the batter or throw over to his base. It allowed him to get a good jump, and his speed took care of the rest. He was on first base once against the Orioles, and the third baseman, Floyd Rayford, looked over at him. Rickey smiled and flashed what looked like the peace sign: two fingers. Rayford didn’t know what Rickey meant. Two pitches later Henderson was on third.
As the saying goes, Father Time is undefeated. But as Rickey aged he found it difficult to let go of baseball. Or was baseball refusing to let go of him? When no MLB team would sign him, he stuck around in the minor leagues hoping to get recalled. That’s when I got to meet him, if only for a moment. One of the teams he signed on with was the Newark (NJ) Bears, in an independent league. I got to a game early and saw him signing autographs for kids near the dugout. I joined them and he was kind enough to sign my ticket stub and I wished him well. But here’s a neater item from my collection. It’s a commemorative envelope signed by both him and Lou Brock.
Rickey played football in high school, which he preferred to baseball because he liked the hitting — the other kind of hitting. But his team needed baseball players, so his guidance counselor called him in during his sophomore year. When he refused to make the switch, she made him a deal — she’d give him a quarter for every hit, every run, and every stolen base. Ooooh, Rickey liked that. “I’m about to make me some money,” he said.
Rickey had many detractors. Some thought he was arrogant. Some thought he was lazy, which is ridiculous — he was one of the hardest-working men in the game. He was electric. I loved him. I loved his smile, his speed, his swing. He left an enduring mark on the game.
Rest in peace, Rickey.
This poem is called “Christmas Sparrow.” It’s by Billy Collins and was in today’s Writer’s Almanac.
The first thing I heard this morning
was a rapid flapping sound, soft, insistent—
wings against glass as it turned out
downstairs when I saw the small bird
rioting in the frame of a high window,
trying to hurl itself through
the enigma of glass into the spacious light.
Then a noise in the throat of the cat
who was hunkered on the rug
told me how the bird had gotten inside,
carried in the cold night
through the flap of a basement door,
and later released from the soft grip of teeth.
On a chair, I trapped its pulsations
in a shirt and got it to the door,
so weightless it seemed
to have vanished into the nest of cloth.
But outside, when I uncupped my hands,
it burst into its element,
dipping over the dormant garden
in a spasm of wingbeats
then disappeared over a row of tall hemlocks.
For the rest of the day,
I could feel its wild thrumming
against my palms as I wondered about
the hours it must have spent
pent in the shadows of that room,
hidden in the spiky branches
of our decorated tree, breathing there
among the metallic angels, ceramic apples, stars of yarn,
its eyes open, like mine as I lie in bed tonight
picturing this rare, lucky sparrow
tucked into a holly bush now,
a light snow tumbling through the windless dark.
If you saw “Midnight __________,” what would you fill in the blank with? Cowboy? Mass? Snack? Oil? That was the theme of today’s puzzle. The revealer was AFTER MIDNIGHT, and the four theme answers were COWBOY BOOTS, MASS TRANSIT, SNACK MIX, and OIL PAINT.
At 14A, “leafy vegetable” turned out to be KALE. It inspired Nancy to write:
(To be sung to the tune of “I Hate Men” by Cole Porter.)
Oh, I hate KALE!
And anyone who cooks with it will fail!
You put it in a salad and the salad you diminish.
You put it in a casserole — your family won’t finish.
And then you know what others know: You should have cooked with spinash!
Oh, I hate KALE!
This tune was shared by Son Volt pertaining to those COWBOY BOOTS.
Cowboy boots, cowboy boots
Where in the hell are my cowboy boots?
At 30A, “Hoppy holiday?” was EASTER. (The bunny, right?) From Son Volt again: Patti Smith. Definitely worth a listen.
Here’s Willie! Another holiday pet pic sent in by a reader of Rex’s blog. Word is he was named after William Blake who wrote “Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright.” Looks like a living “Do Not Disturb” sign to me.
Owl Chatter is taking to the road again. Xmas morning we head west towards Michigan, with a layover in Clarion PA. Xmas dinner will be a couple of our Chinese faves from Garden Rice, reheated in the microwave in our hotel room. How’s that for romantic? Thursday in Bloomfield Hills we meet new grandson Harold Barney. The whole crew is coming, Phil, George, and the owls. We’re loading up the Subaru!
The Wellington Files 