It Takes a Thief, Not a Debutante, to Steal

We are giving study to a commentary in the Sporting News involving the comparative personalities of Nolan Ryan and Rickey Henderson.

The headline reads: “A Day When Crass Gave Way to Class.”

This is in reference to how Ryan reacted to his seventh no-hitter and Henderson to breaking Lou Brock’s record for stolen bases.

Ryan is applauded for his modesty, Henderson knocked for his lack of it. Specifically, Henderson announced: “Lou Brock was a symbol of great base stealing. But today I am the greatest of all time.”

Everyone admires a humble artist, but it happens often that judgment of one’s work is influenced too strongly by one’s demeanor.

Henderson is known as a showboat, a popoff, a malcontent. But it is hoped in the assessment of this individual, especially when his name appears on the Hall of Fame ballot, that he is remembered foremost as the greatest leadoff man since the start of the sport.

His function in baseball is to play, not impress us with his personality.

And, God knows, Henderson is a player who not only steals, but hits around .300 and smashes as many as 28 home runs in a season.

He is a wrecking crew. Much of what he does isn’t recorded in the box score. He creates disruption hard for the other side to live with.

Sparky Anderson, noted scholar, once explains: “Nothing is more demoralizing to opposing clubs than runners who take liberties with them. When Henderson is a threat to go, he fouls up (Sparky’s approximate language) four players. The first baseman in charge of holding him gets nervous. The shortstop, knowing he must cover second, gets nervous. The catcher gets nervous to where he calls for more fastballs than he should. And the pitcher? All he keeps doing is throwing to first.”

We asked Vince Coleman, distinguished thief, who gets the worst of it when a pitcher throws to first and a runner dives back.

Vince answers: “One time when I was at first, a pitcher threw there 19 times. I dived back 10. I figured it took more out of him throwing 19 times than it did out of me diving 10.”

Disparate views among managers on baserunning always have made an interesting study. Whitey Herzog wouldn’t want a team with guys who couldn’t run.

“Parks today are bigger than they used to be,” Whitey says. “Outfielders move like rabbits, cutting off power lanes. They climb fences like cats, taking away homers, triples and doubles. And specialized pitching cuts down on attack. If you wait for hitters to move your guy from first, he is apt to die there.”

OK, we pose the question to Tom Lasorda, and how does he respond?

He says: “If God were to say to me, ‘Tom, you can have your choice of a rabbit or a slugger,’ I take the slugger, because even if my rabbit steals second, I have no assurance someone will drive him in. But a home run? That’s a guarantee.”

The engaging feature about Henderson is that he serves as rabbit and slugger alike. He is an extraordinary player, often vilified because of his genius for saying the wrong thing.

When he signs a contract for maybe $3 million and pouts, when he breaks Brock’s record for stolen bases and insults him gratuitously, when he discusses his skills with a generous tilt towards Rickey, critics draw back.

So when we read the commentary on Rickey in the Sporting News in which he is discussed with Brock and Ryan and described as “miles behind both in grace and humility,” we worry about his niche in history.

All too often, in a wide range of endeavors, guys lose votes not because of their achievements, but because of the way they come off.

Rickey Henderson isn’t like Nolan Ryan, but nothing in their respective backgrounds would dictate a similarity in their makeup.

Is Ryan easier to be around? Of course.

But, as we say, baseball is a field game, not a study of mannerisms and characteristics.