HENRY A AARON'S FIRST two decades of retirement were good years for the memories business. Many of the prewar, preintegration legends-Williams, DiMaggio, Greenberg, Feller, Spahn, Musial-were still alive and lucid, telling the stories of what would be called "the Greatest Generation." Alive, too, were their less-known, uncelebrated shadow counterparts: the ignored Negro Leaguers, whose inst.i.tutional memory was now suddenly a valuable a.s.set, both to be mined by historians and a book industry that fell in love with baseball. Baseball sought the survivors of the old Negro Leagues, too, as a sort of social penance. They would now, far too late, be called heroes by an industry once convinced their partic.i.p.ation would undermine the standing of the sport. two decades of retirement were good years for the memories business. Many of the prewar, preintegration legends-Williams, DiMaggio, Greenberg, Feller, Spahn, Musial-were still alive and lucid, telling the stories of what would be called "the Greatest Generation." Alive, too, were their less-known, uncelebrated shadow counterparts: the ignored Negro Leaguers, whose inst.i.tutional memory was now suddenly a valuable a.s.set, both to be mined by historians and a book industry that fell in love with baseball. Baseball sought the survivors of the old Negro Leagues, too, as a sort of social penance. They would now, far too late, be called heroes by an industry once convinced their partic.i.p.ation would undermine the standing of the sport.

The confluence of history continued with the first generation of the integrated era-Willie Mays, Frank Robinson, Joe Black, Larry Doby, and, of course, Henry-entering its golden years. The living memory of the sport went back to before World War II. Henry was still in the public eye, simultaneously present and curiously distant, a visible member of the Atlanta Braves front office-having finally been brought back by Bartholomay months after retiring-yet still uneasily removed from his contemporaries. When the public or the writers would seek out Williams or DiMaggio, it was often with wistfulness, the words on the pages of the magazines and the newspapers willfully compliant to create that special frothy brand of nostalgia: Williams's cantankerousness was no longer uncomfortable and unrefined, proof of the Splinter's cla.s.slessness. Now, a Williams broadside was reshaped into an endearing virtue-a throwback forgotten in favor of an emptier, valueless time. The longtime baseball man Joe Klein would reminisce about the time Williams managed the Texas Rangers. It was 1972, and Ted sat in his sweltering office, watching a fuzzy black-and-white television. Klein was just a pup, a kid working in the Rangers front office, bubbling at the privilege of sitting next to the great one. On the television screen was Henry Aaron, thirty-eight years old, trotting around the bases after yet another home run, and right then, as the television replayed in slow motion Henry's home run, Williams shot out of his chair, fizzing like a bottle rocket. Just the sight of Aaron at the plate had set off in confounded admiration his cranky perfectionism.

"He was just raging,"277 Klein recalled. "I mean, just yelling at the television: 'HOW THE h.e.l.l DOES HE DO IT? THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS A FRONT-FOOTED POWER HITTER! YOU CAN'T HIT FOR POWER OFF YOUR G.o.dd.a.m.nED FRONT FOOT.' That was Ted. He loved him because Hank Aaron did everything right as a hitter to Ted, except that. Ted used to say it was impossible to do what Henry did, to drive the ball out of the ballpark off the front foot. You just weren't supposed to hit that way. But Hank did it, what, seven hundred and fifty-five times?" Klein recalled. "I mean, just yelling at the television: 'HOW THE h.e.l.l DOES HE DO IT? THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS A FRONT-FOOTED POWER HITTER! YOU CAN'T HIT FOR POWER OFF YOUR G.o.dd.a.m.nED FRONT FOOT.' That was Ted. He loved him because Hank Aaron did everything right as a hitter to Ted, except that. Ted used to say it was impossible to do what Henry did, to drive the ball out of the ballpark off the front foot. You just weren't supposed to hit that way. But Hank did it, what, seven hundred and fifty-five times?"

In retirement, Williams grew larger still in all of his fiery impatience. So, too, did DiMaggio, tailored, silvery, and elegant, a distinguished gentleman at seventy-eight years old. A PBS doc.u.mentary in 1994 by the filmmaker Ken Burns unearthed another invaluable baseball artifact: the Negro Leaguer Buck O'Neil, whose love of the sport and unfailing optimism during segregation blunted the game's inst.i.tutional guilt and, in turn, made O'Neil into the unlikeliest star for the rest of his life. They were celebrated as the living treasures of the game. That was the deal.

Then there was Henry. With Henry Aaron, it was all just a bit different, just a bit off, the sepia longing missing from his aura-and everybody knew why. The writers knew it, and it was the big reason someone always made the trek to Atlanta. Henry knew it, and that was what made him different from all the rest, for what he held close to his breast was a big piece of Americana, cold and irrefutable and terrible, and, unlike Williams's misanthropy, impossible to ma.s.sage into wistfulness. When the writers came looking for him, they came looking for one thing-the letters, the physical pieces of paper Henry's fellow Americans had sat down and written, one by one, threat by death threat, during the record years.

The stories would grow in psychological complexity. Stan Kasten, who worked with Henry as a kid with the Braves under Ted Turner, had heard the stories for years: that when Henry left the Braves in 1974, he took the letters with him as dutifully as he took his spikes, bats, and a few jerseys. Some people said Henry still kept the letters in the attic of his house. Other times the story went a step beyond: that in numerous instances during a calendar year, Henry would go upstairs, walled off from the world, and revisit his America, the America that robbed him of his joy, reading and rereading the threads of his country that were now fused into him like a skin graft. Some people heard the letters were in shoe boxes; others were told he kept them in an old burlap mail sack or a plastic mail tub.

The writers would come to find out if the rumors were actually true, and when he grew tired of it all, of being both reduced and defined in equal measure by the same moment, he would say, "Hate mail and home runs.278 You know, there's more to me than that. But n.o.body cares. It's the only thing people care about." You know, there's more to me than that. But n.o.body cares. It's the only thing people care about."

The newspapermen perked up, usually months before one of the standard milestones of his record-breaking accomplishment. April 8, 1994, for example, was a particularly big one-the twentieth anniversary of his immortality. By then, Henry was sixty years old. An unstoppable battalion of gray hairs had overtaken his dark hair, and the long parenthetical creases that bordered his mouth deepened further into his cheeks. Billye Aaron always said Henry was his mother's child, and as he aged, Henry looked even more like Stella: powerful cheekbones suppressing an arresting, wide smile, small eyes alert, surveying, flashing spontaneously at a pleasing sound. Henry wore gla.s.ses full-time now, and though he had continued to exercise, the weight he had gained began to settle at his waistline.

WAITING FIVE YEARS to be immortalized is, usually, easy-chair living. The endors.e.m.e.nts begin to line up, almost as quickly as the various and lucrative offers to serve on this board or that charity, but from retirement in 1976 to his Hall of Fame induction in 1982, tranquillity and Henry did not spend much time together. Henry would find himself in a drift. He would always draw a paycheck from baseball, and during this period he began to make business connections that would serve him for the next three and a half decades. Yet he spoke of himself as intellectually and emotionally unsatisfied, searching for that greater purpose, in constant conflict about finding that proper balance of activism, expressing his opinion when and where it was most needed. He would often reiterate that he wanted to belong in the world of baseball, but despite his accomplishments as a player, finding his place after retirement was a challenge that proved difficult. to be immortalized is, usually, easy-chair living. The endors.e.m.e.nts begin to line up, almost as quickly as the various and lucrative offers to serve on this board or that charity, but from retirement in 1976 to his Hall of Fame induction in 1982, tranquillity and Henry did not spend much time together. Henry would find himself in a drift. He would always draw a paycheck from baseball, and during this period he began to make business connections that would serve him for the next three and a half decades. Yet he spoke of himself as intellectually and emotionally unsatisfied, searching for that greater purpose, in constant conflict about finding that proper balance of activism, expressing his opinion when and where it was most needed. He would often reiterate that he wanted to belong in the world of baseball, but despite his accomplishments as a player, finding his place after retirement was a challenge that proved difficult.

He would say with great frequency that he wanted baseball to be "one chapter of his life, not the entire story," and yet even as this vision crystallized, Henry was unsure exactly of what that meant in actual practice.

As the 1976 season ended, Henry had resolved to return to Atlanta. In a sense, he had it right: There's no going back. Milwaukee would never lose its emotional and personal appeal, its place in his story, but he was no longer a kid. Atlanta, for all of its seeming ambivalence toward him and baseball in general-the city would always be a notoriously poor draw, even during the years the Braves fielded a championship-caliber team-was now his home.

The real reason the promise of Milwaukee did not materialize as he had expected had less to do with nostalgia and longing and more to do with business. When he retired, promises were made, gifts exchanged, but the reality never quite matched the handshake. Bud Selig was somewhat vague about Henry's place in the organization, though without the bitter edge that poisoned Henry's final days in Atlanta.

There was talk about managing the Brewers, talk that intensified after Del Crandall was fired. In later years, both Henry and Bud Selig would say they had "discussed" the idea of Henry's becoming a manager, but the truth was that Henry was as noncommittal about managing as Selig was about making him a hard offer to take over the club. The beer-distributorship offer fell through, too, not that Miller failed to keep its word in taking care of Henry. Instead, Henry did not particularly care for the fine print attached to the deal: He could have the distributorship, but he would have to put up some of his own money: a million dollars' worth.

And the matter of what territories Henry would oversee-possibly Baltimore or Cincinnati, possibly elsewhere-was equally ambiguous. He was a big name, national news, but one was an American League city and the other had no great relationship with him. He had been burned in business during his first decade in Atlanta, and it took years for him to recover financially. He thanked Selig for his time, and the lifetime deal never took place.

At the same time, the Braves had made subtle overtures to Henry during the waning months of 1976, raising the possibility that he might return to the Braves following his retirement, overtures that took on a certain intensity following Bartholomay's sale of the club to Ted Turner.

Turner was many things-bombastic, erratic, eccentric, brilliant, visionary-but he wasn't part of the staid baseball establishment. He was not a member of the old-school club, whose members used the veneer of tradition to maintain their curmudgeonly positions of authority and, by extension, to keep the players in their place. That alone made Turner an immediate threat to the old guard. He was a businessman who could see further and wider than most anyone else in the media or baseball and he understood immediately the value of Henry Aaron. Already a millionaire at thirty-four, Turner had purchased WTCG-17 in 1974. A year later, after gaining permission from the Federal Communications Commission to broadcast nationally via satellite to a nascent cable-television viewership, Turner recognized the power and utility of sports as a programming tool. He purchased the Braves the following year and Turner had immediately thwarted baseball's rigid structure-especially its tight rules on broadcasting rights-as his cable station, renamed TBS, broadcast the Atlanta Braves in every television market in the country. And there was nothing baseball could do about it.

If one thing was clear about baseball, it was how tightly controlled the job market was. Henry himself had complained about baseball's culture of retreads, of how difficult it was to get new blood into the pipeline for managing and front-office jobs. Turner was a starting fresh, and as such, the old prejudices and baseball customs did not always exist around him. He had already hired Bill Lucas, Barbara Aaron's brother and Henry's exbrother-in-law, to be the team's general manager.

"Bill was farm director when I promoted him279 to GM," Turner recalled. "And then I find out later that he was the first black person in baseball to be a general manager. Then I find out that he was the first black person in to GM," Turner recalled. "And then I find out later that he was the first black person in baseball to be a general manager. Then I find out that he was the first black person in any sport any sport to be a GM. When I see a person, I don't see color. I wasn't looking for points with the civil rights movement. It just didn't seem to be out of the ordinary." to be a GM. When I see a person, I don't see color. I wasn't looking for points with the civil rights movement. It just didn't seem to be out of the ordinary."

Turner was bigger than life. He had no time for baseball's silly little conventions, and for Henry, that meant an opportunity. What Henry was not completely aware of was the opposition to his returning to the Braves, especially in a front-office capacity. It explained why the club had been so willing to let him go following the 1974 season. There were some men, like Dan Donahue, the Braves chief operating officer, who viewed Henry only as a hitter, not as a person who could contribute to the front office. He was a former player, and former players belonged on the field, or on their fishing boats. Superstar ex-players were even less complicated: They were given no-show jobs or jobs as spring-training instructors, an easy way to t.i.tillate the fans and keep a famous name around while the person was drawing a paycheck. In other words, Henry should have been content with the job of being Henry Aaron-leave the heavy lifting to the professionals.

But when Henry and Turner discussed Henry's return to Atlanta, it was with a real job, with an actual t.i.tle and responsibilities. As Turner recalled, he asked Henry what jobs he was interested in, and Henry told him farm director because it was a position that required talent evaluation.

"When I bought the team, naturally I wanted Henry. It was the right thing to do because he was so important to the Braves," Turner recalled. "I asked him what he wanted to do and he told me he wanted to be farm director because that was a job with some teeth. I didn't worry about whether he could do the job. I didn't know very much about baseball when I came in. If I could go from nonbaseball person to owner, he could go from baseball player to the front office. After all, it's not rocket science we're talking about here."

Home run no. 703. By nature, Henry did not offer entry into his inner circle. The exception was Dusty Baker (number 12), whom Henry adopted as a mentee, just as Bill Bruton had done with him years before. Davey Johnson is standing behind Baker.

With Rev. Jesse Jackson during the height of the home-run chase

By 1973, Charles Schulz's comic strip Peanuts Peanuts was appearing in nearly a thousand newspapers nationwide. Perhaps no other individual was as adept at capturing the country's att.i.tude. As Henry approached Ruth, Schulz inserted him into the strip during the week of Aug. 1017, 1973, solidifying his place at the center of the national conversation. was appearing in nearly a thousand newspapers nationwide. Perhaps no other individual was as adept at capturing the country's att.i.tude. As Henry approached Ruth, Schulz inserted him into the strip during the week of Aug. 1017, 1973, solidifying his place at the center of the national conversation.

With his second wife, Billye, and Georgia governor Jimmy Carter, on April 8, 1974, hours before he broke Babe Ruth's thirty-nine-year-old home-run record. Carter would say that Henry Aaron "did as much to legitimize the South as any of us."

Henry at the summit. Widely considered the greatest moment in the history of the game, April 8, 1974, the night Henry broke Babe Ruth's record, would hold only bittersweet moments for him. He would not talk often about that night or reflect easily. "What should have been the best time of my life was the worst, all because I was a black man. Something was taken from me I've never gotten back."

Outgoing and gregarious, Tommie Aaron (right) joined the Braves in 1962. No other teammate could bring out the lighter side in Henry like his younger brother. Tommie had been forecast as one of baseball's first African American managers in the major leagues, until leukemia ended his life in 1984.

Henry Aaron said he would never be one of those players who hung on past his prime, yet in two years with Milwaukee he hit .232, with 22 home runs and 95 RBIs. "There's something magical about going back to the place where it all began ... Everybody wants to turn back the clock. But I discovered the same thing that Ruth, Hornsby, and Mays did: you can't do it."

Henry, in his final year in the big leagues, with Willie Mays, then a coach with the New York Mets, at an exhibition game. The two held a fierce rivalry as players, but in the next chapter of their lives Henry would escape the shadow of Mays with significant successes in the business and philanthropic worlds.

Henry and Billye in front of his plaque at the Hall of Fame. Henry Aaron and the Hall of Fame did not enjoy an easy relationship. Following his induction in 1982, he would return exactly once over the next sixteen years. Only a greater appreciation of his skills and depth by a new administration healed the wounds.

Henry had always considered himself a mama's boy, but while his features resembled those of his mother, Stella, his unpretentious approach to work was a paternal trait that would forever define the son.

Despite his accomplishments, Henry Aaron never wanted to be defined by baseball. "I want it," he said, "to be a part of my life, not the whole thing." It was his friendship with President Bill Clinton that began to elevate him from baseball great to American icon.

In June 2002, Henry flew to San Francisco to celebrate Barry Bonds's 600th home run. The two had been cordial in the past, even friendly, but the growing scrutiny over Bonds's use of performance-enhancing drugs in pursuit of the all-time home-run record forever strained the relationship.

For thirty-three years, Henry Aaron stood alone at the top of baseball's all-time home-run record. On August 7, 2007, Bonds replaced him at the top of the numerical list, but not the emotional. "Bonds may have the record," Reggie Jackson said, "but people still believe in Henry. He's the people's home-run champion."

For much of his public life, Henry had been considered distant, brooding, and embittered, but it was his bursting smile, generosity, and dry wit-a side of him suffocated by the demands of fame and his discomfort with celebrity-that his inner circle of friends recalled fondly.

Henry Aaron With that, Henry rejoined the Braves, but it likely would not have happened without Ted Turner. Henry, Turner told him, would have a job for life with the Braves. Henry's official position was director of minor-league personnel. He would oversee the 125 players the Braves farmed out through the five clubs, from A ball to Triple-A. He would be paid fifty thousand dollars annually. Five years after Jackie Robinson's death, Henry became the first black exmajor-league player making front-office player-personnel decisions for a major-league club.

Paul Snyder worked closely with Henry during those years as director of minor-league personnel. Snyder recalled that early on he sensed a certain tension between them, now that he was Henry's peer. Henry, Snyder believed, understood that there were those within the Braves management who did not want him to have the job and thus were interested in undermining his success. Henry responded by being outwardly withdrawn-which is to say, polite but distant.

"We were sitting back in our conference room280 in our old stadium, at Fulton County. I was sitting straight across from him. He was being a little bit distant to me," Snyder recalled. "I a.s.sured him I didn't want his job. I had a job. I was strictly trying to help him. I was trying to make the best decisions for him and for the Braves. I had a department to run. We weren't spending a lot of money on scouting, so we had to make the most of our decisions. in our old stadium, at Fulton County. I was sitting straight across from him. He was being a little bit distant to me," Snyder recalled. "I a.s.sured him I didn't want his job. I had a job. I was strictly trying to help him. I was trying to make the best decisions for him and for the Braves. I had a department to run. We weren't spending a lot of money on scouting, so we had to make the most of our decisions.

"From that day forward, I felt better. Inside of that first year, he was still trying to figure out who was on his side and who wasn't. I was a minor leaguer. He didn't have to worry about me."

FOR A SHORT time, Henry seemed to embody the next stage of the Robinson mission. In addition to him, there was Bill Lucas, who was the Braves general manager. Lucas and Henry were not always on the best terms after the divorce, and Henry would admit that the relationship could be tense at times, but they maintained a mutual and professional respect. Meanwhile, Henry's sister Alfredia had married David Scott, a rising member of the Georgia House of Representatives. time, Henry seemed to embody the next stage of the Robinson mission. In addition to him, there was Bill Lucas, who was the Braves general manager. Lucas and Henry were not always on the best terms after the divorce, and Henry would admit that the relationship could be tense at times, but they maintained a mutual and professional respect. Meanwhile, Henry's sister Alfredia had married David Scott, a rising member of the Georgia House of Representatives.

Not only was Lucas an executive; he had begun to create opportunities for others to have upper-management positions. Though Bill Lucas and Henry were no longer connected by marriage, they had known each other since Bill was a freshman in college in early 1953 at Florida A&M. After that, Lucas was a Braves prospect, until, during a minor-league game, he attempted to beat out an infield hit and crashed into the first baseman. Lucas blew out his knee and his career ended.

Then, in 1979, while watching a Braves game on television, Bill Lucas suffered a severe brain aneurysm. He was admitted to Emory Hospital for five days but never regained consciousness. He was forty-three when he died.

TOMMIE A AARON retired as a player in 1971. He had played parts of seven seasons in the minors and had been named Most Valuable Player at Richmond in the International League in 1967. He had worked in the organization as a player, a roving hitting instructor, and a minor-league coach. Upon taking the job, Henry pushed for Tommie to become manager of the team's top farm club, Triple-A Richmond. There was even talk that Tommie Aaron could become a big-league manager. By 1981, only three black men had managed a big league club and none of them-not Frank Robinson, nor Larry Doby, and nor Maury Wills-lasted more than three seasons. retired as a player in 1971. He had played parts of seven seasons in the minors and had been named Most Valuable Player at Richmond in the International League in 1967. He had worked in the organization as a player, a roving hitting instructor, and a minor-league coach. Upon taking the job, Henry pushed for Tommie to become manager of the team's top farm club, Triple-A Richmond. There was even talk that Tommie Aaron could become a big-league manager. By 1981, only three black men had managed a big league club and none of them-not Frank Robinson, nor Larry Doby, and nor Maury Wills-lasted more than three seasons.

Tommie had served as a big-league coach since 1979, first under Bobby c.o.x and then in 1982 under Joe Torre, another of Henry's old teammates who became a manager. It was with Torre that Tommie headed for spring training as routinely as he had for the previous twenty-five years. Only this time, following his annual physical, it became apparent something was wrong.

"He went to spring training.281 They did the normal blood work, and something wasn't right," Carolyn Aaron recalled. "They told him he had a certain type of anemia. That turned into the leukemia." They did the normal blood work, and something wasn't right," Carolyn Aaron recalled. "They told him he had a certain type of anemia. That turned into the leukemia."

As much as Henry, Tommie Aaron was a member of the Braves family. Where Henry had been serious and unsure, Tommie Aaron was loose and gregarious, thought Paul Snyder.

"He played all over our system. He loved shooting c.r.a.ps. I remember him in that rinky-d.i.n.k clubhouse in Eau Claire," Snyder said. "He loved to roll the bones. Tommie had a lot of ability. He could play six or seven positions, everything but catch. He was very genuine."

Tommie Aaron was the one person who had bridged that gap with Henry, perhaps, apart from Billye, better than any other person in Henry's life. Henry possessed a deep laugh, and a broad, engaging smile, but it was Tommie who, friends said, was able to make Henry laugh from his insides, deep from his gut. Tommie could swear and joke and loosen Henry up in public to the point where, around Tommie, Henry Aaron was a different person.

"He was just so different from Hank. Hank was so reserved," Carolyn Aaron remembered. "He was so outgoing. All the kids on our street in Mobile would come to the house and Tommie would be the one to take them to the Mardi Gras parade. He would be out raking the yard and the kids would always be there. He taught them baseball. The kids in the neighborhood talked to Tommie more than their own fathers."

Every day for over two and a half years, both at home and at Emory Hospital, it was Henry who came by with food, who called every day. Periodically, there would be hope of remission, only to have the disease return anew. On August 16, 1984, eleven days after his forty-fifth birthday, Tommie Aaron died. Henry was at the hospital that day, broken. And it was there that Carolyn watched Henry Aaron burst, his right fist slamming into the reinforced hospital window.

"It upset Hank very much. Everybody jumped when he hit that gla.s.s window," Carolyn recalled. "It was normal to grieve, normal to cry. I can't remember when I stopped crying, but when I was in public, no one knew my heart was just broken. Then, one day, you wake up and you say, 'I didn't cry today.'"

BY TEMPERAMENT, Henry was not an orator or an activist. He preferred to work through channels and to collaborate. His commitment was solid, but he did not need to be in front of the camera, at the top of the headlines. He had, in fact, discovered that very little good came from taking a personal, public stance, and his edgy relationship with the press always seemed to intensify. Behind the scenes, he lent his name and gave his time to fight teenage pregnancy, a topic most professional athletes would avoid. What made Henry's approach even bolder was his announcement that he would do a speaking tour of high schools on behalf of Planned Parenthood. On a Sunday morning, April 30, 1978, Henry arrived at Grady Memorial Hospital to lend support to a national conference on teenage s.e.x and s.e.xuality. After the buzz caused by his presence had subsided, Henry listened attentively to the figures: The hospital had delivered an average of six hundred babies per year between 1967 and 1977 to girls whose age ranged from twelve to sixteen. The staff told Henry that two-thirds of teen pregnancies were unwanted and that a third of all abortions in the United States were performed on teenagers. At the press conference announcing his involvement, Henry took the podium and took a prepared text from its folder.

"Something's got to be done about it,"282 he said. "Young boys are talking about 'scoring' on dates every day. When you've gone all the way, you've scored. But I want to tell you something ... you're not a champion in my book if you cause a young girl who doesn't want to become pregnant to become pregnant and have to drop out of school." In meeting with the Grady doctors, Henry took a modern approach toward s.e.x education. Kids did not need to be lectured about s.e.x, he said. "They need to know what they're doing when they do it, and accept the responsibility." he said. "Young boys are talking about 'scoring' on dates every day. When you've gone all the way, you've scored. But I want to tell you something ... you're not a champion in my book if you cause a young girl who doesn't want to become pregnant to become pregnant and have to drop out of school." In meeting with the Grady doctors, Henry took a modern approach toward s.e.x education. Kids did not need to be lectured about s.e.x, he said. "They need to know what they're doing when they do it, and accept the responsibility."

He was applauded for his principles and commitment.

But when he stepped too far out on the ledge, he was not often deft enough to avoid trouble, for he had both crafted a reputation as the mild-mannered Henry Aaron and begun to challenge conventions during a time of transition. Baseball wasn't yet prepared for this dimension of Henry. He was tired of being slapped in the face.

In 1977, a month before Henry's forty-third birthday, Fred Lieb, who had been writing about baseball since the Dead Ball Era, listed his all-time team over the past one hundred years. Lieb was white, born in the previous century, weaned on the game when it did not include blacks, and his list reflected as much: It did not contain the name of a single black player. Bill d.i.c.key, Lou Gehrig, Eddie Collins, Honus Wagner, Pie Traynor, Ty Cobb, Tris Speaker, and Babe Ruth represented Lieb's position players. Cy Young, Christy Mathewson, Walter Johnson, Bob Feller, Lefty Grove, and Sandy Koufax were his pitchers. As far as other writers were concerned, it was Henry who seemed the clearest omission, and they questioned Lieb about this.

NO PLACE FOR AARON WITH ALL-TIME.

STARS. AARON NOT AN ALL-TIMER?283.

"I was fully aware of the racial question," Lieb told the Chicago Tribune Chicago Tribune. "I had to ponder for a long time about leaving off such great players as Hank Aaron, who has broken many of the records of both Ruth and Cobb; the fantastic Willie Mays and Jackie Robinson. However, I have to be true to my convictions. Having seen most of the great players, past and present, I honestly believe this is the best team one could field."

While his friends could not understand why Henry would let a dinosaur like Fred Lieb-an unimportant man from another century-get to him, Henry broiled. And some friends also wondered why the attention of a stuffed shirt like Bowie Kuhn meant so much to him. There was one problem with that elevated logic: It mattered to him him. To Henry, this was just another injustice, another way to slight him for surpa.s.sing Ruth. Billye would attempt to soothe Henry's ire, but his anger was inspired not so much by Lieb as by an acc.u.mulation of slights.

DAYS BEFORE Willie Mays was inducted into the Hall of Fame in 1979, Henry gave an interview with Doug Grow of the Willie Mays was inducted into the Hall of Fame in 1979, Henry gave an interview with Doug Grow of the Minneapolis Star Tribune Minneapolis Star Tribune regarding his pessimistic outlook about opportunities for blacks in baseball. Henry, perhaps thinking of Bowie Kuhn at the time, or the black players of his day who were now retired and could not get a job in the front office, was withering in his criticism of the sport. regarding his pessimistic outlook about opportunities for blacks in baseball. Henry, perhaps thinking of Bowie Kuhn at the time, or the black players of his day who were now retired and could not get a job in the front office, was withering in his criticism of the sport.

AARON HAMMERS AT RACISM284.

IN MANAGEMENT AND MEDIAHank Aaron burns with a deep rage. It's as simple as black and white...."Look around the stadium," Aaron said. "There's not one memento of what I did. There's nothing about what I did in this stadium, but they've got a statue of Ty Cobb sliding into a base."... he is baseball's only black executive. The ball is white. The game is white.... It is because of all the whiteness around him that Aaron discourages young blacks from considering baseball.

Then there was Kuhn, whom Henry had never forgiven for not appearing when he broke the home-run record. The wound bore deep, and it became exposed and raw at unpredictable moments. In 1980, Baseball Magazine Baseball Magazine named the night Henry broke Ruth's record as the most memorable moment of the decade. The magazine also named Pete Rose the player of the decade. Kuhn would be on hand at a dinner in New York to present the award, but Henry had payback for 1974 in mind. He wouldn't show up in New York. "If he couldn't spare the time for a trip to Atlanta, I don't have time to go to New York," he said. named the night Henry broke Ruth's record as the most memorable moment of the decade. The magazine also named Pete Rose the player of the decade. Kuhn would be on hand at a dinner in New York to present the award, but Henry had payback for 1974 in mind. He wouldn't show up in New York. "If he couldn't spare the time for a trip to Atlanta, I don't have time to go to New York," he said.

He had said nothing that Frank Robinson had not said, nothing that Jackie Robinson had not said a decade earlier. The crime Henry had committed was not one of candor, but that he'd changed the perception of who and what he was supposed to be. He had also let his guard down. He revealed that streak in him that could not brook slights or disrespect. Wayne Minshew, the reporter who had covered Henry as a player when the team relocated to Atlanta, was now the public-relations man for the Braves. Minshew brokered an uneasy peace meeting in New York with Kuhn, at Kuhn's Rockefeller Center office.

These months were turbulent. d.i.c.k Young attacked Henry for being small in his att.i.tude toward Kuhn and disrespecting an award in his honor. He had stepped outside of his public persona, and then came the backlash. Lewis Grizzard, the Atlanta Journal-Const.i.tution Atlanta Journal-Const.i.tution columnist, struck. columnist, struck.

WHEN DID "THE HAMMER"285 TURN TURN INTO "BAD HENRY?"... Did Henry Aaron get hit in the head with a foul ball? ...Maybe it's his wife. You know how wives can be....The writers used to write of Henry Aaron, "This man quietly goes about the job of being everybody's superstar." But oh, Henry, how you have changed.... you sounded off because there was no ... mention of ... the anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King's death. Suddenly, you're Hank Aaron, activist? Who put you up to that? Jesse Jackson? ...You could give us another great moment, Henry-a moment of silence.

It was the part of the game at which he was the least adept. He spoke the truths of his America, of what he saw, yet he was especially sensitive to the backlash. At one point, Henry told friends in frustration, "They criticize me when I don't speak,286 and then when I speak up, they say I'm talking too much." and then when I speak up, they say I'm talking too much."

CAUGHT IN THE drift, easing its force, was Billye. They had been together ten years, celebrating a decade of marriage in 1983. Henry had always been surrounded by strong women in his life, starting with Stella and his older sister, Sarah. His first wife, Barbara, had been direct, and in many ways she was placed in an impossible position. She was present for a wholly different and fundamentally difficult period, both for Henry and for America. The road for a black baseball player was a harsh one during the 1950s and much of the 1960s, a road even more difficult for a wife during those times. drift, easing its force, was Billye. They had been together ten years, celebrating a decade of marriage in 1983. Henry had always been surrounded by strong women in his life, starting with Stella and his older sister, Sarah. His first wife, Barbara, had been direct, and in many ways she was placed in an impossible position. She was present for a wholly different and fundamentally difficult period, both for Henry and for America. The road for a black baseball player was a harsh one during the 1950s and much of the 1960s, a road even more difficult for a wife during those times.

If there were cliques inside the clubhouse that left the black players excluded, black women often felt isolated from the social networking that took place among the wives. Barbara, Dusty Baker thought, in a sense got the worst of the deal: She endured the crushing period when black players, regardless of their skills, would never receive their full measure of respect. By the time society had changed, she wasn't in Henry's life to enjoy the benefits.

"Any woman who had to go through287 what she went through, especially in the South during spring training," Baker said, "well, I don't have a bad word to say about Barbara. She took care of me like I was one of her own." what she went through, especially in the South during spring training," Baker said, "well, I don't have a bad word to say about Barbara. She took care of me like I was one of her own."

Billye did not have to make peace with the same debilitating societal forces as Barbara had, for Billye met Henry when he was Hank Aaron. His Legend and society in general had removed the barriers created by segregation, dissolving those harsh environments that had existed in the foreground of Henry's first marriage. Those old, hostile spring-training towns had been integrated for years. The fans could be vicious, but Billye's postcivil rights movement stadium environment was worlds apart from the stands in which Barbara had sat, both in Milwaukee and in the South. Both Billye and Henry were much older than most of the other families on the team, with more world experience and less necessity to a.s.similate. Billye attended games, but as a career woman, she wasn't there as often as the other wives. Many of the players' wives were young girls who had met their husbands early, in high school or in small minor-league towns. Many had not attended college and possessed a far different worldview than did Billye Aaron, who by the time she had met Henry had already lived through the high-pressure, high-profile civil rights years in Atlanta with her first husband, Sam Williams. While many of the wives often saw themselves as rescued from the drollery of an average life by being married to baseball players, Billye had never considered herself a "ballplayer's wife."

Billye struggled through her years in the public eye, but there was something stately about her. Her voice was lavender-soft, and she spoke with a disarming and melodic southern lilt. It was the contrast between Henry and Billye that strengthened them. Henry may have felt uncomfortable as a constant public figure, but Billye seemed the stylish natural extrovert, someone who enjoyed the perks that came with being at the very top of a world that received so much attention. She wore elegant, expensive jewelry and furs. She was tickled by the banquets and the b.a.l.l.s and the travel. She did not avoid the spotlight, but, rather, embraced it. And that made public life easier for Henry.

There was a part of her, she often felt, that had yearned for public attention as far back as childhood. She would refer to attaining such recognition, to actually realizing so many of her daydreams, "as a miracle."

"Maybe somewhere on the periphery of my personality288 I secretly wanted fame. Since I wanted to be a singer when I was young, I imagine that would mean that I wanted to be noticed. It would be hard to want to be a singer and not be noticed," she said. I secretly wanted fame. Since I wanted to be a singer when I was young, I imagine that would mean that I wanted to be noticed. It would be hard to want to be a singer and not be noticed," she said.

Her ambitions stood in direct contrast to her realities. She had grown up Billye Suber in Palestine, Texas, the fourth of eight children-six girls and two boys. Her earliest memories were of desolation and segregation. Still, education was central to the family. Each of the eight kids attended college. Her mother left Butler High School in Tyler to marry Nathan Suber. She would always say her greatest regret was never finishing high school. Nathan Suber was a professor; he worked on the docks in Galveston part-time and was killed in an accident when Billye was twelve.

The white high school in Neches had been closer to the family's home, but Billye was bused to Clemons High School. "We got our books from the white high school and I remember that every book I got from Clemons had someone else's name in it." Billye had ambitions and wanted to go to college. Palestine, she recalled, was "too dark and isolated." For her senior year, she moved to Dallas to live with her aunt, Reba Baker, on Pennsylvania Avenue. Billye was immediately taken by the size and energy of Dallas, especially when driving down Oakland Avenue, then the black thoroughfare of the city, in her aunt's green Studebaker.

"I wanted to be a singer. My name was Billye and I wanted to be Billie Holliday. I thought she was so pretty," Billye recalled. "She had this voice and she wore a gardenia in her hair, and I just loved that. There was a theater on Hall Street, and it was for the colored people, so we didn't have to go around the corner and up the stairs into the balcony. That was our theater. Looking back where we came from," she said, "being here is almost miraculous."

In the summers as a teen, she would return to work in the fields, picking peas and cotton, laughing at her deficiencies. "I never could get the hang of it. The most I ever picked in a day was thirty-seven pounds. There were kids who could pick eighty pounds of cotton in a day."

She was adventurous. She attended San Francisco State University before receiving a fellowship opportunity in Atlanta. She felt trepidation about returning to the South. The early skirmishes of the civil rights movement had made a deep impression on her, especially the confrontation in Little Rock, as it occurred the same year, 1957, she set out for California. "It was a wonderful opportunity, but when I thought of Atlanta, all I could visualize were men hanging from trees," she recalled.

She met Samuel Williams in Atlanta, and after marrying both were active in the Atlanta civil rights movement of the early 1960s. At their house on Fair Street in Atlanta, she had dined with Martin Luther King, Jr., Ralph Abernathy, James Bevel, and the other powerful figures of the movement. They had a daughter, Ceci, and in October 1970, five days before her birthday, Samuel Williams died suddenly, due to complications following surgery.

At this time, Henry was also undergoing changes in his life, and this was the true source of their connection. When Billye met Henry on the set of WSB-TV, Henry had recently been divorced from Barbara, while Billye was in the throes of her own depression. Increasingly, during the time just prior to when she met Henry, suicide had been in her thoughts.

"I can't pinpoint how things happened in this direction except for the fact that I was very lonely. I found myself at thirty-four a widow and really thought for a short time that I wanted to die," she said. "I saw no purpose in life, no purpose in going forward. Except, when I saw my three-year-old daughter needed milk or bread, then you had to snap out of it and say, 'You have to take care of this child.'"

One of her coworkers at WSB suggested she do a series of light features on the Atlanta Braves players. The a.s.signment, she later thought, was an attempt by the station to help her begin her reentry into the world. She had interviewed Rico Carty before Henry and immediately realized that "those two didn't want anything to do with each other." She had little, if any, interest in sports. As part of her a.s.signment, she was given two tickets to every home game, but she had trouble finding anyone to go with her.

In 1971, when she was first scheduled to interview Henry, he did not show up for the interview, and he was late for the second. When the interview finally took place, Henry was embarra.s.sed for Billye, due to her utter lack of baseball knowledge. He even offered to help her write her scripts for interviews with other players. Their dialogue had begun.