Yet, this was not a reason for Henry not to want his record broken. What Billye Aaron admired most about Henry was the comfort he seemed to have within himself. "He knows what he did,"317 she said, "and he knows that the time would come when the record would belong to someone else. That part of it didn't bother him, as far as I'm concerned." Henry himself would repeat the same refrain: Records were made to be broken. It was a shopworn cliche, and it certainly masked whatever complex feelings he held toward Bonds, but it was true. she said, "and he knows that the time would come when the record would belong to someone else. That part of it didn't bother him, as far as I'm concerned." Henry himself would repeat the same refrain: Records were made to be broken. It was a shopworn cliche, and it certainly masked whatever complex feelings he held toward Bonds, but it was true.

Henry also believed that if he said nothing, or supported Bonds in his quest to break the record, if for no other reason than to be a good amba.s.sador to baseball, he would be tacitly condoning steroids and performance-enhancing drugs. Throughout his life, he had been proud of how he approached his profession. He didn't want to be a.s.sociated with the drug culture, which had changed the game and the way the sport was viewed.

For all of his fears, there was still another section of the press that knew Henry was being placed in an impossible position. Even saying nothing about Bonds was, by definition, a statement in and of itself.

During each public appearance, he invariably would be faced with a question about Bonds. His responses were often odd, and for a press that felt Henry was in a position of leadership, this was maddening. There was, for example, the day in Milwaukee when the Brewers were dedicating a plaque for Henry's 755th home run, his last big-league home run, the record.

"Barry Bonds?" Henry said. "I don't even know how to spell his name."

To Henry's inner circle, it was a great quote, one that made everybody laugh. Henry was showing his dry sense of humor to break up a tense moment. However, the press had the opposite reaction. Flippant and evasive comments did not endear Henry to the press. And then there was the bizarre interview he gave to the a.s.sociated Press: Q: In fact, I was just going to ask you,318 how closely do you follow the games? how closely do you follow the games?A: Oh, I watch the Braves play every day.Q: How many games do you go to a year?A: I don't go to too many. I don't attend too many, but I watch on television every day.Q: Do you have any advice for Barry Bonds?A: For who?Q: Barry Bonds, because he went through so much, as you did.A: I don't have any.... As I said before, I don't have any advice whatsoever, no advice to anybody.Q: Have you spoken with him?A: No. I have not talked to anybody, really.Q: What will you be doing when he's on the brink of tying or breaking your record?A: I have no idea, probably playing golf somewhere.Q: Would you reconsider your decision to stay away?A: I will never reconsider my decision.Q: That's pretty strong. Why is that?A: Nothing. Just that it's the way I am.... I traveled for 23 years and I just get tired of traveling. I'm not going to fly to go see somebody hit a home run, no matter whether it is Barry or Babe Ruth or Lou Gehrig or whoever it may be. I'm not going anyplace. I wish him all the luck in the world.Q: Well, if it happened in Atlanta would you go?A: No, I won't be there.Q: Really?A: No.Q: If he breaks your mark do you think it's an accomplishment on par with what you did?A: I don't know, and as I said before, I don't want to discuss him, really. Really, I don't mean to discuss anything about it.... I've stayed out of this.

Behind the scenes, Henry and Bud Selig spoke numerous times each week. Henry would ask Selig for advice on how to handle the mounting questions about Bonds. Selig told Henry to speak his piece if he chose, and said the two would always be friends. It was Henry, in fact, around whom seemingly everyone in the game tiptoed. Dusty Baker found himself in the most awkward position: a commentator for ESPN during the year Bonds neared the record. Baker was trapped: For forty years, Henry had treated him like a son. But Baker had managed Bonds for ten seasons in San Francisco.

"I was caught in the middle," Baker recalled. "I'm on the air and they're asking me about steroids and Barry, but in the back of my mind I'm also thinking about Hank. So what did I do? I called Hank every week, just to make sure he was cool. He told me, 'Don't worry about me. I'm fine with it.' But I did did worry about it, because it was Hank." worry about it, because it was Hank."

As usual, it was Selig who remained the ultimate power broker. While he remained loyal to Henry, Selig was also fielding calls from Bonds during the summer. Bonds wanted to know why Henry had not contacted him.

As Bonds approached the home-run record, members of Henry's inner circle believed he needed to take on the Bonds issue directly and candidly. There was no point, one adviser told him, to believe "this thing" could be avoided. At a meeting, Henry was inundated with ideas for how he should handle confronting the public as Bonds neared his record. One suggestion was to cultivate a friendly journalist and offer the exclusive story-Henry Aaron on Bonds and the record-to Sports Ill.u.s.trated Sports Ill.u.s.trated. It would be a cover story, of course. The people closest to him, who had known him for decades, including Bud Selig, all thought it a splendid idea: a controlled environment, with Henry on record, the kind of preemptive move public-relations experts loved. Another suggestion was to find a friendly television journalist (Tim Russert and Bob Costas were the top candidates) and have Henry do an hour-long sit-down. The freight train approached. And Henry would lie between the tracks. He said no to each strategic suggestion. And then he cut off all discussion of the matter.

The truth was, Henry was personally and permanently offended by Barry Bonds. The reasons were always sketchy, for Henry did not talk about Bonds specifically. To understand Henry, you had to know how to read body language, facial expressions, and sounds. You had to understand that Henry Aaron did not always speak with words. It was often what Henry didn't didn't say that carried all the meaning. And during those two summers of 2006 and 2007, you had to be truly illiterate not to understand what he was trying to convey about both Bonds and the record. say that carried all the meaning. And during those two summers of 2006 and 2007, you had to be truly illiterate not to understand what he was trying to convey about both Bonds and the record.

Members of the inner circle may have sounded conflicted about the Bonds conundrum, unsure of what to say publicly (mostly out of loyalty to Henry's friend Bud Selig), but Henry shared no such uncertainty.

Bonds and Henry had done business before, back in 2002 for a Charles Schwab Super Bowl commercial, which showed Bonds taking batting practice as a mystical voice whispered in the background that Bonds needed to retire, to begin thinking about his future, in the mode of Field of Dreams Field of Dreams. Finally, Bonds stopped hitting and yelled up to the press box, "Hank, will you cut it out?" The camera fixed on Aaron's surprised face and Henry delivered the commercial's punch line. "Hank? Hank who?"

It was a hilarious spot, but there was talk of a falling-out between the two men after. But what really frosted Henry was when in 2005 the Bonds people invited him to be part of what could only be termed a Barry Bonds victory tour. Bonds already had his G.o.dfather, Willie Mays, on board. Celebrations would be planned, the first when Barry hit home run number 661, pa.s.sing Mays on the all-time list. The second would be after home run number 715, when Ruth was pa.s.sed again, by another black man. Finally, the big fireworks would go off when Bonds. .h.i.t number 756 for the all-time record.

The underlying incentive, the Bonds people told Henry, was race. Just imagine: the three greatest black players in history combining forces, finally taking history and reshaping it, turning the Bonds moment into something black America could be proud of. And there was big money to be made: exclusive appearances, limited-edition signed b.a.l.l.s, bats, and merchandise (how many people owned memorabilia that contained the signatures of Bonds, Mays, and Aaron anyway?). The pitch ended with Henry being told his share alone might net three million dollars.

Henry spurned each overture by Bonds and his handlers to cultivate him, to make him a partner in the creation (or at least the marketing) of the beginning of a new history, the beginning of the Bonds era as home-run king, anointed by his legendary G.o.dfather, blessed by Henry. Henry made it clear to his closest advisers he would have nothing to do with Bonds. No Sunday conversation on ESPN, no traveling with Bonds to market or even aid in rehabilitating a game wounded by drugs. In a culture where everything, especially ethics, seemed to be for sale, Henry thought marketing the home-run record perhaps the cra.s.sest thing he'd ever heard. Bonds needed Henry for legitimacy, perhaps even for his own baseball salvation. But Henry Aaron needed Barry Bonds like he needed a root ca.n.a.l. No one would know what was exactly said during that phone conversation between the two, but there was no ambiguity about Henry's position. Confidants recalled Henry's words afterward as being "He's trying to buy me. And I resent that."

AT HIS L LOS A ANGELES office, Mike Tollin received a call from Rachael Vizcarra. Vizcarra was one of two women who did personal public-relations for Bonds, outside of the Giants official team sphere. She went back to Bonds's days with the Pirates and was Bonds's special envoy to Tollin, who now sat on the board of Henry's Chasing the Dream Foundation. office, Mike Tollin received a call from Rachael Vizcarra. Vizcarra was one of two women who did personal public-relations for Bonds, outside of the Giants official team sphere. She went back to Bonds's days with the Pirates and was Bonds's special envoy to Tollin, who now sat on the board of Henry's Chasing the Dream Foundation.

Tollin and Bonds had crossed paths before: A dozen years earlier, Tollin had interviewed Bonds for his doc.u.mentary on Henry, Chasing the Dream Chasing the Dream. Given how events would ultimately unfold, it was more than a little ironic to watch the end of the film, with its interviews of stars from the mid-1990s-Frank Thomas, Ken Griffey, Jr., Cal Ripken-and see Barry Bonds offer the last word of the doc.u.mentary on Henry.

Around the same time, Tollin had been executive producer of Arli$$ Arli$$, the HBO comedy series that starred Robert Wuhl as a high-powered sports agent and featured cameos by numerous professional athletes. During the show's first two seasons, 1996 and 1997, Bonds agreed to appear, and he impressed Tollin and Wuhl (who was also an executive producer) with his professionalism and surprising seriousness and perfectionism. What impressed Wuhl most was the time Bonds was on the set and a particular scene had not been done to anyone's satisfaction. At the time, Bonds was represented by Dennis Gilbert, and Gilbert reminded Bonds they had another appointment, a lucrative commercial for a high-powered client. They were late, he said, and would have to cut the filming short. But Bonds remained while all the necessary takes were shot and the scene was correct. Wuhl and Tollin never forgot that side of Bonds. Tollin, especially, believed it was an untapped side of Bonds that could be mined.

Now, years later, Rachael Vizcarra was calling on behalf of Barry Bonds. It was during the off-season before the 2006 season and Bonds stood at 708 career home runs. He had missed nearly the entire 2005 season due to an injury, but he came back to hit five home runs in fourteen September games. The strong finish gave the impression that Bonds would hit not only the seven homers he needed to pa.s.s Ruth in 2006 but also, the forty-eight he needed to pa.s.s Aaron to become the all-time leader.

The conversation was brief.319 Tollin mostly listened carefully, waiting for the upshot. And then, finally, he heard it: "Barry wants you to do for him what you did for Hank Aaron," Vizcarra told him. Tollin mostly listened carefully, waiting for the upshot. And then, finally, he heard it: "Barry wants you to do for him what you did for Hank Aaron," Vizcarra told him.

Tollin was intrigued. As a next step in the process, he requested a meeting with Bonds. A few weeks later, the two met alone in Los Angeles at the apartment Bonds kept in the fashionable Wilshire Corridor. He actually kept two condominiums, one as an office, the other as a residence for when he was in town. During their talks, it seemed that Bonds was almost auditioning for the show Tollin had in mind. He told Tollin stories about growing up, about how abusive his father, Bobby Bonds, had been. He talked about the unfair treatment baseball had levied upon Bobby, and how his father's alcoholism in part could be traced to how poorly he had been treated by the game. Bonds took Tollin through the condo and Tollin found himself intrigued by Bonds's range of interests. He was interested in photography and Wall Street, movies and technology, and was in the process of a new project: a photo montage for his daughter.

The discussions proceeded in earnest.320 Tollin wanted to know if Bonds was serious about moving forward. The project, he said, would not be hagiography: There were going to be controversial topics, such as the drug issues that swirled around him. Bonds said he was in the right frame of mind to proceed. Tollin wanted to know if Bonds was serious about moving forward. The project, he said, would not be hagiography: There were going to be controversial topics, such as the drug issues that swirled around him. Bonds said he was in the right frame of mind to proceed.

Tollin had been concerned about artistic integrity, and thus he demanded he have the final cut. Bonds had a few requests of his own, one of them being Henry's partic.i.p.ation. Would Henry Aaron be part of the program at some point? he asked.

After the meetings, Tollin was convinced he had sufficient cooperation from Bonds-and enough of a creative vision-to produce a compelling work. His vision was a singular one-hour reality-television special on Bonds. Bonds, of course, would be the star, and Tollin's challenge would be to present him in a dimension different from what Bonds believed to be the incorrect public perception of him.

Then Tollin followed up with another mantra that came from doing business in Hollywood: First you get the goods, and then you figure out where to sell them. ESPN was a natural, and the network was immediately interested. Tollin agreed to veer from his original concept and film a full-season miniseries. The t.i.tle Tollin wanted-I'm Barry Bonds and You're Not-was a nod to the seminal 1993 Sports Ill.u.s.trated Sports Ill.u.s.trated cover story. ESPN's choice cover story. ESPN's choice-Bonds on Bonds-would be the t.i.tle.

They made the deal, and then Tollin prepared for what he expected to be an interesting phone call-apprising Henry of the project. They had a good conversation, Tollin recalled, and Henry appreciated that Tollin showed him respect by asking him, in effect, to bless the project. But Henry was not interested. "I told him it wasn't about me taking sides. It was a chance as a filmmaker to tell a compelling story. Henry was typically gracious. Implicit in the message was that he didn't mind me doing it, but he didn't want any part of it."

BONDS WAS A polarizing figure, but also a fascinating one. John Skipper and John Walsh, two of the ESPN top executives who gave the show the green light, were enthusiastic and prepared to swat away the internal and external concerns that a reality-television show on Bonds would compromise the news operation. Walsh was particularly fascinated by Bonds, and according to intimates, he did not feel Bonds had ever been covered properly. After all, not only was Bonds bearing down on the home-run record but he was also being investigated by the federal government for perjury. Tollin and ESPN, so went the criticism, were providing a public-relations forum for a bad guy desperate to rehabilitate his image. Yet there was something of value to the show: Tollin had exclusive interviews with Barry Bonds during the season, Bonds in his own words ... and n.o.body else had that. polarizing figure, but also a fascinating one. John Skipper and John Walsh, two of the ESPN top executives who gave the show the green light, were enthusiastic and prepared to swat away the internal and external concerns that a reality-television show on Bonds would compromise the news operation. Walsh was particularly fascinated by Bonds, and according to intimates, he did not feel Bonds had ever been covered properly. After all, not only was Bonds bearing down on the home-run record but he was also being investigated by the federal government for perjury. Tollin and ESPN, so went the criticism, were providing a public-relations forum for a bad guy desperate to rehabilitate his image. Yet there was something of value to the show: Tollin had exclusive interviews with Barry Bonds during the season, Bonds in his own words ... and n.o.body else had that.

That exclusivity, it turned out, would be the leverage that would ultimately destroy the show after ten episodes. Like a good-natured woman who really believes believes she can change that troubling, intriguing man she's fallen for, Tollin found out what so many people before him had discovered: There was no working with Barry Bonds. she can change that troubling, intriguing man she's fallen for, Tollin found out what so many people before him had discovered: There was no working with Barry Bonds.

The show debuted April 4, 2006. As the show progressed beyond the first few episodes, it was clear that Bonds believed the interviews gave him the upper hand over Tollin and the network. Tollin had already sensed possible trouble when, during the early blueprinting of the show, Bonds made Tollin sign a confidentiality agreement, opening him up to a multimillion-dollar lawsuit should he discuss anything that took place behind the scenes.

And then came the moment that, to Mike Tollin, said it all. Bonds had wanted Henry to be part of the project, and Tollin had an idea. If Bonds and Tollin split the cost of sponsoring a Hank Aaron scholar-roughly $25,000 apiece-Henry would most likely agree to a Chasing the Dream scholarship in the Bay Area. But Bonds just didn't get it. According to intimates, Bonds wanted nothing to do with the charity.

Later, Tollin signed a fifty-million-dollar movie deal for Wild Hogs Wild Hogs, a John TravoltaMartin Lawrence comedy vehicle, and he told Bonds that another producer, Fred Golding, would be taking on some of the show's duties. It was during this time that Bonds attempted in meetings to take more control over the direction of the show, which Tollin believed was in direct violation of their deal. The show was supposed to be independent, and now Bonds was trying to dictate the content during weekly planning meetings. Tollin went to ESPN, but the show was at an impa.s.se. Bonds continued exerting control and the relationship soured. ESPN provided Tollin with an escape hatch and canceled the show.

Ultimately, the show fell flat for other reasons. Ratings were poor. Tollin believed Bonds felt betrayed over Wild Hogs Wild Hogs. Yet there were a few moments he was proud of. The show captured Bonds's 715th homer, when he pa.s.sed Ruth's record. After that game, Tollin went into the clubhouse to congratulate Bonds, who signed a ball for Tollin's son, Luke. The inscription was cla.s.sic Bonds. "To Luke, G.o.d Bless Barry Bonds." Tollin always wondered with a certain amount of humor if the omitted comma was intentional.

And worst of all for the show, the dynamic, electric Bonds, who was expected to chase the home-run record with a fury, was hardly electric. He was a haggard old man, a sagging forty-two-year-old who, like most forty-two-year-olds still playing professional sports, acc.u.mulated numbers for a living. He could hit ... occasionally. He couldn't run. He couldn't field his position.

"There's a heart beating there,321 but there are so many layers. I think the hardship growing up with his dad and Willie starts with mistrust," Tollin recalled. "They would tell him, 'You're better off without those people, and it's up to you to find out who those people are.' but there are so many layers. I think the hardship growing up with his dad and Willie starts with mistrust," Tollin recalled. "They would tell him, 'You're better off without those people, and it's up to you to find out who those people are.'

"It was a shame. We could have made a nice show, but it became a test of wills, which wasn't what it was all about," he said. "This was his deification. So that was that. We'd rather walk away and prove to the media that we insisted on creative integrity. I saw Barry at the premiere. He was friendly. No hard feelings. It was a case of moving on. I'm not in touch with him."

THE G GIANTS DESPERATELY wanted Henry to partic.i.p.ate in the Bonds coronation. It wasn't just that a nod from Henry would give cla.s.s and dignity and legitimacy to the whole sordid affair, perhaps soften the public mood that the record would always contain a steroid taint if Bonds surpa.s.sed Henry. The other reason was Henry's potential influence on Bonds himself. Perhaps having Henry involved would propel Barry into a feeling of magnanimity. Inside the Giant organization, everyone knew the real fiction surrounding Bonds was that his blood feud was a solo affair between himself and the press. That always made people who worked for the Giants laugh. The real truth was that Bonds treated Giants employees as badly as he did the writers. In some cases, certain Giants employees thought, the writers had it easier than club employees, because at least the writers could leave. They could get away from Bonds. The writers could retreat to the press box or the field or anyplace where Barry was not. They only had to deal with Bonds the player for about three hours per day. Maybe having Henry on board would give Bonds more incentive to enjoy the journey toward history. Maybe it would make Barry be nice, just for a month. wanted Henry to partic.i.p.ate in the Bonds coronation. It wasn't just that a nod from Henry would give cla.s.s and dignity and legitimacy to the whole sordid affair, perhaps soften the public mood that the record would always contain a steroid taint if Bonds surpa.s.sed Henry. The other reason was Henry's potential influence on Bonds himself. Perhaps having Henry involved would propel Barry into a feeling of magnanimity. Inside the Giant organization, everyone knew the real fiction surrounding Bonds was that his blood feud was a solo affair between himself and the press. That always made people who worked for the Giants laugh. The real truth was that Bonds treated Giants employees as badly as he did the writers. In some cases, certain Giants employees thought, the writers had it easier than club employees, because at least the writers could leave. They could get away from Bonds. The writers could retreat to the press box or the field or anyplace where Barry was not. They only had to deal with Bonds the player for about three hours per day. Maybe having Henry on board would give Bonds more incentive to enjoy the journey toward history. Maybe it would make Barry be nice, just for a month.

Of course, Larry Baer did not know that Bonds had already insulted Henry, and Henry Aaron wouldn't have gone to San Francisco in a million years for ten million bucks.

But Baer was persistent. Susan Bailey, upon orders from Henry and Allan Tanenbaum, was an even more ferocious gatekeeper than normal as Bonds approached the record. "Susan wouldn't even let most people finish322 their sentences," Tanenbaum recalled. That made one of the stories floating around-that the television network Fox had offered Henry $250,000 their sentences," Tanenbaum recalled. That made one of the stories floating around-that the television network Fox had offered Henry $250,000 per day per day to travel with Bonds once Bonds came within a home run of 755-virtually impossible. to travel with Bonds once Bonds came within a home run of 755-virtually impossible.

"I know that story wasn't true for two reasons," Tanenbaum said. "The first was that n.o.body could even get to Henry during those final three weeks. The second was that Henry had already said he had no interest in this. No amount of money was going to get him to change his mind."

Baer, though, slipped through the protective shield once, to the fury of Bailey and Tanenbaum, reaching Henry at home and asking him one final time if he would fly to San Francisco for Bonds. The Giants would cover the tab, naturally: flights, hotels, meals, transportation ... everything first-cla.s.s.

Henry said no.

That didn't stop Baer, who, at the league's New York offices, met with Henry and Tim Brosnan and John Brody, two members of the MLB Properties division. At that meeting, Baer told Henry he was interested in having him explain his position. Why, Baer asked, was he being so vague about his plans? Henry told Baer he did not judge Bonds but that as a seventy-three-year-old man he had no interest in following another baseball player around. He'd had his time as the record holder, he told Baer, and he wished Barry well, but he was not interested.

"Would you at least consider a taping?"323 Baer recalled asking, fully expecting a no. "Would you tape a congratulatory message we could show on the video board whenever he breaks the record?" Baer recalled asking, fully expecting a no. "Would you tape a congratulatory message we could show on the video board whenever he breaks the record?"

"That, I could do," Henry said.

To Henry's recollection, he had not completely committed. To Baer, Henry was on board.

Baer sprang into action. He prepared a film crew to fly to Georgia to tape Henry. He even wrote the script, telling Henry just what to say. Henry informed Baer he would do the video but that he would write the words himself ... and he added a special caveat: Should anything "extraordinary" occur during the time between the taping and the day Bonds broke the record, he reserved the right to prohibit the Giants from airing the video. That something "extraordinary," as everyone knew, was the federal indictment for perjury that had hung over Bonds for three years.

For weeks, the video sat in a vault in the Braves offices. When Baer finally received the video-which arrived when Bonds was two home runs away from the record-he did not tell anyone he had snared the great and reticent Henry Aaron, Bonds included. The only people who knew, apart from the princ.i.p.als, were the scoreboard operators (who had to be sure the tape was compatible with their systems) and the commissioner's office, which had had a hand in brokering the deal.

AUGUST 7, 2007, SBC Park: fifth inning, one out. In his first two at bats, Bonds had doubled and singled against Mike Bacsik, the Washington Nationals pitcher. The day before, Bacsik had fielded the inevitable questions of what it would be like to serve up the record-breaking home run. "I dreamed about this moment since I was a kid," he said. "Except I was the one hitting the homer, not giving it up." 2007, SBC Park: fifth inning, one out. In his first two at bats, Bonds had doubled and singled against Mike Bacsik, the Washington Nationals pitcher. The day before, Bacsik had fielded the inevitable questions of what it would be like to serve up the record-breaking home run. "I dreamed about this moment since I was a kid," he said. "Except I was the one hitting the homer, not giving it up."

The record had turned into a slog, a forty-three-year-old antihero playing for nothing but himself, in joyless pursuit of a record only he wanted broken. The Giants were in last place and would stay there. If there was any suspense at all, it was about whether Bonds would be indicted before he broke the record, and, if so, whether Bud Selig would suspend Bonds immediately and save the record, an eleventh-hour clemency not so much for Henry but for the relentless a.s.sault of performance-enhancing drugs on his sport.

In the press box, the writers lived for these moments. Sitting in on history was one of the biggest reasons to be in the news business. You get only one shot to write it big, and write it well. And Bonds, with all of his bitterness and contradictions, his talent and hubris, made for great theater, if nothing else.

Dave Sheinin of the Washington Post Washington Post was in the press box, enjoying a unique vantage point. Two years earlier, when baseball's equivalent of the Blue Wall finally crumbled in Room 2154 of the Rayburn Building during the devastating hearings on March 17, 2005, Sheinin covered Mark McGwire's disintegration and the nadir of the Steroid Era for the front page of the was in the press box, enjoying a unique vantage point. Two years earlier, when baseball's equivalent of the Blue Wall finally crumbled in Room 2154 of the Rayburn Building during the devastating hearings on March 17, 2005, Sheinin covered Mark McGwire's disintegration and the nadir of the Steroid Era for the front page of the Post Post, and now just one Bonds home run would provide the coup de grace.

Now the game was tied at 44. Bacsik threw Bonds a fastball, which he did not miss.

"I remember the moment he hit it.324 I was like, 'Here we go.' And at that moment, it felt historic," Sheinin recalled. "For about as long as it took for him to circle the bases, and of course you see Hank's face on the Jumbotron, all of that felt really huge to me. There was a ten-minute window when it really felt immense. But that was it." I was like, 'Here we go.' And at that moment, it felt historic," Sheinin recalled. "For about as long as it took for him to circle the bases, and of course you see Hank's face on the Jumbotron, all of that felt really huge to me. There was a ten-minute window when it really felt immense. But that was it."

Bonds's ball cleared the field of play, soaring into discredited s.p.a.ce. He was facing an imminent federal indictment, which would come less than four months later. He had determined that the moment would belong to him, that because he cherished owning the record, the record would be cherished. Weeks earlier, Bonds had sparred with the writers again about the legitimacy of his holding the record. Finally, he attempted to curb debate by declaring, "Once I break the record, it's mine."

"It's weird. It cheapened the moment325 but elevated the moment at the same time. It didn't feel legit. It didn't feel real. It felt fraudulent. But from a pure story standpoint, it made it richer," Sheinin said. "If it was regular old Barry Bonds with no steroids who broke Hank Aaron's record, it wouldn't have been strong. But the way it occurred made it important for society because of what it meant. It was paradoxical." but elevated the moment at the same time. It didn't feel legit. It didn't feel real. It felt fraudulent. But from a pure story standpoint, it made it richer," Sheinin said. "If it was regular old Barry Bonds with no steroids who broke Hank Aaron's record, it wouldn't have been strong. But the way it occurred made it important for society because of what it meant. It was paradoxical."

In 1998, when McGwire hit number sixty-two, every member of the Cubs infield-Mark Grace at first, Mickey Morandini at second, the shortstop Jose Hernandez-embraced him as he rounded the bases. Bud Selig and Stan Musial sat next to each other. The Chicago third baseman, Gary Gaetti, pounded his glove with excitement as McGwire pa.s.sed. The Cubs catcher, Scott Servais, hugged McGwire and didn't seem to want to let go, even as McGwire's own team, the Cardinals, rushed to mob the hero.

Nine years later, orange-and-black streamers rained from the upper deck, and San Francisco, isolated in its joy, whooped and hollered. Bonds gave a two fisted-pump to the heavens and began his historic trot, but not a single Nationals player shook his hand as he rounded the bases. No one slapped him on the back, or even smiled. As he reached home plate, the Nationals catcher, Brian Schneider, stood away from the dish, as impa.s.sively as if play had been stopped to clear a stray beach ball from center field.

As Bonds and Willie Mays stood with their backs to the field, waving to the crowd, there came a roar within the roar. On the Jumbotron, wearing a charcoal suit and a striped tie was Henry. Those in the Nationals dugout along the first-base line, showing emotion for the first time, clapped politely.

Henry squinted and spoke his words. Bonds and Mays turned around to watch the video display.

"I would like to offer my congratulations to Barry Bonds on becoming baseball's career home-run leader. It is a great accomplishment which required skill, longevity and determination," Henry said. "Throughout the past century, the home run has held a special place in baseball, and I have been privileged to hold this record for 33 of those years. I move over now and offer my best wishes to Barry and his family on this historical achievement. My hope today, as it was on that April evening in 1974, is that the achievement of this record will inspire others to chase their own dreams." Upon completing the final sentence, Henry offered a soft little smile. Janie McCauley, a reporter326 for the a.s.sociated Press, put in a call to the Aaron residence in Atlanta. A woman answered the phone. "Mr. Aaron is asleep," she said, and hung up the phone. for the a.s.sociated Press, put in a call to the Aaron residence in Atlanta. A woman answered the phone. "Mr. Aaron is asleep," she said, and hung up the phone.

IT TOOK SEVEN takes to complete the forty-five-second video. On the first six, Henry seemed fine, but he looked weary and tired, like he'd rather have been in West Palm or ... Pluto ... or takes to complete the forty-five-second video. On the first six, Henry seemed fine, but he looked weary and tired, like he'd rather have been in West Palm or ... Pluto ... or ... anywhere ... anywhere else. The words were his, but they were a scripted, clandestine, collaborative effort. E-mails circulated from Allan Tanenbaum to Henry to Mike Tollin to some staffers in the commissioner's office to Bud Selig. The message had to be subtle, yet energetic and graceful, lest Henry open himself up to the charge that, yes, he congratulated Bonds, but his heart wasn't really in it. Of course, that part was true: His heart was miles away from this compromise. But Henry had given his word to Larry Baer and the Giants, and thus he would tape a congratulatory message. else. The words were his, but they were a scripted, clandestine, collaborative effort. E-mails circulated from Allan Tanenbaum to Henry to Mike Tollin to some staffers in the commissioner's office to Bud Selig. The message had to be subtle, yet energetic and graceful, lest Henry open himself up to the charge that, yes, he congratulated Bonds, but his heart wasn't really in it. Of course, that part was true: His heart was miles away from this compromise. But Henry had given his word to Larry Baer and the Giants, and thus he would tape a congratulatory message.

In Atlanta, Billye Aaron read each new incoming message-a word tweak here, a change of emphasis there-a working draft for the digital age. Henry and Allan Tanenbaum proceeded to a studio in downtown Atlanta for the taping. The dark backdrop was accompanied by a montage-an Aaron home Braves jersey, a replica of the Hank Aaron Boulevard street sign.

Henry read the words carefully and dutifully, but after the sixth take, a young technician stopped him, summoning the courage to offer an artistic appraisal of the filming. Henry's delivery was fine, he said. His pacing was good. But, the young man said, this tape was being made for a celebration, for history. Was it possible, the technician asked Mr. Aaron, for him to show a little more joy? Perhaps a smile would be good.

Henry looked at the man and delivered a line that, in the face of Bonds, would forever make him the people's champion.

"Young man," Henry Aaron said. "Do you really think I have anything to smile about?"

AND SO, after thirty-three years it was over. Henry was no longer the home-run king. Bonds would hit six more that season, finish at 762, and, for his effort, never again be allowed to wear a big-league uniform.

"What was happening is that,327 for the first time, unlike when Babe Ruth held the all-time home-run mark, the standard-bearer and the record holder have been separated," Harry Edwards, the famed sociologist, said of the tainted Bonds surpa.s.sing Henry. "Henry Aaron, Roger Maris, these are the standard-bearers. Mark McGwire, Barry Bonds, these are record holders. For the first time ever, the standard of excellence and the record holder are totally different people. for the first time, unlike when Babe Ruth held the all-time home-run mark, the standard-bearer and the record holder have been separated," Harry Edwards, the famed sociologist, said of the tainted Bonds surpa.s.sing Henry. "Henry Aaron, Roger Maris, these are the standard-bearers. Mark McGwire, Barry Bonds, these are record holders. For the first time ever, the standard of excellence and the record holder are totally different people.

"If you're going to maintain the integrity of the sport, the standard-bearers and the standard of excellence have to again become the same person. Right now, they're not. Henry Aaron is the standard of excellence. Because of this drug thing, baseball doesn't care about the record holder. He's just standing out there. Baseball cares about the standard of excellence, and that means people will always look to Henry Aaron."

EPILOGUE.

ON O OCTOBER 30, 2008, roughly thirty schoolchildren gathered at a chain-link fence in front of the Toulminville Grammar School as a rugged eighty-foot-long flatbed truck negotiated the tight, narrow maze of streets in their neighborhood of Toulminville, Alabama. The buzzing among the kids was rooted in the sheer technological undertaking of the procession, for the children did not believe what they were about to see: an entire house, sixty feet in length, twenty feet high, would be lifted off of the ground, taken in its entirety from the small tract of land where it had sat, undisturbed, for sixty-seven years, laid on the bed of the truck, and driven away. Trucks carry dirt; trucks carry cars, they confirmed to one another. But a whole house? 30, 2008, roughly thirty schoolchildren gathered at a chain-link fence in front of the Toulminville Grammar School as a rugged eighty-foot-long flatbed truck negotiated the tight, narrow maze of streets in their neighborhood of Toulminville, Alabama. The buzzing among the kids was rooted in the sheer technological undertaking of the procession, for the children did not believe what they were about to see: an entire house, sixty feet in length, twenty feet high, would be lifted off of the ground, taken in its entirety from the small tract of land where it had sat, undisturbed, for sixty-seven years, laid on the bed of the truck, and driven away. Trucks carry dirt; trucks carry cars, they confirmed to one another. But a whole house?

The moving team worked methodically, thwarted momentarily by annoying obstacles: The height of the house made it difficult for the flatbed to pa.s.s under dangerous high-tension wires. Overgrown trees hampered the crew's exit route, and no chain saw could slice through the bureaucracy: City ordinances prevented the removal of even a single tree branch without government authorization.

Police escorts awaited the convoy. An elderly woman, Mrs. Ruth, had lived next door to the house since FDR was in his third term, since the Great Depression began to slowly loosen its grip on America. Her hand covering her mouth, cheeks dampening, she stood at a slight distance from the commotion, steps removed from the construction crew and the police, from the officials from the city of Mobile and a few from the Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum, in Cooperstown, New York.

This was Henry Aaron's childhood house, 2010 Edwards Street, Mobile, the house where he had come to live when he was eight years old. That was why everyone was making such a big fuss. It was the house Herbert had built with his bare hands and lived in for the next fifty-six years, never falling to the temptation of trading up to something bigger and better, to somewhere more luxurious and exclusive, as his famous son had suggested. It was the house where Henry's mother, Estella, had lived for ten more years after her husband's death, the place where Estella Aaron and Mrs. Ruth shared a friendship that lasted a lifetime. And now they were taking the house away to the city's baseball park in central Mobile, where it would become a museum.

How the deal got done was quintessentially Henry, not the Henry Aaron who sought respect and found disappointment, but the polished and regal seventy-four-year-old who could now call presidents and CEOs directly for social visits. Bill Shanahan, the president of the Mobile BayBears, the Double-A affiliate of the Arizona Diamondbacks that played its home games at the stadium named after Hank Aaron, had an idea of how to celebrate the seventy-fifth year of Henry's life: a museum would be named after Aaron, serving as a veritable time line for the American twentieth century. Hank Aaron's childhood home more than deserved to become a civic landmark in Mobile, Shanahan reasoned. Toulminville might be a challenging locale to draw tourist traffic, so what better place for the Hank Aaron Museum than the actual house he grew up in, located at the ballpark that bore his name? The house had been boarded up for a couple of years. Its contents-photographs, furniture, clothing, and even the Presidential Medal of Freedom Henry had received from President Clinton-remained inside.

Shanahan called the Baseball Hall of Fame for help, and Cooperstown officials, finally enjoying an overdue thaw with Henry, agreed.

The consortium of builders were all southern white men, some old enough to remember the old Mobile, when people like Henry were forced by custom to defer to people like them, when Herbert Aaron was forced to give up his place in line to them. And now, in another century, a different time, these same men jumped at the chance to be close to Henry Aaron, and to honor his father's house. The bill to relocate and renovate the house would hit fifty thousand dollars. Much of the house still contained the original wood from 1942, when Herbert Aaron completed its construction. The moving expenses would be considerable, and would Henry be amenable to moving the family house in the first place? Many an honorable project wilted in the boardroom over lack of funds, but here a creative enthusiasm built up. Local architect Larry Hinkle said he'd do the entire job for free. The Hall of Fame would use its muscle. The BayBears said they would maintain the museum. All Henry Aaron had to do was agree.

No one was sure how to approach Henry. The word had been out about Henry for years: He was bitter. He was angry. He was unapproachable, the guy the real fans feared most: that legend you always wanted to meet, only to have the little boy in you leveled by the jerk in him.

Mike Callahan, the general manager of the BayBears, made the call. He pitched Henry the idea. The silence was awkward.

"I really thought I'd p.i.s.sed him off," Callahan recalled. "There was so much silence on the other end, I'm thinking to myself that I had this one opportunity and I blew it."

Mike Callahan realized only later that the silence on the other end was Henry holding back to keep from crying on the telephone.

THE TRUCK LURCHED before ambling slowly forward. The movers saw heaven in the form of I-65, a freeway wide enough to accommodate the flatbed. The house would travel eight miles in nine hours. The convoy pa.s.sed Hank Aaron Park in Toulminville and curved around the Hank Aaron Business Loop in Mobile to reach its final destination, Hank Aaron Stadium. before ambling slowly forward. The movers saw heaven in the form of I-65, a freeway wide enough to accommodate the flatbed. The house would travel eight miles in nine hours. The convoy pa.s.sed Hank Aaron Park in Toulminville and curved around the Hank Aaron Business Loop in Mobile to reach its final destination, Hank Aaron Stadium.

Even when Henry was a boy, the house talked to him, told him in some strange way that he and his family were something special. Now the house was talking to Henry again. It had transformed honor, pride, ownership, and responsibility from airy concepts into something real, something he could hold in his hands. Henry Aaron would always be called a mama's boy, but the house was a piece of his father, an example of the unpretentious hard work he had exemplified during his adult life.

Henry was the patriarch now. Ninety-six years old, Stella Aaron died in April 2008, ten years after Herbert. She remained in Mobile until diabetes made it too difficult to keep up her house, then moved to Atlanta to live with Henry. When she was home, in Mobile, her routines were none too dissimilar from Henry's escapist tendencies when he was a boy. Henry would disappear to hook catfish on the banks of Three Mile Creek. Stella found her own spot along Mobile Bay, off of Halls Mills Road, digging up bait with a friend, trolling for redfish and white trout.

"People say over time it gets easier," Henry said one day in New York, months after Stella's death. "But it doesn't. When you lose your mother, it is always going to be hard."

Of Herbert and Stella's eight children, only three remained: Alfredia, James, and Henry. The rest were all gone, but the house still stood. In a sense, the house now mirrored what Henry had become-once intensely private, now a public inst.i.tution.

THE NEXT GENERATION of Aarons remains, conflicted. The children dealt with their father's fame and its effects on them in their own ways, with varying degrees of success. Gaile Aaron speaks of her father with an intense pride, saying that he "was always a better father than a baseball player," and yet navigating her own life under his immense shadow could be complicated. of Aarons remains, conflicted. The children dealt with their father's fame and its effects on them in their own ways, with varying degrees of success. Gaile Aaron speaks of her father with an intense pride, saying that he "was always a better father than a baseball player," and yet navigating her own life under his immense shadow could be complicated.

"Being introduced to someone, I was always 'Gaile, Hank Aaron's daughter,'" she said. "It was like it wasn't good enough to be just Gaile."

Lary Aaron played football in high school and then at Florida A&M. He never played big-league baseball, but he became a minor-league scout for the Milwaukee Brewers.

"There are advantages and disadvantages. When we grew up, my father told us he was really no different than anyone else," Lary Aaron said. "He just had a job that was in the limelight and people liked to see. We never thought we were better than anyone else, and he always said that he's no better than the guy who's digging a ditch."

Dorinda Aaron, Henry's youngest child from his marriage to Barbara, works for her father at the 755 Restaurant Corporation, the parent company for Henry's fast-food restaurants.

The 755 Restaurant Corporation is a reflection of Henry's closest circle. His son-in-law, Victor Haydel, oversees the operation-Popeye's, Church's Chicken, and Krispy Kreme-while Louis Tanenbaum, son of Henry's attorney Allan Tanenbaum, is also part of the management team.

Tommie Aaron, Jr., Henry Aaron's nephew, would drive to Toulminville one afternoon to visit his grandfather's house, only to see what neighbors saw in 1941: an empty square, bordered by wilted tufts of gra.s.s. Tommie junior did not know the movers had taken the house. "That," his mother Carolyn Aaron says, "was my fault. I forgot to tell him the movers had taken his grandfather's house."

The decision to dedicate the house-indeed, to give it to the world-was not a democratic one, nor was it universally popular. It was largely Henry who had maintained it, Henry who feared it being neglected and falling into disrepair if left alone in Toulminville, Henry who paid the taxes, and Henry who made the executive call to turn it over to the city of Mobile.

Herbert Aaron's granddaughter, Veleeta Aaron, pa.s.ses Hank Aaron Stadium each time she drives along Interstate 65 and is vexed when she sees the house Herbert Aaron built now sitting on the grounds of a baseball stadium.

"It's sad. When you think about that house, through all the years, it was ours. It's sad just because I grew up in that house," she says. "It was something that we had to ourselves, something that was ours for our family. It was our safety place.

"I guess now, when you think about all kinds of people walking through the living room, it belongs to everybody. And that is kind of sad and kind of good. It's a part of history now."