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Tall Tales of Rickey

In celebration of the Mets new first base coach Rickey Henderson, we at BBBC have decided to air untold and possibly true (but mostly false) stories about the colorful stolen-base king.


The first story comes from former A's batboy Glen Buggermann...

I was a batboy on the 1983 Oakland A's and remember fondly my times with the green and gold. Rickey Henderson was one of my favorite players because of his exciting play and his quirky personality. I remember one day in May we were playing the White Sox at Comiskey Park. Rickey was in left, as always, and I believe this great Rickey moment happened in the top of the 3rd inning. Big Ron Kittle was leading from first. I forget who was pitching and batting but it really isn't important to the story. So anyway, the batter hit a groundball that went between short and third. The ball was rolling slowly into the outfield and I looked up to see Rickey pulling something from his pocket. Ok, the story gets really cookey from here. Rickey scoops up the ball but instead of throwing it into second he aims a little black pistol and shoots Ron Kittle in the face! Ohhh boy, so the White Sox players were really upset. Our manager Steve Boros ran out from the dugout to talk to Rickey. "Why the hell did you do that?" he yelled. Rickey just glanced over at Kittle who was lying in a pool of blood and said "Hey skip, you told me to gun down those runners from the outfield!" So Boros stared at him for a long time, then let out this really loud laugh. "No Rickey, I didn't mean use a gun!" Then Boros turned to one of our players and said, "That's our Rickey!" Hilarious right? Oh by the way Ron Kittle lived but now can't chew solid food.

Thanks Glen, and now another story from Padres center fielder Mike Cameron...

Rickey is a great guy. He was some teammate when we were with Seattle. I recall this really funny moment before a game during the 2000 season. The infield was taking grounders and Rickey was hitting soft-toss near the batting cage. After the infield finished taking grounders our first baseman John Olerud walked toward the dugout. Rickey stopped hitting soft-toss and went over to talk to John. I heard him telling John about how he played with a first baseman in Toronto who also wore a helmet in the field. John looked perplexed and said to Rickey, "That was me." Funny right? Well that isn't the end of the story. Rickey continued to insist that the guy he played with in Toronto was different. Finally, as John was about to walk away, Rickey reached out and grabbed John's face. He ripped his skin off! Underneath his skin was a metal skull filled with circuits and wires. Well, it turned out that the John Olerud we were playing with was really an android built by a secret military organization to spy on us. The real John Olerud was tied up and stuffed under the tarp for over a month. Boy, did he have some funny-looking scars! Rickey certainly made that day a lot more interesting.

Thanks Mike, and now one more Rickey story from former Toronto Blue Jays manager Cito Gaston...

Rickey Henderson was some character when he played for the Blue Jays. We were a great team back then and Rickey was the heart and soul. He was so good that we chose to ignore some of his odd behavior. For example, he talked to his bats. He would tell them things like "Rickey needs a hit today" and "don't let me down" as if they were actual people. One day I walked into the clubhouse before a game and saw Rickey talking furiously to one of his bats. He was yelling things like "you stupid dirty whore" and I was just bewildered. I walked over to Rickey to ask him what was going on. He told me that his maple bat had made love to his wife. "Cito, he betrayed me! He had his way with my wife! The sick traitor must die!!" he screamed. Rickey then reached into his locker for a bottle of gasoline (I don't know why he had a bottle of gasoline in his locker) and poured it all over the bat. Then he lit a match, setting the bat and the clubhouse carpet ablaze. All the players including myself ran out of the clubhouse. Rickey just stood there laughing demonically. That was fucking weird.

Thanks Cito and welcome back Rickey!

Allow Me To Explain My All-Star Game Decision

Many of you faithful fans have questioned my managing in the 78th annual All-Star game. In the bottom of the ninth with the NL trailing five to four, I opted to let Orlando Hudson and Aaron Rowand hit with runners on base instead of replacing them with Albert Pujols. After Rowand made an out to end the game, the critics immediately second-guessed me. I am here to defend my decision.

First of all, I want to reiterate to the fans and to the media that I am smarter than you. My brand of thought is light-years ahead of your puny minds. I can calculate more in my pinky finger than you peons can comprehend in a thousand millenia. You don't see what I see. Where you see failure, I see success. I can see all outcomes in a tenth of a second. Of the 145,641.6 possible outcomes in Aaron Rowand's at bat, 67,134.24 yielded base hits. For you pea-brained ovines, that is a nearly 47% success rate. I turned to Albert Pujols and surveyed his smooth yet fierce Spanish visage. In 154,654.3124 possible outcomes, Albert Pujols succeeded 67,043.14 times. For the math-challenged mental midgets out there, Albert Pujols could only succeed 43% of the time in that situation. Fools might ask how I could know such odds. Fuck you, that's how I know.

I am always right even when I am wrong. I have won a World Series in each league. No one, not even Lord Jesus himself, can question me. Five days ago Albert Pujols had the gal to question the take sign I gave him on a 2-1 count. After Dave Duncan administered electric shocks to Albert's nipples after the game, I told Albert that if he ever even thought of defying my masterful orders, he would find himself in AA ball. Fans and media alike, know now and know always that I am infallible. Here is planet Earth's hierarchy: 3. President of the United States, 2. God, 1. Tony fucking La Russa.

And one more thing: if you continue to insist that I shouldn't wear sunglasses in the night time, I will have Dave Duncan remove your testicles with a rusty, sand-coated dagger.

Fear Not, Faithful Reader(s), Bring Back Bubba Crosby Will Be Brought Back!

We at BBBC apologize for not posting in over a month. You see, loyal (and nonexistent) fans, the BBBC task force has been too busy debasing themselves in summertime orgies to write about the happenings in the sports world. In fact, we have been so busy with our legendary sexual exploits, we have forgotten that we can't switch from first person plural to third person plural in one post. I apologize for the pronoun inconsistency. Anyway...the real point of this post is to preview all of the wonderful stuff that will appear on this blog in the coming weeks. A lot is being planned friends. In fact, so much is planned, the summer itinerary must be put into bullet form! The following shit will go down sometime soon:

• A comprehensive plan for you and your family that will guarantee ten million dollars in cash and a free box of Nilla wafers


• International Globular Legion updates


• A movie review of a possible movie that exists


• Baseball wonderings and musings


• Facial hair breakdowns


• A comprehensive plan for world domination


• More Nilla wafers


• Time-travelling exploits of our good doctor monkey Orgasmo


• A preview of the dog-fighting season


• The apocalypse


• Eight ways to have intercourse in front of your employer without being fired


• The "Feed Eric Mangini" campaign


• 19th century baseball ghosts


• A long list of bullet points


• David Eckstein's lectures on Christianity (again)

Stay with us and we will open your mind to possibilities that you only dreamed of! Or don't stay with us and live a life of misery, loneliness, and hunger. It's your choice, people.

Oh Pedro Gomez, What Will You Do Without Mr. Bonds?

Poor Pedro Gomez. His current life's work is to follow around a certain San Francisco slugger, filing reports for the World Wide Leader. Pedro has been on the Bonds case for quite a few years. He has spent his time on Sportscenter telling the world that Bonds ate chili for breakfast or has a sore hamstring or hit a ball really hard in batting practice. He is utterly devoted to covering the record breaking career of Barry Bonds. What will happen to our pal Pedro once Barry Bonds breaks the all-time homerun record? Tell Pedro not to fear, because BBBC has a comprehensive list of careers that he can choose from once Bonds is the homerun king!

The List

1. Eel Farmer

2. NASCAR food vendor

3. Chris Berman's towel boy

4. Electronics store manager

5. Sean Salisbury's phallus photographer

6. John Clayton's head polisher

7. Stephen A. Smith's nigga

8. President of the Federation

9. Renaissance fair jockey

10. FOX baseball studio analyst

Pedro can earn $650 per week as Stephen A. Smith's nigga

11. Pedro Feliz biographer

12. Gatorade flavor tester

13. Pedro Gomez biographer

14. Napolean Dynamite fan club operator

15. Astronaut

16. Time-traveller

17. Insurance claims adjuster

18. Chris Berman's personal cheese maker

19. Figurine afficianado

20. Clown God

21. Pirate

22. Priest

23. Pagan Priest

24. Craig Biggio stalker

25. Chairman of some sort of board

26. Super villian

27. Normal villlian

28. Blogmaster

29. War Czar

30. Connect Four legend

31. Ghost Pirate

32. Infomercial actor

33. Professional playa

34. Puzzle master

35. Senator

36. Nail store worker

37. Boxcar story teller

38. Macaroni farmer

39. Secret pie chef

40. African proverb dispenser


Pedro Gomez could be the Lou Gehrig of Connect Four

Greg Oden Actually 960 Year-old Mystical Sage From Taihang Mountain Range

SHANXI, CHINA- 7-foot center Greg Oden, the probable first pick of the NBA draft, is actually an ancient and mystical sage who has dwelled in China for nearly one thousand years. It is still unknown how Oden, known as "The Ancient Sage of the Willows" in his homeland, first took interest in the American game of basketball and became one of the best college players in recent years. However, it is clear that at some point after the game of basketball was invented, the wizened Oden decided to come to America and embark on a career in the NBA.

BBBC reporters discovered Oden's dwelling, a small temple hidden in a bamboo patch on the base of mountain, while out on a panda-hunting expedition. In this temple the tall center was found deep in meditation. At one point he was seen hovering above the ground, surrounded by a glowing purple aura. According to Oden, he had practiced "battosai meditation" for 400 years, using his mind as a weapon against the imperial forces of the invading Tokugawa shogunate. Oden believed he learned his strong basketball defensive skills from battling the Japanese invaders. His longevity has allowed him to master 512 different martial art styles and the ability to control his sprit energy or "chi." Oden showed reporters his personal basketball court, a simple pit of sand lined with rare "gencho stones." Instead of using a basketball, Oden practiced with a 600-pound mountain rock, moving the tremendous boulder through the air with his sprit energy. After the workout, he gave one reporter a golden staff to commemorate the visit and told him that it was time for the public to learn the truth. "They must know I am not 19 years-old," he said.

The revelation of Oden's age is not completely shocking. Oden's wrinkled face had led many to wonder if he was much older than 19. Now that it has been revealed that Oden is centuries old, many experts have speculated that his draft stock will drop. "I definitely think his age is a concern," said ESPN NBA analyst Kiki Vanderweghe. "Although Oden has proved he can live far longer than any mortal, his foot speed, blocking ability, and overall agility must have been hindered by hundreds of years of rugged living. His career could be shortened by his advanced age." However, fellow NBA analyst Stephen A. Smith disagrees with the Oden doubters. "Greg Oden is one of the great prospects of our generation. Whether he is 19, 30, or even 900 years-old, it doesn't make a difference. If anything, Oden's ability to teleport, levitate, and survive the sting of ten thousand arrows only enhances his draft stock. Portland should not hesitate to take Oden!" Smith also added that he wishes Quite Frankly with Stephen A. Smith was still on the air.

Greg Oden killed this man and his flying ox 753 years ago


Ohio State issued a statement, acknowledging that they knew of Oden's true age but believed he still should have been allowed to pursue a college career. "The Ohio State University does not discriminate based on age. Mr. Oden wished to pursue an education with us and we obliged. His abilities to fly and bend the space-time continuum had no bearing on him being admitted to The Ohio State University." The NCAA has yet to comment on Oden's true age. NBA commissioner David Stern issued a statement. "Greg Oden will be a wonderful addition to the National Basketball Association. His Chinese heritage will help to market the game globally and his mastery of the martial arts will attract the burgeoning "NBA fans who are martial artists" demographic."

Oden flew to America yesterday after the NBA draft lottery. He answered questions at a New York hotel, seemingly unfazed by the media scrutiny. "The pressures of the NBA will not affect my play," said Oden. "I only want to help my future team win and contribute to the growth of our sport. After opposing the mighty forces of Takeru Kensei and his dragon on the fields of Nanjing 640 years ago, playing in the NBA will be an easy task."

Friday Special: Put Me In the F--king National Spelling Bee!

Every Friday we at BBBC bring you a very special message from a professional athlete. This week's guest is former baseball player Carl Everett.

What's going on? Ever since the Mariners cut me last year I've been getting down to doing some thinking. Deep-ass thinking, ya know what I mean? I was always into books and shit, ya know, the intellectual type. I read my fuckin' bible on road trips and even checked out the educational shit in Playboy. So anyway, I was thinking about why the Mariners and that fat eggroll cracker fuck Hargrove let the main man Carl go. I think it was because they feared my awesome brain. I wasn't fooled by all the lies that were told, like that bullshit about dinosaurs and white men on the moon. Only person that can get on the moon is Jesus. He's got enough super magic in his fuckin' power belt to fly all around the moon like fifty million times.

Ok, I'm gonna get to the point here. I've always been good with words and books and learning. Last week I was watching some news and started spelling words all of a sudden. Like "news." And "spelling." And even "breaking news." I was on fire like a motherfucker, in the zone, man. My son Carl ran in the room and asked for some juice and I told him to jump off a bridge and die because daddy Carl was in the spelling groove and couldn't be interrupted. Before I took out my diamond belt on lil' Carl's face, lil' Carl tells me that in Washington they have this shit called the National Spelling Bee. It's even next week! Holy shit, I thought, I could spell fucking words! That bitch is mine!

So I called up some ho who told me about where to call for the spelling bee. I nailed the ho softly, then gave the spelling bee niggas a call. Some old dude answerd talkin' shit about "qualifying" and being "over the age limit." He was obviously either afraid of my giant elephant brain or just a fucking racist. I think it's a little of both. After that I was pissed and took lil' Carl out back for a spanking. I used the extra hard wood planks cuz I was really pissed. Then lil' Carl tells me to go to Washington anyway and ask to enter. Lil' Carl's got an elephant brain like daddy Carl so I stop beating him and let him have his fruit roll-up.

I get to Washington and tell some dudes I'm Carl Everett, baseball legend. That didn't know who I was so I fucked 'em up real bad. No one disrespects a baseball legend! At the spelling place I saw a bunch of brown kids with weird looking eyes. Shit man, this kids are like two feet tall and the girls got bigger sideburns than me. One little kid named Ho-cho-poo or some made-up shit like that comes over and asks me if I play baseball. I tell him he's looking at a baseball legend and he says he loved watching me play in Seattle. He gave me a piece of paper and said to write "To Ho-chun-fungwang, you're the best, your friend Ken Griffey Jr." Fucka thought I was Griff! Well then I picked him up by his little blue suspenders and shoved his ching chong ass in the garbage can out back. Then the security comes and arrests me. Racism against Carl! Finally I woke up a few hours in jail and I realized that I wasn't gonna be in any spelling bee.

It's cool though, cuz I got other shit to do. I'm gonna be making movies or writing books. I don't need to spell in a bee. I already own that bitch. Yeah, Carl Everett is sure doing good. Sunny skies all around! But if you hear from any teams, like the Devil Rays or Rockies give me a call. I think I got another fifty homer season left in my body.