Mark Madden: Remembering the greatness of slugger Dave Kingman

When you’re a kid, you have weird tastes and allegiances.

For instance, my favorite baseball player was Dave Kingman.

Kingman was preceded in my favor by Pirates legend Bill Mazeroski. But Mazeroski retired when I was 11. Mazeroski was the first athlete I sent a fan letter. He mailed back an autographed photo. Roberto Clemente did, too.

Kingman was a tall (6-foot-6), lanky slugger with no real position. He played outfield, third, first — wherever his team could best hide him. (DH when he was in the American League.)

Kingman played for seven different big-league teams. In 1977, he played for four teams: One in each of MLB’s four divisions. (My talk radio debut was that year as a caller to John Cigna’s show on KDKA, suggesting that the Pirates get Kingman.)

Wacky stuff followed Kingman around. His last season was with Oakland in 1986. He finished second in the American League with 35 home runs.

The next year, no team wanted him. After a brief minor-league stint, his career ended at 37.

Kingman’s career total was 442 home runs. There might have been fear that, given a few more seasons, he would crack 500. Five hundred home runs used to guarantee entry into the Baseball Hall of Fame. (Steroids screwed that up.)

Kingman wasn’t going to get into the Hall of Fame. His career average was .236, his OPS .780. He averaged 113 strikeouts per season.

With Kingman, it was a clout or an out. He pioneered the Three True Outcomes. (Except he didn’t walk inordinately.)

Why was Kingman my favorite player?

He played six seasons with the New York Mets and three with the Chicago Cubs. Both teams were easily seen with the advent of cable TV superstations.

He hit bombs. Kingman crushed ’em high and long.

His stint in Chicago was electric. In three years with the Cubs from 1978-80, Kingman never hit lower than .266. He made the All-Star Game twice.

Kingman peaked in 1979: .288 average, an MLB-high 48 home runs, 115 RBIs and a National League-best .956 OPS.

Kingman had a quirky charisma. It was fun to be Kingman when you played Wiffle ball.

Fast forward to … exactly when, I’m not sure. During the ’90s.

My employer assigned me to cover an old-timers’ game at Three Rivers Stadium. Kingman was among those playing.

In a horribly unprofessional act, I took a baseball and hoped to have Kingman autograph it. I approached him in the dugout before the game. (Kingman had a reputation for being surly and uncooperative with media and fans, so expectations were limited.)

I explained to Kingman that he was my favorite player as a kid and asked him to sign my ball. Kingman replied with a smirk, saying that he wasn’t anybody’s favorite player as a kid. (He was sullen, not intimidating, and sprinkled his response with expletives.)

I pressed on: “If I can prove you were my favorite player, will you sign the ball?”

That got a blank stare. I felt like I was on the right path.

“You’re wearing the wrong number,” I continued, fairly babbling. “You’re wearing a Cubs jersey with No. 26. You wore No. 26 with most of your teams. But you wore No. 10 with the Cubs because Billy Williams had worn No. 26, and No. 26 was informally retired.” (Later formally.)

Kingman hesitated, then: “Give me the (bleeping) ball.”

He signed it. I still have it. I detected a slight smile when he handed it back.

Here’s remembering Dave Kingman. Kong. The Sky King. He’s 73 and still kicking. He made a kid’s day long after that kid stopped being a kid.