It makes sense.
The greatest leadoff hitter of all-time; who loved the game, the attention, and most of all himself, would be inducted into the hall of fame the first year he was eligible. Just one more thing that makes Rickey Henderson stand out as exceptional in spite of himself.
The same year the much-maligned outfielder, Jim Rice, who never seemed to enjoy the game or the media, would be inducted into the hall of fame on his very last chance. Just one more thing that makes Jim Rice stand out as disappointingly mediocre despite his abilities.
Neither player was particularly adored or held in high respects by the media or the fans. Yet the two outfielders could not be any more different in their style of play, relationship with the press, and career accomplishments.
I remember one spring morning when I was about 11; my father and me went to Port St. Lucy to watch the Mets practice before their game. Back then the complex was essentially a free for all with only small fences serving as the boundary between fan and player. I leaned up against the fence to watch as Bobby Valentine gave a speech to the infielders about the art of bunt defense while my dad wandered off to sit cross legged in the outfield while chatting up Mookie Wilson about 1986.
The infield meeting ended and the players scattered to various parts of the complex. I got some autographs, shook some hands, and felt for a moment that I was part of the team. I decided to walk along the fence that stretched up the left field line to find my father.
Halfway up the line a voice called out to me, “What’s up little dude?” I looked to my right and five feet away from me on the other side of the fence stood a 40-year-old man in a Mets uniform.
“You’re Rickey Henderson!” I yelled out, shocked that any ball player would speak with me, much less get MY attention.
“Rickey knows that,” he replied.
We chatted a bit while walking up the left field line. He asked me what position I played and where I was from. It was an amazing experience for an 11 year old baseball fan but in retrospect it is even more impressive to me now.
No one was forcing, pressuring, or even asking this lock future Hall of Famer to make this kids day. No one saw him talking to me, he got no credit for it from the media or the ball club. Truth be told Rickey Henderson didn’t care what anyone thought about him, much less a lost looking pudgy kid.
Later that day we went from the Mets training complex to go watch the Red Sox play. We got to the park early, I placed myself in the front row, next to the dugout, prime reality for autographs. Some players walked by and said hello, some signed memorabilia. Manager Jimmy Williams even hung around a bit to chat with the fans.
Batting practice came around and getting autographs got harder. Players are professional and they know when it’s their job to play, and when it’s an opportunity to interact with fans. After much petitioning the fans were able to convince Brian Daubach to mosey over and sign some autographs between his turns at bat.
I was next in line to hand him my ball to sign, when a bellowing voice cried out from the dugout. “Get the hell out of here Brian!”
An older figure emerged wearing baseball pants and a coaching windbreaker. I held out my ball for him to sign, but a slightly older autograph seeker grabbed my arm and pulled it back. The older man shook his head at me and turned around, muttering something to himself.
“You don’t ask Jim Rice for autographs,” the boy who grabbed my arm turned and said to me in a Boston accent. “I’ve seen him take away and even destroy things that people have tried to get him to sign, he’s no good.”
That was the difference between Jim and Rickey. Like Rickey, Jim didn’t care what the effect of his actions would be on the media or the fan base. But the difference was Jim didn’t want anything to do with me, the fans, or anything except the game itself.
It was this attitude that kept him from making the Hall of Fame earlier. The same attitude that caused conflicts with the media, the fans, and caused an 11 year old boy to be afraid of big league coaches.
Rickey on the other hand had no ill intent; he was just a little off. He loved baseball and was damn good at it. It was just his people skills that he had trouble with. However when you look back on his 24 year career you realize; his longevity, his willingness to play anywhere, and his dedication to excellence, is all proof to his true love for the game.
In the end Ricky Henderson did it the right way and Jim Rice did it the wrong way, and that’s why there were inducted the way they were.
Here is hoping that in 20 years a 60 year old uniformed man will call over the fence to a lost looking pudgy baseball fan asking, “What’s up little dude?”
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