photo by Mauricio Segura

Thank you, Rickey

by Mauricio Segura

It’s been 24 hours since I got the news of Rickey’s passing. In that time, I’ve tried to unpack my thoughts and feelings, but they’re still a mess of nondescript silence and swirling emotion. Rickey Henderson was, no, he IS my baseball hero. He’s the reason I discovered and fell in love with the beautiful game at the age of 10. He’s the reason I pursued a career in baseball. He’s the reason I am now a sports journalist. Rickey…IS…baseball to me. Losing the A’s from Oakland this year already tore my heart to pieces, but losing Rickey—my baseball hero—is a feeling I can’t even begin to describe. At least I know I’m not the only one feeling it.

SEVEN! Seven is the number of one-on-one conversations we shared (according to my journal). Sure, I saw him more than that, so many more times, but those other encounters were just a handshake, a fist bump, or a simple hello.

A former pitcher and all-around nice guy I respect immensely, Gio Gonzalez, introduced me to Rickey for the first time in 2011. I don’t remember that initial conversation very well because, even though I was keeping my cool on the outside, my 12-year-old self was totally freaking out on the inside. It took all my energy not to let it show. I mean, I went to hundreds of games between 1984 and 2003 just to see this legend play. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d actually meet him, let alone have multiple one-on-one conversations. Yet, there I was, standing no more than five feet from him and he was talking to me. For the next 13 years after that, we’d have six more one on one interactions. Only one lasted for more than 10 minutes, but they were each memorable.

I doubt he ever remembered my name, even though I reminded him each time. But that didn’t matter, he always treated me like someone he’d known for years. He’d joke, talk smack, and show genuine interest in what I had to say. I think he treated everyone that way; it’s just who he was. We all knew we were in the presence of baseball greatness, but in ten seconds, he brought you in, and for that moment, you were equals—buddies.

The most memorable and longest conversation we ever had was in the player parking lot after a game in 2019. We both happened to walk out of the tunnel at the same time, and he noticed I was limping. He asked if I was okay; I told him I’d rolled my ankle. Somehow, that led to us chatting by his car for thirty minutes. I picked his brain about what it was like to be Rickey: his days in the minors, the highs and lows of fame, his strategies for stealing and hitting, Billy Martin vs. Tony La Russa, and even what might have happened if he’d been allowed to play both NFL and MLB, and much more. Everything I’d ever wondered about, I asked with the rapid fire of a machine gun, and he answered everything! And it wasn’t some formal interview—just a really cool conversation. He even asked about my life at one point, which blew my mind. I’m forever grateful he gave me that moment. I’m not a betting man, but I’m pretty sure he enjoyed it as well.

I was 12 years old when my dad and uncle took me to my first baseball game: June 24, 1984, A’s vs. Rangers. We sat in field-level section 130, left field. I watched Rickey like a hawk – how he got ready between pitches, how he snagged flies like a magician. It was the first time I saw him make one of his signature snatch catches, pure perfection. And his batting stance? To me, it always looked like an F-117 Stealth Bomber at takeoff: sleek, low, powerful, and fast. Unfortunately, he didn’t get on base that day and didn’t steal any bags, but he came up in the 9th, tied 2-2 with a man on second, and took a 1-2 pitch high and deep over the left-field fence for a walk-off home run. Right then, I wanted to be a ballplayer and roam center field next to him. It’s funny how life works. I never made it to the show as a player, but I did make it there as a journalist, and I stood right next to him on that same field many times.

On May 1, 1991, I skipped school to sit in the upper deck behind first base and watch him steal #939. I’ll never forget that day. It was well worth the Saturday detention!

Baseball changed when Rickey retired. The magic I felt since I was 12 years old just wasn’t the same. I still loved the game, and I always will, but it never again felt quite like it did when he was on the field. I didn’t attend a single MLB game from 2004 to 2010. I finally went back as a sports writer in 2011. I met Rickey, and although he was no longer a player, he was there, and that was cool. Now he’s gone…and, well…

I last spoke to him prior to the A’s vs Yankees game on September 20th. He was on the field with his daughter who threw out the first pitch. I walked by him, he saw me and smiled, we shook hands. “How ya feeling?” I asked. “Amazing!” he replied. Then prior to the A’s last game at the Coliseum ( a somber day in itself) on the 26th, I was walking towards the dugout, he was walking towards me to the clubhouse. We exchanged a look, no words, a smile, a fist bump, and we kept walking.

What can I say. I’m beyond sad that I will never see him again. But I find comfort in the fact that I met my baseball hero and had multiple memorable interactions. What more could I really ask for?

Rest easy, Rickey. Thank you.

Photo, taken Mauricio Segura- 2015