How is that possible? Rickey Henderson doesn’t move. Huh? The man of perpetual motion—twitching hands, pumping piston legs—died this weekend, and that’s just not possible. The man gave off sparks. He was looking for a 12-volt outlet, usually a second outlet.

He was Rickey. Last name unnecessary. Like the baby. Or Jackie. Or Hank. Rickey was the most exciting baseball player of modern times. On the move, Willie Mays was equally electrifying. But Rickey? He didn’t have to move. He could just stand there at first base and move his fingers like they were triggers waiting to be activated. The pitcher? He was sweating like he was standing under a sunlamp in Arizona.

Rickey has caught pneumonia and that certainly doesn’t make any sense. Pneumonia? Lungs damaged? The man who reached full speed in two steps? He had trouble breathing? No no no. It was Rickey who took your breath away.

His death feels similar to 2001, when Dale Earnhardt died at Daytona after hitting a wall in an accident that didn’t seem as violent in replay. Earnhardt, the greatest racing driver to ever hold a steering wheel, does not die in a stock car any more than the Man of Motion dies of a fatal respiratory problem.

To further reinforce this incongruity, consider Rickey’s mainframe. He had that chiseled body that everyone envied. Rickey, an All-American high school running back in Oakland who wanted to play for the Raiders but whose mother had forbidden him because of the risk of catastrophic injury, was built to handle hitting the ground at full speed.

As if that needed another dose of disbelief, it was just two months ago that Rickey was at the Oakland Coliseum, shaking hands, accepting applause, walking around and talking like the good old days. And what a pleasure that was.

When Rickey first came to the A’s in 1980, it was clear that this kid was on the path to unique greatness – but it was also clear that he needed some work on the English language. So the A’s sent Rickey to a speech therapist in Napa.

When Rickey arrived at spring training the next February, he was asked what those sessions were like. He replied, “Rickey had a good time.” Rickey often used “Rickey” when referring to himself. For example, “Rickey made a good jump on the field” or “Rickey had a good game today.”

As if these answers required additional seasoning, Rickey rewrote the grammar rules to suit his own uniqueness. “Sometimes it’s just like that,” he liked to describe an eventful moment.

When he first arrived in a new city, Rickey’s speech elicited smiles and sarcasm. After some time, a truth came to light. Rickey was not unintelligent, but more importantly, he had no guile.

As talented and disruptive a player as he was, Rickey was never on the side of That Strut, which is common among players with a special ability. Sure, when he set the all-time stolen bases record, Rickey held up third base and loudly proclaimed, “I AM THE GREATEST!”

Rickey later admitted he was somewhat embarrassed by the display. Aware that the way he spoke was far from perfect and elicited laughs, he worked tirelessly on his Hall of Fame speech in 2015. Rickey practiced the speech a few times at Laney College in the East Bay. It turned out to be a pretty accurate representation of the man’s humility, a spectacular feat marked not by selfishness but by gratitude.

Unusual for a man of his gifts, Rickey and his humility always found a home. He played for eight teams in his 25-year career. Every time he arrived in a new locker room, Rickey knew why he was there: Hall of Famers never take a day off. Hall of Famers love the game more than admiration. Hall of Famers can be teammates, not icons who get special treatment.

Rickey moved on and off the field with a spotlight as his ever-present companion. Sometimes he had to take measures for anonymity. That would explain him checking into the team hotel as “Richard Pryor.” That Rickey believed the name of a world-famous comedian was a safe hiding place speaks to both his sense of humor and his high station in life. Yes, Rickey probably made more headlines than Pryor at the time.

“If my uniform doesn’t get dirty, I haven’t done anything at a baseball game.”

Who said that? Pete Rose? No. Rickey. The reaction from fans was the same for both men. I love the guy who loves playing in the dirt. One would think that this approach would be eternal and everlasting for fans. After all, it’s a glimpse into the right way to play, a fond childhood memory for all of us who started sliding baseball in the dirt as kids. Delicious, right, knowing we couldn’t wipe all the dirt off? I’m sorry, mom.

But the lunch bucket that Pete and Rickey taught us to appreciate and applaud didn’t stick. Baseball is now a waiting game, waiting for the three-run home run. Be patient, we are told. Wait. It’s coming. Like an arriving train.

However, this move doesn’t always happen in baseball. A .230 hitter swings from the stirrups, creating a nice summer breeze. The crowd sighs. His teammates sigh. And this one moment, perhaps unique in the game, is over and with it an opportunity has disappeared.

A baseball doesn’t have to leave the park to make the game memorable. A baseball doesn’t even have to hit the bat. A baseball can roll around in a pitcher’s hand while he’s incredibly nervous, unwilling to let go, and knowing he’ll lose control in the process. All because this punk takes the lead from first base with wiggling fingers.

Thank you, Rickey Henderson, for being must-see TV before there was must-see TV.

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