HAMMERIN’ HANK AARON: MORE THAN A BASEBALL PLAYER

 

Hank Aaron spoke to The New York Times in 1990 about the true cost of chasing Babe Ruth’s career home run record:

“April 8, 1974, really led up to turning me off on baseball.”

“It really made me see for the first time a clear picture of what this country is about,” he said. “My kids had to live like they were in prison because of kidnap threats, and I had to live like a pig in a slaughter camp…All of these things have put a bad taste in my mouth.”

I realize that if I hadn't been able to hit the hell out of a baseball, I would have never been able to lay a finger on the good life that I've been fortunate to have. Playing baseball has given me all that a man could ask for…I don't even hear much about Babe Ruth anymore, thank goodness, and I haven't received a really nasty piece of hate mail in about fifteen years.

HANK AARON

I Had a Hammer

June 12, 2007

 

The January 22 death of baseball great Henry Aaron at 86 saddened us and we recognize the importance of

memorializing his life.  Awarded the Presidential Medal of  Freedom in 2002, the nation’s highest civilian honor, Aaron symbolized excellence in his sport and dedication to human rights causes. 

Before he became a major league star, he played in the Negro Leagues. The Howe Sports Bureau credits him with a .366 batting average in 26 official Negro League games with five home runs, 33 runs batted in (RBIs), 41 hits, and nine stolen bases. After joining the major leagues, he hit 24 or more home runs every year from 1955 through 1973 and is one of only two players to hit 30 or more home runs in a season at least fifteen times.

Up From Poverty

Hank Aaron began his life in a poor section of Mobile, Alabama and grew up in a little nearby

place called Toulminville. Because his family couldn’t afford baseball equipment, he made do with balls and bats pieced together from scrap picked up on the street.

Talking about Aaron’s career without talking about racism resembles talking about apple pie without talking about apples. His baseball success represents a testimony to his character as much as to his baseball prowess. Numbers are important, like his career 755 major league home runs and the fact he’s still the sport’s RBI leader at 2,227. But ignoring racism Aaron confronted diminishes the significance of the numbers. It’s revisionism.

Aaron said, “Too bad integration didn't come sooner, because there were so many ballplayers that could have major leagues…not to take away anything from Babe Ruth or some of those other guys – they didn't play against the greatest ballplayers …”   Aaron contends those players, such as Satchel Paige,  were in the Negro League. 

In 2014, Aaron told USA TODAY’s Bob Nightengale that he kept the death threat letters received when he challenged Ruth’s record to remind himself of how far we still had to go.

“To remind myself that we are not that far removed from when I was chasing the record... A lot of things have happened in this country, but we have so far to go...”

Many remember him for records, awards, and racist abuse during his pursuit of the career home run record, but he accomplished

much more. He supported civil rights causes. After retirement as a player, he paved the way for African-American front office executives, eventually becoming a Braves senior vice president. He excelled in business and his community service record earned him countless honors. Princeton University awarded him an honorary Doctor of Humanities degree.

In his words:
“The way I see it, it's a great thing to be the man who hit the most home runs, but it's a greater thing to be the man who did the most with the home runs he hit. So as long as there's a chance that maybe I can hammer out a little justice now and then, … I intend to do as I always have -- keep swinging.”

HANK AARON

I Had a Hammer: The Hank Aaron Story

 
An Exquisite Player
Hank Aaron had maybe the smoothest, easiest

swing ever. It looked effortless. Undoubtedly it wasn’t. He hit home runs because of his quick wrists, not overpowering size. He played at about 180 pounds distributed over a six-foot frame. He wasn’t an imposing figure, but no pitcher enjoyed seeing him at the plate with runners on base as his RBI numbers attest.

Aaron was the quintessential five tool outfielder. He had speed (240 career stolen bases), could hit for average (two batting titles, .305 lifetime average), hit for power (MLB career best for extra base hits), throw

strongly with accuracy, and field his position cleanly (three-time Gold  Glove winner). He captured the National League Most Valuable Player Award in 1957 when the Braves won a World Series in which he hit .393.

He was a true hero because of the dignity with which he played the game and what he did off the field. He took pride in the fact he played in the Negro leagues before he reached the majors, then contributed mightily to the cause of justice for all people.

When he chased Ruth’s record, he knew he

carried a huge burden as a black man pursing a revered sport record many white people didn’t want him to break. He bore that burden with grace and dignity, despite hate mail and death threats. He never became bitter, but he never forgot either.

Former President Barack Obama summed up the feelings of many when he said of Aaron, “He never missed an opportunity to lead.”  Yes, Henry Aaron did it all.    

THE FOURTH OF JULY, THE FIRST AMENDMENT, AND A GREAT WRITER

Rob pays tribute to our constitution and a national treasure.

This week brings the Fourth of July and its parades, picnics,

and flag waving. For me, the Fourth of July means reflecting on the best of America and how we make it better. Henry, Woodson, and I write a lot in this blog about what would improve America – racial justice, economic equality, political stability. Today, I write about two things already good about America – our First Amendment and a writer it protects named Robert A. Caro.

 

In case you don’t know Caro, I’ll provide an introduction.Robert Caro has written two Pulitzer Prize winning books, won two National Book Awards, and captured three National Book Critics Circle Awards. President Obama awarded him the National Humanities Medal. He began as a newspaper reporter, then turned to writing books with publication in 1974 of The Power Broker: Robert Moses and the Fall of New York. That launched his career, but the four volumes of The Years of Lyndon Johnson made his national reputation.

             

I got a treat when I ran across Working: Researching, Interviewing, Writing, Caro’s new, 207-page memoir of his writing career. I flew through it in two days. It inspired my own writing ambitions and made me realize, as the Fourth of July nears, how fortunate I am in living in a country that allows the work of a Robert Caro. Because that work explores and explains political power, including its excesses and misuses, some countries would quash it and punish anyone doing that work. Through physical intimidation or vexatious, unfounded libel suits, Caro’s volumes would never see the light of day. In America, Robert Caro flourishes. Indeed, I only pray he can finish the fifth and final book in the Johnson series. He is 83 years old. 

The Johnson books

Caro published his first Years of Lyndon Johnson volume, The Path to Power, in 1982, while I attended graduate school at the University of Texas. I worked then for Texas Attorney General (later Governor) Mark White. Many of those around White were old LBJ hands. Naturally, the book keenly interested them, so I ran out and bought a copy. Over the next two years, between graduate papers and starting law school, I struggled through Path’s 848 pages of text and notes. Reading it that way prevented a full appreciation of Caro’s narrative gifts, but I didn’t miss the thoroughness of his research or the comprehensiveness of his effort at understanding Johnson’s native Texas Hill Country.

Path’s dust jacket promised two more volumes (as indicated, we now await number five). When the second, Means of Ascent, arrived in 1990, I found myself immersed in raising children and working at making partner in a big law firm. Though shorter at 482 pages, it went on my shelf, unread.

I didn’t even buy the third volume, Master of the Senate,on its release in 2002, scared off by its 1141 pages of text and notes. Shortly after Caro published Master, because of my work with the Texas Freedom of Information Foundation, I ended up on the mailing list of Democratic kingmaker Bernard Rapoport, a millionaire Waco, Texas businessman known for financing dozens of U.S. Senate campaigns. Rapoport distributed hundreds of copies of Master, including one to me. It too went on my shelf, unread.

Tragedy leads to enlightenment

In 2009, my wife got sick. Ida didn’t survive cancer, but her illness was not for naught. While she underwent chemotherapy and radiation treatment, I sat with her, just being there. Often I read, in a doctor’s office or at home, while she slept or tried reading herself. Hearing about the awards Caro won for his books, I pulled Master off the shelf and read it during that trying year and a half while Ida fought for her life. 

The book enthralled me, especially the part about Johnson, as Senate Majority Leader, spearheading passage of the

Civil Rights Act of 1957 over the opposition of his ally and friend, arch segregationist Richard Russell of Georgia. I also saw Johnson’s other side, in his ruthless destruction of the career of a man named Leland Olds. When their battle ended, Johnson told him, “there’s nothing personal in this …[i]t’s only politics, you know.” 

Reading Master enticed me back to Means of Ascent and its story of how Johnson stole the 1948 Senate race from former Texas Governor Coke Stevenson by 87 votes, leading to Johnson’s nickname, “Landslide Lyndon.” Caro tracked down the man who arranged and reported the fraudulent votes that gave Johnson victory and saved his political career. From that point, I was hooked.

I could barely wait for the 2012 release of The Passage of Power, detailing Johnson’s futile 1960 run for President, his miserable years as Vice President, and his November 22, 1963, ascension to the Presidency. I read the book in Ida’s memory, gratefully celebrating our precious hours together during her final days. 

                                     

Caro and the First Amendment

Because of Robert Caro, we better understand how government works, for good and ill. We see political power’s uses and abuses. Caro said in Working people often ask why writing his books takes so long. Read one and you’ll see. It takes so long because he tells us so much. Thanks to the First Amendment, Caro can tell the whole story. That he can is one of the things for which I am grateful this Fourth of July.