It didn’t take long. Maybe one full day after the shock had subsided and another twelve hours after the sadness was subsumed by reverence, the Rickey stories started pouring in. But not stories about his lead-off home runs or his four stolen base games or his unbreakable records. No, these were the “Rickey being Rickey” stories. Some of them — like that hilarious time he missed three games in August due to (wait for it) frostbite or that more hilarious time he vexed the Oakland A’s accountants by framing but not cashing a signing bonus check for (wait for it) a million dollars — were verified by Rickey himself. Others meanwhile — like that time in 2004 after the Red Sox swept the Cardinals when he called the Sox front office and requested tickets for game six, or that time a couple years later, when he was forty-six and playing in the far corners of an independent league, still hoping to catch on with an MLB contender, when he left Padres’ GM Kevin Towers a voicemail announcing, “This is Rickey calling on behalf of Rickey, Rickey wants to play baseball” — were debunked.

But of all those “Rickey being Rickey” stories, the one which was most shared, and which I most desperately wanted to be true, was “The John Olerud Story.” Like all great fables, the Olerud story has many variations. And like all great fables, the Olerud story is not a true story. But also, like all great fables, the Olerud story was born from a kernel of profound truth.

Basically the story goes something like this: In Spring Training of 2000, having recently signed with his hometown Mariners after three seasons with The Mets, John Olerud was approached by Rickey Henderson, who was also a new Mariner and who was also a member of The Mets the year before. According to legend, Rickey asks Olerud why he wears a helmet while playing first base to which Oly explains that he’d had brain surgery in college and wears the helmet to protect a vulnerable part of his skull. Rickey then responds by saying something like, “That’s funny — we had a guy in New York last year who did the same thing” to which Olerud of course replies, “Rickey — that guy was me!”

Although there are several permutations of the “Rickey and Oly” story, including hysterically far flung versions wherein the latter is Jesus, the fundamental premise always remains the same. And that’s probably for good reason — because as short stories go, this one is a formal marvel. It’s got a great setup and an even better kicker. It’s succinct and hysterically funny. It confirmed our assumptions that Rickey Henderson was both extremely perceptive and completely oblivious — that he was operating on a different plane and dimension from “normal” stars. The anecdote is funny because Rickey was naturally, unintentionally hilarious. But it is important because it acknowledged the thing that every baseball fan knew to be true but which none would say out loud — that John Olerud is un-unforgettable.

There — I said it: John Olerud is forgettable. He has an unremarkable face. His first name is “John” — as generic as names get. If I tried to draw a picture of him right now, it might look like an unspecific “most wanted” poster, or it might look like Charlie Brown, or it might look like fifty percent of the photos from a 1988 Washington State University yearbook. Olerud never won an MVP award and will never be enshrined in Cooperstown. I suspect that the majority of baseball fans — even avid ones — under the age of thirty-five have no idea who he is. In rare interviews, his voice features an accent that could be Canadian, or could be Pacific Northwestern, or Midwestern. Or maybe it’s not an accent at all — maybe that’s just how white guys named John sound.

So — yes — turns out the story is untrue. It was all made up — either by Robin Ventura (possibly but probably not) or by Mariners’ Assistant trainer Scott Lawrenson (probably). While it is pure fiction, however, it’s not wholly untrue. What the story signifies about each of its subjects — Rickey’s obliviousness and Oly’s forgetability — lives on in culture years after the account was debunked again and again (and again). Olerud claims that the Rickey story is — by far — the thing that strangers most frequently ask him about. Not his nacho helmet or his college exploits or chasing .400 or the World Series rings. No — in the rare instance where he’s recognized at all, John Olerud is asked about that time when Rickey Henderson, who played alongside Olerud on three different teams, forgot that he existed.

The greatest miracle of this tall tale is also its greatest irony: that Olerud was undeniably un-unforgettable despite of being one of the most remarkable baseball players of the last forty years. John Garrett Olerud Jr. was born in 1968, the son of a Minor League baseball player turned dermatologist. And while he inherited his father’s elite hand eye coordination, and while he eventually grew to be (a lean) six foot, five inches tall, Junior was modest, soft-spoken, and unexcitable. In Hank Hersch’s 1991 “Sports Illustrated” feature on the then rookie phenom, it was reported that Olerud’s resting heartbeat was forty-four beats per minute. A longtime family friend from Washington described him as "just north of comatose."

In fairness, it can sometimes be hard to discern between “comatose” and “highly introverted.” And while Olerud might resemble the latter, no one who ever saw him compete would mistake him for the former. During his time at Interlake High School, Oly flourished at golf, basketball and, of course, baseball. And soon after, as a Cougar at Washington State University, Olerud distinguished himself as the best “two way,” Division one ballplayer of all time. As a freshman, he hit over .400 while going eight and two on the mound. But that was nothing compared to his sophomore year, wherein he hit .464 with twenty-three home runs and won fifteen games against zero (that’s correct — zero!) losses as a pitcher. Since 2010, the best two way collegiate ballplayer is honored with the “John Olerud Award,” but none have surpassed the brilliance of their namesake’s 1988 campaign.

More stunning than his sophomore season, though, was the offseason discovery that Olerud had a life-threatening brain aneurysm. And what’s more stunning still is that he survived the surgery, returned to the field for The Cougars six weeks later, was drafted in the third round of the 1989 Amateur Draft by the Toronto Blue Jays, and was considered such an unmissable prospect that he skipped The Minors altogether, and jumped straight to The Majors where he was deemed ready to replace first baseman and future Hall of Famer, Fred McGriff. Though he was overflowing with potential, Olerud appeared allergic to bravado, sound-bytes or any of the superficial flair that separated memorable superstars from forgettable, if excellent, players.

Except here’s the thing: Olerud was better than just “excellent.” His swing was flawless, approaching fellow lefties Ken Griffey Jr. (unforgettable) and Will Clark (extremely memorable) in terms of aesthetic pleasure and technical precision. The winner of three Gold Gloves, Olerud was also also among the best defensive first basemen in the game, regularly among league leaders in assists, double plays and fielding percentage. At his frequent best, Oly could be counted on for a .300 Batting Average, .400 On Base Percentage, twenty homers, forty doubles and a hundred RBIs. In 1993, a season wherein he made an extended run at .400, he finished with a league leading .363 average, fifty-four doubles and twenty-four home runs. Meanwhile, hIs .354 average for The Mets in 1998 still stands as the franchise record. Over the course of seventeen seasons, Olerud walked more than he struck out and he compiled slightly more WAR than Will “The Thrill” and much more than Mark Grace and Steve Garvey. If John Olerud played today, he’d be perennial MVP-candidate and future Hall of Famer. He’d be Freddie Freeman.

But he doesn’t play today. He played during the Nineties and Aughts, a time wherein PEDs were rampant and long-held conceptions of offensive power were shattered. As a result, there’s been a retrospective reframing of Olerud as a “professional hitter” — an above average, better than reliable player known for consistency but not supremacy. To that point, Olerud was named an All-Star only twice in his career. Similarly, he was the best player on his team exactly twice in his career — in 1993 and again in 1998. In the former case Olerud was outshined by all world second baseman Roberto Alomar, World Series hero Joe Carter, aging marvel Paul Molitor, and splashy late season acquisition Rickey Henderson — none of whom produced more WAR than Olerud. In the case of the latter, and despite his gaudy BA and OBP, Olerud’s was again overshadowed by the arrival of a goateed catcher named Mike Piazza.

Still — how does an elite hitting and fielding first baseman, the owner of the greatest collegiate baseball season of all time, who won an MLB batting crown, three Gold Gloves, two World Series rings, and who produced more than two-thousand two hundred hits, more than twelve hundred RBIs and exactly five hundred career doubles get forgotten? How does such a player survive in baseball Subreddits and ancient Twitter posts and Youtube lore but almost nowhere else? Well, for one thing he must remain unerringly committed to not standing out. And rarely has a player so completely avoided the spotlight and intentionally underwhelmed the media as John Olerud. Second, he must post a .354 average and .998 OPS at a time when those stats appear “quaint” compared to Barry Bonds, Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa and half of the Colorado Rockies’ lineup. But third, and probably most of all, he must play on the same team as Rickey Henderson multiple times while simultaneously escaping Rickey’s memory. Also, this last requirement doesn’t have to actually occur. Because by fictionally forgetting John Olerud, Rickey Henderson made John Olerud literally un-unforgettable.

by Matty Wishnow