The Last Hero: A Life of Henry Aaron (76 page)

A
MONTH AFTER
Henry congratulated Ken Griffey, Jr., on his historic home run, the 2008 All-Star Game was played at Yankee Stadium. The night following the game, the television network HBO broadcast a special episode of the program
Costas Now
, hosted by veteran broadcaster Bob Costas.

“I had a good relationship with Henry going back many years and that gave me the ability to at least ask,” Costas recalled. “I had been asking for a couple of years for him to appear, not with Willie, just to talk about his career. However, in such an environment in my position I would still have to be inclined to ask him about Barry Bonds. Henry was warm and respectful, but always declined. He declined everything because he saw no upside.

“First, I got Willie to agree. I told Henry, ‘You’ll be with Willie. The show is not about Barry Bonds, but about your respective careers, your generations.’ I told him, ‘You know that if that’s what it’s going to be about, you know I won’t sabotage you.’”

Henry wore a charcoal blazer, Mays a gray suit and red paisley tie and a San Francisco Giants cap. When the two men appeared, the auditorium at the Skirball Center at New York University erupted in an extended standing ovation. Bob Gibson was the exception. Seventy-two years old and still unyielding, Gibson held out, the only person in the audience
not
to stand.

The evening was magical in its reverence for a battered game. Henry and Willie, keepers of the standard, were reinforced by the considerable supporting cast of Hall of Fame pitchers Jim Palmer and Gibson. Two kids who now borrowed the stage, Philadelphia shortstop Jimmy Rollins and Tampa Bay third baseman Evan Longoria, appeared genuinely moved.

The program began with the usual tall tales of the old romantic days—of Gibson nailing hitters and Henry and Willie nailing fastballs in return. As the evening progressed, the two men became themselves: Willie the raconteur was gregariously absorbing large chunks of space, and the night turned into yesterday afternoon, August at the Polo Grounds, the audience breathing in Willie’s air, taken once more by his gifts.

And Henry sat there smiling, looking at Willie as one looks at a charmingly obnoxious cousin—equal parts humor and patience.

“Whatever tension or rivalry others have speculated, time and mutual appreciation took that away,” Costas said. “Henry is a figure of tremendous dignity, Willie far more outwardly excitable and high spirited. In a way, Hank enjoyed looking at Willie. It was almost as though he was between first and second, and then we went into overtime and his hat flew off and he went into another gear.”

When Henry spoke, the room went quiet and the energy changed. He was, as much as Mays, in his own element—serious and hurt, sometimes humorous and sometimes grave—and the room belonged to him. Henry spoke of serious matters, of how a piece of his life had been taken from him and how it had never come back and that no matter how many years might pass, he wouldn’t speak in depth of the years from 1972 to 1974.

The show was supposed to run fifteen minutes. It lasted nearly an hour. At Willie’s suggestion, the two men stood together for a final standing ovation.

“I think the difference is this,” Costas said. “Henry engenders great respect, but people view Willie by excitement and fondness. They associate him with fun. With Henry Aaron, it is all about respect.”

O
N
F
EBRUARY
5, 2009, Henry Aaron turned seventy-five. The birthday party was supposed to be modest, a family-only affair, but Billye couldn’t help herself and sold out the ballroom at the Atlanta Marriott Marquis. Bill Clinton was in attendance, dining at Henry’s table.

“You’ve given us,” Clinton told Henry, “far more than we’ll ever give you.”

Henry lived for the family; what started in Camden, under the thumb of the Tait cotton and slavery dynasty, ended with the election of Barack Obama as president, a milestone neither King nor Robinson, neither Herbert nor Stella lived to see. Henry supported Hillary Clinton in the primary. Even a month before the election, Billye Aaron was unconvinced that Obama could win, that America would do something neither she nor many Americans could envision. The country was still too racist, she said, to elect a black president.

Henry said he was “thrilled” by the Obama victory. Clinton, standing next to Henry, said the part of what Henry felt was taken from him during the Ruth chase might have been restored with the election of a black president.

“I am extremely happy with what happened in the country with having a black president,” he said. “I don’t think about 15, 20 years ago. I don’t have time to. I think about the good time I’m having now. I’ve got the respect of people. That’s the most important thing, trying to do everything I can and do it right.”

And then Henry reverted to his usual mode of behavior, withdrawing from the fray, seeking peace while others elevated him. Ted Turner said Barry Bonds hit the most home runs in major-league history but that Henry Aaron was the home-run king. When it was his turn to speak, Tom Johnson, former chairman of CNN, took the microphone and Harry Edwards’s prophecy played out in real time.

“You will always rank number one in my record book, without an asterisk,” Johnson said. “Henry, you never disappointed us. Not once. Long after all of us are gone, your name, the name of Henry Aaron, will symbolize what I believe it really means to be a genuine American hero.”

H
ENRY’S
A
MERICA WAS
fading. In 2007, he traveled to Milwaukee to attend a dinner celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of the Milwaukee Braves only championship. Only thirteen Braves remained. Bill Bruton had died in a car crash in 1995, the accident caused by a heart attack while he was driving near his home in Delaware. Joe Adcock had died in 1999, but not before meeting with Henry to apologize for his racial attitudes when they were teammates. Eddie Mathews had died of a heart attack in 2001, Warren Spahn in 2003, Lew Burdette in 2007.

In the most complete sense, Henry Aaron had won. Winding through the city of Milwaukee is the Hank Aaron State Trail, nearly ten miles of sanctuary for bikers, runners, and skateboarders. In 2004, the city of Eau Claire erected a statue commemorating the sixty days Henry spent there. In Mobile and Atlanta, the Aaron name adorns streets and parks.

At a safe remove, when there were no more points to prove, no more misunderstandings to correct, no more slights to salve, the competitions ended and the deeds could finally speak for themselves. Henry Aaron lowered his guard and allowed the warmth of the sun of his life to bathe his face.

“Not too long ago, we went away for fifteen days on a cruise to the Panama Canal,” he said. “I had been on cruises before, but never on the water for that long a time. I remember when the boat was in the Canal, in that narrow space. I looked out at the blue ocean and saw the birds swoop down into the water and then settle on the land. And then I understood how much I wanted to be like them, free. I leaned over to my wife and I told her that it was at that very moment that I finally felt like them. No one was asking me about baseball. The people that were around us weren’t interested in me because I played baseball. I was free as a bird. And I told my wife. I said, ‘I’ve never felt this free in my life.’”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Over the four years it has taken to complete this project, I have accumulated serious debts to many people. Allan Tanenbaum, Henry’s attorney and friend for thirty-five years, paved the way for my subsequent interviews with Henry. I am grateful for his trust, recollections, efforts, and frankness. Without him, Henry Aaron would likely not have spoken to me, and the result would have been a very different, lesser book.

Henry Aaron was never overly enthusiastic about this book, preferring to let his prodigious accomplishments speak for themselves. Nevertheless, he offered his voice on important areas that he had never before discussed publicly. Equally important, he did not impede his friends, family, and associates from speaking with me. Billye Aaron, Henry’s wife, was particularly gracious. Her perspective on their remarkable journey of nearly four decades together was an invaluable one. Henry’s sister-in-law, Carolyn Aaron; his niece, Veleeta Aaron; and nephew, Tommie Aaron Jr., were all generous with their time and memories.

An important figure in Henry’s life, Frank Belatti, was very helpful with his recollections of meeting a Henry Aaron who in the mid-1980s was at a professional and personal crossroads and of helping him achieve a successful business career, one he is as proud of as his accomplishments on the baseball diamond. As a person who worked directly both with Henry and with Barry Bonds on television projects, Mike Tollin holds a wonderful perspective on the two men. His insights during Bonds’s pursuit of Henry’s record in 2007 were of unique value.

Bud Selig and I have had a contentious relationship over the past decade, but he has never wavered in his admiration of Henry Aaron. Accordingly, he was gracious with his time and remembrances of Milwaukee in the 1950s and of Henry during their fifty-plus years of friendship. I am grateful also to Jimmie Lee Solomon, Richard Levin, Patrick Courtney, Earnell Lucas, and Mike Port of the commissioner’s office for their time and insights.

Research is often thankless work, but several people across various institutions were instrumental in helping with the excavation of records, court documents, census data, and other archival information vital to understanding Henry’s early years. Collette King at the Mobile County Probate Court was an invaluable resource in untangling the complex web of city records during the early part of the twentieth century in segregated Mobile as well as providing me with a daily history lesson about the city. The first friendly face I encountered in Mobile, Janie Daugherty at the Mobile Public Library was kind enough to help sift through and make available the voluminous Henry Aaron file of newspaper clippings and introduce me to numerous people in Mobile who familiarized me with the city and a fair number who knew the Aaron family.

I am particularly grateful to Paulette Davis-Horton, who is a walking encyclopedia of the history of black Mobile, providing the institutional memory regarding the African-American experience in that city where little to no documentation existed.

Scotty Kirkland at the University of South Alabama’s photo archives was the second friendly face I met in Mobile.

The staff at the Library of Congress Manuscript Division was diligent in helping me wade through two important collections—Branch Rickey’s and Jackie Robinson’s—that helped me understand Robinson’s complicated relationship with organized baseball and why Henry came to admire him. The Library of Congress Periodicals Division is an invaluable source.

Constance Potter at the National Archives was helpful in providing a history of the census and in tracking down the roots of the Aaron family. The library staffs at the Atlanta History Center, the Atlanta Public Library, the Widener Library at Harvard University, the Boston Public Library, and the New York Public Library were all professional and helpful to completing this project.

My debts are endless at the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum, starting with Bill Francis, who did the initial heavy lifting of tracking down all things Henry Aaron and fielding my never-ending calls and e-mails. Like Bill Francis, Pat Kelly graciously accepted my frantic phone calls for photographs and was unfailingly polite and professional.

Jeff Idelson has been a great friend for many years and in addition to paving the way for me to utilize the museum’s vast resources, provided me with tremendous insight into Henry’s ongoing relationship with the Hall of Fame. Many thanks also go out to Tim Wiles and Claudette Burke.

There are too many people to list, but special thanks go out Dusty Baker, who has known Henry Aaron for forty years and has always been an incomparable resource about the game of baseball and the place of African-Americans. He has along the way become a great friend.

Ralph Garr and I spoke on at least a half dozen occasions and each time I learned something new about Henry and the life of that second generation of black ballplayer (the first to reach the majors without needing to play in the Negro Leagues). Of all the people interviewed for this book, Ralph understood the heart of Henry Aaron in the most unique way.

Speaking with Ed Scott, the man who discovered Henry Aaron, was one of the great pleasures of working on this book. The institutional memory of the prewar years in America fades with each passing day, and I am thankful for the opportunity to have spoken with and learned from him.

Al Downing was gracious with memories of his life in baseball and talking about a moment—the night he gave up Henry’s 715th home run—about which he is beyond fatigued. I am grateful to him for being so willing to discuss his life with me.

There is no greater gentleman than Gene Conley, Henry’s old teammate with the Milwaukee Braves. Gene was unfailingly polite in taking my calls to jog his memory about a young Henry Aaron, his days growing up in Oklahoma, and the early days of the Milwaukee Braves. Conversely, I realized I had worn out my welcome with the old Braves shortstop Johnny Logan, who finally fielded my calls by saying, “You again?” But I am grateful that it took a half dozen calls before he finally got fed up.

Ever since I met him in 2001, Joe Torre has been a wonderful sounding board for all topics, from race to the formation of the players’ association to simply learning the game. My thanks go out to him again for his assistance and connecting me with his brother Frank, who played with Henry and was one of his closer friends on the team.

Writers in general (sports writers in particular) are very good at complaining, but I cannot thank enough two institutions for providing me with the time and resources to complete this project, especially John Skipper, John Walsh, and Rob King at ESPN. For anyone committed to journalism, there is nothing better than sitting down with John Walsh. His door was always open and I have never had a conversation with him that did not inspire me to be a better journalist, a better writer, and a better thinker while simultaneously feeling humbled by the intense sense of pride that comes with being around such a talented group as there is at ESPN.

ESPN.com executive editor Rob King was patient and supportive over the many months of 2008 and 2009 while I completed the manuscript, and like John Walsh has always been a terrific resource. Patrick Stiegman was a tremendous help both with reading sections of the manuscript and lending me a tremendous book on the Milwaukee Braves,
The Milwaukee Braves: A Baseball Eulogy
, by Bob Buege.

I am grateful for the support of my direct editors, Michael Knisley, David Kull, and especially Jena Janovy, who read portions of the manuscript’s early drafts and provided helpful inspiration and suggestions.

This project originally began in May 2006 when I was a staff writer at
The Washington Post
. My former editor, Emilio Garcia-Ruiz, has always been generous with me and supported the project from the beginning.

I am thankful for the generosity of a phenomenal group of journalists at the
Post:
David Maraniss, Wil Haygood, Dave Sheinin, Mike Wise, Cindy Boren, Ed Holzinger, Meg Smith, Jonathan Krim, Jason La Canfora, and Michael Wilbon. As they say in the dugout, it was nice to hit in that lineup.

In addition, a great field of professional journalists offered insight and suggestions that were helpful to the manuscript. My thanks go to Jack O’Connell, George Vecsey, Wayne Minshew, Monte Poole, Gene Wojciechowski, Nick Cafardo, Adrian Wojnarowski, John Helyar, and the incomparable Roger Kahn.

Special thanks go out to Dan Frank at Pantheon Books, who provided the greatest gift an editor could ever offer to an author: his confidence in the project. Even at times when I wavered, he did not. His editing, guidance, and suggestions throughout the process were first-rate. Many thanks go out to his assistant, Jillian Verrillo, and her predecessors Hannah Oberman-Breindel and Fran Bigman.

My agent, Deirdre Mullane of Mullane Literary Associates, has always been the first line of defense, the staunchest advocate for any project, and still the reigning champion at putting together a saleable proposal. Many thanks also go out to Janet Pawson of Headline Media Management for her guidance and support.

For too much work and too little pay, David Kutzmann edited the manuscript from its first incarnations and, more importantly, provided an invaluable sounding board at all hours of the night, making the process a little less isolated. This is our third collaboration and, as always, it is his friendship that grows stronger with the completion of each project.

In the same vein,
Washington Post
staff writer Steve Yanda conducted several interviews and contributed research. Steve was instrumental in easing the burden of the mountains of information, and this project could not have been completed without his tremendous assistance.

There is a special group of friends upon whom I rely to such a degree that my indebtedness to them is eternal. Daily conversations with Glenn Stout rival any writing workshop in the country. Too many ideas to count have been transformed into themes and concepts that appear throughout this book. Our friendship now enters its second decade.

Often at the expense of her own writing, Lisa Davis eased the solitary exercise of writing by being a friend and confidant of the highest order. For fear of being greedy, I can only hope that the inspiration of our talks has been reciprocal.

Christopher Sauceda read the entire manuscript at each stage and as always has been a great friend during the writing process and beyond.

A special measure of thanks goes to Patricia Donohue, who also read portions of the manuscript and during the most difficult times provided the reinforcement and support that words alone can never accurately measure.

A handful of people read certain sections of the manuscript and offered valuable feedback. To Jeff Pearlman, Rachel Bachman, Geoffrey Precourt, and Buz Eisenberg, I thank you for your support.

I would also like to raise a somber glass to the late David Halberstam, who counseled me during the proposal stage of this project and offered tremendous advice and support during the early reportage of this book. My last conversation with him took place during the fall of 2006, when he urged me to “bring those tremendous Henry Aaron wrists to life.” Thanks also to the late Bob Nylen, a man I knew far too little; I am lucky to have called him my friend.

Finally, there is the family who endured living with a person who for the last four years lived primarily in his head. To Veronique and Ilan Bryant, thank you. I know this is never easy.