Run, Rickey, Run
The Long Beach Armadas mascot, a parrot named Arby I, pronounced thoughtfully as RBI, squirts me with a water gun. Maybe its because Im sitting in the box seats behind home plate when Im supposed to be sitting up in the press box. Or maybe its because the parrot knows that Im rooting for Rickey Henderson, the 46-year-old marvel who refuses to retire and who plays for the visitors, the San Diego Surf Dawgs, of the upstart Golden League.
Last time I saw Henderson was about three weeks ago down in San Diego, when to my surprise he did not hit leadoff. Perhaps as a concession to his age or as an acknowledgment of his power, he hit third that night against the Samurai Bears, an all-Japanese traveling team, a throwback to the days of the barnstormers, like the late Satchel Paiges All-Stars, who once toured the country taking on the hometown hopefuls. Rickey himself is a throwback, a latter-day Paige. But can he still perform tricks like Paige, who would famously call in his outfielders and strike out the side on nine pitches? Specifically, can Henderson still steal?
Henderson looks great as he strolls to the plate displaying the same chiseled, 5-foot-10, 190-pound frame he has owned since he came up to the big leagues in 1979.
Lets go, Rickey, someone shouts, as the future Hall of Famer falls behind in the count, one ball and two strikes. Three pitches, and he hasnt swung. But Hendersons patience has always been one of his greatest assets. He watches three more pitches sail outside the strike zone and trots over to first base with a walk.
Henderson takes a moderate lead off first base, and the Armada pitcher doesnt seem to be paying much attention to the greatest base stealer in the history of the game. He doesnt toss the ball over to the first baseman. He doesnt stare Henderson back to the base. He doesnt even look at him, but Henderson is reading the man.
As the pitcher gets into his next wind-up, Henderson takes off, barrels down the path and dives in headfirst into second. The catcher doesnt even attempt a throw. There were always faster runners, like Willie Wilson, but no one had Hendersons combination of speed and intelligence, the knowledge of the pitchers motions.
No doubt distracted by Henderson, the pitcher issues another walk. The next hitter lines a base hit to center field, but Henderson holds at third after the center fielder fires a strike to the plate. In his prime, he always would have scored from second on a single. But he is, after all, 46 years old.
When his teammate grounds out on the next pitch, Henderson eases into home with the first run of the game. He pauses as he steps on the plate, as if to remind himself what it feels like to score a run. How many times over the years has he gotten on base in the first inning, stolen second and come home to score, putting his team in the lead?
As the game moves on, Henderson gets called out on a disputed third strike, prompting one local fan to exclaim, Mr. Umpire, we came to see Rickey, not you. But the legend is gracious and does not contest the umpire other than to extend his bat to indicate how far outside the pitch was. Later, he grounds out to the second baseman and flies out to right field. Hes swinging late, and his average, which was well over .300 just a few weeks ago, has plummeted to around .250.
He looks tired. He squats in center field between pitches. He tosses the ball gingerly to the left fielder. He is always the last one on and off the field at the beginning or end of an inning.
But Henderson is clearly having fun. He gently high-fives the diminutive batboy after the kid has retrieved a ball. He nods to the fans. He twirls his bat like its a baton. And he sits on the dugout steps, relaxing with his teammates.
Finally, with his team leading 5-0 in the ninth inning, Henderson comes to the plate for what looks to be the last time. He is facing a left-hander, a squat hurler named Gavin Bangs from Bonita, California. Henderson strolls even more slowly than usual to the batters box, and the fans give him his biggest applause of the night. He takes the first pitch for a strike, and the second, too. Hes behind in the count. The ball comes in, and he grounds it to the second baseman. Again, he has swung late at the pitch, and again he is thrown out. The fans clap politely as Henderson peels back the Velcro on his gloves and sits on the dugout steps. He is tired, but he will play another day.
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