Let the Record Show That Bo Is a Legend

Whenever sports fans gather late at night and the conversation turns, as it will, to discussions of “the best I ever saw,” you can always depend on someone throwing a name in the conversation you never heard.

For example, one may say smugly: “Oh, sure, Koufax was all right in his way, Ryan gets a vote if you throw out all those walks, Johnson could bring it, but you really have to put Steve Dalkowski in there, now, don’t you?”

Steve Dalkowski?

Right. Steve Dalkowski was a cult figure to end all cult figures. He was a minor league pitcher of such legendary velocity there wasn’t a hitter in the game who could stand in there against his fastball. It was not only invisible, it was inaudible, his fans would tell you. It gave off a high-pitched sound only a hound dog could hear. He could throw a ball through a brick wall--if he could hit the wall.

But don’t look for Steve Dalkowski in any of baseball’s voluminous record books. He isn’t there. He never pitched a day in the big leagues. The legend of Dalkowski was word-of-mouth only.

What brings this to mind is the sudden thought that succeeding generations may think us quaint, cult worshipers when we talk of a quite extraordinary athlete of our time--one some will hold was the best ever.

We will sing his praises so vociferously that our listeners will be impressed enough to sidle over to the baseball encyclopedia and look up this paragon. Under “Jackson, Vincent Edward,” they will find his “exploits” listed and they will wonder what all the shouting is about.

For, under his birth date and the information “Nickname, Bo,” they will read: “Games 567, at-bats 1,837, runs 278, hits 460, home runs 109, runs batted in 313, batting average .250.”

In the fine print, they will be told that Jackson, Vincent E., held the league record for strikeouts in 1989 with 172, that he struck out nine times in a row once, and struck out twice in the same inning in a game in 1987.

Now, these are not the statistics of a superstar, these are the statistics of a journeyman. These figures wouldn’t make much more than a good two seasons’ work for a Cecil Fielder.

The ballad of Bo Jackson is a sad song, a threnody, a lament for what might have been.

Bo thought it was all going to be easy. He came out of Auburn University with a Heisman Trophy and such a set of school records--43 touchdowns in 38 games--that the sports world thought he was going to make them forget Red Grange, O.J. Simpson, Jim Brown. They were shocked when he chose baseball.

It was a complicated choice. It had more to do with Bo’s annoyance with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers--Bo is easily annoyed--than with any desire to become the next Henry Aaron.

But Bo was a proven football commodity. The ability to hit a pitcher from Georgia Tech is no guarantee you will hit Nolan Ryan.

The late Fresco Thompson, when he was vice president of the Dodgers, had a stock question he would pose to young athletes whenever they came to him, wondering whether they should opt for a job in baseball or in football: “What do you want, son? A career--or a limp?”

Bo Jackson didn’t exactly opt for the limp. It came looking for him.

He was safely locked in a baseball contract in the spring of ’87. He was batting .344, the curveball had gotten less mysterious to him, his home runs were prodigious. He had passed up the football draft the year before. Very few football franchises knew he had an escape clause that permitted him to jump to football if he so chose.

Al Davis knew it. The pro football draft had gone through seven rounds and 182 players when, suddenly, the selection of Bo Jackson by the Raiders was announced.

Al Davis had taken a calculated gamble. After all, a 183rd draft pick is not much of a risk.

Bo Jackson should have run for the exits. Instead, he was intrigued. He renegotiated his baseball contract to permit the playing of both sports. He wrested from the Raiders the right to report to the NFL a month late. He was to get $1.5 million to play football.

It wasn’t enough.

Did Bo think he was invincible? Indestructible? No. In his book, co-authored by Dick Schaap, “Bo Knows Bo,” he compares the sports with uncanny prescience:

“Why did I pick baseball in the first place? Well, I liked batting practice. I hated football practice. I liked the idea of a long career. I hated the idea of a knee injury.”

Excelling in both sports, Bo became instant legend. Part Paul Bunyan, part Superman. Faster than a speeding bullet, able to leap tall buildings at a bound. Madison Avenue couldn’t believe its good luck. Bo became more than a celebrity, he became a myth. He sold more shoes than Michael Jordan. He was so much larger than life size, people were surprised to see him getting on a plane. They didn’t think he needed one.

His exploits will grow in the retelling. It’s the nature of myths. Hogan never missed a green. Ruth never took a called strike. Magic never missed a jumper.

And Bo Jackson ran 92 yards every time he got his hands on the ball. He hit three home runs a game, threw baserunners out by 20 feet, broke bats in half with his head.

And, then, some spoilsport will haul out the record--.250 average, 600 strikeouts, 5.3-yard rushing average and 13 touchdowns in three years in the NFL.

Cult hero? No. The records don’t tell the tale. He was the real thing. When you talk of all-time greatest athletes, there’s Jim Thorpe. And then there’s Vincent Jackson.