There was no one who embraced banter with fans more than Rickey. He savored it as much as the game itself.
For several years in the days of the old Arlington Stadium we stood in line to make sure and get the $7 first-row seats in sections G & H whenever the Yankees or A's were coming to town. You didn't miss out. To get a front row seat in the left center stands in that old dinosaur was a ticket to unbridled entertainment. And that source of entertainment was Rickey. He didn't give a shit about playing the outfield. Never did. He was more interested in engaging, and telling you about how big his dick was, and how much your mom enjoyed it, and how much your sister would as well if your mom got tired of it, and on and on. One of the guys we used to go with to the games took in a folded up dry erase board to message Rickey, relentlessly. Rickey came close to climbing the wall when he was told that his manhood was "3 inches, on a good day", but he'd soon have to turn around and somewhat pay attention to a baseball game being played. The shit went on and on, and it was fantastic.
Rickey was a character and beyond. And one helluva player. One of one.
RIP Rickey.