The contrast left him with a potentially devastating problem: The Braves were being positioned as a regional team, but outside of Atlanta, interracial compet.i.tion was not a concept being met with great enthusiasm in the surrounding areas. Should the Braves be unable to penetrate the full reach of their territory, the potential advantages of the South would be immediately thwarted, and Bartholomay was quite possibly staring disaster in the face. "There was a real hostile feel185 when you went to some of the outlying areas," Bartholomay recalled. "But I had to believe that while those areas might not be too accepting of an interracial team where the biggest star, alongside with Mathews, was African-American, the city itself was going to accept the team." when you went to some of the outlying areas," Bartholomay recalled. "But I had to believe that while those areas might not be too accepting of an interracial team where the biggest star, alongside with Mathews, was African-American, the city itself was going to accept the team."

If Bartholomay viewed Atlanta as a prime opportunity to make his mark in baseball, many of the region's leaders saw the arrival of the Braves as key to their strategy to transform the image of the city, and by extension, the South. Geographically, Atlanta was close to perfect, and all of the reasons why it had been leveled during the Civil War were precisely the reasons why it carried such potential. Central to its value was Hartsfield Airport, named for Bill Hartsfield, the pragmatic political legend who held office for twenty-three years. Throughout the late 1950s and early 1960s, it was ma.s.sive airport construction that separated Atlanta from other southern cities such as Montgomery or Memphis. The ma.s.sive expansion of the airport guaranteed Atlanta would be the central hub for southern commerce. Hartsfield was so ubiquitous, a running local joke was that when a person died, before going to heaven or h.e.l.l, they had to first change planes at Hartsfield.

Atlanta boasted the infrastructure, the fortuitous geography, and the population to be an economic powerhouse, but its racial undercurrent prevented it from becoming a world-cla.s.s city. It had been only ten years since the state flag had been redesigned to contain a confederate flag (1956), a chilling reminder for blacks of the social order and their collective status within that structure. Atlanta had prided itself on its accommodation and moderation. But between 1960 and 1962, the Atlanta student movement staged demonstrations to integrate downtown lunch counters, not dissimilar to those protests held in Greensboro and Nashville and other southern cities, disappointing proof that the old guard-both the entrenched white political leadership and the longtime black clergymen-had moved too slowly and ineffectually for what was becoming a new, powerful movement.

During years of secret negotiation, Ivan Allen, Jr.-himself a firm segregationist less than a decade earlier-held a private optimism that by 1965 the worst was over for Atlanta. He would say often that he staked his reputation and that of the city on his commitment to undoing the rigid racial customs of Atlanta, a claim that was not exactly hyperbolic. In just the previous four years, the city had undergone tremendous turmoil. The public schools had been ordered integrated. Led by Martin Luther King, Jr., a new generation of black students impatient with the speed of progress demonstrated for the integration of downtown lunch counters, as well as other public facilities: movie theaters, auditoriums, swimming pools, and restaurants. In 1961, Allen was elected to his first term as mayor by defeating the segregationist Lester Maddox. It was an election that shifted the balance, but only uneasily. Allen defeated Maddox in a runoff by winning 98 percent of the black vote, but less than half of whites voted for him.

Allen represented the progressive political voice Atlanta required, but the power behind the change was Bob Woodruff. "The leaders of the city didn't want186 to go the way of Birmingham, Little Rock, and other southern cities, and all of this was a prelude to major sports," recalled Andrew Young, a former congressman and Atlanta's mayor from 1982 to 1990. "They decided that Atlanta was going to integrate from the top down. Whereas most southern cities were trying to integrate schools and come up, Atlanta made the decision-which was different from any other city-that the business community was going to lead desegregation. And so they put two black businessmen on the chamber of commerce, Herman Russell and Jesse Hill. Herman was a major contractor and Jesse Hill was VP of Atlanta Life Insurance Company. And so you had a cohesiveness with the black business community. You also had the Atlanta University Center, with Benjamin Mays and Vivian Henderson; those two were the main ones, but from that point on the business community did very little without consulting the black community." to go the way of Birmingham, Little Rock, and other southern cities, and all of this was a prelude to major sports," recalled Andrew Young, a former congressman and Atlanta's mayor from 1982 to 1990. "They decided that Atlanta was going to integrate from the top down. Whereas most southern cities were trying to integrate schools and come up, Atlanta made the decision-which was different from any other city-that the business community was going to lead desegregation. And so they put two black businessmen on the chamber of commerce, Herman Russell and Jesse Hill. Herman was a major contractor and Jesse Hill was VP of Atlanta Life Insurance Company. And so you had a cohesiveness with the black business community. You also had the Atlanta University Center, with Benjamin Mays and Vivian Henderson; those two were the main ones, but from that point on the business community did very little without consulting the black community."

Having professional sports in Atlanta, Allen believed, would bring the world to the city, would legitimize it. The city could not afford to be an embarra.s.sment in front of the nation. Allen did not merely accept the Braves; he cultivated them. The fact that the Braves had chosen Atlanta was as important to the city as it was to the team. Allen wanted football next, and he began to negotiate with the NFL for an expansion team, which would become the Falcons.

"There was general agreement that one of the ways to make Atlanta a big-league city was to bring baseball and football; it was a concurrent proposal," Young recalled. "When it looked like they could get the Braves, the mayor, Ivan Allen, and Mills B. Lane, who was the president of C&S Bank, which became Nations Bank, which is now Bank of America, they almost bragged that they built a stadium with money they didn't have, on land they didn't own, for a team they didn't have yet. And if they tried to do that today, they'd all be in jail."

HENRY HAD JUST missed out on the batting t.i.tle in 1965, and in the spring of 1966 he said he wanted it back. He hadn't won it since 1959, and he was suddenly being surpa.s.sed in defensive reputation by a new star, the blossoming Clemente from Pittsburgh. For years, Henry would be compared to the electric Mays, a comparison under which his playing style suffered. The same would be true of Clemente, the first Latin American superstar, but he was something more, furiously prideful, politically aware. Both Henry and Clemente possessed the political pa.s.sion of Robinson, but the difference was physical. Unlike Henry, Clemente seemed to translate his fire into his physical movements. Clemente played not simply for himself but also for his people, and, like Robinson, he conveyed a message with his body. The connection of racial and ethnic pride surged through each step, each swing. Each outfield throw seemed a political statement, reminding the baseball world that he and his people had been mistreated and underestimated and he was here to address that injustice. missed out on the batting t.i.tle in 1965, and in the spring of 1966 he said he wanted it back. He hadn't won it since 1959, and he was suddenly being surpa.s.sed in defensive reputation by a new star, the blossoming Clemente from Pittsburgh. For years, Henry would be compared to the electric Mays, a comparison under which his playing style suffered. The same would be true of Clemente, the first Latin American superstar, but he was something more, furiously prideful, politically aware. Both Henry and Clemente possessed the political pa.s.sion of Robinson, but the difference was physical. Unlike Henry, Clemente seemed to translate his fire into his physical movements. Clemente played not simply for himself but also for his people, and, like Robinson, he conveyed a message with his body. The connection of racial and ethnic pride surged through each step, each swing. Each outfield throw seemed a political statement, reminding the baseball world that he and his people had been mistreated and underestimated and he was here to address that injustice.

Clemente was a rising superstar. In addition to his consecutive batting t.i.tles, he excelled defensively. But right field was Henry's turf. In 1957, 1958, and 1959, Henry was the king of his position, both offensively and defensively. He had been awarded the Gold Glove each year, had already won an MVP, and was an all-star.

Then, like a supernova, Clemente appeared. He won his first Gold Glove in 1960, and then another, and another. By 1966, Clemente had won six straight. Henry was aware of Willie, but Willie played center. Clemente was different. He and Clemente both played right field, and the emergence of Clemente underscored both the immense level of talent in the National League and how quickly Henry could get lost as his team grew less important in the standings. Henry found himself at another disadvantage: In the television age, it was much easier to be taken by players like Clemente, a man who played with such yearning and, like Henry, smoldered at the thought of having his talent slighted.

AARON SAYS HE COULD HAVE.

WON187 NL BATTING t.i.tLE NL BATTING t.i.tLELAKELAND, FLA. (UPI)-"I had a number of opportunities to win batting t.i.tles and I purposely let them pa.s.s," says Aaron. "... we were living and dying on home runs. So, I more or less forgot about my average and concentrated on hitting the ball hard. I believe I could have hit more than Clemente had I concentrated on it."

That Henry purposely began to eschew batting average for home runs was a telling admission. There was the moment back in 1954 when Henry sat in the hospital in Cincinnati, having snapped his ankle and ended his season. Sitting under crisp hospital sheets, surrounded by flowers and fan mail, Henry ignored the throb in his leg and the antiseptic hospital smell for a moment and allowed himself an inner smile.

"I had read so much about Musial,188 Williams, and Robinson," he said. "I put those guys on a pedestal. They were something special, Jackie above the rest because he was the only Negro player at the time. I really thought that they put their pants on different, rather than one leg at a time." Williams, and Robinson," he said. "I put those guys on a pedestal. They were something special, Jackie above the rest because he was the only Negro player at the time. I really thought that they put their pants on different, rather than one leg at a time."

Then Henry let free a little secret. "Yeah, that's when I thought about eventually getting 3,000 hits. That's always been my goal."

It always had been. That is, until teammates began to notice a few changes in the way Henry went to bat. Joe Torre saw the subtleties, the way Henry would take certain pitches on the outer half of the plate, the ones he used to tattoo into the right-center gap. These were the pitches Mays used to complain about so often, the ones that Henry would wait on just that fraction of a second longer so he could find the gap and watch Mays run to the fence. Now Henry would let these pa.s.s, hoping for a pitch just a little more inside that he could jump on early, with the intention of pulling it down the line and out.

The swing Torre once marveled at was the swing that just might produce four thousand hits, and what he now witnessed was something different, something deadly but far less efficient. Henry had developed a home-run stroke, not the old swing of a prodigy, who was just so talented that the ball was going to leave the park about thirty times a year regardless, but a swing designed with one purpose in mind: to power the ball over the fence.

Musial had always been the target. More accurately, it was his National League hit record of 3,630 that Henry wanted. That was the only record he had ever craved; that was the true mark of an offensive baseball player-the number of times you came to bat and got a hit. But especially after Mantle and Maris put on a home-run show in 1961, Maris finally overtaking Ruth, the times were changing. Power was slowly growing more important to the people who ran and watched and reported on baseball-and Henry would change with them.

THE FIRST MAJOR-LEAGUE game in the 121-year history of the city-the Atlanta Braves versus the Pittsburgh Pirates-took place on April 12, 1966. The contest lasted thirteen innings, decided by a two-run homer by Willie Stargell. The Braves went on to lose four of their first five games. And then there was Henry, who hit home run number four hundred off Bo Belinsky in Philadelphia, only to follow this with a tie-breaking hit the night of April 29, when the Braves and Astros wrestled into the night, Houston tying the game at 33 in the top of the ninth. game in the 121-year history of the city-the Atlanta Braves versus the Pittsburgh Pirates-took place on April 12, 1966. The contest lasted thirteen innings, decided by a two-run homer by Willie Stargell. The Braves went on to lose four of their first five games. And then there was Henry, who hit home run number four hundred off Bo Belinsky in Philadelphia, only to follow this with a tie-breaking hit the night of April 29, when the Braves and Astros wrestled into the night, Houston tying the game at 33 in the top of the ninth.

Caroll Sembera, the new Houston pitcher, entered and retired Felipe Alou and Gary Geiger easily. That brought up Henry, who took two strikes and lashed a low line drive over the fence to end it. The Braves were just a couple of games out of first place.

And on June 3, at Atlanta Stadium, Henry hit another dramatic home run, this one off Bob Gibson in the bottom of the ninth. But it didn't do any good, because the Braves still lost the game, 32. Their record was 2030 and the club wouldn't reach the .500 mark until September 6. Atlanta finished 8577, and the pattern that began in Milwaukee continued. Henry was brilliant-44 homers, 127 runs batted in to lead the league-on a team that finished thirteen and a half games behind the Dodgers.

Henry bought a handsome brick rambler that somewhat resembled the house in Mequon. It was set on two sprawling, shady acres and the address was 519 Lynhurst Drive. Almost immediately, Henry was invited to a series of informal meetings at the Braves offices, welcoming him to Atlanta. He had integrated the Sally League and now he would be the first black baseball player to be the signature attraction on a team in the Deep South. Bartholomay and members of the Atlanta business community were at one meeting. At another, he met a young progressive politician named Jimmy Carter, who was running for governor against the eccentric segregationist Lester Maddox. Carter told him then and would tell him in later years, when the two men became friends, that it was not merely the arrival of the Braves that legitimized the South but the Braves specifically being led by Henry Aaron. At another meeting was a group that would not forget Henry: Martin Luther King, Sr., Martin Luther King, Jr., and Andrew Young.

"Martin was a big baseball fan,"189 Young recalled, adding that he remembered Henry being somewhat embarra.s.sed that he wasn't more publicly visible in the front lines of the civil rights movement. "We told him not to worry. When you talked to Henry Aaron, you knew how he felt about civil rights. We told him just to keep hitting that ball. That was his job." Young recalled, adding that he remembered Henry being somewhat embarra.s.sed that he wasn't more publicly visible in the front lines of the civil rights movement. "We told him not to worry. When you talked to Henry Aaron, you knew how he felt about civil rights. We told him just to keep hitting that ball. That was his job."

In early 1966, the city held a parade to welcome the Braves. Against the backdrop of triumph, the story seems apocryphal, but Andy Young recalled the moment clearly.

"I can remember standing out at the parade. The parade came down what is now Spring Street and I was standing in front of the American hotel, which is now a Marriott Suites. It was an old hotel and I was standing behind a bunch of rednecks and I kind of moved in amongst them to see what was happening," Andy Young recalled. "Each of the major players was sitting on the back of a convertible, and when Hank came down, one guy said, 'Now, if we're gonna be a big-league city, that fella's gonna have to be able to live anywhere he wants to live in this town.' And I said, 'Oh, s.h.i.t ... They ... They said that? This must said that? This must mean mean something.'" something.'"

CHAPTER TWELVE.

WILLIE.

AS YOU ENTERED the Braves clubhouse, an oversized refrigerator loomed to the right, a frosty gla.s.s door revealing shelves of Fanta grape and orange soda distributed by the Coca-Cola Bottling Company. Next to the fridge sat the cigarette machine and a tub filled with ice and Piels beer. A side table housed a.s.sorted sundries-sunflower seeds, tobacco, bubble gum-and a jar, about ten inches high, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with amphetamines. the Braves clubhouse, an oversized refrigerator loomed to the right, a frosty gla.s.s door revealing shelves of Fanta grape and orange soda distributed by the Coca-Cola Bottling Company. Next to the fridge sat the cigarette machine and a tub filled with ice and Piels beer. A side table housed a.s.sorted sundries-sunflower seeds, tobacco, bubble gum-and a jar, about ten inches high, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with amphetamines.

Wire-mesh dressing stalls lined the far right wall, leading to the trainer's room, the ultimate safe haven, where players got taped and ma.s.saged, and, most importantly, could hide from the press. The center of the room featured two long rectangular folding tables that stood next to the pre- and postgame spreads. The tables served as the social epicenter of the Atlanta Braves clubhouse. It was where the Dominican Rico Carty, the self-nicknamed "Big Boy" (or "Beeg Boy" if you happened to spell his moniker as he did, phonetically) preened and boasted and flexed. Felipe Alou and Felix Millan played hearts on those tables with Dusty Baker and Phil Niekro. The tables also doubled as a makeshift dais, where Joe Torre rallied support for a radical concept quickly spreading through big-league clubhouses: the creation of a strong players union to protect their interests against the owners, led by a man Torre deeply respected, Marvin Miller.

And then there was Henry, away from the tumult, at a safe distance from the rest. His locker was located along the far left wall from the clubhouse entrance, second to last from the showers. In 1968, there was no bigger, more formidable player in the Braves clubhouse than Henry Aaron, the last link to the great old days of Spahn and championships, free-flowing beer and promise. Henry could be melancholy with his role as a bridge between eras. Eddie Mathews was gone, shipped to the Houston Astros the year before. Joe Torre, eight years in the big leagues, was a perennial all-star, but it was his brother Frank who had played with the Milwaukee pennant winners. Carty could hit with anybody in the league and cut a dashing and colorful, if not annoying, figure in the clubhouse. But Carty was talent without profile, having joined Milwaukee after the glory, having never played in the postseason, having never been there when things were in full flower. Niekro was just a kid who showed immense promise, and Tony Cloninger couldn't get the pain out of his right arm after winning twenty-four games in 1965-the Braves last, lost year in Milwaukee. Henry was surrounded by good players with fine futures, professionals certainly, but he was set apart by his history and by his numbers, the great calling card for every player in major-league baseball.

As the 1968 season began, Henry was thirty-four, and enjoyed a position unique from that of anyone else playing big-league ball at that moment: He was the guy whose name invariably arose when the writers were sitting around during the interminable downtime of spring training, discussing just who might be up for the challenge, the long climb to the top of Mount Olympus, the summit, of course, being Babe Ruth and his 714 home runs. Maybe they had forgotten about Henry as Milwaukee grew irrelevant and the Braves sank from the annual pennant races, but without much warning, the gas tank on Willie Mays seemed near empty. Willie just wasn't Willie anymore. He was thirty-seven years old and 172 homers shy of Ruth, but 1967-just twenty-two homers and a career-low .263 batting average-represented an obvious distress signal. The writers and the fans (and most likely Mays himself) did the math and realized that the expected narrative of Mays pa.s.sing Ruth was most likely not to be. Mays would have had to average more than forty home runs through the 1971 season (when he would be forty) even to come within breathing distance of the record. Frank Robinson was fierce and dominant and heading for Cooperstown as surely as Henry and Willie, but he was never close enough to Ruth on the home-run list ever to threaten. Killebrew? Banks? Great players, Hall of Famebound were each, but they had no chance. It was Henry, not yet thirty-five years old, with 482 home runs and a career batting average still over .315, who had the best shot of reaching the big guy. It was Henry, therefore, who would undergo a national rea.s.sessment. With Aaron, the calculations weren't so daunting. His back and knees were starting to give him trouble, but he was in shape. He played in Atlanta, where the ball carried, and, most important of all, he did not have to increase increase his production to reach the Babe. If he played seven more seasons, until he hit forty, in 1974, he needed to average thirty-three homers a year, one homer less than the thirty-four he had averaged over the fourteen years he had already played big-league ball. All he had to do to take a shot at Ruth was just be himself, be as consistent as he'd always been. his production to reach the Babe. If he played seven more seasons, until he hit forty, in 1974, he needed to average thirty-three homers a year, one homer less than the thirty-four he had averaged over the fourteen years he had already played big-league ball. All he had to do to take a shot at Ruth was just be himself, be as consistent as he'd always been.

Even as he stood apart, the Braves were increasingly his team. Bobby Bragan and Billy Hitchc.o.c.k were bounced as managers, and Bartholomay handed the reins to an Alabaman, Luman Harris, who held authority as manager but had no stature. Harris had pitched during the war years and held the distinction of losing big on a bad team, once posting a 721 record for the 102-loss Philadelphia A's in 1943. Henry was the best player, with the longest resume, the greatest accomplishments, and the most respect. The veterans admired how he played so well for so long, and the kids, who not too long ago had owned his baseball card, idolized him, mesmerized by the idea that they were now not just big leaguers but shared the room with the great man himself. Respect was the proper description, for Henry did not pretend that he was anything like the younger players. He lived at a distance.

Despite their admiration for him, Henry maintained a certain curmudgeonly contempt for the new generation, by which he was now surrounded. They did not study the game as his generation had, nor did they seem to play when hurt, and to Henry Aaron, playing regardless of pain represented the ultimate mark of professionalism. After the first day of spring training, pain was a part of the game, and yet younger players seemed unaffected by sitting out a day or two until their injuries healed. And yet, this new era of modern player would earn more money than he and Spahn and Burdette and Mathews-tougher players from a tougher generation-ever saw at a similar point in their careers, either individually or, for the most part, combined.

Henry had no illusions about the power of management. He had fought every year with Bob Quinn and Birdie Tebbetts, sending back his contract every January for an extra dollar. He had been in the league thirteen seasons and still wasn't close to making $100,000.

Yet Henry could not envision baseball without the reserve clause. He believed what the owners had been telling the players and the public for a century: that free agency would destroy baseball. The league would not be able to function if players were allowed any form of free agency. Henry attended Marvin Miller's meetings. He was generally supportive of the nascent union's initiatives, but in interview settings and public statements, he would repeat various versions of the same theme: teams needed to control the players.

The center of the room was where the good players, the stars, the scrubs, and even the bug-eyed clubhouse kids commiserated. It was where a fifteen-year-old high school infielder named Stewart "Buz" Eisenberg had the greatest job in the world.

Eisenberg was a Braves batboy190 during the first two years the Braves were in Atlanta. While Bartholomay had been concerned how the big-league, integrated Braves would play in a region that for generations had remained strictly segregated and Jimmy Carter hoped that the arrival of the Braves would legitimize the South, Buz Eisenberg, throughout his high school years, lived out their macro concerns on a daily basis. His father, Dan Eisenberg, was a traveling salesman and had moved with his wife, Gloria, from Philadelphia to Atlanta in 1963. One of three children, Eisenberg attended North Fulton High School and later graduated from Lakeside High. He recalled that the family did not have much money and that they lived in Shallowford Downs, a brick-faced apartment complex on the northeast side of town. He was Jewish in the Deep South and remembered getting into countless fights for being called a "dirty Jew" on a daily basis, the worst of this occurring during his junior high years. Through Eisenberg's experiences, it became clear that the laws might have changed but that att.i.tudes had not, and those att.i.tudes were held by the very people Bartholomay needed to attract to his ballpark. These people, who were unused to interracial compet.i.tion, would decide if they'd allow Henry Aaron to be their hero. during the first two years the Braves were in Atlanta. While Bartholomay had been concerned how the big-league, integrated Braves would play in a region that for generations had remained strictly segregated and Jimmy Carter hoped that the arrival of the Braves would legitimize the South, Buz Eisenberg, throughout his high school years, lived out their macro concerns on a daily basis. His father, Dan Eisenberg, was a traveling salesman and had moved with his wife, Gloria, from Philadelphia to Atlanta in 1963. One of three children, Eisenberg attended North Fulton High School and later graduated from Lakeside High. He recalled that the family did not have much money and that they lived in Shallowford Downs, a brick-faced apartment complex on the northeast side of town. He was Jewish in the Deep South and remembered getting into countless fights for being called a "dirty Jew" on a daily basis, the worst of this occurring during his junior high years. Through Eisenberg's experiences, it became clear that the laws might have changed but that att.i.tudes had not, and those att.i.tudes were held by the very people Bartholomay needed to attract to his ballpark. These people, who were unused to interracial compet.i.tion, would decide if they'd allow Henry Aaron to be their hero.

Eisenberg recalled how deeply racial att.i.tudes defined his upbringing. As a kid in Philadelphia and, later, when the family moved to Atlanta, he did not have a black friend. He made the high school wrestling team and recalled that no one on the team wanted to pair with a talented black teammate named Jack Jones.

"There were four blacks in our high school in eleventh grade. That was the first year we integrated. The kids used to say that the black kids smelled like fish. They used to say that they ate fish because they couldn't afford meat," Eisenberg recalled.

There was the disturbing incident as a member of the junior ROTC. The instructor in charge was Sergeant Conley ("Sergeant Conley's turning green/Someone p.i.s.sed in his canteen/Sound off ... one two ... sound off ... say it again!") and one afternoon the sergeant hosted a first-aid seminar in the high school auditorium.

"I remember having to go to mandatory junior ROTC, back before it was ruled unconst.i.tutional. It was totally unfair, three days a week, weapons training and things like that," Eisenberg recalled. "First aid was not integrated yet. Sergeant Conley showed us a short film and then gave us a scenario: 'You're in a truck and there's an accident. You see the victim is a black man lying in the street unconscious. So what do you do?'

"He told us, 'The first thing is you check to see if he is breathing. You find out that he isn't and you must perform mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.' And on it went. 'Look into the mouth and throat to ensure that the airway is clear. If an object is present, try to sweep it out with your fingers. Tilt the head back slightly.' Then he moved closer to the imaginary victim, approached his mouth, and instead of showing us how to give mouth-to-mouth, he yelled into it, 'GOODBYE, n.i.g.g.e.r!!!' I'll never forget that, because all the kids in the auditorium were laughing.

"For me it was different. Being with the Braves helped me out a lot with that, because in the clubhouse you talked to everyone, so when you got back to school, everything they were saying about blacks didn't make a lot of sense, because the Braves were all in the same room together."

He would remember virtually every detail of those two years with the total recall of a teenager surrounded by his heroes: how being a batboy for the Braves turned a self-described "nerdy kid" into a "hot date," both because he was a.s.sociated with the hottest thing in town, the new baseball team, and because the generous tips the players bestowed upon him meant he always had more cash to take the girls out than some of his rivals at school. He remembered how the lower guys on the team, younger guys who were often closer in age to the batboys than some of their teammates, would prefer to hang out with the kids than with the established ballplayers, and how the Braves mascot, Chief Noc-A-Homa, headdress, feathers and all, always had the best weed at the ballpark, right in his tepee beyond the centerfield fence. Eisenberg was particularly taken by a young pitcher named Clay Carroll, who used to go over to Shallowford Downs and swim in the pool, and how Buz and his mother, Gloria, would laugh together at just how much food Carroll could eat.

Eisenberg lived a dream. There was the time he was sitting there eating with the other clubbies when a naked Joe Torre sneaked up behind him and stood stealthily above, his p.e.n.i.s dangling over Eisenberg's right shoulder, dangerously close to Eisenberg's right cheekbone. Upon noticing the laughter in the room and then recognizing why the team was busting up, Eisenberg kept eating, appearing not to notice Torre's dangling manhood nuzzling his cheek, before quickly striking his left hand across to his right shoulder, as if he were trying to swat a fly. Torre had by then backed away, and the room was bathed in laughter at the kid's expense, but Buz Eisenberg loved every minute of it-that just meant he was one of the guys. There was no better feeling on earth for a teenage kid who wanted to grow up to be a baseball player than to be included in the good feeling and the easy humor of the men he idolized.

He remembered Henry Aaron as a brooding figure, who always smoked and often drank a beer before and after games, at a distance from the rest. Eisenberg would recall that Henry rarely took his place in the social bazaar in the middle of the Braves clubhouse.

"Hank Aaron never even looked at me. Of all the guys, Aaron was probably the only one who I never made eye contact with, and he was the only one I really wanted to pay attention to me. I mean, here I am, fifteen and a half years old, and you're within three feet of Hank Aaron every day. He was the guy you idolized. At the end of every season, guys would tip you fifty or a hundred dollars, and Aaron stiffed me, totally. I wasn't sure if he didn't see me. But he did stiff me." The next year, as the Braves returned from spring training, Henry called out to Eisenberg and tossed him a warm-up jacket, an item that, forty-one years later, Eisenberg still owns, the jacket in beloved, precious tatters.

"I was there for eighty-one games for two seasons and Hank never, ever came over to the middle of the room. I can't say I never saw Hank Aaron smile, but I can say I never saw him belly-laugh, rap someone's a.s.s with a towel ... be one of the guys. I never heard what Hank Aaron's laugh sounded like, and I was aware of it because he was such a presence. I could see if he was just another guy, then maybe I never would have heard it because I wouldn't have been paying full attention. But I was I was paying full attention, because paying full attention, because he he was Hank Aaron. was Hank Aaron.

"For any young teenage kid, being around this heroic ensemble, when they paid attention and spoke to you, it was a pretty awesome thing. Pat Jarvis, Clay Carroll, they laughed and joked and hung out with us," Eisenberg recalled. "With Aaron, it was different. With Aaron, it was worse than picking on us. He ignored us.... I didn't know the word at the time, but I thought it was arrogance, but later when you found out the life he was living, you sort of realized how he insulated himself from his teammates. You realize the defense mechanisms he had to set up, the walls he needed to protect himself."

IT WAS THE kids who brought Henry to life-two of them, actually, who whenever he was around acted as though they were precocious and s...o...b..ring little pups, looking up to the big man with a reverence so complete that it couldn't help but make Henry feel young and full, and, above all, appreciated. They saw him as a person of great wisdom, as somebody who wasn't just the most feared bat in the lineup but actually a person who had something important to teach. Around them, Henry let his guard down, which he had not been able to do elsewhere. He could show the dormant, mentoring side of himself that had always been present in his first fourteen years in the big leagues. With them, he could show the smile that Buz Eisenberg said he never saw. kids who brought Henry to life-two of them, actually, who whenever he was around acted as though they were precocious and s...o...b..ring little pups, looking up to the big man with a reverence so complete that it couldn't help but make Henry feel young and full, and, above all, appreciated. They saw him as a person of great wisdom, as somebody who wasn't just the most feared bat in the lineup but actually a person who had something important to teach. Around them, Henry let his guard down, which he had not been able to do elsewhere. He could show the dormant, mentoring side of himself that had always been present in his first fourteen years in the big leagues. With them, he could show the smile that Buz Eisenberg said he never saw.

The fact was that whether it was when he was a kid or a big leaguer, Henry never did let a lot of people in. It just wasn't his way. Though neither would ever quite understand why Henry had chosen them to be the ones to enter his private s.p.a.ce, Johnnie B. Baker and Ralph Garr were the exceptions.

When Garr tore up the Texas League, playing for Shreveport, with his speed and they nicknamed him "Gator" and he was called up to the big club for that September 3, 1968, game with the Mets, it was Henry who was the first to greet the youngster at the door, to tell him to wait for him after the game and the two would have dinner. Garr, believing that Henry was aware of the number of black kids who were called up to the big leagues, having no guidance and only fragile confidence, always recalled the first significant words Henry ever said to him: "What got you here is what's going to keep you here.191 Don't let anyone take that from you. Don't you forget that." Garr came from Monroe, Louisiana, and attended Grambling University. Six hours away from graduation, in 1967, he was drafted in the third round by the Braves and immediately reported to Double-A Austin. The minor leagues, even (or perhaps especially because of the civil rights movement) during the 1960s, could be a harsh place, and Garr thrived under difficult circ.u.mstances due to baseball men, many of them white, who took an interest in his success. There were Mel Didier, who signed him out of college, and Hub Kittle, his manager in Austin, who worked with him on footwork, first on the base paths and then in the outfield. There was Cliff Courtenay in Austin. And in the background was his father, Jesse, who told him there was no turning back, not during the times Ralph wanted to return home, as most black players did at one point or another. The white man was in control, his father told him, whether he came back home or whether he played baseball. So he might as well keep on playing. Don't let anyone take that from you. Don't you forget that." Garr came from Monroe, Louisiana, and attended Grambling University. Six hours away from graduation, in 1967, he was drafted in the third round by the Braves and immediately reported to Double-A Austin. The minor leagues, even (or perhaps especially because of the civil rights movement) during the 1960s, could be a harsh place, and Garr thrived under difficult circ.u.mstances due to baseball men, many of them white, who took an interest in his success. There were Mel Didier, who signed him out of college, and Hub Kittle, his manager in Austin, who worked with him on footwork, first on the base paths and then in the outfield. There was Cliff Courtenay in Austin. And in the background was his father, Jesse, who told him there was no turning back, not during the times Ralph wanted to return home, as most black players did at one point or another. The white man was in control, his father told him, whether he came back home or whether he played baseball. So he might as well keep on playing.

It was Henry who taught him how to be a professional. Once, during an intrasquad game during spring training in 1969, Garr made a late read on a base hit to right but tried to score from second base anyway. Henry did not just make the throw that embarra.s.singly wiped Garr out at the plate by a mile but also galloped into the dugout to find Garr and explain why why the kid had been embarra.s.sed. Getting thrown out on the base paths was not always a big deal-that is, he told Garr, unless management believed you were thrown out for not understanding the situation. White players could get away with those types of mistakes, Henry said, but blacks could not. A black player who misunderstood an in-game situation could be branded for his whole career as unintelligent, Henry told him, and Ralph Garr was not an unintelligent baseball player. During this exchange, Henry was clearly recalling his own long years of enduring the humiliating caricatures from his coaches, teammates, and the press when he was a young player. He told Garr that no matter what else they did for the rest of their lives on a baseball diamond, black players who made mental mistakes early in their careers would never be allowed to live down those first impressions, even after their careers were long over. the kid had been embarra.s.sed. Getting thrown out on the base paths was not always a big deal-that is, he told Garr, unless management believed you were thrown out for not understanding the situation. White players could get away with those types of mistakes, Henry said, but blacks could not. A black player who misunderstood an in-game situation could be branded for his whole career as unintelligent, Henry told him, and Ralph Garr was not an unintelligent baseball player. During this exchange, Henry was clearly recalling his own long years of enduring the humiliating caricatures from his coaches, teammates, and the press when he was a young player. He told Garr that no matter what else they did for the rest of their lives on a baseball diamond, black players who made mental mistakes early in their careers would never be allowed to live down those first impressions, even after their careers were long over.

"He was teaching me how to play the game. He said, 'You've got the speed, but watch the game. There was no reason for you not to score.' So he threw me out and made me a better player," Garr recalled. "Because of him, what I was trying to do was make sure I didn't make it hard for the next black guy who came up. Henry led by example, so you you led by example. I wanted to show people that we weren't monkeys." led by example. I wanted to show people that we weren't monkeys."

Away from the ballpark, Henry always picked up the tab, for dinners and taxis and the small sips of hard liquor he was known to take, but each check he picked up came with a lesson about being a big-league ballplayer, whether it was about leaving the proper tip or understanding which sections of town in a given city were best avoided. And the messages were always delivered the Henry way: He would not volunteer his wisdom easily. He would wait. If Garr made a mistake in judgment, he knew Henry would say nothing until Garr felt embarra.s.sed, beaten down enough to ask for help.

One day, Garr asked Henry why he did not chew guys out when they were not meeting his exacting standards, just to get it over with. Eddie Mathews, for example, who would return to the Braves as manager in 1972, was extremely rough and unpredictable with players. "I'll never forget it. That wasn't who Henry was. Henry wasn't going to give you the answers. He wanted you to understand the reasons why he was going to say something to you, and that could only come when you were ready to listen," Garr said. "He used to say, 'If you give a man a fish, he can eat tonight. But if you teach him to fish, he can eat for the rest of his life.'"

Henry was pleasant to the rest of his teammates, and they often sought to bathe in his aura. But Henry Aaron was no Mickey Mantle, gregarious and inclusive, the clubhouse leader of the pack when the team landed in a city, a list of friendly joints and bartenders at the ready. Few people were ever granted the golden pa.s.s to Henry's inner circle. That was why Ralph Garr and Dusty Baker were vital, for Henry had not been as close to teammates socially since Mantilla and Bruton. As much as these young men fed off of Henry, the reverse was probably just as true.

Sometimes he would surprise the others, like the time in the early summer of 1967 when t.i.to Francona came over from Philadelphia. The Phillies had just played two games in Pittsburgh, then flown home for a series with the Braves. The next morning, June 12, Francona was informed he'd been traded to Atlanta, thus beginning one of those strange adventures in employment germane only to baseball. Francona woke up a member of the home team, intent on beating the tar out of the Braves, but by lunchtime, with a simple change of laundry, the enemy had become the good guys.

Francona had been a big leaguer192 for ten years, having joined Baltimore in 1956, just two years after Henry, and was thirty-three at the time of his trade to Atlanta. A couple of days later, the club was in Houston. Francona showered and headed downstairs for dinner, and there, sitting alone in the lobby of the old Rice Hotel, was Henry, who asked t.i.to where he was going. for ten years, having joined Baltimore in 1956, just two years after Henry, and was thirty-three at the time of his trade to Atlanta. A couple of days later, the club was in Houston. Francona showered and headed downstairs for dinner, and there, sitting alone in the lobby of the old Rice Hotel, was Henry, who asked t.i.to where he was going.

"I'm going to get a steak, I guess."

"Do you mind if I come with you?"

"We used to go out all the time. Hank liked steaks, especially in the big towns like Chicago and New York," Francona recalled. "We used to go to have lunch before a ball game and we'd flip a coin to see who would pay."

Born in 1933, a year before Henry, John Patsy Francona came from a tough-knuckles section of Pittsburgh that everyone in the neighborhood referred to as "Honky Alley." It was a neighborhood of Hungarians and Italians, with some Jews and blacks, neither group large enough to threaten the order. The real threat during the years leading up to the war was having enough food on the table. When his son, Terry,193 would become a successful manager with the Boston Red Sox, t.i.to would always tell any of his friends at the ballpark to yell out "Honky Alley!" if they wanted a foolproof method for the boys from the old neighborhood to capture his son's attention. would become a successful manager with the Boston Red Sox, t.i.to would always tell any of his friends at the ballpark to yell out "Honky Alley!" if they wanted a foolproof method for the boys from the old neighborhood to capture his son's attention.

In New York, t.i.to and Henry194 would go to Eddie Condon's to catch some jazz and a steak. On the plane, they would play hearts. t.i.to never stopped being in awe of Henry's ability, but he was not one of the players (and over the years there were many) on the team who tiptoed around the superstars. "I remember when I first come up, with Baltimore, first game in the big leagues, and you know I'm nervous. I got b.u.t.terflies and all, so I get to the ballpark around six a.m. We're playing the Red Sox and I'm walking along the tunnel and I see this big number nine coming toward me-it's Ted Williams. And he says, 'Hey, you're t.i.to Francona.' And I'm thinking, How the h.e.l.l do would go to Eddie Condon's to catch some jazz and a steak. On the plane, they would play hearts. t.i.to never stopped being in awe of Henry's ability, but he was not one of the players (and over the years there were many) on the team who tiptoed around the superstars. "I remember when I first come up, with Baltimore, first game in the big leagues, and you know I'm nervous. I got b.u.t.terflies and all, so I get to the ballpark around six a.m. We're playing the Red Sox and I'm walking along the tunnel and I see this big number nine coming toward me-it's Ted Williams. And he says, 'Hey, you're t.i.to Francona.' And I'm thinking, How the h.e.l.l do you you know who I am? And he tells me he was once teammates with my roommate Harry Dorish, and Harry told him to look out for me. And Ted was great, gave me advice on hitting and everything, told me not to use such a heavy bat when the weather got warm. know who I am? And he tells me he was once teammates with my roommate Harry Dorish, and Harry told him to look out for me. And Ted was great, gave me advice on hitting and everything, told me not to use such a heavy bat when the weather got warm.

"Henry had so much raw talent, it was unbelievable. I remember one game I batted after him. He hit a ball bad and he was so mad that he slammed the bat down onto the dirt and snapped the bat in half. Then he looks up and the ball went out of the ballpark. Imagine being able to do that."

In terms of being cultivated by Henry, t.i.to Francona was one of the lucky few over the years who not only held warmth and respect for Henry but shared some intimate times with him. Yet Ralph and Dusty saw Henry195 in a way perhaps no one else in baseball ever did. Dusty was different from the start, for no one in Henry's inner circle ever called him Hank. Hank was the name his talent created, something the sportswriters and the ball club and the fans used. To anyone on the inside not named Dusty, he was Henry. "I never noticed it, but I guess it's true," Baker said. "But he never corrected me, either." in a way perhaps no one else in baseball ever did. Dusty was different from the start, for no one in Henry's inner circle ever called him Hank. Hank was the name his talent created, something the sportswriters and the ball club and the fans used. To anyone on the inside not named Dusty, he was Henry. "I never noticed it, but I guess it's true," Baker said. "But he never corrected me, either."

With those two kids, Henry was totally engaged, treating them as members of the family, and because of Henry's connection to them, Dusty and Ralph became connected to each other. Both represented the third generation of black player, post-Depression, postWorld War II men who had entered the big leagues with a different set of expectations both from baseball and from life. The Negro Leagues were gone and therefore no longer the expected destination, and ambition for blacks born after the war was a less dangerous commodity. Dusty Baker grew up in Sacramento, California. For a time, he had gone to college, but in 1968, he joined the marine reserves (volunteering for six years in the reserves wasn't foolproof, but it was the best way to stay out of Vietnam). In the marines, L. Cpl. Johnnie B. Baker had shown leadership qualities and was given responsibilities, yet he entered the Braves system as a nineteen-year-old kid with something of a reputation for being free-spirited, a little disdainful of authority figures, maybe one to watch. And quietly, those in the Braves front office would nudge the big man to sort of keep an eye on Dusty. But Henry was already a step ahead of the suits.

And ahead of Henry was Dusty's mother, who when Baker signed with the Braves asked Henry directly to "take care of my boy." Henry, traditionally distant and cool to the younger generation, agreed to to do.

"There were times I got called in196 for going certain places or being with certain people. They asked Hank to talk to me about certain things. Other times he would take it upon himself, getting me up to eat breakfast, putting the room-service card, all filled out, outside my hotel door to make sure I ate, make me go to church, invite me to go to certain meetings, NAACP meetings and things, freedom rallies back then and stuff. He promised my mom that he would take care of me as if I was his son, which he did." for going certain places or being with certain people. They asked Hank to talk to me about certain things. Other times he would take it upon himself, getting me up to eat breakfast, putting the room-service card, all filled out, outside my hotel door to make sure I ate, make me go to church, invite me to go to certain meetings, NAACP meetings and things, freedom rallies back then and stuff. He promised my mom that he would take care of me as if I was his son, which he did."

And it was there, by Henry's side, that Dusty Baker saw the world. It was also where he saw the deep contradictions of race. Dusty recalled that in general the white kids and black kids and Latino kids in California were all the same. They all played together and went to the same schools. Yet when Baker considered his idea of wealth in California, the memory was always the same: whites living in exclusive neighborhoods.

In Atlanta, Baker saw just the opposite: blacks living in wealthy and upper-middle-cla.s.s districts but still racially separated on a day-to-day basis. Henry's southwest Atlanta neighborhood had a white-collar sensibility, and there were civil rights meetings. It was with Henry that Dusty met Sammy Davis, Jr., and Maynard Jackson and Herman Russell, power players in local and national politics. In Chicago, Dusty dined at the home of Jesse Jackson, with Henry, of course. In Los Angeles, Henry introduced Dusty to Flip Wilson. Backstage in New York, it was Ramsey Lewis, and the start of Dusty Baker's lifelong love affair with jazz. They used to joke that even when Henry and Barbara thought they were eating alone, Dusty and Ralph were probably under the dinner table.

"He was a fun-loving guy, but a serious guy at the same time. He was a complex guy, but an everyday guy," Baker said. "He only let certain people really in. He extended himself to everybody, but he only let really certain people get in."

In Atlanta, Ralph and Dusty were part of the family. Barbara would cook for them, and they treated her as a surrogate mother, because Dusty was still a kid.

"I was there so young, nineteen years old, I was closer in age to his kids and to the batboys, so I just hung out with them all the time," Baker recalled. "I couldn't go to bars and drink with those guys, so I hung with the batboys. Lary, Hanky, Gaile, and Dorinda, who was just a little ole girl. They're all like my brothers and sisters now. We'd just hang out at Hank's house. I'd go watch their football games in high school, stuff like that.... Kid stuff, you know?"

Being that close, closer than all the rest, it was Dusty and Ralph who could best see the growing tension between Henry and Barbara, and it was Dusty upon whom Henry would rely. "Barbara treated me like a member of the family. She treated me like one of her own. There were people around the ballpark who said this or said that, but I'm not one of them. I was around Hank when things began to go sour between them, and it was a hard time. I have nothing bad to say about Barbara Aaron. I watched Hank deal the way Hank deals with everything-he tried to keep focused. He didn't want to put his problems off on everybody else. Those times were definitely rough on Hank."

Henry and Barbara had been together for fifteen years, since they were teenagers, were together as dreams came true and were in the public eye as America confronted itself and came steadily apart. The players' wives were often a tight sorority, enjoying the fortunes of the baseball life, but it was different for black women. They were accepted as begrudgingly at the bake sales and charity events as their husbands often were on the ball field, but sometimes it could all be too much. In a 1995 doc.u.mentary, Barbara would talk about the vitriol in the stands directed at the black players, her husband among them.

Too often, she had to sit and take it. The wives always did. The baseball world, first a boys club, then an integrated boys club, was never sympathetic toward her. Barbara was not popular among those in the Braves front office; they insulted her and Henry by accusing her of being behind his evolving politics.

And then there was the infamous evening197 of July 30, 1966, when Barbara entered the player's parking lot at AtlantaFulton County Stadium before a Braves-Giants game and the attendant at the entrance gate refused to allow her in. Words were exchanged, an Atlanta policeman intervened, and Barbara drove past. The officer, L. W. Begwood, ordered her to stop. What occurred next would become a matter of debate. Barbara would say that Begwood removed his service revolver from his holster. Begwood would say that he placed his hand on his weapon but did not remove it from its holster. What was not in dispute was Barbara's arrest and the subsequent three-week suspension of three Atlanta police officers involved in the incident. The publicity was bad all around-for the Braves, who in their first season were trying to cultivate a fan base in a racially tenuous city; for Henry, who called the officers "incompetent"; and especially for Barbara, who Braves officials thought overreacted. "That woman," a Braves official said, "drove everyone crazy." of July 30, 1966, when Barbara entered the player's parking lot at AtlantaFulton County Stadium before a Braves-Giants game and the attendant at the entrance gate refused to allow her in. Words were exchanged, an Atlanta policeman intervened, and Barbara drove past. The officer, L. W. Begwood, ordered her to stop. What occurred next would become a matter of debate. Barbara would say that Begwood removed his service revolver from his holster. Begwood would say that he placed his hand on his weapon but did not remove it from its holster. What was not in dispute was Barbara's arrest and the subsequent three-week suspension of three Atlanta police officers involved in the incident. The publicity was bad all around-for the Braves, who in their first season were trying to cultivate a fan base in a racially tenuous city; for Henry, who called the officers "incompetent"; and especially for Barbara, who Braves officials thought overreacted. "That woman," a Braves official said, "drove everyone crazy."

Henry would not talk much about the details of his home life, but now it was coming apart, for too many reasons to count. Henry put on a good face-the best, in fact-and Ralph loved him for it. It went back to chopping the wood. "You could never tell at the plate198 what was going on with Henry. We knew he had his problems, but when he came to work-professional. He might have had the worst day at home, but when he got to the ballpark-nothing. Nothing got between Henry Aaron and his business." what was going on with Henry. We knew he had his problems, but when he came to work-professional. He might have had the worst day at home, but when he got to the ballpark-nothing. Nothing got between Henry Aaron and his business."

And in return, he was their unquestioned hero. They called him "Supe," short for "Superman." And they called him "Hammer." And they called him "44." Maybe they didn't invent the nicknames, but they used them with such affection and reverence and frequency frequency that Henry was transformed into a different person, always the silent backbone of a club, but certainly now something more. He was the wise elder for this new group of kids, and they did not do anything without checking with Henry first. "You could feel it. He was that guy that you did not want thinking any less of you," Ralph Garr recalled. "In the back of your mind, he was the standard. You didn't want to do anything that Henry wouldn't do. If Henry could be on time for the team bus, that Henry was transformed into a different person, always the silent backbone of a club, but certainly now something more. He was the wise elder for this new group of kids, and they did not do anything without checking with Henry first. "You could feel it. He was that guy that you did not want thinking any less of you," Ralph Garr recalled. "In the back of your mind, he was the standard. You didn't want to do anything that Henry wouldn't do. If Henry could be on time for the team bus, you you could be on time for the team bus. If Henry could play hurt, could be on time for the team bus. If Henry could play hurt, you you could play hurt. We saw him do things that just made everybody want to be that much more professional. You have to understand just how much we looked up to this man, what he meant to us. n.o.body wanted to be the one to disappoint Henry Aaron." could play hurt. We saw him do things that just made everybody want to be that much more professional. You have to understand just how much we looked up to this man, what he meant to us. n.o.body wanted to be the one to disappoint Henry Aaron."

During that time, there was another youngster, too, who looked up to Henry: Clarence Edwin Gaston, who went by the nickname "Cito," a Texan from Corpus Christi who had played in the Braves minor-league system in Waycross, Georgia, and Greenville, South Carolina. During the season in spring 1967, Henry requested that Cito Gaston room with him, and, quite likely channeling his own home life with Barbara, an education ensued.

"I had the fortune to room with a guy199 who was my idol growing up as a kid. He taught me how to tie a tie. He taught me how to be an independent thinker coming into the big leagues," Gaston recalled. "He taught me that no matter what happened in the game to forget it. If you had a good game, leave it at the ballpark. And if you had a bad day at home, don't bring that to the ballpark. He taught me about concentration." And he told Gaston that the inverse was also true, a rule he had been practicing firsthand as his relationship with Barbara declined: If you had a bad day at the park, don't bring it home and take it out on the family. who was my idol growing up as a kid. He taught me how to tie a tie. He taught me how to be an independent thinker coming into the big leagues," Gaston recalled. "He taught me that no matter what happened in the game to forget it. If you had a good game, leave it at the ballpark. And if you had a bad day at home, don't bring that to the ballpark. He taught me about concentration." And he told Gaston that the inverse was also true, a rule he had been practicing firsthand as his relationship with Barbara declined: If you had a bad day at the park, don't bring it home and take it out on the family.

It was the ethic that Henry wanted to impart to the kids, and sometimes he could do it with a look. If Dusty was spending too much time in the trainer's room, it was Henry who could give him that that look and Baker would have to rea.s.sess very quickly just how hurt he truly was. Maybe he look and Baker would have to rea.s.sess very quickly just how hurt he truly was. Maybe he could could play after all. And then, suddenly, Dusty would be in the lineup. If Garr looked ga.s.sed in between games of a doubleheader but saw Henry, nearly twelve years his senior, taped and ready and dressed, suddenly Garr knew he had better find that extra fuel reserve, lest he drop in Henry's esteem. Being a professional meant playing through pain, and so what if Henry's pain threshold just happened to be abnormal. Somewhere, he would always remind Dusty and Ralph and Cito (who would be with him only in 1967, although Henry would have a lifelong impact on Cito Gaston) not to forget the special burden that came with being a black player. It meant playing with pain, leading by stellar example, and being accountable, for black players were quite often the easiest ones to be gotten rid of. Make it hard on them, Henry would tell the kids. Make it hard for them to get rid of you. And it was in that context that Henry would drop his famous credo on Garr. "He used to tell me all the time, play after all. And then, suddenly, Dusty would be in the lineup. If Garr looked ga.s.sed in between games of a doubleheader but saw Henry, nearly twelve years his senior, taped and ready and dressed, suddenly Garr knew he had better find that extra fuel reserve, lest he drop in Henry's esteem. Being a professional meant playing through pain, and so what if Henry's pain threshold just happened to be abnormal. Somewhere, he would always remind Dusty and Ralph and Cito (who would be with him only in 1967, although Henry would have a lifelong impact on Cito Gaston) not to forget the special burden that came with being a black player. It meant playing with pain, leading by stellar example, and being accountable, for black players were quite often the easiest ones to be gotten rid of. Make it hard on them, Henry would tell the kids. Make it hard for them to get rid of you. And it was in that context that Henry would drop his famous credo on Garr. "He used to tell me all the time,200 whenever something hurt and I maybe needed a break. He would always point to guys that were hurt, or maybe hurt, and maybe they could play but they didn't, and he'd say, 'Ralph, you can't help your club from the tub.'" whenever something hurt and I maybe needed a break. He would always point to guys that were hurt, or maybe hurt, and maybe they could play but they didn't, and he'd say, 'Ralph, you can't help your club from the tub.'"

And then there was the question that Ralph Garr swished around in his mouth, grading its texture before offering a verdict: how to anger the cool and even Henry Aaron. The answer would have far-reaching consequences.

"Cheating," Garr said.

"You want to make the man angry? Just cheat. That'll do it. Henry wants a fair match, what you got against what he's got. I remember one time in San Francisco and g.a.y.l.o.r.d Perry