Even at age 41, Rusty Staub played baseball as only he could, mixing grit and determination with the enthusiasm of a kid on a sandlot.
How fitting, then, was it that this wonderful player and human being took his leave at 12:30 a.m. Thursday morning, coincidentally the day the Mets opened the season at Citi Field. In timing that could only be conjured up by a grateful universe, his passing allowed the team, a fittingly packed house and the city he loved to bid him a fond farewell prior to the game against the Cardinals.
But this is not about the saddness of Staub’s death at age 73. Nor is it about the pain springing from his failing kidneys that confined him to an intensive care unit his last two months on earth.
This is about a happier time.
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Comical, even, as only Staub the competitor could appreciate.
It happened in 1985, the last season of a 23-year career for the man Montreal fans lovingly dubbed "Le Grand Orange." Only now, the big hitter with the bright red mane wore a Mets uniform, the best days of his career well behind him as he played out his second tour in Queens.
It was April 28, a Sunday. A rather long Sunday, in fact, as Staub played the final seven innings of an 18-inning, 5-4 win over the Pirates. As the bench had dwindled to, well, nothing, manager Davey Johnson was forced in the 12th inning to put Staub in the outfield. He hadn’t played there since 1983, after which his aged legs relegated him to spot duty at first base when he wasn’t pinch hitting.
Johnson had to take an imaginative approach to all this. Knowing full well Staub’s limitations, the manager tried to hide him in plain sight. Against right-handed hitters, he stationed Staub in right field. Against the lefties, he ran him over to left, praying neither struck a pitch to the opposite field.
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It worked for six innings.
Then came the 18th. The Pirates, equally short on bats, sent up Rick Rhoden as a pinch-hitter. Rhoden was one of the few starting pitchers of the era who could actually put together a respectable at-bat, a righty hitter who had nine homers and a .238 batting average over a 16-year career.
Staub dutifully jogged into straightaway right.
To the surprise of everyone, especially Staub, Rhoden found him. And it wasn’t some liner Staub could spear with three quick steps to his left. Rhoden caught one off the end of his bat, sending a little flair popup about six feet inside the foul line.
Here came Rusty, his beefy upper body chugging above legs better suited for the shuffleboard court. He ran about 100 feet, though it probably seemed like 500 to him. Still, the ball hung up just long enough for him to get close, stick his glove out, probably say a quick prayer and snag it as the remainder of the 36,423 who showed up at Shea Stadium that day erupted.
That encapsulated Staub, the player and the man. He did what needed to be done. And he generally succeeded. Whether it was turning his restaurant “Rusty’s” into one of the city’s most vaunted rib joints, helping the 1973 Mets to a World Series appearance in his first four-year go-around here, voicing the need for better pay for players or raising millions for the New York Police And Fire Widows’ and Childrens’ Benefit Fund -- or for anyone else in need, it seemed -- he did it 100 percent.
His on-field comportment was no different. He was a six-time All-Star with Houston, Montreal and Detroit. He hit three homers and drove in five runs in the NLCS against the Reds in '73, and then belted out a .423 batting average with a homer and six RBIs against the A’s in the World Series.
The Rhoden at-bat was only the last highlight of a great baseball career.
The man’s highlights continued on far beyond that.
His body finally gave up on him, something Le Grand Orange would never dream of doing.
Certainly not on a flair near the right field foul line.