The man's face from brow to chin turns hard. The sinews in his neck bulge. His eyes go cold.
Rickey Henderson is looking at you like you're deranged.
You're kidding, right? Retirement? Simply because of his age?
You got the wrong damn man.
''Rickey ain't ready to retire,'' Rickey says. ''Noooooo. It's not time. Not now. I got things I have to do.
''When that time comes, you ask yourself, 'Have I accomplished everything I want to accomplish?' When you can say, 'Yes,' that's when you go out on your own terms.
''I'm not there yet.''
That's Rickey, when he talks, he speed-raps, darting sentence to sentence with no break.
Rickey turns 40 on Christmas Day. He could spend the rest of his life relaxing on his 75-acre ranch in Northern California. He could, but with his chiseled body and a hunger to set records, the Hall of Fame is going to have to wait.
''The good Lord willing,'' Henderson says, ''I'm going to be playing a little while longer. Why should I quit? I ain't going to lie. I'm having fun what I'm doing and I'm still good at it.
''Besides, when you think about the end, you're ready to quit. I don't think about the end because then you start looking for a way out. I'm not looking for a way out.''
Henderson, of course, has nothing left to prove to anyone in this game. His place in history is secure.
He quite simply is the greatest leadoff hitter and basestealer in history.
''Of all time, without a doubt,'' Giants star Barry Bonds says. ''The numbers don't lie.''
Says Oakland Athletics general manager Billy Beane: ''When you compare Rickey, the only thing you can do is compare him against himself.''
In an era when players stopped running, refusing to sacrifice their bodies when there's so much money to be made, Henderson still plays the game with the abandon of a 19-year-old pimply-faced kid trying to make an impression in his first training camp.
Henderson not only became the oldest player in history to lead the league in stolen bases with 66, but still scored 101 runs, drew 118 walks and had a .376 on-base percentage last season.
''It's an achievement that lets you know deep inside you still got it,'' Henderson says of the stolen-base title. ''That you can go out there and make something happen.
''Sometimes, if you're hitting for a high average, it doesn't mean you're doing the job you're supposed to do. I'm trying to help the ballclub any way I can to win. Even if I don't get a hit, I can get a walk, steal a base, and score a run.
''The first day I stepped into the league, I said the best thing a leadoff hitter can do is score runs. That's what I've been doing.''
The Athletics stood by in absolute bewilderment, wondering how a 39-year-old man can still be one of the finest leadoff hitters in the American League.
''It's mind-boggling,'' teammate Mike Blowers says. ''Here's a guy who spent 20 years in the big leagues, is pushing 40, and he's as good as he was when he was 20.
''Here he is, a first ballot Hall of Famer, and he's drawing 100 walks, scoring 100 runs and wins the stolen-base title. You kidding me?
''Hopefully, I'll be able to tell my grandkids about it some day. I'll tell them, 'I got to play with the greatest leadoff hitter this game has seen, and ever will see.' ''
Henderson's days of hitting .300 appear to be over. He has batted .300 just once since 1990. Yet he personifies the reason a batting average is one of the game's most overrated stats. He has a career .406 on-base percentage. He has posted at least a .400 on-base percentage in nine of the last 10 years, has stolen at least 40 bases 16 times and has scored 100 runs 13 times.
Henderson already has the most stolen bases in history with 1,297, having eclipsed Lou Brock's record in 1991. He is sixth in runs scored with 2,014. Check out who has more: Ty Cobb (2,246), Hank Aaron (2,174), Babe Ruth (2,174), Pete Rose (2,165) and Willie Mays (2,062). Henderson's 1,890 walks trail only Ruth (2,056) and Ted Williams (2,019).
''I've got the opportunity to challenge a couple of records that have stood for a long, long time,'' Henderson says. ''I'd love to have that runs record. That one would be nice to walk away with.
''I've been a famous basestealer, but the ultimate is being a run-scorer.''
Henderson, a free agent who's sparked interest with the Athletics, Mets and Mariners, has been running ever since he came into this game. He stole 100 bases in his first full season in 1980. He stole a record 130 bases in 1982. He led the American League in stolen bases in 11 of his first 12 seasons.
He was back again in '98, winning the stolen base title that's usually reserved for the game's youth.
''The guy is awesome,'' says Tony Gwynn, Henderson's former teammate. Gwynn, an eight-time batting champion, says people don't know Henderson. ''People look at him as this flash-and-dash guy who worries more about style points than he does about the game.
''They talk about what kind of player he is, and how much talent he has, but nobody talks about how he's prepared. He prepares like nobody you've ever seen.''
Henderson, who maintains a workout routine that would put most players to shame, also catches teammates by surprise with his little black book. He goes into his locker each day, pulls out the book and jots down notes. Nobody asks any questions.
''I always keep a notebook,'' Henderson says. ''I go home every day and write something down. It's just something I do in spring to remind me of things.
''Early in my career, everything was free. Now you have to do everything you can to get an advantage.''
It's this restless intelligence that is behind his mastery of the basepaths. You watch him strut away from the bag, faking toward second, taking varying leads, back and forth. Then the burst of speed. And a throw that is rarely in time. It is usually is so late that Henderson slows down a few feet before the bag, stops and stutter-steps to second.
It is one of the game's most entertaining shows to watch Henderson work his way around the bases, virtually mocking the pitcher, daring the opposing catcher to throw him out, and giggling as he crosses home plate.
''He has this aura, this presence about him unlike any player I've ever been around,'' Padres general manager Kevin Towers says. ''There's this arrogance about him, but a good arrogance, if you know what I mean. That's why Rickey will leave this game a star. He won't play this game if he's just another player.
''I still remember the day we signed him (Dec. 29, 1996). I kept hearing about how Rickey doesn't come to camp on time. And then all the questions came, 'Is he going to show up on time? When's he going to show?' Well, the first day of camp, (manager) Bruce Bochy is having his team meeting, and right in the middle of it, the clubhouse doors burst open, Rickey walks through, and says:
'' 'Rickey's here.
'' 'Welcome, San Diego.' ''
Henderson was so beloved during his 1½-year stay in San Diego that when he departed, everyone wanted a remembrance. Hugs and handshakes were not enough.
''I've never seen so many big-league players want a guy's autograph the day he was traded,'' Towers says. ''Everybody stood in line waiting for an autograph. You know something, I got mine, too. My autographed bat is at home.''
Henderson, whose attitude and desire were once questioned, particularly during his 4½ years in New York, now is considered the ultimate team player. He had such a profound effect on the Padres during his stay that several players say he was partly responsible for their success in reaching the World Series a year later.
''I wish he could have been here this season,'' Gwynn says. ''This year's club benefited so much from having Rickey here for two years. You look at the effect he's had on Quilvio Veras. He's the leadoff hitter he is today because of Rickey. You look at Greg Vaughn. He helped him immensely.
''He helped this whole team so much. He taught us to prepare hard, work hard, but have fun. That was our underlying theme all year.''
Henderson says that although he misses playing on a contender, it feels right in Oakland. This is his hometown where he started his career. This is where he hopes to finish it.
''I know what it takes to come up from the bottom to make yourself a superstar,'' Henderson says. ''You have to be hungry. Your body takes a beating, but you got to go out there and play in pain. And you have to love it.
''I still love it. I feel like a kid again.''
The way Henderson figures it, he's not the one aging. Everyone else in the game is getting old.
Who can dare argue?
By Bob Nightengale
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