Rickey Henderson Sits by a Lake
Rickey Henderson Sits by a Lake
By Brendan Gillen
May 1, ’91. A’s. Yanks. Bottom of the fourth. Rickey Henderson steals third, swipes Lou Brock’s record from the books, yanks the bag out of the dirt, and holds it aloft like sacrament, the Bay gray sky glinting off his wraparound shades. He clutches a mic, and with his mother, Brock himself and forty-thousand in green and gold bearing witness, is swept up in the moment, issues eight words that will chase him forever: Today, I am the greatest of all time.
Everyone knows this part.
What if we don’t know the rest?
What if, after the game, Rickey Henderson doesn’t go home. Doesn’t kiss his wife goodnight or tuck his three little daughters into bed. Steers a forest green Eddie Bauer past his glittering condo with regret searing his lips. Keeps the radio off because his thoughts are loud. What if he already knows they’ll twist his words? The greatest of all time? Where does he get off? Make him sound cocky. Arrogant. Crazy. Shit, they already poke fun at him for referring to himself in the third person. What if he’s always done this to admonish himself, because he cares so much? Rickey, what the hell you doing chasing a two-one slider? What if they simply asked?
What if Rickey Henderson steers his truck south on the 580, cuts east to Chabot Park in the purple twilight. Kills the engine and takes a deep breath, unclips his seatbelt. Gets out and walks towards the lip of the lake, hears the cicadas sing, a sound not unlike high heat whizzing past his ear. What if in the distance there’s a golf course where he sometimes plays, even though he hates the sport, because when everything in your life is fast, you have to force yourself into a lower gear. What if he finds a bench and sits down, listens to the lake lap the shore, a liquid metronome. Counts the precious seconds in his head. Two-point-nine: the time it takes for him to steal second with a good jump. Three-point-one: the average pitcher-catcher throw out attempt. What if he told them about this? What if he told them about the stopwatch in his locker, the graph paper with the pencil scratch. The hours of game film, breaking down wind-ups. Would it make a difference? Change the narrative? Would he find himself sitting on a bench by a lake in the fading light, mouthing the words, feeling their familiar shape? Today, I am the greatest of all time. What if he’s been saying these words every day for as long as he can remember? What if today there just happened to be a microphone? What if his mother—who gave birth to him on Christmas day in the back of an Oldsmobile—once told him, If you don’t believe it, nobody will?
What if they knew what Rickey knows? That they could say it too, that all it takes is a little courage.
What if, the night after he makes history, Rickey Henderson stands up from a park bench with a clear head, walks back to his truck, gets in, and fires the engine. Merges back onto the freeway, lowers the windows, feels the cool spring air rush in. Begins to gain speed: seventy, eighty, ninety. What if the speedometer nips three digits, not because he feels free, but because he’s already leaving those eight words behind. What if the what-ifs don’t matter? What if this is just the beginning? What if a smile begins to take shape on Rickey Henderson’s lips as he realizes something that will have the rest of the league chasing his shadow: if the words can’t catch him, nothing can.
This was the fifth most-read piece of 2022.
Brendan Gillen is a writer in Brooklyn, NY. His work appears, or will appear, in HAD, X-R-A-Y, Longleaf Review, South Carolina Review, Cosmonauts Avenue and elsewhere. He earned his MFA from the City College of New York.
Jason David Córdova lives in Puerto Rico as an illustrator and painter. Some of his art can be seen on Instagram at @jasoni72.
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