Undisputed singular superlatives are rare in sports because debate is natural and constant turnover always delivers a counterpoint. The physical evolution of humanity declares that today’s greatest of all time can expect to be surpassed.
Rickey Henderson was among the rare exceptions. He rose from the youth baseball diamonds of Oakland to become the undisputed greatest leadoff batter in the history of baseball.
The news that Rickey passed away Friday, confirmed by NBC Sports California, hit like a sledgehammer to the gut. He’s so fit. So vivid. So built to last. Only 65 years old. He is gone, but the exploits that landed him in the National Baseball Hall of Fame on the first ballot will live forever.
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No one was as likely to give his team an immediate edge. Home run, hit or walk, it’s pitcher’s choice and neither was attractive. Pitching to Rickey was like walking a tightrope. One mistake and you’re done. His strike zone, courtesy of a signature crouch, was the size of a postage stamp. Pitches that dared to enter it often left the ballpark, leaving little more than a vapor trail as he strutted around the bases.
Pitches that avoided Rickey’s strike zone put him on first base, where he was peerless at annoying opposing managers, unnerving opposing pitchers and delighting fans of his team.
Rickey lived for star moments on big stages and under bright lights, so the sight of him walking to first base was an event unto itself. Like Stephen Curry pulling up for a 3 with the Warriors trailing by two inside the final minute. Or Shohei Ohtani stepping into the batter’s box with the bases loaded. Or vintage Tiger Woods, two strokes back, teeing off on Sunday morning at Augusta National.
Spectators collectively leaned forward while scooting toward the seat’s edge. The show was about to begin. The pitcher and catcher were on high alert. The following batter was irrelevant. It was all about Rickey. What would he do? Everybody knew. He would steal a base. He did it anyway. He was a peacock in uniform, with hubris and bravado at the center of his identity.
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Consider that when Rickey became Major League Baseball’s all-time stolen base leader, eclipsing Hall of Fame outfielder Lou Brock, the year was 1991. Rickey was 32 years old. In his prime. He played another 12 seasons.
Who on God’s green earth sets a career record – any career record – in the exact middle of a career? It’s unfathomable. Well, it was – until Rickey managed the feat in 1,001 fewer games than Brock, who was 39 when he swiped his 939th and final base.
Rickey stole another 467 bases before retiring in 2003, at age 44, with 1,406 steals. In the 21 years that have passed, no one has approached Brock’s total, much less that of Rickey. He stole more than twice as many bases as Hall of Famer Joe Morgan, more than three times as many as Hall of Famer Craig Biggio and more than four times as many as Hall of Famer Willie Mays, whose Hall credentials, like those of Henderson, belong in a separate wing in Cooperstown.
Rickey was such a disruptive baserunner that it seemed certain pitchers would rather challenge him with strikes simply to avoid the anxiety that comes with putting him on base. He affected timing, focus, rhythm and pitch selection.
The problem with pitching to Rickey was that he had the tools to punish the ball with a vengeance. He’s the all-time leader in leadoff home runs with 81, indicating no one was better at putting his team on the scoreboard in the first inning. He finished his career with 297 home runs, exceeding the totals of such sluggers as Will Clark, Pat Burrell and Roger Maris.
What to do with a man who would run you ragged if you didn’t throw strikes or take you deep if you did?
Noted baseball guru Bill James, the father of sabermetrics and the statistician/historian who conceived the statistic “win shares,” summed up Rickey’s career with this exquisite description: “If you could split him in two, you’d have two Hall of Famers.”
If one were to build the ultimate baseball lineup, only one spot avoids debate. Leadoff. That belongs to Rickey, the all-time leader in runs, leadoff homers and steals.
Rickey entertained, produced and commanded undivided attention. His production and impact stand out among all legends, regardless of sport.
We never saw Rickey’s like before he arrived on June 24, 1979. We didn’t see it while he was playing, and we haven’t seen it in the 21 years since he left the batter’s box.
Maybe someday we will see another Rickey, someone whose physique is chiseled from marble, promising game-changing speed and power and patience and has the fortitude to play 24 years.
Or maybe not, regardless of human evolution.