It was an ambitious project, and an expensive one that required corporate partnership. The Boys and Girls Clubs of America were in. Henry turned back to baseball, to his relationship with Bud Selig. Times had changed: the corporate and sports worlds relied heavily upon each other. The foundation needed to raise $2.5 million.

Selig was in, and not for a portion of the $2.5 million, but the whole thing. The Boys and Girls Clubs would be the administrator. Eventually, the project would be expanded to be named 44 Forever, which meant the foundation would be funded by baseball and its corporate partners in perpetuity. This would not be a fly-by-night endeavor but a project that would outlive Henry.

"Bud had a year left on his contract. The Hank Aaron Award was special to him," Tanenbaum recalled. "This wasn't a project you could execute on your own. It was more challenging. The baseball partnership recognized it's potential."

Billye had always described the motivation behind the foundation work as an opportunity to balance the scales.

"Both Henry and I had come up303 always being on the receiving end," she recalled. "When I look back on my life, I had someone helping me at every turn. I remember being called the teacher's pet, always into things. I remember wanting to be part of a production at school and not having the clothes. A woman named Mrs. Phillips bought me clothes. And I remember saying, 'One day, I'm going to have so many clothes.' We believed that in this position, we had a responsibility." always being on the receiving end," she recalled. "When I look back on my life, I had someone helping me at every turn. I remember being called the teacher's pet, always into things. I remember wanting to be part of a production at school and not having the clothes. A woman named Mrs. Phillips bought me clothes. And I remember saying, 'One day, I'm going to have so many clothes.' We believed that in this position, we had a responsibility."

Henry said he knew it years before, but after the birthday party, when the president and the Secret Service and all the guests had left, his vision had crystallized: He would immerse himself in his foundation work.

PERHAPS JUST SLIGHTLY, Henry felt a certain satisfied rest.i.tution. The night did not change the h.e.l.l he had endured while seeking to break the home-run record, or cure the wounds that had been so deep, but 1999 represented a breakthrough for Henry.

"I wouldn't say that the twenty-fifth was a major success304 for baseball, but it was a major success for Hank," Bill Henneberry said. "People said, 'We can use him,' because he can speak. He can't speak for five minutes, but he can do Q and A for an hour. He's funny, had a great sense of humor. It rebranded him. People began to find out: 'Hey, he's a wonderful guy.' He's sweet more than anything else. People didn't know that." for baseball, but it was a major success for Hank," Bill Henneberry said. "People said, 'We can use him,' because he can speak. He can't speak for five minutes, but he can do Q and A for an hour. He's funny, had a great sense of humor. It rebranded him. People began to find out: 'Hey, he's a wonderful guy.' He's sweet more than anything else. People didn't know that."

MasterCard hadn't backed Henry's anniversary rollout, but now it had a problem and needed help: what to do about the end of the century. The millennium was coming and baseball's biggest sponsor didn't have a plan. The year 2000 was a tailor-made marketing opportunity, and MasterCard, with $29 million invested in baseball, needed to hit a tape-measure home run. Kathy Francis went back to Bill Henneberry and asked for a concept. The result was the All-Century Team, where fans would choose the greatest lineup of the century. But there were two problems. The first was that baseball, parochially clannish to the end, could not reach a consensus on this promotional idea. The Red Sox wanted to do their own all-century team, with Red Sox players only, and Ted Williams as the centerpiece. The second problem, from a national standpoint, was finding the right person to be the face for this promotional campaign.

"The question was, Who was the most marketable? Who was still alive? Ted was sick. Musial was one hundred and five years old. So we came up with Hank, and Willie Mays and George Brett and Barry Bonds," Henneberry said. "But Brett wasn't on the All-Century Team, and n.o.body wanted to work with Bonds."

Henry would spend part of the year doing public appearances with Bonds and Brett and Mays. The All-Century Team was a great thing for fans, debating players of different eras. It was all fun, the preferences for one player over another as harmless as choosing Kobe beef over caviar, or a Bordeaux rather than a Burgundy. But the old wounds were always close to the surface, especially when it came to compet.i.tion with the two professional baseball players who always seemed to define Henry's time: Ruth and Mays.

Bill Henneberry had come a long way with Henry since their first conversation in Philadelphia. Now, when MasterCard wanted Henry to appear during the All-Century campaign, Henry would specifically request that Henneberry be the representative who traveled with him. The two crisscrossed the country.

And then, days before the public announcement of the All-Century Team, Henneberry received a phone call.

"We're driving back from the airport. MasterCard did this silly online promotion, not well publicized. Only ten thousand people or so voted for the thing, and Hank had gotten the second-highest number of votes, behind Ruth. MasterCard hadn't yet announced the starting lineup, but they had told me that it was going to be Ruth, Willie, and Ted Williams. I'm sitting with him when I get the call. So when I told Hank the news, he didn't say a word. He didn't make a sound. But you could see it in his face, that I'd hurt him, that it hurt. And I immediately wanted to take it back. I ruined his afternoon."

IT WAS THE corporate world that had resurrected Henry. During a period of less than three years, he had undone twenty years' worth of public perception about him. He had shown that he could be funny and engaging. His was a modest balance. In the right environment, he could take the floor. He had to open up, relax, for his true charisma to show through. During the mid- to late 1990s, he had a.s.suaged whatever doubts existed among the sales and marketing people. He could be, in his own way, a leading man. In sporting parlance, he had made the adjustment. It was either that or the scouting report on him had been dead wrong all along. corporate world that had resurrected Henry. During a period of less than three years, he had undone twenty years' worth of public perception about him. He had shown that he could be funny and engaging. His was a modest balance. In the right environment, he could take the floor. He had to open up, relax, for his true charisma to show through. During the mid- to late 1990s, he had a.s.suaged whatever doubts existed among the sales and marketing people. He could be, in his own way, a leading man. In sporting parlance, he had made the adjustment. It was either that or the scouting report on him had been dead wrong all along.

And in so many ways, it was fitting that his revival occurred only within a particular corporate setting: He thrived behind the scenes. He still did not do many commercials, did not hawk products, did not offer his personality to every living room in America. Unlike Joe DiMaggio with Mr. Coffee or George Foreman with an electric grill, Henry would never become synonymous with a single product. He cultivated the corporate types in small gatherings, often private or semipublic. It worked better that way. Henry had always remained not only close to power but on the right side of it, and now his pragmatism was being rewarded. It was pragmatism that made him different from his idol Jackie Robinson. In Robinson's time, the issues were clear and Robinson was uncompromising: equal citizenship, nothing less. Henry took the responsibility of carrying the Robinson mantle seriously, as his politics and public statements often reflected, but his manner had always been different. Henry had always been methodical in dealing with the men in suits who controlled the money. It was not only political pa.s.sion but also money that allowed projects to progress beyond the idea stage, and if Henry did not inspire in the Robinson mode, he nevertheless possessed a deft touch, to which executives tended to respond. He made the money men comfortable, and such a disposition had two consequences: The first was that he would often be exposed to the charge that he did not use his influence. The second was that making powerful men comfortable often led to financial opportunity. Now that he had been resurrected, the offers started coming in: fifty thousand for this, twenty-five grand for that. He was now part of the inner circle.

He had always loathed public speaking, but now when some corporate giant wanted him to come speak to the sales force about how to be home-run hitters in business (and in life), Henry was commanding upward of $35,000 per appearance. His foundation was growing, the backbone of his philanthropy, and lucrative invitations to serve on corporate boards followed. Ted Turner had contributed to making Henry a very rich man. Henry had served on the board of directors of TBS Broadcast Systems for a decade and a half, and he was also on the board of directors of the Braves, the Atlanta Falcons, the Atlanta Technical Inst.i.tute, and Medallion Financial Corporation ("In niches there are riches," so went the company motto).

So much of it all was happening the way Bud Selig had believed it would, if baseball could just stop fighting with itself over money. Big corporate sponsorships would lift the game out of the haze of the strike. Baseball would do its part by putting a dynamic face on the game-less Bud Selig and Don Fehr, more Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire. The game was fun now, built on an anabolic c.o.c.ktail of muscles and home runs and scripted Hallmark moments, mandated directly from the commissioner's office, moments that took the rough edge off of the game and replaced sharp elbows with a "field of dreams."

The highest (players would later call it the lowest) point came during the 2003 World Series, when Roger Clemens, who said he was leaning toward retirement, left game four after the seventh inning. Clemens, pitching on the road against the Florida Marlins in a World Series game, walked off the mound to a standing ovation from both teams... both teams.... And that was the first time baseball may have overdone it with the orchestrated moments, because after the tearful, hackneyed good-bye, Clemens changed his mind. He wound up pitching for four more years.

There was the money, and the feel-good mandate, but during the great home-run chase of 1998, the summer of Sosa and McGwire, both men with different but equally powerful appeal, USA Today USA Today released a poll that revealed 75 percent of the country preferred that McGwire break the record, rather than Sosa. Henry appeared on an ESPN interview program soon after the poll numbers were released, and he said publicly what blacks and Latinos were saying to one another. released a poll that revealed 75 percent of the country preferred that McGwire break the record, rather than Sosa. Henry appeared on an ESPN interview program soon after the poll numbers were released, and he said publicly what blacks and Latinos were saying to one another.

"It's just absolutely ridiculous that you could have that lopsided an opinion about who should break the record," he said on the air. "And I've seen other little things that happened that make me believe that McGwire was the favorite rather than Sosa. And I think the reason for that is because he's from the Dominican [Republic] and also happens to have black skin. I just don't think it's fair to him or his family or his country."

What followed was the requisite beat-down: that Henry Aaron was was bitter after all. bitter after all. And how dare he inject race into the home-run race? And how dare he inject race into the home-run race?

"I received hundreds of calls to do interviews,"305 he told the he told the Mobile Register Mobile Register. "I turned them down because I was afraid if I did it, I would be misquoted. Finally, I said yes to one, and, lo and behold, I was misunderstood."

The point was it wasn't a question of the public, or the press, misunderstanding Henry. There could be no misinterpretation of what Henry had said or what he had conveyed during the interview. Even though McGwire hit home run number sixty-two during the first week of September, the general reaction was that the record belonged to him, simply because he had surpa.s.sed the sixty-one milestone first. Three weeks still remained in the season, and for one afternoon, Sosa had tied McGwire at sixty-six, but the story line had been set: The record belonged to McGwire. Sosa would have to be content to play the stereotypical sidekick, the happy Latin.

The problem was that Henry had the temerity to talk about a real issue in this land of make-believe. He had sparked a fire with a Robinson-like resolve, and gotten smacked down for it. He had found out what was being discovered across the country: Dissent, whether it was right or wrong, was unacceptable. It got in the way of the money machine.

Henry responded to the backlash by saying nothing else on the subject. Despite the criticism, Henry held firm privately: McGwire was the chosen one because he was white, and that's the way it was in America. Publicly, however, he rushed back to the reservation, reprogrammed. "It couldn't have happened at a better time for baseball," he later said of the home runs of 1998. "Baseball had some problems because of the strike and this has helped. It's been great."

Though it had been Henry who defended Sosa, it was Sammy who eventually ran afoul of Henry. This happened a couple of years after the 1998 frenzy, when John Hanc.o.c.k, another big baseball sponsor, announced plans to sell its stock to the public. To commemorate the occasion, it wanted a big name to ring the bell on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, one of the fun perks that came with being the person of the hour. It was an honor designated for visiting dignitaries, Super Bowl winners, and famous sluggers, to name a few.

Hanc.o.c.k, naturally, wanted McGwire, but he said no. But Sammy Sosa said yes, as did Henry. The deal was going to be simple: Two legends from their respective eras would celebrate Hanc.o.c.k's IPO. They would shake hands, sign autographs, and have lunch with the big shots, who then could brag to their friends. Bill Henneberry brokered the deal. Henry negotiated his usual fee, and agreed to a couple of additional events to push the numbers above a hundred grand.

But to the surprise of the Aaron people, Sosa cut his own deal: $135,000 for just the one afternoon. The day before the event, Sosa canceled, telling the firm he wouldn't be attending. Stiffing Hanc.o.c.k meant stiffing Henry, who was left alone to carry the event.

"So, we're going to meet and sign306 a hundred bats, then go to breakfast with the market makers," Henneberry recalled. "Then we get a call from Sosa's agent, who says, 'Can we do this another time?' 'What do you mean? We're going public tomorrow!' The John Hanc.o.c.k guy is freaked. There's all kind of s.h.i.t flying around. They come back and say Sosa isn't showing. He had a signed contract. He doesn't show. I know I probably shouldn't be saying this, but people think he's this great guy. He's not." a hundred bats, then go to breakfast with the market makers," Henneberry recalled. "Then we get a call from Sosa's agent, who says, 'Can we do this another time?' 'What do you mean? We're going public tomorrow!' The John Hanc.o.c.k guy is freaked. There's all kind of s.h.i.t flying around. They come back and say Sosa isn't showing. He had a signed contract. He doesn't show. I know I probably shouldn't be saying this, but people think he's this great guy. He's not."

And for the entire next day, a solo act instead of a duo, Henry was the star. He rang the bell on the exchange floor. He had them eating out of his hand. He told stories about the old days and gave that big laugh and made the executives enjoy being around him, their silvery hair turned dark and youthful for one afternoon. Everyone was taken by Henry's gentleness and humor.

"Hank had to do the whole thing, and he was delightful," Henneberry recalled. "He shook hands. He was great."

IT WAS A piece of popular fiction that Bud Selig was responsible for initiating Henry's second act. Selig's family roots were in the car business and thus it made sense to think that when Henry created the Hank Aaron Automotive Group, the umbrella for a string of car dealerships he would begin in 1999, Selig had been the inspiration. piece of popular fiction that Bud Selig was responsible for initiating Henry's second act. Selig's family roots were in the car business and thus it made sense to think that when Henry created the Hank Aaron Automotive Group, the umbrella for a string of car dealerships he would begin in 1999, Selig had been the inspiration.

Not only was that not the case but Selig recalled warning Henry to think twice, and then think some more, before entering the car game. "Everybody was going to blame me307 if it didn't work," Selig said. "So I wanted him to know exactly what he was getting into." if it didn't work," Selig said. "So I wanted him to know exactly what he was getting into."

It was Henry's old friend Jesse Jackson who indirectly got Henry involved in cars. It turned out that, even as the millennium neared, not a single American distributorship of Bavarian Motor Works, the great BMW, was owned by an African-American. When this situation came to light, the corporate types at BMW grew skittish, at first denying the charge, while refusing to name the black-owned distributorships. This was embarra.s.sing, even more so when Jackson began to advertise the fact. Like other status symbols, owning a BMW meant you had made it. It meant cla.s.s, speed, and enough disposable income to accept no subst.i.tute. An African-American who owned a BMW represented a significant financial achievement; thus Jackson did not relent in his criticism of the company. The criticism of BMW resonated especially in Atlanta, the city that came, not always accurately, to symbolize the success of black capitalism. That meant in Atlanta, a lot of successful black people were driving BMWs, and they could afford to change allegiances, switching to, say, Mercedes-Benz. Offending such an influential const.i.tuency was not good business.

And thus it came to pa.s.s that Henry Aaron became the first black majority owner of the first BMW franchise in the country, Hank Aaron BMW, located in Union City, Georgia, just outside Atlanta. Vic Doolan, an important man in the Atlanta auto business, understood the necessity of being on the right side of a potentially explosive issue. He reached out to Henry and his people, and from protest came progress.

As a condition of ending the pressure, which had first been exerted on luxury import car makers for years by the National a.s.sociation of Minority Automobile Dealers, BMW agreed to attract black ownership of BMW franchises, starting with Henry.

That was sweet, but not as sweet as the deal Henry received. Allan Tanenbaum brokered the deal. He wanted two things, the first being choice of location. The second was that Henry would not have to put up any of his own money. BMW had come to him. The name Hank Aaron was currency enough.

Initially, not everyone was happy with the deal. The fact that Henry was receiving such a golden deal ruffled the minority professionals who had struggled and sweated in the low margins and gla.s.s ceilings of the car business. To them, it was just another example of a celebrity handout.

HANK AARON GOES TO BAT FOR BMW308But while industry insiders don't necessarily begrudge Aaron's accomplishment, some question the wisdom of appointing a high-profile franchiser with little to no automotive experience."Quite frankly, we were surprised," says Sheila Vaden-Williams, executive director of the National a.s.sociation of Minority Automobile Dealers. "Especially since we've provided BMW with names of established dealers with an interest in the Atlanta market."

Undaunted, Henry almost immediately recognized how powerful an a.s.set the Hank Aaron name was. He had impressed skeptics by choosing a location, Union City, that had no previous client base. He hadn't cherry-picked a ripe location, but he was determined to build a business. In the first twelve months, Hank Aaron BMW raked in $32.9 million in sales. Fans wanted to be a.s.sociated with Hank Aaron, and for every new BMW he sold, he gave the buyers a Hank Aaronsigned baseball. Hank Aaron Toyota followed. As did Hank Aaron Range Rover.

Henry was vindicated, but some of his people seethed at what they considered to be more jealousy on the part of fellow professional blacks, the crab-in-a-barrel mentality that often stifled success. "There were some black folk309 that he knows who were calling him 'Uncle Tom' behind his back, and he wanted to prove them wrong," Allan Tanenbaum said. "He wasn't trying to prove anything to the white man; he wanted to prove it to other black people. I really resented that." that he knows who were calling him 'Uncle Tom' behind his back, and he wanted to prove them wrong," Allan Tanenbaum said. "He wasn't trying to prove anything to the white man; he wanted to prove it to other black people. I really resented that."

And it was a family affair. The kids never went into baseball, except for Lary, who became a scout with the Braves. Henry Aaron, Jr., became part of the business, running the Toyota dealership. And Henry's son-in-law Victor Haydel oversaw most of the company.

"Why was I chosen?"310 Aaron said in an interview in the magazine Aaron said in an interview in the magazine Black Enterprise Black Enterprise. "Just because I had been a baseball player didn't mean I didn't know how to run a business. I have 17 successful fast-food restaurants with Church's, Popeye's, and Arby's. They knew I had some experience running a franchise operation. I accepted the challenge that I could put minorities in charge and run a dealership."

When the business press came to him, it found a different Henry from the one the sporting press had been accustomed to. He was still not particularly talkative, but he seemed to regard his business successes with a heightened pride. Perhaps the reason was that because he had been so comfortable in the sports world, he now enjoyed the challenge of succeeding in business. It was this success that allowed him the opportunity to disabuse whites of the notion that blacks could not succeed in business. He found himself more engaged with sports figures who had made the transition to real business ventures (as opposed to lending their names to a product and leaving the daily operation to others). He was particularly impressed with the basketball player Magic Johnson, who had parlayed his on-court success into a financial empire of banks, movie theaters, and restaurants. Johnson did not merely own the local movie theater; he had used his clout to appeal to corporations to invest in areas heavily populated by African-Americans. Henry had done the same with his fast-food chains, but an upscale operation such as BMW would require a different approach. The result was that, as Magic Johnson had done, Henry traded off of his name to create scholarships and internships in the auto industry. Three years after entering a new business venture, BMW had (with a significant nudge from Henry) launched its first minority training program.

ON O OCTOBER 10, 2002, H HENRY had purchased a house at 2029 Emba.s.sy Drive in West Palm Beach, Florida-more than 3,500 square feet, nestled on the golf course of the President Country Club-for $461,250 from Anthony and Patricia Lampert. Presidents had grown upscale and exclusive, emblematic of the real estate boom sweeping the country. Just four and a half years earlier, the Lamperts had purchased the house for $97,500, but West Palm, despite an unusually high crime rate, featured enclaves of star power. Tiger Woods, Venus and Serena Williams, and Tommy Lee Jones all owned houses in the area. Henry was sixty-eight at the time and intimates knew the West Palm purchase was part of his master retirement plan. Periodically, he would drop hints that his active partic.i.p.ation in all of his business interests was finite. In interviews, he would say that he expected to be less involved, that "he wouldn't stay in the car business forever." He remained fourth on the Braves masthead and still maintained an office at Turner Field, but even though his t.i.tle grew in importance, Henry hadn't been involved in the daily operation of the Braves in years. In addition to the 755 Restaurant Corporation, he was part of various business partnerships, but in many of those he was being paid for lending his name to bring prestige to the enterprise. had purchased a house at 2029 Emba.s.sy Drive in West Palm Beach, Florida-more than 3,500 square feet, nestled on the golf course of the President Country Club-for $461,250 from Anthony and Patricia Lampert. Presidents had grown upscale and exclusive, emblematic of the real estate boom sweeping the country. Just four and a half years earlier, the Lamperts had purchased the house for $97,500, but West Palm, despite an unusually high crime rate, featured enclaves of star power. Tiger Woods, Venus and Serena Williams, and Tommy Lee Jones all owned houses in the area. Henry was sixty-eight at the time and intimates knew the West Palm purchase was part of his master retirement plan. Periodically, he would drop hints that his active partic.i.p.ation in all of his business interests was finite. In interviews, he would say that he expected to be less involved, that "he wouldn't stay in the car business forever." He remained fourth on the Braves masthead and still maintained an office at Turner Field, but even though his t.i.tle grew in importance, Henry hadn't been involved in the daily operation of the Braves in years. In addition to the 755 Restaurant Corporation, he was part of various business partnerships, but in many of those he was being paid for lending his name to bring prestige to the enterprise.

His longtime a.s.sistant, Susan Bailey, who had worked with Henry since she was a teenager, was so successful at shielding him from requests (and even from people who knew him best) that she was often nicknamed "Dr. No" or "Horatius at the Bridge" by the foiled. Her stance represented Henry's increasing need for distance. And these days, Henry was saying no more than ever: no to most honorary degree offers (yes to Wisconsin's Concordia University-anything for Wisconsin; yes to George Washington University, no to Williamette College), no to speaking engagements, no to most interviews, no to commercials. You didn't see Henry pitching products as other players might. His schedule was still full, but to his inner circle, the signals were clear: He was ready to leave public life.

What was there left to prove? As he approached seventy, he had grown in stature and status. The decade had been a total success. The drift and pessimism from the 1980s were gone. The Henry Aaron of the millennium was now a regal figure. In 1997, the Mobile Stadium, which Henry could not enter as a kid and which housed the team the Mobile Bears, on which he could not play, was renamed Hank Aaron Stadium. The people in Mobile told stories about seeing Henry's dad around the ballpark, as if it were a celebrity sighting.

It was never going to be possible that Henry would be as well known for his cars as he was for his home runs, but he had nevertheless succeeded in his second act, a feat that most celebrities found increasingly elusive. He had become a wealthy man in two fields. It was during this time that even his greatest lament-that he had been rendered one-dimensional by the hate mail and the home runs and his fame-had been overcome. During the All-Century Team campaign, MasterCard ran a contest, the grand prize being dinner with Hank Aaron. The winners, a husband and wife with a couple of older children, met with Henry at the 2000 World Series.

"Hank asked what they did, and as it turned out, they owned car dealerships," Bill Henneberry recalled. "It was the perfect match. They sat down in a small conference room at Shea Stadium before one of the games and neither mentioned a word about baseball. I'll never forget the look on their faces. Their eyes were as big as saucers. They asked Hank about cars and he asked them about their dealerships. They thought they'd died and gone to heaven."

Twelve days before he left office for good, President Clinton invited Henry to the White House to honor him with the Presidential Citizens Medal for "exemplary service to the nation." A new generation of politicians-and it helped that the two most important, Jimmy Carter and Bill Clinton, were southerners-had recognized him in his fullness. The Citizens Medal, Clinton told Henry, was for his non-playing contributions as much as for hitting home run number 715.

"In the spotlight and under pressure," Clinton said during the ceremony, "he always answered bigotry and brutality with poise and purpose." He had always burned that his interest in the world outside of baseball never seemed to translate, but apart from Muhammad Ali-who also received a medal that day-no other recipient was affiliated with sports. Henry sat next to Fred Shuttlesworth, the civil rights leader whose house was bombed by segregationists on December 25, 1956, and Dr. Charles DeLisi, the first government scientist to outline the feasibility of the Human Genome Project. Henry had become transcendent.

Eighteen months later, Henry was at the White House again, before another president, George W. Bush, to receive the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the country's highest civilian award.

The truth of it all was that Henry was never completely comfortable with the cloying demands of public life. Una.s.sailable as he was in his position as public treasure, close friends noticed that he still never talked about 715, even though at every public appearance he signed eight-by-ten glossies of the Moment, the day he'd not mention. No one brought it up, nor did he volunteer, and that was fine, because he seemed to have softened as the years mounted.

"I don't want to say that all the wounds311 from what he went through were healed, but definitely it had eased some," said director Mike Tollin, who was one of the few people Henry said yes to (he allowed Tollin into his inner circle for a 1995 doc.u.mentary). "I can't say for sure, but I think the way he had been so totally embraced, that times were finally different, helped a lot." from what he went through were healed, but definitely it had eased some," said director Mike Tollin, who was one of the few people Henry said yes to (he allowed Tollin into his inner circle for a 1995 doc.u.mentary). "I can't say for sure, but I think the way he had been so totally embraced, that times were finally different, helped a lot."

Dusty Baker would see Henry a couple of times a year, at a celebrity golf tournament or some other function, and he could sense that Henry was shifting down. One day in 2006, during his final, turbulent days managing the always tempestuous Chicago Cubs, Baker tried to explain the Aaron paradox: "The thing about Hank is312 that he really doesn't need any of this. There are a lot of guys who say they don't need the attention, but then you see them get mad every time someone gets mentioned ahead of them. Then all of a sudden they start giving interviews and now they're all over the place. Hank is content with what he did. He doesn't need to defend it, to compare it, nothing. He did what he did and that is enough for him." that he really doesn't need any of this. There are a lot of guys who say they don't need the attention, but then you see them get mad every time someone gets mentioned ahead of them. Then all of a sudden they start giving interviews and now they're all over the place. Hank is content with what he did. He doesn't need to defend it, to compare it, nothing. He did what he did and that is enough for him."

If the private Henry sought solace as he always had, the public had one last job for him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

756.

WHEN A TRAIN comes speeding right at him, engines roaring, exhaust choking the easy blue sky, the instinctive man leaps blindly, hoping he will be fast enough and lucky enough to find safety. The hopeless man stands firm in the face of onrushing violence, resigned to his grisly fate. But the truly confident man, the man who knows himself, lies flat between the two rails, convinced the train will pa.s.s him by. comes speeding right at him, engines roaring, exhaust choking the easy blue sky, the instinctive man leaps blindly, hoping he will be fast enough and lucky enough to find safety. The hopeless man stands firm in the face of onrushing violence, resigned to his grisly fate. But the truly confident man, the man who knows himself, lies flat between the two rails, convinced the train will pa.s.s him by.

Beginning in 2005 and intensifying over the next two years, a locomotive of circ.u.mstances not of his own making headed directly toward Henry Aaron. And over the course of those two years, he would have to decide which of the three men he was going to be.

The amount of money was bigger than ever, and yet Bud Selig's master plan of rehabilitation through corporate synergy, orchestrated set pieces, and runaway profits profits, had, in less than a decade, collapsed. That great elixir, the home run, was now baseball's most discredited commodity. The cacophony about performance-enhancing drugs and loss of integrity was very real, even though the players, the union and the owners, all grew even richer. Alex Rodriguez earned $22.7 million in 2008, but Bud Selig was not so far behind, at $17.5 million. But because they chose money over authenticity, the heroes once credited with bringing the game back, well, they didn't look so heroic anymore.

By the time Mark McGwire had been retired a measly five years, the period most Hall of Famelevel players prepare for a lifetime of bronzed immortality, McGwire was a six-foot-five-inch, 245-pound symbol of fraud. Baseball's most carefully constructed monument, the home-run summer of 1998, was no longer a baseball heirloom, but the family disgrace, the open secret no one dare mention, in the hope it would just fade away.

No home run could ever cleanse McGwire's disastrous public appearance March 17, 2005, in front of the House Committee for Government Reform, when he was reduced to a buffed-out con man, his magical summer rendered inauthentic. The train sped toward McGwire, too, and it overwhelmed him. McGwire was unable to defend-in front of his government and his country-the outsized feats of his career that once had been celebrated. He had nothing to say, repeating the phrase that would become a punch line as well as an epitaph: "I'm not here to talk about the past." He had nothing of which to be proud, nothing at all to add. When he left room 2154 of the Rayburn Building that windy March afternoon, only the tatters of what was once his reputation remained.

Sitting next to McGwire, Rafael Palmeiro famously pointed at the committee and swore, under oath, that he'd never taken steroids. "Period," he said, only to test positive for steroids two months later. As the afternoon wore on, Sammy Sosa, McGwire's 1998 accomplice, feigned he understood not a single word of the English language, and did not answer a single question. In 2009, Sosa's name was leaked as one of dozens of names to have tested positive for an anabolic substance in 2003.

In one afternoon of stunning, devastating clarity, the years that built a renaissance not only came completely undone but proved fraudulent; a Superfund site sold as beachfront property.

The toxicity levels of what was now being called the "Steroid Era" were lethal, and it was the numbers, always the lifeblood of the sport, that contained the most cancerous cells. From the time not long after California had still been part of Mexico until 1997, the sixty-home run mark had been reached just twice, by Ruth in 1927 and by Maris in 1961. Yet between 1998 and 2001, while the profits soared, sixty had been topped six times six times and the seventy and the seventy-seventy-home-run mark reached twice. The top six single-season home-run seasons had been recorded over a four-year period. In a four-year period, Sosa hit sixty home runs three times three times but but didn't didn't win a home-run t.i.tle in any one of those years. Meanwhile, the cash registers win a home-run t.i.tle in any one of those years. Meanwhile, the cash registers ka-chinged ka-chinged melodically and the people cheered, while men like Henry Aaron, Frank Robinson, Reggie Jackson, and Mike Schmidt did a slow burn. melodically and the people cheered, while men like Henry Aaron, Frank Robinson, Reggie Jackson, and Mike Schmidt did a slow burn.

McGwire had hit seventy home runs in 1998, and after the last one, he said in an interview room, arms puffy and eyes shifty, that his record would never never be broken. be broken.

But three years later, Barry Bonds. .h.i.t seventy-three seventy-three home runs. home runs.

Baseball had gotten other numbers it liked-revenues from $1.2 billion in 1994 to $6 billion in 2007 and $6.6 billion in 2008-and the public had gotten its thrills. If Bill Henneberry remembered when baseball was radioactive to advertisers and sponsors, n.o.body else did. But suddenly-or maybe not so suddenly-it had all gone too far, the joyride topped by one ice-cream scoop too many. McGwire-Sosa 1998 was supposed to be that ridiculous, magical year that made no earthly sense, wouldn't happen again, and gave the people who saw it that special generational unity, like DiMaggio-Williams in 1941 and Mantle-Maris two decades later. Instead, as the numbers kept increasing, one fraudulent scoop after another, the authenticity of the game seemed increasingly remote. And now, chasing Aaron, there was Bonds, already viewed suspiciously by the public for his obdurate disposition and growing head size, chased by the federal government because it believed he'd lied to a federal grand jury about taking muscle-making drugs. Bonds was so dominant and so prolific when it came to hitting the ball out of the ballpark that by 2005 he had become Henry, circa 1969: the guy for whom breaking the home run record was no longer a question of if if, but when when.

Historians had clung to the Black Sox-the infamous 1919 Chicago White Sox team that had thrown the World Series-as the standard of malfeasance in professional sports. They claimed that this was the cataclysmic moment when the game had been wrenched from its moorings. Steroids, they said, weren't nearly that disastrous in terms of historical importance. The contemporaries liked to point to Pete Rose, baseball's all-time leader in hits, now reduced to a cheap Las Vegas sideshow, as being worse than the rampant drug use that undermined the game.

But neither came close.

The apologists in the locker room, the front offices, and, worst of all, the press box said there was nothing in a bottle that could help you hit home runs. They demanded proof that their golden heroes would do something, anything anything, to run faster, hit harder, play more, earn more. When the information finally appeared, in the form of positive tests, grand jury investigations, sting operations, federal indictments, and empty, implausible lies, the apologists spun deftly, claiming that drugs were old news, that everybody knew everybody knew players were using, and asking, players were using, and asking, Couldn't we just move on? Couldn't we just move on? In the face of crumbling reputations and laughable, desperate denials, the apologists turned off their brains and their intellect and their enthusiasm for the great glory of the pastime, vigorously and petulantly shaking their heads in denial. In the face of crumbling reputations and laughable, desperate denials, the apologists turned off their brains and their intellect and their enthusiasm for the great glory of the pastime, vigorously and petulantly shaking their heads in denial.

THE PUBLIC DIDN'T want numbers anymore, not with the IRS and the federal government hunting down MVPs and Cy Young winners as though they were La Cosa Nostra. Numbers were too suspicious. Numbers just confirmed the con game. Now they wanted a hero, someone who could remind them that the currency of baseball wasn't something as unimportant as the number of times a man could hit the ball over the fence, but about the value systems and virtues that worthless feat once represented. want numbers anymore, not with the IRS and the federal government hunting down MVPs and Cy Young winners as though they were La Cosa Nostra. Numbers were too suspicious. Numbers just confirmed the con game. Now they wanted a hero, someone who could remind them that the currency of baseball wasn't something as unimportant as the number of times a man could hit the ball over the fence, but about the value systems and virtues that worthless feat once represented.

Reaching back into the past wasn't going to be enough. Ted Williams, the cantankerous but hearty, authentic American, was gone. So was the immigrant hero DiMaggio (though it was virtually impossible to envision the embittered, mysterious Joe leading a public debate on values). Jackie, of course, was long gone, while Willie was making more a fool of himself every day he opened his mouth about a subject he knew little about. (I just don't think steroids help you at all. They just don't do anything.) (I just don't think steroids help you at all. They just don't do anything.) Mays exhibited a combination of loyalty to his G.o.dson, Barry Bonds, and a severe tone deafness to the severity of the public breach. Star power and nostalgia alone weren't going to do it this time. The word Mays exhibited a combination of loyalty to his G.o.dson, Barry Bonds, and a severe tone deafness to the severity of the public breach. Star power and nostalgia alone weren't going to do it this time. The word integrity integrity was back in vogue, even if it was needed less as a guide and more to a.s.suage the collective guilt. The public, as much as some of the people a.s.sociated with the game, realized too late, and without enough response, that what had been lost-the belief in the difficulty that came with the game-was the very quality that gave the sport its power. was back in vogue, even if it was needed less as a guide and more to a.s.suage the collective guilt. The public, as much as some of the people a.s.sociated with the game, realized too late, and without enough response, that what had been lost-the belief in the difficulty that came with the game-was the very quality that gave the sport its power.

The apologists and the disbelievers and the ones who couldn't be bothered, they all tried to minimize the effects of a game without integrity. Those effects, for once, could not be measured by money, but by numbers that could not be argued: McGwire, Palmeiro, Sosa, Clemens, and Bonds, one hundred combined seasons, forty-seven all-star appearances, 2,523 home runs, 354 wins, nine MVPs, seven Cy Young Awards, two single-season home-run records, and the most famous sports record in the history of the country, all publicly disgraced during the same era by the same issue.

No other sport, at no period in the history of the republic, could ever say that. No other sport could point to half a dozen of its greatest players, and a dozen more of possible Hall of Fame caliber, all from different teams, who couldn't show their faces in public. And now the greatest record in the country was about to fall. Another tainted record. The public wanted someone who could provide a moral compa.s.s, someone who could bring them and their game back into the light.

So they turned to Henry.

There had always been a gap between Hank and Henry. Introverted and unsure in large settings, Henry thrived in tightly controlled private gatherings. There, he could relax and allow his natural suspicions to melt. He would be genuinely warm and funny and gentle, disarming his audiences with his easy laugh and quickness, like when he would take his grandson, Victor junior, to school every day. Friends would marvel at how he hated public speaking and yet shone so well in those small-group Q and A sessions, when members of the audience would file out, feeling as though they'd been talking to a familiar uncle. It was in these settings, with corporate executives, manageable groups of lucky fans, and children, where his charisma flowered.

But now, with the sport in moral crisis, the public wanted the other half of the man, not intimate-chat Henry but the great Hank Aaron, the leader of men, out in front and in public. They wanted his presence to make them feel better about a sport he hadn't played in thirty years. In the months following the 2005 congressional hearings, the number of times the public yearned to hear the voice of Henry Aaron were too numerous to count.

The old guard came out, crotchety and indignant, in defense of their time.

"Go ask Henry Aaron,"313 Jim Bunning, the Hall of Fame pitcher turned Kentucky senator, thundered. Henry had worn out Bunning, hitting .323 against him in sixty-five at bats. In the first game of a doubleheader, May 10, 1967, in Philadelphia, Bunning gave up home run number 448 to Henry. "Go ask the family of Roger Maris," Bunning said. "Go ask all of the people who played without enhanced drugs if they would like their records compared with the current records." Jim Bunning, the Hall of Fame pitcher turned Kentucky senator, thundered. Henry had worn out Bunning, hitting .323 against him in sixty-five at bats. In the first game of a doubleheader, May 10, 1967, in Philadelphia, Bunning gave up home run number 448 to Henry. "Go ask the family of Roger Maris," Bunning said. "Go ask all of the people who played without enhanced drugs if they would like their records compared with the current records."

On the face of it, one might have thought that Henry would have welcomed the attention, his inner desire for respect finally converging with the public's appreciation of him. For years, Henry would argue that records were always valued until they landed in his hands, the hands of a black man. He used to say the all-time home-run record was the most hallowed in all of baseball-until he broke it. Then it wasn't so important anymore. Later, he would say with no shortage of acidity that Joe DiMaggio's fifty-six-game hitting streak seemed to carry more value to the establishment than his record. Yet as Bonds approached, Henry only grew in stature. The New York Daily News New York Daily News, once the home of one of Henry's great journalistic nemeses, d.i.c.k Young, now referred to the record, his his record, as "sacred." record, as "sacred."

After years of being dismissed as bitter and largely incurious, or disparaged and accused of being easily led by the more dominant female figures in his life, he was now an important man, the person who was being asked to be the voice of authority on the most important subject of the times. During the Steroid Era, there was no person in baseball whose word was more antic.i.p.ated or carried greater moral weight than that of Henry Aaron. He had reached the position Jackie Robinson had so many years before, an athlete sought out more for his moral standing than for his past heroics.

And it was there, at the precise moment when he finally had the floor all to himself, that Henry Aaron chose not to engage. Henry's old contemporary Frank Robinson was fierce and unequivocal. "Any player found to have used steroids, well, I don't think their records should count," Robinson said. "I think they should be wiped out." It was a powerful, direct statement, emblematic of the uncompromising Robinson, who had been fourth on the all-time list for what felt like forever, with 586 home runs. "Pretty soon," Robinson said, "I'm going to be way, way, way down the list."

Robinson, Bunning, and so many of the old-timers were fierce, not just because their places in the continuum were being erased but also because for this generation of Americans, drugs were about as low as a person could go. Henry himself had been driven to action by what he saw drugs doing to black communities. He had struggled with his own brother James's drug and alcohol addictions. James was the youngest of the Aaron siblings. He had remained in Mobile and at one point was living at the Salvation Army building.

But Henry was evasive on the ethical question of steroids, about whether he believed using performance-enhancing drugs was cheating, and n.o.body could understand why. He refused to engage about his feelings toward specific players and their chemically enhanced accomplishments, offering vague statements about how "unfortunate" the current situation was. Henry distanced himself. Even Bud Selig had reversed field, acknowledging the degree to which his sport had been derailed. In the spring of 2006, Selig announced he would launch an investigation, headed by former senator George Mitch.e.l.l, into the use of performance-enhancing drugs.

A week into the 2006 season, Henry attended a dinner in Milwaukee, where he gave an impromptu press conference, and it was here that he would begin to define his public position about Bonds.

AARON PREFERS TO FOCUS.

ON THE POSITIVES314"I think what the commissioner is trying to do is trying to put an end to all of this," Aaron said after a news conference at the Hyatt Regency Milwaukee. "I know people have said, 'Where is this investigation going, and what purpose?' But I think he's trying to put an end to it."Aaron said Selig was trying to do what is right. Asked if the allegations about drug use hurt the game, Aaron sidestepped the question."This game has got so much to offer," he said.... "Yet we are focusing on one thing, and that's steroids. We need to get rid of it once and for all and, hey, let's get on with the job of playing baseball."

He frustrated certain elements of the press, which believed that Aaron was being pa.s.sive-aggressive: He complained about not being taken seriously and yet shrank when the world looked to him on a serious issue. Even his supporters were often perplexed by his lack of a position, for it was incongruous with the man they knew.

"The one thing Henry315 hated hated was cheating. The whole thing bothered him," Ralph Garr said. "Why do you think he and g.a.y.l.o.r.d Perry never got on well? He might not have said anything, but anyone who knew Henry Aaron knew that the whole thing about drugs, that really bothered him. was cheating. The whole thing bothered him," Ralph Garr said. "Why do you think he and g.a.y.l.o.r.d Perry never got on well? He might not have said anything, but anyone who knew Henry Aaron knew that the whole thing about drugs, that really bothered him.

"You'd have been ashamed to do stuff like that around him. He'd form his opinion from the inside. It wasn't Henry Aaron's way to tell you about your business. That's why he's not going to mention Barry. He's gonna let that train pa.s.s."

That Henry was quiet about steroids was to some degree generational. For a man of Henry's time, drugs were designed to alter the mental state of the user. Drugs made you dopey-hence the slang term dope dope. But the sophistication and purpose of designer steroids and human growth hormone-There were drugs that could improve your eyesight?-were outside of his sphere. Dusty Baker thought that while Henry appreciated his status as baseball royalty, he did not want this issue, so tawdry and difficult, to be the one that forced him back into the public eye. Drugs were, as they say, a dirty business. On the one hand, he was still a ballplayer, and he bought into the rhetoric that there was nothing in a bottle that could help a player once he stepped into the batter's box. The batter still had to see the ball and make contact. Yet he knew simply by looking at the numbers and the immense size of some of the players that something was amiss. "I played the game," Henry would say. "It's just not possible to hit seventy home runs." In interviews, however, such as before game four of the 2007 World Series between Boston and Colorado, he referred to performance enhancers as he would a dime bag of marijuana.

"I just don't want to get involved with conversations316 about dope," he said. about dope," he said.

Yet another reason was political. His friend of a half century, Bud Selig, was under a.s.sault-from the union, from the players, from the fans and writers, and from Congress-for not being swift and decisive on the issue, and Henry was careful with his opinions. A blistering indictment of steroid use would indirectly be a criticism of his ally Selig and Selig's handling of the situation.

THE REAL POINT was, Henry thought he could not win on the Bonds issue. He would tell intimates that Bonds was a "lose-lose." If he spoke out against Bonds, then he risked the criticism that he was just a bitter old man who could not deal with his record being broken. There were people close to Henry who believed that he enjoyed being the all-time home-run leader. He had held the record for so long that it had become a part of him. It had given him the sort of legitimacy that being a transcendent player did not. And what was not to like about holding the record? was, Henry thought he could not win on the Bonds issue. He would tell intimates that Bonds was a "lose-lose." If he spoke out against Bonds, then he risked the criticism that he was just a bitter old man who could not deal with his record being broken. There were people close to Henry who believed that he enjoyed being the all-time home-run leader. He had held the record for so long that it had become a part of him. It had given him the sort of legitimacy that being a transcendent player did not. And what was not to like about holding the record?