“Coach Rickey Says Hit The Ball Like Coach Rickey Do”

A while back, Rickey Henderson’s name came up in a post about why in crikey’s name someone would constantly refer to themselves in the third person (this is called illeism, apparently). Well, last night, Rickey re-entered our lives, having been named hitting coach of my beloved New York Mets.

Sure, the Mets have been surprisingly inept at the plate this year, carrying a .268 average that ranks them sixth in the National League. Yet they’re still leading the NL East by two games with a 48-39 record, and to be fair, they’ve suffered a number of nagging injuries throughout their lineup.

Rickey certainly has the credentials to help out; even Rickey would tell you that Rickey has those. He’s a 10-time All-Star and baseball’s all-time leader in runs (2,295) and stolen bases (1,406), defining what leadoff hitting should be and setting the standard for all leadoff hitters for generations to come.

On the flip side, Rickey is, well … Rickey is nuttier than almond-centered peanut brittle. In recent years, he’s been harassing ballclubs that he played with in the past, demanding and begging to be put back on their rosters. He’s 48 years old and hasn’t played in the bigs since 2003 -- but he still refuses to retire. His solution? He’s been bouncing around the country, toiling for independent minor-league teams in the middle of nowhere, trying to convince anyone that he can still get it done. A wise man (OK, it was Ken Chen) once said that when you think everyone else is wrong and you’re right, maybe you’re the bird in the hand in the mirror with the early worm … or something. Anyway, Rickey has become something of a pariah in MLB, and now, out of nowhere, he’s the hitting coach for one of the league’s best teams.

As a co-worker pointed out, would anyone be surprised if Rickey steals a uniform and jogs out to center field for his first game, thinking that he could be the game’s first hitting coach/player? Can you imagine Carlos Beltran trotting out to take his position, seeing a withered old man standing in his place, turning to the dugout with hands upraised and saying, “Que pasa?”? Couldn’t they have made Rickey the bullpen hitting coach? Heck, by the time he realized that there are no hitters in the bullpen, he might just fall asleep in the corner after his 4 p.m. dinner and wake up with no desire to coach again. Or maybe they can just make him assistant to the traveling secretary … if it worked for George Costanza and the Yankees, I’m sure it could work for the crosstown Metsies.

Anyway, Scooter is disturbed by this latest turn of events in Flushing … and Scooter’s getting upset.