So Henry swung with purpose, setting the Phillies, the Pirates, the Cardinals, and the Reds aflame. When the Giants came to Milwaukee for three games to start May, Henry had to swallow Sam Jones walking away with a victory in the opener and Willie going four for five in the second game, a Sat.u.r.day win for San Francisco.

In the finale, Burdette against Johnny Antonelli, the two stars put on a show in a sideways Milwaukee rain. With one on in the first, Mays took a sidearm fastball from Burdette and sent it four hundred feet to dead center, the ball landing softly in the Perini pines in right-center field. In the bottom of the inning, with two out, Henry pounded a home run of his own to make it 21. The next time up, Mays lashed a drive into the left-center gap and raced for second, only to be erased by a laser from Pafko. Leading off the fourth, Henry faced Antonelli and wafted another home run, this one close to where Mays's ball had landed. An inning later, the Braves finished Antonelli with five runs and took the game, 94. When Mays and Aaron were finished sparring, Willie had gone two for four, with a home run and two runs driven in. Henry was three for four, with two home runs, three driven in, and two runs scored.

The Dodgers came to County Stadium the next night and Drysdale posted a cla.s.sic line-eleven innings, ten hits, nine strikeouts-which meant nothing, because he was long gone by the time the matter was decided, at the end of the sixteenth inning, which happened to be three minutes before the National League curfew of 1:00 a.m.

BRAVES SHADE DODGERS,138 32 32Aaron's long double breaks up thriller just before curfewBy Frank Finch/ Finch/Times Staff RepresentativeMILWAUKEE-With first place at stake, the Dodgers and Braves battled for 4 hrs, 47 minutes ... before Hank Aaron doubled Eddie Mathews home ... to give Milwaukee a 32 victory....... Aaron, the greatest hitter in the game today, drove in the tying tally with an accidental bloop single ... and then demonstrated his greatness with the clutch clout that ended hostilities at 12:47 a.m.

Even if Fred Haney didn't believe he had a game breaker the caliber of Mays, Henry played with a certain type of ferocity. Most players played with purpose, but few could make their bodies do what the mind wanted. On May 10, Henry singled in the ninth inning off Joe Nuxhall to cap a doubleheader sweep of Cincinnati.

The Braves took over first place three days later. In the meantime, Henry maintained a scorching pace. In a particularly painful loss in Philadelphia on April 23, he doubled for his first hit of the game in the seventh inning and then homered in the ninth to give the Braves a 31 lead, only to see Pizarro give up two homers in the bottom of the ninth and lose 43. He would hit in every game for nearly the next month, a twenty-two-game hit streak. In the final game of the streak, a crisp afternoon at Seals Stadium, with the Giants and Braves slugging it out for first place, Sam Jones held on, trailing 21 in the fifth. Mays had already homered, and even though he was down in the game, Jones was pleased by his shackling of Henry, who bounced out weakly in his first at bat and struck out in his second.

Jones quickly retired the first two batters of the inning and, with the pitcher, Spahn, standing at the plate, was about to cruise into the dugout. But Spahn singled. So did Bruton. Then Mathews flipped a single to the opposite field in left to make it 31. Jones was breathing fire when Henry stepped to the plate. Henry took a Jones delivery and blasted it into the gap in center, over Mays's head. Bruton scored from second and Bill Rigney made his quick trot across the infield with the hook. Jones left the mound, turning as he headed to the showers to stare down Henry, who was staring right back at second base.

SAM JONES GUNS FOR HANK AARON139MILWAUKEE (AP)-Sam Jones of the San Francisco Giants was quoted ... as saying, "The next time Henry Aaron sees me on the mound, he is going flat. He's going to get a face full of dirt." ..."Don't let 'em print what you said," Willie Mays pleaded with ... Jones...."Aw, go ahead and print it. I said it."

And with a little self-satisfied twinkle in his eye, Henry responded, "Sam must have been a little upset at getting beat," but he knew Jones was a little upset at getting beaten by him. Sam Jones would die of cancer in 1971, at forty-five years of age, and there would not be a moment of reconciliation. Sam Jones took his fight with Henry to the grave.

On June 16, at the cavernous L.A. Coliseum, the trio of Johnny Podres, Clem Labine, and Art Fowler held Henry to a hit in five at bats, dropping his pregame average from .402 to .398. He would not threaten .400 again, but he a.s.saulted pitchers, especially in late innings. Once, it was easily Mays in the National League, Elston Howard and Berra in the American as holders of the clutch-hitting t.i.tle, but now Henry had elbowed in on the discussion.

But the Braves could not escape their own drift. They had lost first place at the all-star break and would trade places in the standings with the Dodgers throughout the remainder of the summer. In the second week of September, the Giants still held the lead, but the Dodgers and Braves played two bitter games at the Coliseum. In the first, Bob Buhl beat Drysdale, 41. The next night was a game the Braves would not forget. Henry struck hard again, going four for six, singling and scoring in the tenth to break a 66 game. Up 76, with one out in the bottom of the tenth, Maury Wills singled off McMahon, then raced to third on another single by Chuck Essegian. Junior Gilliam wafted a sacrifice fly to tie the score at 77 and rejoiced when McMahon walked in the winning run. The Dodgers and Braves were now tied for second, both 7965.

ON S SEPTEMBER 15, the Giants led by two games. The next five games would likely decide the pennant, home games with Milwaukee and the Dodgers. San Francisco had held on to first place since July 10. Bad things always seem worse when they happen to you, and that was why the San Francisco Giants generally lacked sympathy for the Braves. The Giants proceeded to split the series with the Braves, lose all three to the Dodgers-which put Los Angeles in first place for the first time in consecutive days in May-and then lose two more to the Cubs and the Cardinals. The Giants lost eight of their final ten games, and by the final weekend, they were finished. 15, the Giants led by two games. The next five games would likely decide the pennant, home games with Milwaukee and the Dodgers. San Francisco had held on to first place since July 10. Bad things always seem worse when they happen to you, and that was why the San Francisco Giants generally lacked sympathy for the Braves. The Giants proceeded to split the series with the Braves, lose all three to the Dodgers-which put Los Angeles in first place for the first time in consecutive days in May-and then lose two more to the Cubs and the Cardinals. The Giants lost eight of their final ten games, and by the final weekend, they were finished.

The Braves, meanwhile, entered the final two games of the season trailing by a game, thanks to Jack Meyer (now pitching for Philadelphia) beating Burdette 63 at County Stadium. Losing was one thing, but there were still two games left. But on that night when Mathews. .h.i.t his forty-fifth home run, staring the Braves in the face should they find a way to take the pennant was not the perennial New York Yankees, but the Chicago White Sox, who had won the pennant for the first time in forty years, not having done so since the infamous year 1919. These Sox, the "Go-Go Sox," as they were called, couldn't break a pane of gla.s.s with their bats, but they ran all the way to the pennant, beating out Cleveland. The dreaded Yankees were thirteen back.

It wasn't the losing that night that galled Perini and Burdette and the rest, but the spa.r.s.e and uninspired crowd of 24,912 that showed up at County Stadium. Had winning become so old so quickly? Was the circus in town? Then came the chilling extrapolations of thought: If the fans weren't showing up for a team that played for the pennant, the whole franchise would fall through the floorboards if they'd ever had a losing season.

On September 26, at Wrigley Field, the Cubs jumped all over Podres. It was 90 in the third, heading to a 122 Cub pounding of the Dodgers. Meanwhile, up Route I-94 in Milwaukee, Spahn and Robin Roberts wrestled to a 22 standstill against Philadelphia until the bottom of the eighth, when Mathews and Aaron started the inning with singles. Needing a run to tie for the pennant on the final day, putting their destiny in their own hands, Fred Haney decided to do some managing. Adc.o.c.k put down a sacrifice, advancing Mathews, who scored on Bobby Avila's force play. Spahn struck out the first two batters of the ninth and finished the job for his twenty-first win of the season in a tidy one hour and fifty-nine minutes. Both teams would win the next day, setting up a best-of-three play-off, the Dodgers versus the Braves again, to begin Monday, September 28, at County Stadium, the winner to take on the awaiting White Sox in the World Series.

Henry figured his team would go to the World Series a third straight time. This Dodger team simply didn't scare anyone with its lineup. Snider was old, and so was Hodges. Pee Wee was at the end; Robinson was long gone. They played in the sun and not the tough corners of Brooklyn. They certainly could pitch, but the Braves had Burdette and Spahn, who had both won twenty-one games. Besides, both teams would have to hit to win the series, Henry believed, because the big pitchers on each side had already pitched just to make the play-off possible. The opener would be two middle-rotation guys, Danny McDevitt for L.A. and Carl Willey for Milwaukee.

But when he walked out to the field to take a quick look at the conditions, Henry could not believe his eyes. There was hardly a soul at the ballpark-County Stadium empty ... for a play-off game, no less. It was bad enough that the Sat.u.r.day-afternoon game, with a pennant on the line, had been witnessed by exactly 23,768 paying spectators. The weather had been gloomy that weekend, a slashing rain pelting the field, but that couldn't stand as the reason for why the hungriest city for baseball in the league suddenly had better things to do.

"A disgracefully small crowd140 of 18,297 watched in apathy," wrote Arthur Daley of the of 18,297 watched in apathy," wrote Arthur Daley of the New York Times New York Times. "No one seemed to care much and the players responded with the routine job the uninspired surrounding seemed to demand." Henry's worst fears were realized.

The Braves knocked out McDevitt with one out in the second. They led 21, but like Bob Turley's relief appearances in the World Series, the Braves couldn't touch the new man, Larry Sherry. Sherry pitched the rest of the way, not giving up a run. In the sixth, the game tied 22, Willey gave up a long home run to Dodger catcher Johnny Roseboro that wound up being the game winner.

He blasted a pitch over Henry Aaron's head and into the right field bleachers....Once upon a time Milwaukee was rated as the most rabid town west of Flatbush.... Nothing deterred them. They braved rain, snow, discomfort and second-place finishes....... The support Milwaukeeans gave their Braves must have been moral. It certainly wasn't physical. The bleachers were virtually empty....... Maybe the Braves shouldn't have given their followers the bonus of two pennants and one world championship. They have nothing left for an encore.-Arthur Daley, The New York Times The New York Times, Sept. 29, 1959 Sept. 29, 1959 Once in Los Angeles, the finale was emblematic. Aaron and Mathews, invisible in the opener, jumped on Drysdale in the first for two runs. The Braves led 20, and 31, and, in the bottom of the ninth, 52. Burdette was tough and ornery, ready to force a winner-take-all gambit in Milwaukee. Then Wally Moon led off the ninth with a single, and it was the old Dodgers, the ones who had roamed Brooklyn, made the name famous, trolled the archives for one last reminiscing. Snider, thirty-three and gray, singled. Two on, n.o.body out, and the tying run at the plate, and Fred Haney about as motionless as a cigar store Indian.

Only after Gil Hodges singled to load the bases did Haney finally call for McMahon, but putting a pitcher in a bases-loaded, n.o.body-out situation in the other team's stadium is not a blueprint for success. Norm Larker hit a two-run single to make it 54, and still n.o.body out. Another Brooklyn legend, Furillo, tied it at 55 with a sacrifice and the game went into extra innings.

In the eleventh, Henry stood on third, with the bases loaded and two out, but Stan Williams stymied Adc.o.c.k. Bob Rush entered the game in the bottom of the eleventh and did the same, escaping with the bases loaded. With two out and n.o.body on in the bottom of the twelfth, Hodges walked, and then took second when Joe Pignatano singled off Bob Rush.

That brought up Furillo, thirty-seven years old, leg-heavy, and out of place in Los Angeles, another member of the Brooklyn old guard soon to be phased out by progress. Furillo took a fastball from Rush and drilled it past short, or so it looked. Mantilla dived and stabbed the ball, keeping it in the infield, seemingly saving the season ... but then he scrambled to his feet and fired wide to first. The ball screamed past Frank Torre, heading toward the dugout. Hodges, big number 14, skipped home deliriously, holding his head with both hands in disbelief before spreading them wide, antic.i.p.ating the embrace.

Mantilla could not speak afterward, unashamed that he cried on his stool, unable to compose himself, unable to give interviews. The Braves had led in both games and yet lost each of them and the season.

Fifty years later, Frank Torre could still see the final play of the season, clear and in slow motion. "The Coliseum was a football field.141 Mantilla was in for Logan. Gil Hodges was a slow runner. Mantilla got the ball and he threw it in front of me, and what I was trying to do was put my body in front to block it. The infield was football sand, and football sand was a beachlike sand. It went into the sand and bounced over my head. It was impossible to block it-and the winning run scored. I'm six-foot-three, and you had to listen to the c.r.a.p, 'Gil Hodges woulda blocked that ball.' ... It was pathetic." Mantilla was in for Logan. Gil Hodges was a slow runner. Mantilla got the ball and he threw it in front of me, and what I was trying to do was put my body in front to block it. The infield was football sand, and football sand was a beachlike sand. It went into the sand and bounced over my head. It was impossible to block it-and the winning run scored. I'm six-foot-three, and you had to listen to the c.r.a.p, 'Gil Hodges woulda blocked that ball.' ... It was pathetic."

THE NEXT DAY, in Los Angeles, Joe Reichler of the a.s.sociated Press ran a story saying that Fred Haney would be leaving the club as manager, the victim of another bitter defeat and the change of management. Birdie Tebbetts, the needling former catcher and manager of the Reds, was now in the Braves front office. Haney blew a small gasket when denying the rumors. "Absolutely untrue," he said. "Anyone can write a story and ascribe it to a 'trusted source.'"

Two days later, he quietly and solemnly resigned as manager of the Braves, and the Braves did not try to stop him.

AND SO F FRED H HANEY left, and with him the magic and allure of Milwaukee baseball during the 1950s. Haney was merely the symbol of the change, not the catalyst. He was sixty-one years old, and despite having won six of every ten games he managed with the Braves, he would never again manage at the big-league level. Haney had arrived in Milwaukee having never finished higher than sixth in the previous six years he'd managed, but he left with a World Series t.i.tle, two pennants, and the bittersweet memories of a moment in baseball history that would not last long after he and his wife headed for California. left, and with him the magic and allure of Milwaukee baseball during the 1950s. Haney was merely the symbol of the change, not the catalyst. He was sixty-one years old, and despite having won six of every ten games he managed with the Braves, he would never again manage at the big-league level. Haney had arrived in Milwaukee having never finished higher than sixth in the previous six years he'd managed, but he left with a World Series t.i.tle, two pennants, and the bittersweet memories of a moment in baseball history that would not last long after he and his wife headed for California.

For all the disappointment about the way the season had ended, Henry saw the future as something to look forward to. He'd played hard, had played to win, and looked at his teammates with respect. Nevertheless, there would be the lasting pain of failure, of coming up so short. That part, Henry could handle. Losing when his teams should have won more, well, that would gnaw at him for fifty years.

In his autobiography I Had a Hammer I Had a Hammer, Henry commented on his disappointment: Every team has its "ifs" and "buts,"142 but that doesn't make it any easier. It still bothers me that we were only able to win two pennants and one World Series with the team we had. We should have won at least four pennants in a row. The fact is, we had them and we blew them. If we had done what was there for us to do, we would have been remembered as one of the best teams since World War II-right there with the Big Red Machine and the A's of the seventies and the Dodgers and the Yankees of the fifties. But we didn't do it, and in the record book we're just another team that won a World Series. d.a.m.n it, we were better than that. but that doesn't make it any easier. It still bothers me that we were only able to win two pennants and one World Series with the team we had. We should have won at least four pennants in a row. The fact is, we had them and we blew them. If we had done what was there for us to do, we would have been remembered as one of the best teams since World War II-right there with the Big Red Machine and the A's of the seventies and the Dodgers and the Yankees of the fifties. But we didn't do it, and in the record book we're just another team that won a World Series. d.a.m.n it, we were better than that.

Though deep in his heart he felt the atmosphere of Milwaukee had changed, he was the most brilliant young star in the game, who, at least statistically, may have competed with more dynamic rivals, while looking up at no one, the great Mantle and Mays included. He had played in pennant races virtually every year since he'd entered the league. He had been disappointed before the first game of the play-off that so few Milwaukee fans had showed up, but he did not place the appropriate significance of the moment until years later.

Henry had fallen into the lethal baseball trap of believing in the endless summer. The pain of losing again to the Dodgers was considerable, but to Henry's mind, a great team losing was nothing more than the awful price of compet.i.tion. The year 1960 awaited, the players coming back would be the same, and as a group they had always played at or very near the top.

To Henry, they would simply win it all next year. He had no way of knowing that the day Spahn walked off the mound at Yankee Stadium after game four would be as close to winning the World Series as he would ever come again.

PART THREE.

LEGEND.

CHAPTER TEN.

RESPECT.

You ache with the need143 to convince yourself that you do exist in the real world, that you're a part of all of the sound and anguish, and you strike out with your fists, you curse and you swear to make them recognize you. And, alas, it's seldom successful to convince yourself that you do exist in the real world, that you're a part of all of the sound and anguish, and you strike out with your fists, you curse and you swear to make them recognize you. And, alas, it's seldom successful.-Ralph Ellison IN F FEBRUARY 1964, Henry celebrated his thirtieth birthday, and the various rivers of his life, both competing and complementing, reached a critical convergence. Gaile was ten, Hankie six, Lary six, and Dorinda two (she was born on Henry's birthday, February 5, 1962). Months earlier, he and Barbara had celebrated a decade of marriage. So much of what he had envisioned had coalesced: Months before, he had completed his tenth season in the major leagues, his position not only as a premier player in the game but as quite possibly one of the greatest to have ever played the game cemented. All of his benchmarks, active or retired-Robinson, Musial, DiMaggio, and Mays-were now peers. 1964, Henry celebrated his thirtieth birthday, and the various rivers of his life, both competing and complementing, reached a critical convergence. Gaile was ten, Hankie six, Lary six, and Dorinda two (she was born on Henry's birthday, February 5, 1962). Months earlier, he and Barbara had celebrated a decade of marriage. So much of what he had envisioned had coalesced: Months before, he had completed his tenth season in the major leagues, his position not only as a premier player in the game but as quite possibly one of the greatest to have ever played the game cemented. All of his benchmarks, active or retired-Robinson, Musial, DiMaggio, and Mays-were now peers.

For a place that had once been foreign and unsettling, Milwaukee was now home. The family had lived in the suburb of Mequon for five years, Henry's connection to the city and its people growing only stronger. He at once understood the contradictions that came with his stature: He was often subject to the humiliations and limitations that came with being black, and yet his fame insulated him from some of the very conditions suffered by the average black family. Indeed, Henry was aware that the Aarons were allowed allowed to move into Mequon in the first place only because he was to move into Mequon in the first place only because he was the the Hank Aaron, a fact Father Groppi and his supporters often noted with increasing volume during the turbulent rallies for housing desegregation that came to define 1960s Milwaukee. Hank Aaron, a fact Father Groppi and his supporters often noted with increasing volume during the turbulent rallies for housing desegregation that came to define 1960s Milwaukee.

There was a reason,144 the Groppi followers always said, that the Aarons were the only black family living in Mequon, and the reason was certainly not the city's heightened level of tolerance. Groppi and Aaron did not have any formal relationship. Henry was not active in the desegregation battles in Milwaukee, but Groppi nevertheless used Henry and his fame as an example of the racial inequities in the city's housing practices. the Groppi followers always said, that the Aarons were the only black family living in Mequon, and the reason was certainly not the city's heightened level of tolerance. Groppi and Aaron did not have any formal relationship. Henry was not active in the desegregation battles in Milwaukee, but Groppi nevertheless used Henry and his fame as an example of the racial inequities in the city's housing practices.

If Henry remembered the difference between how he and his fellow black teammates were regarded and the treatment afforded Willie Mays back during his barnstorming tour of the South following his second year in the league, he also now understood that in Milwaukee, being Hank Aaron represented no small advantage, either. In certain situations, the disparity between the famous Henry Aaron and the common black person in Milwaukee was so great that it made him uncomfortable, for Henry's internal compa.s.s had never been turned toward superiority over others-especially other blacks-regardless of the perks gained because of his talent. While he would for fifty years hold a special place in his heart for Milwaukee, he would acknowledge the painful merits of the Groppi argument: It was definitely his fame, he later decided, that had made his time there so special.

This was a position common to famous blacks in the 1950s and 1960s, the movie stars, singers, and athletes whose talent provided opportunities that otherwise did not yet exist for the general black population, and being able to taste, even briefly, a world where color was not the defining aspect of life created a bittersweet worldview. There were some players, such as the St. Louis Cardinals pitcher Bob Gibson, who were cognizant of being treated with more humanity and dispensation by whites simply because of their athletic gifts. Gibson understood the uneasy balance of his position, and the worst part of it all was how immediately transparent the change in disposition of those same whites could be once they discovered he was not Pack Robert Gibson, taxi driver from Omaha, Nebraska, but Bob Gibson Bob Gibson, the great Cardinals pitcher, who provided so much success and glory to the home team and enjoyment to the paying customers, the majority of whom were white. "It's nice to get attention and favors,145 but I can never forget the fact that if I were an ordinary black person I'd be in the s.h.i.thouse, like millions of others," Gibson once told the writer Roger Angell. "I'm happy I'm but I can never forget the fact that if I were an ordinary black person I'd be in the s.h.i.thouse, like millions of others," Gibson once told the writer Roger Angell. "I'm happy I'm not not ordinary, though." ordinary, though."

Similarly, such discomfort did not fail to have an effect on Henry. As he grew more prominent, he resolved that he must do more with his special status than buy a house in a nice neighborhood or receive a better table at the exclusive restaurants that did not admit blacks but made exceptions for him. His abilities, he believed, needed to translate into his having greater significance than those vapid, individual perks. As he rose, Henry believed his responsibility included helping the less fortunate.

For his years in public life, Henry would become known for his consistency on the baseball diamond, far past the point of weary cliche. Yet, to the people closest to him, it was his sense of duty, combined with a certain steely, uncompromising compa.s.sion, that struck them the most. One example was his friendship with Donald Davidson, the Braves publicity man, who went back with the franchise to its days in Boston. Davidson happened to be a dwarf, all of four feet tall, and if the news stories always contained a mention of a black player's race, Davidson could not escape mention of his diminutiveness. There were some members of the Braves who played tricks on him-Spahn and Burdette, naturally-but Henry was very protective of Davidson.

"You always knew he was a serious man,"146 said Joe Torre, Frank Torre's kid brother, who joined the Braves in 1961. "You always knew he had strong commitment to people. And it's not something that he bragged about. And I think that was one of the most admirable things about Henry. He was quiet. He didn't advertise it, but you just knew." said Joe Torre, Frank Torre's kid brother, who joined the Braves in 1961. "You always knew he had strong commitment to people. And it's not something that he bragged about. And I think that was one of the most admirable things about Henry. He was quiet. He didn't advertise it, but you just knew."

HUNTING SATISFIED Henry's need for adrenaline. It also served as an extension of his desire for open s.p.a.ce and solitude, in a sense no different from his days as a boy in Toulminville, when he would escape to an isolated fishing spot on Three Mile Creek, being at a peaceful distance, seeking a retreat from the world. Early in his career, he and Barbara would return to Mobile almost as soon as the season ended, but after Henry had purchased the Mequon house, he would spend at least part of the off-season in Milwaukee, even though Lary and, periodically, Gaile still lived in Mobile with Estella and Herbert. In 1960, an old friend of Henry, Lefty Muehl, who played in the long-since-vanished Illinois-Iowa-Indiana league and was a part-time scout in the Braves organization, invited Henry to Doland, South Dakota, to shoot pheasant, and fall hunting became something of an annual pastime for him. Henry's need for adrenaline. It also served as an extension of his desire for open s.p.a.ce and solitude, in a sense no different from his days as a boy in Toulminville, when he would escape to an isolated fishing spot on Three Mile Creek, being at a peaceful distance, seeking a retreat from the world. Early in his career, he and Barbara would return to Mobile almost as soon as the season ended, but after Henry had purchased the Mequon house, he would spend at least part of the off-season in Milwaukee, even though Lary and, periodically, Gaile still lived in Mobile with Estella and Herbert. In 1960, an old friend of Henry, Lefty Muehl, who played in the long-since-vanished Illinois-Iowa-Indiana league and was a part-time scout in the Braves organization, invited Henry to Doland, South Dakota, to shoot pheasant, and fall hunting became something of an annual pastime for him.

Soon, a routine formed:147 Henry would leave Milwaukee and head west, through Minnesota and into South Dakota, at some points along Route 90 and Route 94, stretches of the nascent Eisenhower Interstate System, the new superhighways that were connecting towns and cities across America. Henry and Lefty would scour little Spink County, the cl.u.s.ter of a half dozen cities nestled in the northeast corner of the state, hunting game. There were Doland (population 267, boyhood home of Hubert H. Humphrey), Frankfort (where Lefty Muehl grew up), Ashton, Conde, Mellette, and especially Redfield (known locally to South Dakotans as the "Pheasant Capital of the World"). Henry and Lefty would snare the legal limit (and maybe then some). Muehl told Henry he would introduce him to a hunting paradise. He was not exaggerating, for the region was famous for its pheasant, attracting hunters, as well as celebrities from the sports world and from Hollywood, the enclave rich who fancied shooting. There was just one problem: When the rich and famous arrived in Spink County, everyone knew who they were. Privacy and discretion were essential, and that was where Audrey Slaughter came in. She and her husband, Rich Wilson, were the proprietors of the Wilson Motel. According to local legend, Audrey ran the tightest switchboard in America. The kids in the neighborhood may have heard the rumors that a big name was in town-the great stunt cyclist Evel Knievel would be a frequent visitor in the 1970s-but the phone at the Wilson Motel leaked no secrets. Once, word swept through Redfield like a dust storm that Ted Williams, the Splendid Splinter himself, was in town. "My mother was so mad," Henry would leave Milwaukee and head west, through Minnesota and into South Dakota, at some points along Route 90 and Route 94, stretches of the nascent Eisenhower Interstate System, the new superhighways that were connecting towns and cities across America. Henry and Lefty would scour little Spink County, the cl.u.s.ter of a half dozen cities nestled in the northeast corner of the state, hunting game. There were Doland (population 267, boyhood home of Hubert H. Humphrey), Frankfort (where Lefty Muehl grew up), Ashton, Conde, Mellette, and especially Redfield (known locally to South Dakotans as the "Pheasant Capital of the World"). Henry and Lefty would snare the legal limit (and maybe then some). Muehl told Henry he would introduce him to a hunting paradise. He was not exaggerating, for the region was famous for its pheasant, attracting hunters, as well as celebrities from the sports world and from Hollywood, the enclave rich who fancied shooting. There was just one problem: When the rich and famous arrived in Spink County, everyone knew who they were. Privacy and discretion were essential, and that was where Audrey Slaughter came in. She and her husband, Rich Wilson, were the proprietors of the Wilson Motel. According to local legend, Audrey ran the tightest switchboard in America. The kids in the neighborhood may have heard the rumors that a big name was in town-the great stunt cyclist Evel Knievel would be a frequent visitor in the 1970s-but the phone at the Wilson Motel leaked no secrets. Once, word swept through Redfield like a dust storm that Ted Williams, the Splendid Splinter himself, was in town. "My mother was so mad,"148 recalled lifelong Redfield resident Ted Williams, who as a teen heard that his namesake and hero was staying at the Wilson. "She knew the woman who ran the hotel. They were friends and she recalled lifelong Redfield resident Ted Williams, who as a teen heard that his namesake and hero was staying at the Wilson. "She knew the woman who ran the hotel. They were friends and she still still wouldn't tell us what room Ted Williams was in." wouldn't tell us what room Ted Williams was in."

It was while hunting in Doland that Henry met State Senator Lawrence E. Kayl, whose daughter attended the school. When the hunting ended, Henry would not return to Milwaukee immediately, but would leave Doland and drive twenty miles to Redfield, continuing along State Road 212 until he reached a cold eleven-building complex that stood ominously above the reddish clay flatlands. Each time when he arrived, the children were waiting for him.

THE MISSION STATEMENT for the Northern Hospital for the In sane, written near the turn of the twentieth century, stated the complex was not designed for the mentally ill, but for people suffering from a "developmental disability." In 1913, the inst.i.tution was renamed the State School and Home for the Feeble Minded, and it would be officially known as such for nearly the next four decades. Between 1951 and 1989, the name changed once more, to the Redfield State Hospital and School, and today, the buildings still stand, though in a time when att.i.tudes regarding mental illness are more tolerant. Officially, it is now known as the South Dakota Developmental Center, a kinder, more clinical name, for certain. But for generations of South Dakotans, the old name stuck, and locally and colloquially the hospital would always be known as the "Feeble Minded School." Ted Williams, the Redfield boy once rebuffed by Audrey Slaughter at the Wilson Motel in his attempts to meet his namesake, would years later become superintendent and resident historian of the school. He would accept the former names of the school as at once embarra.s.sing, painful reminders of the society's lack of sensitivity toward mental disabilities, but he also understood the terminology reflected the orthodoxy of the day. In that, Redfield was not alone. In 1881, years before the school first opened, Minnesota dedicated the Minnesota Inst.i.tute for the Deaf, Dumb and Blind, adding a wing to that inst.i.tution in 1887, officially known as the School for Idiots and Imbeciles, the critical difference between the two-according to medical definitions that would in later years be recanted-being that an idiot maintained an IQ under twenty, an imbecile slightly above. In 1890, Indiana opened the Indiana School for Feeble-Minded Youth, and the famed American eugenicist Henry G.o.ddard, generally credited with inventing the term for the Northern Hospital for the In sane, written near the turn of the twentieth century, stated the complex was not designed for the mentally ill, but for people suffering from a "developmental disability." In 1913, the inst.i.tution was renamed the State School and Home for the Feeble Minded, and it would be officially known as such for nearly the next four decades. Between 1951 and 1989, the name changed once more, to the Redfield State Hospital and School, and today, the buildings still stand, though in a time when att.i.tudes regarding mental illness are more tolerant. Officially, it is now known as the South Dakota Developmental Center, a kinder, more clinical name, for certain. But for generations of South Dakotans, the old name stuck, and locally and colloquially the hospital would always be known as the "Feeble Minded School." Ted Williams, the Redfield boy once rebuffed by Audrey Slaughter at the Wilson Motel in his attempts to meet his namesake, would years later become superintendent and resident historian of the school. He would accept the former names of the school as at once embarra.s.sing, painful reminders of the society's lack of sensitivity toward mental disabilities, but he also understood the terminology reflected the orthodoxy of the day. In that, Redfield was not alone. In 1881, years before the school first opened, Minnesota dedicated the Minnesota Inst.i.tute for the Deaf, Dumb and Blind, adding a wing to that inst.i.tution in 1887, officially known as the School for Idiots and Imbeciles, the critical difference between the two-according to medical definitions that would in later years be recanted-being that an idiot maintained an IQ under twenty, an imbecile slightly above. In 1890, Indiana opened the Indiana School for Feeble-Minded Youth, and the famed American eugenicist Henry G.o.ddard, generally credited with inventing the term moron moron as a clinical definition, was the director of the Training School for Backward and Feeble-Minded Children, in Vineland, New Jersey. as a clinical definition, was the director of the Training School for Backward and Feeble-Minded Children, in Vineland, New Jersey.

When Henry arrived in Redfield, he would be surrounded by hordes of eager small children. Some inmates, inst.i.tutionalized for life, were nearly adults, and some were within five or six years of Henry's age. Henry would stay for hours, spread out with the residents on one of the two large baseball diamonds on the property, patiently instructing the young ones how to run and throw and swing a baseball bat, encouraging strong throws and vigorous swings, the actual lessons far less valuable than the time spent. "I remember it well.149 I was working with one of the youngsters and he was about three feet away from me. He took the ball, wound up, and threw as hard as he could. He hit me right in the chest," Henry recalled with laughter. "I was happy to go up there and spend time with the children, but it was I was working with one of the youngsters and he was about three feet away from me. He took the ball, wound up, and threw as hard as he could. He hit me right in the chest," Henry recalled with laughter. "I was happy to go up there and spend time with the children, but it was dangerous." dangerous." Howard Chinn, superintendent of the school from 1961 to 1973, recalled that Henry was eager to organize a game with the kids, except for one major problem, which scotched the idea: gopher holes. Chinn remembered gophers burrowing into the gra.s.s, creating dangerous divots in the field, and Henry had no intention of having to explain to Lou Perini that he was out for the season because he'd snapped one of his brittle ankles by catching his foot in a gopher hole in South Dakota. Howard Chinn, superintendent of the school from 1961 to 1973, recalled that Henry was eager to organize a game with the kids, except for one major problem, which scotched the idea: gopher holes. Chinn remembered gophers burrowing into the gra.s.s, creating dangerous divots in the field, and Henry had no intention of having to explain to Lou Perini that he was out for the season because he'd snapped one of his brittle ankles by catching his foot in a gopher hole in South Dakota.

The practice of an athlete visiting sick children dated way back, like so much in American sporting culture, to the legend of Babe Ruth, and over the years, in the face of image burnishing, it would be met with great and often deserved cynicism, considered hardly much more than an exercise in manipulation: the fail-safe photo op. Against the current backdrop, such visits are often viewed as the ultimate cliche, athletes paying social penance for enormous salaries that in years to come would engulf and distort the sports culture. And, worse, they are often viewed as a self-serving opportunity for athletes to cleanse their reputations, thereby increasing their own marketability. In today's world, even a nonpublicized visit can hold great currency in the image-making business, transparent acts of self-aware selflessness. But 1963 was different. With Henry, there were no television crews in tow, no photographer, and no publicist. There were no friendly local columnists trading access for some good publicity (who knew the real Henry Aaron sneaked away on goodwill missions to South Dakota, and snagged a bagful of birds, too?), and there were no well-timed, perfectly managed news leaks designed to get the word out that a big-time ballplayer hadn't forgotten the little people. On the dusty plains hundreds of miles from his own cultural sphere, there was no advantage for Henry to gain except in whatever he offered of himself to the children of the Redfield school, and whatever emotional currency they could return to him. Henry told virtually no one about his visits. He never even told anyone on his own team team. In later recollections, his closest teammates-Mantilla, Mathews, Covington-had never heard of the school, and they certainly didn't know Henry knew anything about South Dakota. Howard Chinn did not remember Henry as a celebrity making an electric appearance that kept the town buzzing for weeks. Nearly fifty years later, living in Enid, Oklahoma, hard of hearing but sharp of mind, he recalled "a lone black fellow who played baseball"150 coming by for several years. coming by for several years.

Even when he was finally exposed as a Samaritan, Henry still refused the opportunity to engage. Once in 1964, Al Stump, biographer of Ty Cobb and prominent freelance writer, profiled Henry for Sport Sport magazine. The two met in Los Angeles before a series with the Dodgers. In Henry's hotel room, Stump asked him about Koufax and Drysdale and then about his trips to South Dakota. About everything except the hunting, Henry was frustratingly vague. When the article was published, Henry, if not enshrouded in mystery, remained distant-not hostile, but certainly private. The story did not mention Redfield as the location of the school, stating only that it was "near Frankfort." Stump did not mention the name of the school or explain why Henry seemed drawn to it. Though the piece promised an opportunity for Henry to present himself in fuller dimension to a national audience, he did not seem interested. Stump came away with a story magazine. The two met in Los Angeles before a series with the Dodgers. In Henry's hotel room, Stump asked him about Koufax and Drysdale and then about his trips to South Dakota. About everything except the hunting, Henry was frustratingly vague. When the article was published, Henry, if not enshrouded in mystery, remained distant-not hostile, but certainly private. The story did not mention Redfield as the location of the school, stating only that it was "near Frankfort." Stump did not mention the name of the school or explain why Henry seemed drawn to it. Though the piece promised an opportunity for Henry to present himself in fuller dimension to a national audience, he did not seem interested. Stump came away with a story151 for for Sport Sport, a lengthy profile ("Hank Aaron: Public Image vs. Private Reality"), where the hook was the contradiction between the Henry Aaron who slept except in the batter's box and this other Henry Aaron, who took an interest in the mentally disabled, grew anxious about civil rights, and breathed a simmering political fire. Thirty years later, in his own autobiography, Henry never mentioned the quiet but important visits to the little school in South Dakota, though the people of the town never forgot.

WHAT H HENRY A AARON desired most during the first half of the 1960s was to be complete, to be more than just a guy who could rip a line drive to center. He wanted to be considered great in his profession, certainly, but given the framework of the 1960s, when at last the time had come to redraw the lines of society, he also sought to be a person of substance. For his decade in baseball, Henry's place on the diamond was undeniable, but being known as an athlete of social impact seemed far less certain, even inadequate within the confines of the sport upon whose record books he began a ma.s.sive and methodical a.s.sault. Henry was in conflict not only with society but with his caricature-uninterested in things apart from hitting-both by a press corps that continually seemed to misread him and by many of his peers, who took his silence to mean he was uncomplicated. desired most during the first half of the 1960s was to be complete, to be more than just a guy who could rip a line drive to center. He wanted to be considered great in his profession, certainly, but given the framework of the 1960s, when at last the time had come to redraw the lines of society, he also sought to be a person of substance. For his decade in baseball, Henry's place on the diamond was undeniable, but being known as an athlete of social impact seemed far less certain, even inadequate within the confines of the sport upon whose record books he began a ma.s.sive and methodical a.s.sault. Henry was in conflict not only with society but with his caricature-uninterested in things apart from hitting-both by a press corps that continually seemed to misread him and by many of his peers, who took his silence to mean he was uncomplicated.

The reality was that Henry craved to be part of the larger world, contributing to important subjects and issues beyond athletics. Even some of the people closest to him did not understand his own yearnings, and they would find themselves off balance in those instances when they saw Henry on the political offensive. He sought to cultivate an important voice about the significant issues that were shifting the ground underneath his feet, and it was a desire that that had always been present, even if invisible to his closest contemporaries.

In baseball, he never worried about his voice or his impact or his abilities; on the diamond, Henry Aaron always knew he could play, and his sheer talent gave him instant credibility. Yet credibility was not the same as respect, and one lost its full value without the other. During the spring of 1960, Henry, along with Covington, had spoken to Tebbetts and Lou Perini about the spring-training conditions for the black Braves players. Henry and the other black players had begun to take Billy Bruton's lead. Henry, now one of the veterans on the club, second in seniority to Bruton among the Braves black players and clearly its most important, began to speak more actively about the daily inequities of spring-training life.

The black players had lived in Mrs. Gibson's Bradenton house each year Henry had been in the big leagues. Like their peers in most ball clubs, Tebbetts and the Braves management had not used their leverage in the cities where spring training took place, and they told the players there was little they could do to improve conditions for black players. The team members were merely six-week tenants in a town, and they could not interfere with local customs. Years earlier, Henry had lobbied Perini and John Quinn (who left Milwaukee for Philadelphia after the 1958 season) to abolish the policy of maintaining separate facilities at the ballpark, for it stung each time he walked around the Bradenton park, where the Braves played their games, and saw white and colored seating sections, water fountains, and rest rooms. The worst parts for blacks weren't just the rusted fountain pipes and filthy toilet bowls, but the signs reinforcing every inferior accommodation, as if blacks weren't sure which which water fountain-the one a person would want to drink from or the one that awaited them-was meant for them to use without being given a humiliating reminder. water fountain-the one a person would want to drink from or the one that awaited them-was meant for them to use without being given a humiliating reminder.

Quinn, following the missteps of baseball men before him in completely misreading the social landscape, told the press (via Bob Wolf of the Journal) Journal) that not a single black player had complained about the accommodations of the boardinghouses in the Negro section of town. It was an old saw. When that explanation failed to mollify the players, Quinn would say the club lacked the political influence to affect local custom. that not a single black player had complained about the accommodations of the boardinghouses in the Negro section of town. It was an old saw. When that explanation failed to mollify the players, Quinn would say the club lacked the political influence to affect local custom.

Segregation issues consumed the Braves black players and had been gaining momentum with all the clubs that trained in Florida and Arizona, and the fight for equality was led by Bruton and Bill White and journalists in the black press like Wendell Smith. Even Judge Cannon, the figurehead of the largely ineffective Major League Baseball Players a.s.sociation and target of Father Groppi's protests in Milwaukee-Groppi periodically sent hundreds of protesters to Cannon's house when it was revealed that Cannon had maintained his membership in the Hawkeye Club, a restrictive organization prohibiting blacks and Jews-began to press teams to adopt an aggressive position with regard to integrating the team accommodations in Florida. Across the American landscape were signs that the old customs were finally vulnerable, and this was a fight in which Henry wanted to play a part.

Even as he expressed an opinion on racial matters-a voice that, to him, was clear about the injustices and humiliations of segregation-Henry was nevertheless wary about being labeled a troublemaker. In many ways, the appearance of caution he presented to the public undermined his true pa.s.sion for civil rights. One example could be found in his words. He was convinced that the time had arrived to press for equality, and yet he referred to the louder voices in the movement, the ones who clearly stood on the right side of the issue, as "agitators." He would refer to himself as a person interested in the cause of change but not one who would instigate. "I don't consider myself an agitator," he would often say, thus indirectly creating a certain degree of distance between himself and the public figures whose positions he admired and encouraged.

Why Henry did not hurl himself into the burgeoning civil rights movement in the driven, public manner of the handful of his contemporaries had much to do with his natural reticence, and the reticence of professional athletes in general. Certainly a more aggressive approach would have left no question as to his feelings about the necessity for change-and the imperative of speed to effect that change-but Henry did not see appealing to the public as anything but a last resort. His political strategy would always begin behind closed doors. Part of his reasoning was practical: Using the public for leverage could be embarra.s.sing to the people he most wanted to cultivate, and while he might have scored points with the public by being audacious, making people look bad would tend to harden their stance and thus make achieving the ultimate goal that more difficult.

More important, Henry dreaded public speaking. He was, thought Felix Mantilla, self-conscious about his southern accent, an insecurity Mantilla (whose English was layered with a strong Puerto Rican accent) could appreciate. Henry was particularly self-conscious in northern or East Coast settings-in interviews with New York newspapermen, for example. He did not trust how his words would be interpreted.

Indirectly, his pragmatism led to another enduring label from which he could not escape: that Hank Aaron was accommodating on civil rights. In his heart, no conflict existed: Civil rights was precisely the onrushing movement he had craved since he was a boy. It was, in fact, not a topic at all, but the story of his life. Henry was as pa.s.sionate about equal rights as any of the more outspoken voices around him. In later years, he would express a certain regret that he had not been more firm in his conviction. "I know I did not make it easy152 for people to understand me, but there was nothing to me more important than civil rights and what Jackie Robinson and Dr. King started." for people to understand me, but there was nothing to me more important than civil rights and what Jackie Robinson and Dr. King started."

In many ways, he was more pa.s.sionate than most of his contemporaries, for Henry was was a child of the South, and the distance between his rights and equal rights was as wide a gap as existed in the country. Henry knew how much change was needed, for his examples were so distinct and so personal. He would never forget how Herbert had labored each day with such nervous uncertainty, unsure from week to week if work would be plentiful or spa.r.s.e, and yet each day, no matter how hard he had worked or how dutiful and disciplined he had been, Herbert would always have to relinquish his place in line at the store whenever a white man entered. Better than most, Henry understood the debilitating effect of segregation, not only on society but on the individual family, and too often he could summon a litany of offenses, which now suddenly seemed right to address. a child of the South, and the distance between his rights and equal rights was as wide a gap as existed in the country. Henry knew how much change was needed, for his examples were so distinct and so personal. He would never forget how Herbert had labored each day with such nervous uncertainty, unsure from week to week if work would be plentiful or spa.r.s.e, and yet each day, no matter how hard he had worked or how dutiful and disciplined he had been, Herbert would always have to relinquish his place in line at the store whenever a white man entered. Better than most, Henry understood the debilitating effect of segregation, not only on society but on the individual family, and too often he could summon a litany of offenses, which now suddenly seemed right to address.

Henry would always be reluctant to speak out, both because of his lack of formal schooling and his desperate fear of addressing people in public, but in the first half decade of the 1960s, he began to sharpen his own att.i.tudes on racial equality. He found himself taken with the writings of James Baldwin, whose position that blacks had persevered despite their overall condition and could no longer wait on the goodwill of whites resonated deeply with him. There was a particular pa.s.sage in Baldwin's The Fire Next Time The Fire Next Time that seemed to ill.u.s.trate Henry's att.i.tude precisely at this moment in time: "Things are as bad that seemed to ill.u.s.trate Henry's att.i.tude precisely at this moment in time: "Things are as bad153 as the Muslims say they are-in fact, they are worse, and the Muslims do not help matters-but there is no reason that black men should be expected to be more patient, more forbearing, more fa.r.s.eeing than whites." as the Muslims say they are-in fact, they are worse, and the Muslims do not help matters-but there is no reason that black men should be expected to be more patient, more forbearing, more fa.r.s.eeing than whites."

For a time, Henry had been interested in Baldwin, but he had never actually read his books. He had learned of Baldwin from seeing the writer on television. Like most baseball players, Henry was a night creature; he would flip channels, hoping for a Western on the late show. He first saw Baldwin by accident, on a late-night talk show, and the writer's words clicked with him in an important, personal way. Baldwin initiated the type of dialogue Henry had sought, and he was impressed by Baldwin's considerable ability to articulate the frustrations of his fellow black citizens, the imperative of taking advantage of this special moment in time. In later years, Henry would say he felt the urgency of the times not because of his own experiences but because of his childhood recollections of Herbert. Herbert was powerless to challenge the impenetrable white structure that had been in place for his entire life and that of his father, Papa Henry. These two people had been the most important male figures in Henry's life and he remembered the immense power whites had held over both.

And here Henry was, up late, watching the black-and-white television, hoping for a Western but finding something else instead, unsure of exactly what he was watching. It might as well have been science fiction, but all the while Henry was completely riveted as he watched the small-shouldered, large-eyed Baldwin broadcasting the singular, clear, and ferocious message across the entire nation that the time had come to challenge openly the smothering social conventions that had suffocated three generations of men like Herbert Aaron and Papa Henry. The particular Baldwin theme of rejecting the idea of waiting for change resonated powerfully with Henry. "We've been waiting all this time.154 My parents are waiting right now in Alabama," Henry said in a profile piece. "The whites told my parents, 'Wait and things will get better.' They told me, 'Wait and things will get better.' They're telling these school kids, 'Wait and things will get better.' Well, we're not going to wait any longer. We're doing something about it. That's what Baldwin says, and he's right." My parents are waiting right now in Alabama," Henry said in a profile piece. "The whites told my parents, 'Wait and things will get better.' They told me, 'Wait and things will get better.' They're telling these school kids, 'Wait and things will get better.' Well, we're not going to wait any longer. We're doing something about it. That's what Baldwin says, and he's right."

It was a revelatory moment, for Baldwin had articulated the very sentiments that Henry had long believed but had never thought the time would be right to voice outwardly. Henry may not have considered himself an agitator, but certainly in private he adopted a position to the left of the black mainstream.

As a teenager, Henry had bet on his athletic ability, forgoing higher education and sailing through high school with only minimal interest, but as a parent he was bitterly strict when his children spoke of skirting the educational system and relying only on their own talent (as he once had). More upsetting to him was when his children believed in their elevated position, when Gaile or Henry Junior antic.i.p.ated an easy and bountiful road ahead because of their father's celebrity. When he believed that the children grew a bit too spoiled, he would recoil, Gaile recalled, reminding them, "I'm Hank Aaron, and you're not."

"I was sensitive to what they would face155 out there in the world, but I also did not want to do anything or say anything to my children that would break their spirit," Henry said. "I didn't want them to think my experiences had to be their experiences, but I also didn't want them to just think it would be easy, just sticks and stones. It's not just sticks and stones out there." out there in the world, but I also did not want to do anything or say anything to my children that would break their spirit," Henry said. "I didn't want them to think my experiences had to be their experiences, but I also didn't want them to just think it would be easy, just sticks and stones. It's not just sticks and stones out there."

Henry's public positions during the mid-1960s shook those who thought they knew him. In 1964, he was approached by a representative from J. B. Lippincott, the Philadelphia book publishers, on behalf of Jackie Robinson. Robinson was writing a book of profiles of players, white and black, about their roots and experiences in the game during the first generation of integrated baseball, and he wanted Henry to be a part of the project. Henry agreed, and his first-person transcript appeared in the book as a thirteen-page chapter, which was ent.i.tled "Baseball Has Done It." Henry's contribution would be remarkable both for its content and because it represented the first moments Henry would begin to strike back at the press.

I've read some newspapermen saying156 I was just a dumb kid from the South with no education and all I knew was to go out there and hit. They didn't know how to talk to me and then wrote that I didn't know how to talk to them ... you know how newspapermen build up a lot of stories, and they built 'em about me, me saying this and me saying that. I got wise to 'em, but what could I do? In spring training I hit a triple off Curt Simmons. Well, you know how it is in spring exhibitions, when they keep bringing in pitchers after pitchers. So, when one newspaperman asked me if I knew who I hit that triple off of, I said, "No." He said, "That was Curt Simmons." And then they wrote that I didn't know who the pitcher was ... that's how the story started. I was just a dumb kid from the South with no education and all I knew was to go out there and hit. They didn't know how to talk to me and then wrote that I didn't know how to talk to them ... you know how newspapermen build up a lot of stories, and they built 'em about me, me saying this and me saying that. I got wise to 'em, but what could I do? In spring training I hit a triple off Curt Simmons. Well, you know how it is in spring exhibitions, when they keep bringing in pitchers after pitchers. So, when one newspaperman asked me if I knew who I hit that triple off of, I said, "No." He said, "That was Curt Simmons." And then they wrote that I didn't know who the pitcher was ... that's how the story started.I've saved my money. I have four kids. We live, my wife and me, in a little country town 18 miles from Milwaukee called Mequon. Living's been very good there. The kids go to school and don't have any trouble; they play with other kids in the town. Of course, Milwaukee is a pretty good city as far as Negroes are concerned, but all places could stand improvement regardless of where you go. There's no other Negroes in Mequon but us. My wife has one friend across the street; we have other neighbors who talk to us. Baseball has done a lot for me, given me an education in meeting other kinds of people. It has taught me that regardless of who you are and how much money you make, you are still a Negro.

The mainstream baseball press did not quite know what to do with this new Henry Aaron, especially the Henry who, in his emerging sensibility, channeled the civil rights rhetoric that sowed the seeds for what would become the mind-set of black Americans. The urgency concerning civil rights revealed itself on many important fronts. But the insular baseball world-the writers, the coaches, players, and executives-was confounded by what appeared to be sudden and expansive dimensions to Henry's character, and this would remain true for much of the rest of his playing career, through the turbulent 1960s and 1970s, when it was difficult to be an American and not not have an opinion on the ma.s.sive upheaval of the times. In general, the writers did not do much to expand on the emerging thread of civil rights, though a few writers, such as d.i.c.k Schaap, found the confluence of a national civil rights movement and the growing outspokenness of black professional athletes to be not only a fascinating story line but also in many ways an explanation for the drive and hunger of this generation of exceptional performers. While the daily press and the more austere have an opinion on the ma.s.sive upheaval of the times. In general, the writers did not do much to expand on the emerging thread of civil rights, though a few writers, such as d.i.c.k Schaap, found the confluence of a national civil rights movement and the growing outspokenness of black professional athletes to be not only a fascinating story line but also in many ways an explanation for the drive and hunger of this generation of exceptional performers. While the daily press and the more austere Sports Ill.u.s.trated Sports Ill.u.s.trated were slow to take up the issue, were slow to take up the issue, Sport Sport magazine excelled in exploring the impact of the burgeoning civil rights movement on the sports industry. magazine excelled in exploring the impact of the burgeoning civil rights movement on the sports industry.

I COULD DO THE JOBBy Hank Aaron With Jerome HoltzmanThe Braves' star names the Negroes-and includes himself-who could manage in the major leagues. He also discusses the problems they might have.-SPORT, October 1965 1965 The writers listened to Henry and did not believe he had simply evolved politically,