Rickey Henderson enters the Baseball Hall of Fame

The only question about Rickey Henderson entering the Baseball Hall of Fame is whether the engraver can catch him to record his image on his bronze enshrinement plaque. Henderson was the ultimate leadoff hitter in his brilliant career, stealing more bases than anyone in the history of the game.

I was lucky enough to be at County Stadium in Milwaukee during the summer of 1982 on the night he tied Lou Brock’s single-season stolen base record. I was running film for the Associated Press photo crew that night. Henderson wasn’t able to break the record that evening, and I was all charged up to go back the next night, which happened to be my 26th birthday. But the boss said no, they had enough help. I was crushed, and left the bureau in a foul mood. When I arrived home, I walked into a surprise birthday party that my wife and the bureau chief had arranged. All was forgiven, and it wasn’t long before the stadium darkroom called to tell me that Rickey had swiped another base and broke Brock’s record.

Late in Henderson’s career, I saw him play for the Newark Bears in the Atlantic League. In a game against the Somerset Patriots in Bridgewater, N.J., we were near the Bears’ dugout when an ump threw Henderson out of the game for mouthing off about a call he didn’t like. That competitive fire always burned in Henderson.

I saw Jim Rice play many times against the Indians in the old Cleveland Municipal Stadium and a couple times at Fenway Park in Boston while I was in college nearby. Rice only played for the Sox, so he’ll have a Boston cap on his plaque. I don’t know for certain how Henderson will be depicted, but for me, there’s no question: He goes with an Athletics cap.

Cooperstown Ball Cap’s awesome collection

As one might expect of someone who blogs about baseball caps, I spend a little bit of time every now and then scouting the Internet for information on the subject. In a serendipitous search last night, I wound up on ballcap.com, which is the site for the Cooperstown Ball Cap Co. The company is in Cherry Valley, N.Y., not far from Cooperstown and the Baseball Hall of Fame.

The firm makes authentic replicas of old-time ballcaps. I was familiar with their major league and Federal League caps, having ogled them in many a catalog and Web site. But I had no idea of the depth of caps the company recreates. There are caps from Negro Leagues teams, railroad teams, military schools, Native American tribes, even night clubs!

The caps come in a variety of styles, including those 19th Century ones with the band-like crowns and short brims. With only a few photograph exceptions, the Cooperstown site offers only artist renderings of its caps, such as the 1910 model above from the Alameda, Calif., professional team. Having lived on that wonderful San Francisco Bay island town for several years, I’ve put that cap on my wish list along with a few others. (Hint to any relatives with $48 to spend – the 1920 Cleveland Indians cap looks mighty fine.)

A baseball fan could spend a lot of time — and probably money — on the site. I recommend it.

Don’t knock the Rock: An update

One of the joys of blogging is when a post triggers a reaction in someone or enables you to learn something new. My recent post on the 50th anniversary of Rock Colavito’s four-homer game brought a comment in from someone who runs the Rocky Colavito fan site. There you’ll find a link to a petition to the veterans committee of the Baseball Hall of Fame to put the slugging Cleveland Indians right fielder (and off-season mushroom farmer) in the hall. Note: A donation via PayPal is required to contribute.

This blog has now cleared the one year mark, which must mean it has achieved some level of viability. My “hello, world” post was on June 18, 2008, and the first “real” post was on June 21, 2008. Thanks to everyone who has stopped by to take a look. I’ll be looking for an updated banner image to mark the occasion.

The Negro Leagues Museum in Kansas City

To my shame and disappointment, I have yet to visit the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y. I will get there one of these days. That’s a solemn vow.

But I have had the unequalled pleasure of visiting the Negro Leagues Museum in Kansas City. Simply put, it is a national treasure.

The museum grabs you from the moment you walk in, pushing past a ticket window and through a turnstile to enter the exhibits. They cover all aspects of the Negro leagues – the games, the players, life on the road and the realities of American racial relations during much of the 20th Century.

The high point for me was the end, and I wasn’t prepared for its impact. When finished with the rest of the galleries, I suddenly found myself stepping onto a spectacular baseball field where life-size bronze statues of some of the greatest players are stationed at their positions.

Buck O’Neil. Cool Papa Bell. Josh Gibson.

Awesome.

You can walk right up to the statues on the dramatically lit Field of Legends. The statues are so life-like you expect them to say: “Hey, kid, get off the diamond. We’ve got a ballgame to play.”

For me, the biggest thrill was standing next to Satchel Paige on the mound, whose figure is a good head taller than me.

My dad had told me about watching him pitch when Paige joined the Cleveland Indians in the twilight of his career in the 1940s. Had Dad been there with me, I think he’d have felt the same lump in his throat that I did at the encounter.

Jeff Kent: Hero or villain?

Jeff Kent announced his retirement from professional baseball today, ending an outstanding career as a member of the Los Angeles Dodgers. Kent has always brought out mixed feelings in me, and a lot of memories were dredged up today as I heard the morning guys on KNBR radio in San Francisco talking about him.

I first noticed Kent when he was playing for the New York Mets, and I considered him a hack. Why — who knows? I never saw him play anywhere but on TV, and only rarely.  I had no rational basis on which to form an opinion.

Kent came to San Francisco by way of Cleveland in a stunner of a trade for Matt Williams, who at the time was one of my favorite Giants.  So I didn’t exactly warm to Kent right away.

But what a run he had with the Giants. As Murph and Mac pointed out on KNBR, the Giants went from losers to winners as soon as he arrived, which didn’t happen when Barry Bonds came to The City a few seasons earlier. The team hasn’t been the same since Kent left. Of course, he left and later ended up with the hated Dodgers, and every time I’d see him in Dodger blue I’d seethe with rage.

For any good reason? Not at all. But as a Giants fan, I figure my DNA requires that I hate anybody wearing Dodger blue, especially somebody who turned on the Giants. And especially somebody as talented as Kent, who always seemed to get a key hit and wreck whatever the momentum the Giants had.

Now, in the middle of winter, I’m taking a mellower, more rational approach. What entitles us sports fans to decide that any particular player is a hero or villain? We don’t know these athletes, and the closest most of us will ever get is brushing past them as they walk off the field at the end of a game while we head from the cheap seats to the parking lot.

Kent was a fine player. Who am I to begrudge him getting a better deal for himself and his family by leaving the Giants for the Dodgers, or any team for another?

Here’s wishing Jeff Kent well in his retirement from playing. Whether in the role of hometown hero or archrival villain, he added to my enjoyment of baseball. His play is worthy of the Hall of Fame, in my judgment, and I hope he gets elected.

As for whether he should go into the hall with an “LA” or “SF” on his cap, don’t push me. I haven’t quite fully forgiven his move to Chavez Ravine.

Which cap for Rickey in the Hall of Fame?

Players elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame no longer get to choose which cap they’ll be depicted wearing in the bronze plaque that enshrines them. There’s no question that Jim Rice, who played his entire career for Boston, will be wearing a Red Sox cap.

But what about Rickey Henderson? In a 25-year major league career, he played for the Oakland Athletics, New York Yankees, Toronto Blue Jays, San Diego Padres, Anaheim Angels, New York Mets, Boston Red Sox, Seattle Mariners and Los Angeles Dodgers.

If there’s any debate, it’s between the A’s and the Yankees. He spent several years with each of those teams and only a season or two at most with the others. For me, there’s no question he should be enshrined as a member of the A’s, with whom he spent roughly half his career.

I think if you ask the average baseball fan what team Henderson played for, most fans would say “A’s” first.

I was fortunate to see Henderson tie Lou Brock’s single-season stolen base record at Milwaukee County Stadium in 1982. While I missed the next game, at which he broke the record, I got to cover a news conference he had the next morning.

While he always impressed me with his speed and hustle as a young player, I found him even more impressive in his 40s as he tried to hang on in the big leagues. He was playing Atlantic League ball for the Newark Bears when I last saw him on the field. It was in either 2003 or 2004 when I saw him get tossed out of a game against the Somerset Patriots for mouthing off to an ump.

For all his accomplishments, and his competitive fire, Rickey Henderson truly is a worthy member of the Hall of Fame.

The Tris Speaker Baseball League cap

For those of us who grew up in Cleveland Heights and University Heights, Ohio, the intertwined “T” and “S” logo of the Tris Speaker Baseball League is a powerful icon. Everyone who played wore the same red and black wool cap.

Here, my Adam’s apple jutting prominently and skinny belt sagging,  I’m wearing my first uniform in 1968. I played for the Red Sox in the Junior American division, and we were one of the top teams. The league in the 1960s manifest the first stirrings of the “don’t hurt the kids’ self-esteem” fad that was to flourish two or three decades later. No official standings or statistics were kept (although I recorded every victory, loss, at bat and error in a small spiral-bound diary). The league’s idea was not to let the players get too big a head for winning or be wounded too much for losing. The season was rife with rumors that top players from the best teams would be traded to the lesser teams to balance things out, although no one was traded to or from our team.

I suspect the caps were uniform throughout the league to save money, but they were nice hats with a partial leather sweat band in front and elastic in the back to accommodate all head sizes.  We had to raise money to pay for the uniforms, and for many years a springtime ritual in Cleveland was for players in uniform to go knocking door to door and ask for donations into a canister emblazoned with the Tris Speaker logo. If you contributed, you’d receive a TS decal to affix in a door window so other players would know not to come begging.

There wasn’t a game when I didn’t dirty my uniform by sliding or sprawling in the dirt. My mother complained about always having to wash it, but I suspect doing so was a labor of love for her, knowing how much I loved to play.

I can’t swear that I thought so at the time, but I’ve long realized the significance of playing on the Red Sox in suburban Cleveland in a league named for the Hall of Fame outfielder who split his best years between the BoSox and Indians. Alas, the CH-UH recreational baseball league appears no longer to be named for the Gray Eagle. I can find no trace of the name on the Cleveland Heights municipal Web site.

I played one year in the junior divison as an infielder and pitcher, and made the all-star team. The next spring at tryouts, I made a spectacular diving catch at shortstop and knew right then that I’d clinched a spot in the senior division. I didn’t realize I was in for two straight years of misery, getting put on a team where the manager’s son played my position, shortstop. The first year I mostly sat the bench and played the late innings, much of it in the outfield. The second year wasn’t any different.

Forty years later, I still think back how much hinged on spearing that one line drive. If that ball were hit to me again today, I’d still go after it. That’s the only way to play the game.