White, You Huckleberry

When I was growing up, there were two kinds of people: Yankee fans and Mets fans.  Red Sox fans didn't count as human, so the didn't fit into either category.  Given this conceptual framework, I get some satisfaction out of the  big news on the sports pages that feared Sox slugger Jim Rice finally made it into the Hall of fame, on the 800th ballot, or something like that, and Rickey Henderson (the most exciting Yankee of one of the team's most frustratingly underperforming incarnations) it in on the first try.

The less said about any Red Sock the better, except that by the numbers Rice was as deserving as anybody of election to the hall.  That it took so long is probably not because he played for the Red Sox (unfortunately, the HoF voters do not understand the proper categorization of humanity).  Rather, it was because the HoF is run by a bunch of sportswriters (i.e., over-aged nerds), who hold grudges against athletes who don't kiss their butts enough.

Speaking of butts, let's talk about Phil Rizzuto.   Some years ago, I was watching a ball game on TV with my dad.  Scooter and Bill White were calling the game, with the usual mix of Oh Holy Cowisms and disagreements, with White playing his usual role of straightman/huckleberry.  Rickey Henderson was on first, taking a long lead, jabbering, twitching, and doing everything he could to drive the pitcher and catcher to distraction.  He takes a big lead, and White says "there's Rickey taking that big lead."  All of a sudden he's off.  Before you can say, um, Jack Robinson, Henderson slides in safely, beating the throw by a mile.

White continues:

"That Rickey Henderson, he always gets that good jump"

"Yeah, he's so fast, too,"  adds scooter.

"Well, you know, he's got those powerful legs,"  says White.

"Yeah, and he's got cute buns, too," concludes Scooter.  We all, dad, me, and White, fall off our chairs. 

That's why there's a hall of fame.