Hank Aaron has passed, but in my heart, he’ll never be gone
Boyhood heroes never really die, do they?
They live forever, even when the boy himself grows old.
Henry “Hank” Aaron will live forever in my heart, the slugger with the sweet swing and the temperament to match.
Aaron — who died Friday at the age of 86 — was my type of athletic idol. He was understated yet elegant, the model of decorum as he quietly went about his business of being one of the greatest baseball players our country has known.
“Hammerin’ Hank” and I go way back, back to the earliest of years when a youngster is able to decide for himself which athletes and teams to admire and follow.
At age seven, I chose Hank and the Milwaukee Braves. Most of my friends liked Willie Mays of the San Francisco Giants — flashy, flamboyant and undeniably one of the all-time great superstars.
Hank was more my style. Later, I chose Joe Frazier to pull for rather than the much more popular Muhammad Ali. I admired Joe’s perseverance and toughness and absolute determination to win. I loathed the way Ali publicly referred to Frazier as “the gorilla” and an “Uncle Tom,” which seemed to be acceptable to many people since Ali, like Frazier, was black.
I’ve told the story of how I became a fan of Aaron and the Braves several times in radio interviews, so if you’ve heard it, please bear with me.
In the early ‘60s, Post cereal boxes came with baseball cards on the back, which you could cut out and add to your collection. One day, I saw an advertisement on the back of a comic book, offering Post cards of full teams — 10 players to the team — for $1.50 apiece.
My parents gave me $3, and I was tasked to make the difficult choice of which two teams to buy. The New York Yankees were the team of the day, a six-time World Series champion in the ’50s and blessed with stars such as Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, Yogi Berra and Whitey Ford.
Who to pick for the second team? Little more than a year earlier, the Yankees had beaten the Braves in seven games for the 1958 World Series title. The year before, the Braves had reigned supreme against the Yankees. Milwaukee had a star left-handed pitcher named Warren Spahn and, as a southpaw myself, that was appealing. And the Braves had Hank, which sealed the deal.
As I got older, my allegiance grew. When I was in junior high, I put together a scrapbook of clippings from newspapers and magazines with pictures and articles about Aaron (wish I still had it). I was 20 and in college when Aaron, now playing with the Braves in Atlanta, did the unthinkable — break Babe Ruth’s career home run record.
I never saw Aaron — who retired in 1976 after a brilliant 23-year major-league career — play in person. I met him in 1979, when I was a 25-year-old sportswriter with the Oregon Journal and he came to Portland as Grand Marshal of the Rose Festival’s floral parade. When I heard he was coming to town, I hightailed it to the desk of our sports editor, George Pasero, and volunteered for the assignment of interviewing the home run king.
Aaron was gracious and accommodating in our 10-minute interview the day before the parade. Afterward, I did something I’d not done before or have done since in my 45 years as a newspaper sportswriter — something admittedly not very professional. I asked a subject for an autograph for myself, on a photo I brought with me. I still have that signed photo in a scrapbook stored in my attic at home. (Glad I didn’t throw that away!)
In 1990, Aaron came out with his autobiography, “I Had a Hammer: The Hank Aaron Story.” I gobbled up the words and enjoyed it immensely, fully appreciating a life story told in his words. I was saddened at the bitterness he had for the racism he endured on his way to breaking the Babe’s record. I hoped that he understood there were millions of white Americans who admired him as much for the man he was as for his considerable talents as an athlete.
And what talents those were. He wasn’t a big man — 6 foot and 180 pounds — but blessed with impossibly strong wrists and a seemingly innate ability to hit a baseball a country mile.
Remarkably, Aaron — who finished his career with 755 home runs — never hit 50 in a season. But he was a model of consistency, hitting at least 40 homers eight times, at least 30 in 15 seasons and at least 20 in five more.
He wasn’t just a slugger, either. He was a five-tool player before that was part of baseball’s lexicon. Aaron’s career batting average was .305, and he won two batting titles. He still holds the big-league record for RBIs and total bases. He stole 31 bases in 1963 and topped 20 in a season six times. He won three straight gold gloves early in his career.
Aaron won only one MVP award — in 1957, the Braves’ world championship year — but that was during the golden era of baseball, with competition from such as Mays and Ernie Banks and Frank Robinson and Roberto Clemente. He finished among the top 10 in balloting for the award 13 times.
After his playing career was over, Aaron enjoyed a distinguished career in the Braves’ front office that lasted four decades. He was also a humanitarian who received the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2002 and became an outspoken advocate for civil rights in our country.
On Friday, I listened again to Vin Scully’s call of Aaron’s 715th career home run to pass the Babe in 1974.
“What a marvelous moment for the country and the world,” Scully said. “A black man is getting a standing ovation in the Deep South for breaking the record of an all-time baseball idol.”
As a young boy, I never saw the color of Aaron’s skin. At first, I saw a player whose skills — and decorum — I could admire. As I got older, I grew to appreciate him as a man who carried himself with grace and dignity. He seemed a gentleman in every way.
Hank Aaron has passed, but he’ll live in eternity in my mind. Isn’t that what boyhood heroes do?
Readers: what are your favorite memories of Hank Aaron? Did you attend the Rose Festival parade when he was the Grand Marshal? I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments below.
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