Hank Aaron

 

It’s an exaggeration to say the afternoon I spent with Hank Aaron was the greatest day of my life, but those who know how crazy baseball people are, wouldn’t be shocked if they heard me say it was. To spend time with Hammerin’ Hank, alone, just him and me, ranks up there as a great day and certainly one of the greatest days in my baseball life.

I was the head of marketing and fund raising for a national nonprofit based in Atlanta. We recruited Hank to our Board of Governors and since I always had the job of first visiting the recruit to talk about the board, I was beside myself when I heard one of the greatest baseball players of all time was to get one of my briefing visits.

I had done a lot of these meetings, some with high-profile people. But having one of these meetings with Hank Aaron? This was a whole new ballgame (sorry) for a baseball nut like me. This was Henry Freakin’ Aaron!  I couldn’t sleep the night before and the day of the meeting I couldn’t eat or hardly function. I was going to have probably half an hour with Hank Aaron, all by myself, and that made me very, very anxious. No, not anxious, excited like a little kid meeting his hero.

Hank Aaron was my second greatest baseball hero. Willie Mays was first, but Hank was right there. Not only because of all he accomplished, but because of all he had to go through just to play. He fought racism in the Negro Leagues before facing it throughout his career in the Major Leagues. And, in spite of all that, he was the greatest homerun hitter of all time. (Don’t get me started on the steroid injected ‘official’ homerun leader.)

My meeting was scheduled at his auto dealership in downtown Atlanta. There my job was to brief him on the job of a board member and answer any questions he had about the organization. What was I really hoping to do? A speed-date briefing then talk baseball.

When I arrived, he met me at the front door of the dealership with a bat in his hand. As he handed it to me, I realized it was signed. And, he told me, it was game used. In other words, he had actually used this bat in a Major League game and now had signed it for me. “Thought you might like to have one of these," he said. After checking that I had not wet myself, I told him that it really wasn’t necessary (‘please don’t take it back, please don’t take it back’) but when he insisted that I keep it (‘thank you Jesus’) we sat down to talk, with me never letting the bat out of my hand through the whole conversation.

We talked about the nonprofit for a few minutes. And then, as I hoped, we talked baseball for forty-five. Yea. Forty-five. During our time together he told me what Negro League baseball was like (‘miserable conditions on and off the field, but great baseball’), he told me of some of what he faced as a black man in southern cities (‘thank god we got to play baseball in between the people cursing and throwing things at us’), and he told me story after story about his career and life. 

Back in 2015 I wrote a column for the local paper here in Leesburg, Virginia, after Yogi Berra died. I wrote of having the opportunity to spend time with him and how I did some consulting for him and the museum in New Jersey that bore his name. I wrote about how I felt I was with royalty when with Yogi. 

In that column I wrote that the recollection that had seared itself into my brain during my time with him was when he was showing me around the museum (how many can say they had the privilege of having the subject of a museum show them the museum?) when he pointed to the very famous picture of Jackie Robinson stealing home in front of Yogi during the 1955 World Series. "He was out!" said Yogi with more vehemence than expected so many years after the event. "He was out," he repeated. It was the part of my time with him I remember the best.

The iconic thing I remember about being with Hank Aaron was first, of course, when he handed me the bat. But later, during the conversation, I remember how gentle he was when talking about the racism and hate he faced playing baseball in the Jim Crow era. I remember he spoke with no bitterness, no hate of his own, only stating the facts. I remember thinking at the time, if I wanted to explain what class was, this was it. Here, I thought, is grace and gentleness I doubt – no I know - I would never have been able to display under similar circumstances.

Today, as I remember Hank Aaron, and by extension my time with Yogi, I realize in these two legends I experienced two of the characteristics of truly great people. Yogi showed the competitive nature so necessary for greatness in sports - in anything, really. All these years later, Jackie was still out and he wanted to make sure I knew that. If you have been around the great ones you know they have a drive that is hard to relate to, that comes from within them that they can summon at will and that you and I don’t have.

And Hank showed the grace and perseverance, that along with competitiveness, rounds out and defines the heart of a great athlete. Perhaps another word for it is aura. The Hank Aaron's of the world have a way about them that few of us mortals ever attain. Grace and forgiveness and a gentle nature are part of who they are.

I tremble, sometimes, when I think of all the Hall of Famers we have lost in just the last year.  Lou Brock, Tom Seaver, Bob Gibson, Al Kaline, Whitey Ford, Joe Morgan, Phil Niekro, Tommy Lasorda, Don Sutton and now Hank Aaron. While I did some work, as part of that same job, with some of those other Hall of Famers we’ve lost this year, nothing, absolutely nothing, will ever top my personal time with Hank Aaron and Yogi Berra. Nothing.

Rest in peace Mr. Aaron. We are better for your having lived among us.