The Oakland A’s had a problem. As the financial year wound down, number crunchers discovered a serious anomaly with the accounts, an unexplained surplus of $1 million. No small sum in 1982. Forensic investigation led to their promising first baseman Rickey Henderson who, months earlier, had received a signing bonus of exactly that amount. A call was put in to ask him if by any chance he still had the seven-figure cheque in his possession.
“Ya I have it,” said Henderson, “I’m staring at it right now. It’s still in the frame.”
Growing up in uncompromising West Oakland, he had always dreamt of becoming a millionaire so, upon inking his first big pro contract, he hung the piece of paper cementing his new status on the wall of his house. He wanted to wake up every day and be reminded that all his hard work paid off. And that’s what happened until the pesky accountants explained how depositing it in the bank was a kind of necessary next step in the business transaction. A copy was duly issued as a keepsake, the club’s books were balanced and another yarn added to the Henderson canon.
When he died from pneumonia just before Christmas, baseball mourned the passing of a Hall of Fame player, the greatest base stealer in the history of the sport, and one of its most eccentric characters. Every obituary afforded plenty space to the records the 65-year-old set and still held as the finest lead-off man of his generation, but they also savoured his entertaining foibles. Most started and ended with his penchant for referring to himself in interviews in the third person as “Rickey”. His response when a reporter asked if, as alleged by one of his peers, 50 per cent of Major-leaguers were on steroids, being typical of the genre.
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“Well, Rickey’s not one of them,” he replied. “So that’s 49 per cent right there.”
Henderson didn’t believe in warming up before games but could often be found in the locker room before the first pitch, repeatedly telling himself out loud, “Rickey’s gonna have a great day!” Some attest he liked to do this naked. Others claim that was a ridiculous amplification of the legend. A common occurrence around Rickey.
He may or may not have asked a team-mate how long it took to drive from the Dominican Republic. Or mistook the nation for a rival outlet to the Banana Republic clothing store. He did once book a stretch limo to take him less than one mile from the New York Mets’ hotel to Cinergy Field in Cincinnati. And definitely contracted frostbite in August after falling asleep with an ice pack on his left foot.
Famously, he never bothered to learn the names of team-mates or assistant coaches, although that could have been caused by the fact he was traded 13 times in a peripatetic career stretching across quarter of a century. He moved often because, in an era when clubs still held all the power over players, he bristled when they didn’t pay him his market value.
During one of four stints with his hometown A’s, he refused to come to spring training in 1991 until they gave him a new contract commensurate with his status as the reigning Most Valuable Player of the American League. When he eventually showed up to work, team-mates presented him with an oversized jar full of dollar bills they’d collected in the locker room and labelled, “The Rickey Henderson Appreciation Fund”. He kissed it for the cameras and told reporters: “They shortchanged me!”
Born in Arkansas, Henderson’s family, like so many African Americans in the decades after the second World War, moved to California as part of the Second Great Migration. Oakland became a hotbed of athletic talent, with an uber-competitive youth scene producing a conveyor belt to the majors. With every individual that made it big, those next in line believed they too could have a shot.
Although some took persuading. Henderson only played baseball originally because the coach of his team lured him to games with the promise of a glazed doughnut and a cup of steaming hot chocolate. Mrs Wilkinson, his guidance counsellor, motivated him to play for the high school by guaranteeing him a quarter for every hit he got, run he scored, or base he stole.
“When you grew up down the street from the Black Panthers headquarters, and you’ve seen your neighbours challenge institutions at the highest level, challenging police, challenging government, asserting your independence – that spirit permeates everything,” said Howard Bryant, author of the excellent Rickey: The Life and Legend of an American Original.
“And Rickey was one of those guys who was completely unafraid to tell you exactly what he’s worth. Most of those players during that time period were very shy and sheepish and almost embarrassed about making that much money and saying so publicly. Rickey was one of the first guys who was like, ‘Hey, pay me what I’m worth’.”
He snagged 1,406 bases in his career. No other player has ever managed to break a thousand. In his early 40s, he was between clubs but desperate to keep adding to that tally. Taking matters into his own hands, he phoned up Kevin Towers, general manager of the San Diego Padres, and left a message on his machine.
“This is Rickey calling on behalf of Rickey,” he said. “Rickey wants to play baseball.”
