Henderson Shakes Things--and People--Up

Rickey Henderson is baseball’s badboy of the basepaths--arguably the best all-around player in the game, certainly one of the most exciting. A hot dog? Maybe. A loner? Undoubtedly. Disliked and misunderstood by teammates? Quite often.

When he’s going right, there is none better. When he’s going wrong, there are few badder.

“I am a creator,” he says, flashing a disarming grin. “I want to make things happen, and I want to make them happen with style. I like to do things different.”

At age 27, Henderson only now may be entering the prime of his career. Averaging 82 stolen bases a season, he could break Lou Brock’s all-time record of 938 sometime in 1990, at age 31. He already holds the single-season record of 130.

After six seasons with the Oakland A’s, Henderson joined the New York Yankees last year and immediately added a new weapon to his arsenal: Power.

He set career marks with 24 homers and 72 runs batted in while hitting .314 in a park that penalizes right-handed hitters with its deep left-center field alley, and he broke an American League record with seven leadoff homers.

“He’s pretty close to being the best player in the game,” said A’s center fielder Dwayne Murphy, a former teammate.

He also may be one of the most irritating.

“A lot of the guys didn’t like the way Rickey did things,” said Murphy, who first joined the A’s in 1978, the year before Henderson broke in. “Some didn’t mind--like me--as long as he got the job done, and he always did.

“He’d always be the last one to take the field. He’d walk out or walk in from the outfield. That kind of stuff really bothered some guys. He wouldn’t take infield, or he’d miss batting practice. . . . He’d come to the park when he wanted to. Those are the things that people were most displeased with Rickey about.”

Henderson’s trade to the Yankees--with its accompanying $8.6 million, five-year contract--hasn’t changed him much. He struts. He makes sweeping, one-handed catches in the outfield. He backpedals into the path of shortstops so they can’t sneak in behind him at second base. He grins at pitchers, daring them. And he still shows up late.

When play resumed after the two-day strike of 1985, Henderson remained in his hometown of Oakland, for an extra day. The Yankees fined him. He has been late for pregame workouts repeatedly this year, and he missed picture day. He still shrugs off batting practice, although he has taken some extra hitting to help shake a slump that saw him go 9 for 67 in a recent 18-game stretch.

Henderson says he has always tended to be tardy. Even as a Little Leaguer, Henderson’s coach, Hank Robinson, had to come to his house to roust him for games. “He would wake me up, dress me, feed me, get me out,” Henderson said. “I probably wouldn’t have gone to play otherwise.”

Yankees co-captain Willie Randolph says: “As an athlete, you have to admire him, but you also have to wonder if he’s getting the most out of his talent. If he practiced more, would he be even better?”

Playing with him has its rewards. Murphy has fond memories of the A’s outfield--Henderson, Tony Armas and himself--that was considered the best of its day.

“When we had me and Rickey and Armas out there, it was absolute fun,” Murphy recalled. “It was a contest to see who could catch the next ball. It was a lot easier playing with Rickey next to me. We always thought we were all center fielders, anyway.”

Murphy says the problem Henderson has as an outfielder is judging the ball. “If he doesn’t get a good jump, he has the speed to catch up to it. But he really doesn’t get a very good jump.”

As for the slap-catches in the outfield, “it makes no difference, whatsoever,” Murphy says. “He swats at the ball and all that, but nobody says anything. If he misses, then somebody will say something.”

Henderson says he does the slap-catches for youngsters. “Sometimes I go play, and the kids are yelling, ‘Do the catch.’ I see them trying to practice the catch,” Henderson says. “I play baseball to enjoy the game. I want to do something different. Mays had the basket catch. It could be embarrassing, for sure, if I miss, but I’ve got my own style.”

Henderson says he doesn’t consider himself a hot dog. “A hot dog is someone who tries to show up the other guy,” he says. “I don’t do that. I do it to enjoy myself. They just say I’m a hot dog because of the style I’ve created, because I’m not like everybody else.”

Perhaps more than any other characteristic, Henderson’s aloofness has given him an air of superiority that prevents him from becoming a real part of any team. It may go back to his childhood, growing up the fourth of seven children--the first five boys, the last two girls. “We were like the special family because there were so many of us,” Henderson says.

Randolph calls it Henderson’s “usual tendency to just turn everything off.” And Murphy remembers: “There was no problem talking with him. Everybody talked to him, and he talked to everybody. But he was basically by himself most of the time.”

“I really don’t feel like a loner,” Henderson says. “I enjoy being with my teammates, but I’m not the type of guy who wants to get involved with everything. I stay out of the politics. I don’t put myself into that kind of stuff.”

It’s when Henderson takes the field that he gets most involved. He is 5 feet, 10 inches of artistry, perpetual motion, kinetic energy. He is wild, pawing at the ground and getting ready to run, trying to intimidate and often succeeding.

“It’s a war,” he says. “It’s fun, and it’s a challenge. I get on base, and things start to happen. That’s where I create. That’s where I create best.”