I've never been much of a dedicated sports fan. I've enjoyed passing allegiances to Oregon, then Oregon State, but nothing serious. But my move to the SF Bay area right after college in 1988 coincided with a high point for the Oakland As, and I was blessed With a convenient cohort of relatively new Chevron engineers, that didn't have a lot of competing plans for a summer weekend. It was the first time I had been to a big league park, and I was floored. The stadium was easily accessible via BART, and the outfield bleacher seats were cheap, with easy access to beer.
Watching bash brothers Jose Canseco and Mark McGuire, along with an all-star cast of teammates play extraordinary ball was a fine way to spend an afternoon. It's probably the only time in my life, before, or since, that I could name the entire starting lineup of a team in any sport.
But, as cool as they all were, there was nobody who compared to Ricky Henderson. As good as he was in the field, and as lead-off batter, once on base, he was a combination of poetry and Vaudeville. Pitchers couldn't concentrate on the batter, because they knew that any instant, Ricky would steal another base. If baseball can sometimes be slow and lethargic to watch, that was never the case when Ricky was on base.
I could go on ... but it's December 23rd, and other responsibilities call.
RIP to the stolen base king!
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