In a world where box scores often outlive the men who write them, one voice behind the numbers has gone silent. The Baltimore Orioles, a franchise as steeped in history as it is in heartbreak, have lost more than a stat keeper—they’ve lost a living archive. The press box just got quieter, but somewhere, a .266 hitter just lost his best defense.

It is never good to see an important part of a franchise’s history leave. But nothing is permanent. Jim Henneman, one of the most beloved people in Baltimore and one of the greats in the sports writing community, has left us, and this one hits deep.

It was reported by The Baltimore Sun that Jim Henneman had passed away at the age of 89. “Jim ‘Henny’ Henneman, a staple at Orioles games since the team arrived in 1954, who covered them for The Baltimore Sun, among other outlets, and worked 23 years as the primary official scorekeeper at Camden Yards, has died. He was 89 years old.”

Henneman gave us so much insight into what is happening in the MLB world, especially the Baltimore Orioles. He was also the official scorekeeper for the Orioles for 23 years and worked closely with the franchise to keep them in the hunt for the playoffs.

He didn’t just keep score—he kept the story straight, even when the box score didn’t. From emergency bat boy to press box legend, Henneman outlasted managers, mascots, and maybe even logic in scoring decisions. As the Orioles chase another October, they’ll do it without the man who could turn a routine 6-4-3 into poetry.

His Orioles stories weren’t typed—they were carved into Baltimore’s soul. Rain delays didn’t stall him, they inspired him. During a three-hour delay in 1983, Henny penned a feature on Cal Ripken’s rise that still gets quoted. To Henny, the box score wasn’t the story—it was the epilogue.

In an age of tweets and instant takes, Henneman offered something richer: Perspective marinated in memory. He could compare Adley Rutschman’s clubhouse leadership to Elrod Hendricks’ from the ‘70s with casual ease. He gave the numbers names, and every ninth inning its own moral conclusion—often told with a dry chuckle.

As the Orioles gear up for another season, they’ll do so without their most faithful chronicler—someone who saw beyond stats and into the soul of the game. In an era drowning in instant highlights, Henneman reminded us that baseball is a slow dance, not a sprint. The ink may dry on his final scorecard, but his stories will keep the lights on in Camden Yards long after the last out.

After covering Orioles baseball for eight decades, Jim Henneman gave his view

MLB has seen rule changes, replay reviews, and more pitch clocks than a Swiss watch factory. But through it all, one constant remained: Jim Henneman watching the Baltimore Orioles with a sharper eye than most center fielders. From dugout dust-ups to dynasty dreams, Henneman didn’t just report history—he outlasted it. Now, after eight decades on the beat, the man who’s seen it all finally shared his thoughts…

For over eight decades, Jim Henneman has witnessed Orioles history unfold from his perch in the press box. From Calvert Hall to Camden Yards, his love for baseball never waned. “It’s not once in a lifetime; it is a lifetime,” he reflected on his remarkable journey.

Henneman fondly reminisced about the magic of covering games, especially the very first one in Baltimore. “The biggest thrill for me was the very first game,” he said, recalling youthful awe. Growing up just blocks from Memorial Stadium, he found baseball not just nearby, but deeply personal and profoundly permanent.

Through the years, Henneman’s friendships and observations gave color to his reporting, especially with Orioles legends. “I’d have to say Earl Weaver,” he shared about his closest manager relationship. And when asked about the finest glove, he didn’t hesitate: “I’m going to say Brooks Robinson”—a living tribute to timeless talent.

In an era where tweets chase headlines and box scores update by the minute, Henneman stayed steady, pen in hand, wisdom in tow. He didn’t just cover the Orioles; he chronicled their soul. While managers came and pitch clocks ticked, Jim Henneman simply kept score—and the game was better for it.