Without Frick, Wally Post, who trailed Aaron by fifty thousand votes before the flood, would have started. Henry's old teammate George Crowe would have beaten Musial, and Gus Bell would have toppled Mays. The new starting outfield for the game was a bit more representative, especially for posterity: Frank Robinson in left, Willie Mays in center, and Henry Aaron in right.

Henry had gained more fan votes for the game than Mays. Henry batted second behind Johnny Temple and in front of Musial and Mays. Frank Robinson hit sixth. Henry didn't do much in the game, going one for four against Jim Bunning, Billy Loes, Early Wynn, and Billy Pierce.

If Henry's arrival as a player was undeniable, the greater problem was in understanding him as a man. That would be infinitely more difficult, because it required considerably more introspection on the part of the writers and Henry's teammates than watching his mechanics or marveling at his bat speed.

The local Milwaukee reporters didn't quite know what to make of him, because they didn't quite know anything about him, and often they restricted their commentaries to Henry's latest game-winning hit. His leading characteristic off the field was to be the first person dressed in the clubhouse, often gone from the room before reporters arrived.

From the time Henry arrived in Milwaukee, the more complicated task of confronting the social customs of the day, all of their uncomfortable layers and Henry's level of acceptance, required skill. In the eyes of the traveling Milwaukee writers, considering the Braves as anything other than belonging in mind and spirit to Spahn and Mathews meant veering from the expected script, one that had been antic.i.p.ated since the Braves arrived in Milwaukee from Boston.

Henry forced a change of thinking. Outside of the Dodgers and Giants, no team had yet possessed a black player who was not only the most talented player on the team but also its emotional core. The Braves were a raucous and rowdy team. The leaders of the team were Burdette, Spahn, Mathews, and Logan. All were big drinkers, and few took the time to consider Henry as anything but shy. Shy Shy was the operative word. was the operative word.

"You had had to drink to hang out to drink to hang out103 with that crowd. That wasn't Henry's way," Johnny Logan recalled. "He never did stay around much. He kept to himself with that crowd. That wasn't Henry's way," Johnny Logan recalled. "He never did stay around much. He kept to himself104 in what was the colored part of town." Logan reflected a common att.i.tude among white ballplayers, which suggested that Henry and other black players did not socialize with their white teammates merely by choice. So much of it was a question of knowing where you stood. The reality was that in American society, there were too many layers of negotiation. There were no clear rules, no road maps to follow in 1957 about asking a black player to join his teammates for a drink, or inviting him over to the house for an off-day barbecue. An invisible line cut through American society-and a major-league clubhouse was no different-one that n.o.body was quite sure how to cross. Henry was not a big drinker, it was true, but he wasn't often invited to join the crowd, either. in what was the colored part of town." Logan reflected a common att.i.tude among white ballplayers, which suggested that Henry and other black players did not socialize with their white teammates merely by choice. So much of it was a question of knowing where you stood. The reality was that in American society, there were too many layers of negotiation. There were no clear rules, no road maps to follow in 1957 about asking a black player to join his teammates for a drink, or inviting him over to the house for an off-day barbecue. An invisible line cut through American society-and a major-league clubhouse was no different-one that n.o.body was quite sure how to cross. Henry was not a big drinker, it was true, but he wasn't often invited to join the crowd, either.

Frank Torre, the Milwaukee reserve first baseman, was one of the few white teammates to spend time with Henry, and what he saw was a man who was sensitive to slight but who also kept his emotions regarding segregation buried. Henry did not want to be a burden to his teammates, Torre thought, so he often remained solo, preferring to spend time alone. "He went through terrible times.105 We used to go to the Milwaukee Athletic Club, used to go there all the time, and people would make a big stink because he was a Negro," Torre recalled. "And that was here, where the Braves were heroes." We used to go to the Milwaukee Athletic Club, used to go there all the time, and people would make a big stink because he was a Negro," Torre recalled. "And that was here, where the Braves were heroes."

Alcohol provided a subtle yet vitally important subtext of race relations. Black players were often wary of drinking around whites because of its potential dangers. The clubhouse, a relatively controlled environment, was one thing. Being away from the park, in bars that may not have been friendly to blacks, when players unwound and released their inhibitions, was quite another. It was when the alcohol flowed that the real danger lurked, and all it took was one drink, one shot too many, for a potentially explosive situation to develop. The writer Roger Kahn recalled that when Jackie Robinson was playing cards with his Dodger teammates, Hugh Casey, a big right-hander from Georgia, said he fought losing streaks-both on the field and at the card table-by "rubbing the teat of the biggest, blackest n.i.g.g.e.r woman I could find." Scenes could be bad enough among teammates when a player got drunk, but add to it the simmering tensions and resentments that existed just under the surface during the first decade of integration and the decision on the part of many black players not to mix socially seemed a wise one.

Gene Conley saw Henry socially on similar terms as Johnny Logan. "He really was all business.106 He had a job to do and he did it. Then he was out of there." Conley had competed with and against blacks for years. The racial codes, both real and clumsily ignored by the Braves players, made him uncomfortable even decades later. Conley would be especially aware not because he was a social activist but because he was a basketball player. He had a job to do and he did it. Then he was out of there." Conley had competed with and against blacks for years. The racial codes, both real and clumsily ignored by the Braves players, made him uncomfortable even decades later. Conley would be especially aware not because he was a social activist but because he was a basketball player.

"I just didn't go for that stuff. I didn't make a big deal of it then or now," Conley recalled. Logan, too, who came from upstate New York, was not uncomfortable or distant with his black teammates, but he wasn't unaware of the difficulties.

There were days when Conley seemed intrigued by Henry, but he also knew the strict codes about mingling socially with his black teammates. Conley recalled knowing specifically that during spring training, when teams developed their collective personality, hanging out with blacks in town after games was prohibited. More than his other white teammates, Gene Conley found he was uncomfortable to the point of anger when discussing the racial questions of the day. Conley recalled that later, when he joined the Boston Celtics, he often spent more social time with Russell than with Henry. It all seemed so stupid, he thought. "The 1950s," Conley said ruefully one day a half century later, "were hard."

The other power brokers on the team were less predictable, which made the concept of drinking with them less palatable. Spahn wasn't from the South, but nevertheless he held racial att.i.tudes not always considered progressive. Spahn and Aaron had something of an odd relationship. Throughout the league, Spahn had developed a reputation for being, if not a strident racist, a man who was less sympathetic toward the black situation and, despite his education and combat service in World War II, less willing to change. Both Spahn and Aaron would profess respect for each other's Hall of Fame talent, but Spahn was glib and aloof, while Henry was known for his deliberate and shrewd a.s.sessment of people. Henry, like Bob Gibson, was constantly, if not openly, measuring what kind of men the white people around him were. Spahn could make a joke and if you didn't get it, well, that was your your problem. If it offended you, then maybe you were just being too sensitive, like the time he offered and answered a riddle in the clubhouse. This was during the season the Braves were receiving national attention for being the first big-league club to field an all-black outfield. There was Bruton in center, Wes Covington in left, and Henry in right. problem. If it offended you, then maybe you were just being too sensitive, like the time he offered and answered a riddle in the clubhouse. This was during the season the Braves were receiving national attention for being the first big-league club to field an all-black outfield. There was Bruton in center, Wes Covington in left, and Henry in right.

"What's black and catches flies?" Spahn asked one day in the clubhouse.

"The Braves outfield."

In the baseball culture, that was Spahn's right. He had been a star pitcher for so long that he did not have to adjust to his teammates as much as they needed to learn about him, a dynamic especially true in the case of Spahn's black teammates.

Burdette was from West Virginia, and his hostile att.i.tude toward blacks had been well established, while Adc.o.c.k and Henry already knew where they stood. Some players engaged in a spirited talk about "n.i.g.g.e.rs" without realizing Henry was within earshot. The Braves may have been teammates, determined to win the World Series together, but Henry did not a.s.sume he was necessarily welcome in every situation.

"You had to remember that integration107 was a new thing," Henry said. "We had players coming from places where that wasn't accepted. Everybody had to learn to live differently." was a new thing," Henry said. "We had players coming from places where that wasn't accepted. Everybody had to learn to live differently."

With the Braves grinding through another tight National League race with four other teams, the national press descended on Henry for a closer look at the man who was, even in July, the leading candidate for Most Valuable Player and the Triple Crown, goals he had set for himself back in spring training. And that wasn't all. Two days after he joined the All-Star Game, the a.s.sociated Press announced that Henry had invaded the thinnest airs.p.a.ce possible for a baseball player.

HANK AARON TIES RUTH HOMER.

MARK108 AFTER 77 GAMES AFTER 77 GAMESWith the 1957 major league season at the halfway mark, young Hank Aaron is even with Babe Ruth's record home run pace. Mickey Mantle of the New York Yankees is four behind.Aaron, who also leads the National League in batting (.347) and runs batted in (73) has. .h.i.t 27 home runs in 78 games, the same number Ruth totaled in the same number of games en route to his record 60 in 1927 with the Yankees.

On Monday, July 29, the Braves enjoyed one of their most rousing wins of the season, a 98, tenth-inning affair over the Giants at County Stadium. Spahn, taking a terrible pounding, couldn't get out of the fifth, while Willie and Henry played t.i.t for tat. Mays was thrown out while trying to steal home in the third; then Aaron beat him deep with a triple over his head, and scored when Covington drove him in, to tie the game at 44. Willie broke the tie with a long homer off Pizarro in the seventh, and the Giants broke it open in the eighth with three more.

Down 84, with one out, in the bottom of the ninth, Crandall homered and started a four-run rally that tied it at 88. With two out and the bases loaded in the bottom of the tenth, Al Worthington walked Mantilla home for the victory.

That morning, the latest issue of Time Time magazine hit the newsstands, a sultry ill.u.s.tration of the actress Kim Novak on the cover. Inside were 589 words under the headline magazine hit the newsstands, a sultry ill.u.s.tration of the actress Kim Novak on the cover. Inside were 589 words under the headline THE WRIST HITTER THE WRIST HITTER.109 In the wildly unpredictable street fight for the National League lead, the Milwaukee Braves were last week's team to beat.... But the man mainly responsible for the Braves' surge into first place was a lithe Negro outfielder named Hank Aaron, who is. .h.i.tting the baseball better and more often than any man in the National League.

The story recounted the old Aaron chestnuts-his days with the Clowns, Dewey Griggs scouting him in Buffalo, the Mobile beginnings-but in the final section of the piece, the subheadline referred to Aaron as "The Talented Shuffler."

Aaron claims to enjoy playing right field ... because "... I don't have as much to do, especially not as much thinking." Thinking, Aaron likes to imply, is dangerous. But by now everyone knows that Aaron is not as dumb as he looks when he shuffles around the field ("I'm pacing myself"), and some ... think he will ... rank among the game's great hitters.

In later years, when the country's att.i.tudes shifted and talk that had been common for centuries became socially unacceptable, Henry would gain an annoying reputation among writers for being bland, the same writers who would later attempt to deify him. More likely, Henry had erected a wall around himself, a protective barrier designed to prevent, or at least minimize, the lasting damage of the words written about him.

"I wouldn't have taken that s.h.i.t,"110 Bill White recalled. "I would have had to have a talk with a lot of people had they said those kinds of things about me. But you also have to remember that a lot of those first black players were from the South, and this is what they knew. It had been reinforced in them and their families for so long and they had been taught not to fight back. That's why it used to anger me when people accused Willie of not saying enough. The reason why Henry is a man of respect is because of things like this. He did not respond with words, but with his bat. But Henry Aaron took a lot of c.r.a.p." Bill White recalled. "I would have had to have a talk with a lot of people had they said those kinds of things about me. But you also have to remember that a lot of those first black players were from the South, and this is what they knew. It had been reinforced in them and their families for so long and they had been taught not to fight back. That's why it used to anger me when people accused Willie of not saying enough. The reason why Henry is a man of respect is because of things like this. He did not respond with words, but with his bat. But Henry Aaron took a lot of c.r.a.p."

The press had traveled to Milwaukee to see Henry before. It was in 1956, when Charlie Grimm was still managing the club and the Braves were the fashionable choice to end the Dodger reign. A month before Haney took over, The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post ventured to Milwaukee to profile Henry. Like every top prospect or signature player on a club, he had been featured in the local papers, but ventured to Milwaukee to profile Henry. Like every top prospect or signature player on a club, he had been featured in the local papers, but The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post, with its Norman Rockwell covers and decades-long residence on American coffee tables, was another matter altogether.

Even in the mid 1950s, as The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post's The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post's influence had begun to wane and television accelerated its final demise, few magazines reached the heart of America like it did. Its interest in Henry represented his arrival in just his third season, but it also seemed to validate the Perini claim that Milwaukee would one day become the country's baseball capital. influence had begun to wane and television accelerated its final demise, few magazines reached the heart of America like it did. Its interest in Henry represented his arrival in just his third season, but it also seemed to validate the Perini claim that Milwaukee would one day become the country's baseball capital. Sports Ill.u.s.trated Sports Ill.u.s.trated and and Sport Sport, the two national sports magazines that would carry the industry for nearly a half century, were still in their infancy. The Sporting News The Sporting News had not been surprised by Aaron, but the Baseball bible in those days was more a trade magazine for the industry. A feature in had not been surprised by Aaron, but the Baseball bible in those days was more a trade magazine for the industry. A feature in The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post meant Henry would be introduced to the mainstream. This form of recognition was reserved for only the most gifted players, the ones who either had transcended their own sport or achieved a degree of cultural significance beyond the limits of the batter's box. meant Henry would be introduced to the mainstream. This form of recognition was reserved for only the most gifted players, the ones who either had transcended their own sport or achieved a degree of cultural significance beyond the limits of the batter's box.

Ted Williams and Joe DiMaggio had been on the cover of Time Time and and Life Life, as had Jackie Robinson. Willie Mays made the cover of Time Time in 1954 and would win the cover of in 1954 and would win the cover of Life Life for the first, but not the last, time in 1958, as the Giants arrived in San Francisco. With the interest in him expressed by for the first, but not the last, time in 1958, as the Giants arrived in San Francisco. With the interest in him expressed by The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post, Henry would have two important breakthroughs: He would begin his ascent into the ruling cla.s.s of baseball players, and for the first time in his career, he would be introduced to a larger American audience interested in reading about important people.

The writer of this profile was Furman Bisher, a thirty-seven-year-old reporter, whose full-time job was covering sports for the Atlanta Journal Atlanta Journal. Bisher had been raised in Denton, North Carolina. A speck of a town in the central portion of the state, it claimed just six hundred people. As a boy, when he was not milking cows and completing his farming ch.o.r.es, Bisher had longed to be a third baseman, a dream only enhanced when one of his high school friends, Max Lanier, went on to pitch in the major leagues, primarily for the St. Louis Cardinals. Through good luck and good connections, Bisher landed a freelance writing contract with The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post to write periodic sports pieces. He had gained the trust of a top editor at the magazine after a pair of profiles of college football coaches were well received by the New York office. to write periodic sports pieces. He had gained the trust of a top editor at the magazine after a pair of profiles of college football coaches were well received by the New York office.

Bisher knew Henry from years before, having covered the Sally League in Atlanta when Aaron played for Jacksonville. Bisher liked to tell the story that he supplied the great New York columnist Red Smith with a variation on one of the more memorable lines regarding Henry Aaron. Smith wrote that in Jacksonville, Henry "led the league in everything except hotel accommodations."

For the better part of a week, Bisher absorbed the life of Henry Aaron. He dined at the apartment on Twenty-ninth Street and watched television with Barbara and little Gaile. Bisher would recall particularly enjoying the company of Barbara, whom he would refer to as "shy," "trim and pretty," with a "great personality." "We got along quite well,"111 he recalled. Early during the visit, he decided that Henry wasn't equipped for the fame that his talent would ultimately create, but Barbara seemed more readily inviting and eagerly curious about the life of a sports star, a life that was beginning to define their environment. he recalled. Early during the visit, he decided that Henry wasn't equipped for the fame that his talent would ultimately create, but Barbara seemed more readily inviting and eagerly curious about the life of a sports star, a life that was beginning to define their environment.

Bisher talked to Grimm, who told him that Henry was "one in a thousand. You can't make a Willie Mays out of him. He's not that spectacular. He does things in his own way. But he'll probably be around a long time after Willie's gone." He retold the few chestnuts about Henry's early life that became boilerplate for every writer attempting to shape Henry Aaron for the next half century: his brief time with the Indianapolis Clowns, Dewey Griggs's signing him with the Braves, his brief and wondrous play at each level in the minor leagues. Bisher recalled being taken by the Aaron family and considering Henry a friend.

When the Bisher profile appeared in the August 25, 1956, issue, Henry's introduction to America in The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post would not be the triumphant moment that trumpeted his arrival onto the national scene. Instead, it was the most influential and devastating piece of journalism ever written about Henry Aaron. would not be the triumphant moment that trumpeted his arrival onto the national scene. Instead, it was the most influential and devastating piece of journalism ever written about Henry Aaron.

BORN TO PLAY BALL112Milwaukee's prodigious Hank Aaron doesn't go in for "scientific" hitting.

He just grabs a bat and blasts away.In Jacksonville, Florida, where he carried off almost everything except the franchise during the South Atlantic League baseball season of 1953, there is still a considerable degree of puzzlement about Henry Louis (Hank) Aaron, now one of the mightiest warriors in the tribe of the Milwaukee Braves. There was, for instance, the time in Jacksonville that summer when Aaron was in the grip of a rare batting slump, and one of his teammates asked in conversation how he was going to cure it."Oh, I called Mr. Stan Musial about it," was Aaron's dead-pan reply, "and I coming out of it.""What did Musial tell you to do?" asked the teammate, an infielder named Joe Andrews."He say, 'Keep swinging,'" Aaron said.Shortly the slump pa.s.sed and Henry thundered on to a .362 finish. Meanwhile, the Musial story was repeated often in dugouts around the league. On the day when Aaron got the league's most valuable player award, manager Ben Geraghty decided it might be well to have Henry repeat his Musial tale to the sports writers who were inquiring into the reasons for his success."Man, I never called Stan Musial," Aaron said, shaking his head vigorously."But you told Joe Andrews you did," Geraghty said."I liable to tell Joe Andrews anything."Spec Richardson, general manager of the Jacksonville Braves, is representative of the perplexed local opinion that Aaron left behind. "Tell you the truth," he says, "we couldn't make up our minds if he was the most naive player we ever had or dumb like a fox."

For decades, journalists would speak of Henry with a mixture of respect for his baseball achievements and deep frustration bordering on anger for what they considered to be Aaron's unnecessary suspicion of them. Henry would not dispute the writers' descriptions of him. Often, he would confirm what the writers believed, for his wariness of the press was real. He did not believe that how he thought about himself as a person had ever been accurately conveyed in print, that the gap between his recollections of a given interview and the finished product was always far too wide. Furthermore, it was a gap that never seemed to tilt in his favor. Yet Henry also would not explain that the roots of his remove could be found in the pages of The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post: The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post: Even in Aaron's earlier days with the Braves, there were occasions when he surprised everybody with his mental nimbleness....Off the field, the Aarons stay pretty well tied to the little apartment when the Braves are at home. For all his natural rhythm, Henry doesn't dance a step....One of the biggest moments in Henry's career so far was the 1955 All-Star Game, which was played in Milwaukee. Henry scored a run, walked and singled twice. His second single, combined with Al Rosen's error tied up the game and sent it into extra innings. Stan Musial finally won it with a twelfth-inning home run."I enjoy that," Aaron said. "but my first year in the league I play in Jim Wilson's no-hit game. That's the most kick I get out of baseball."

Over the three-page spread, Bisher exposed, though perhaps unintentionally, an important subtext of the baseball culture at the time. Integration by 1956 was clearly a success-only the Tigers, the Phillies, and the Red Sox had not yet integrated. But in the eight full seasons since Jackie Robinson had debuted, black players had dominated the sport, yet having star black players on major-league rosters did not amount to actual equality. He noted that Henry's Braves teammates had nicknamed him "Snowshoes" for his stiff-legged running style. At no point did Bisher mention that Henry did not engage with his teammates easily because he, along with Joe Andrews and Felix Mantilla, were the first black players ever to play in the Sally League. Integrating a southern league was no insignificant task; in 1953, most southern states still carried laws on the books prohibiting compet.i.tion between whites and blacks. Certainly entering such an environment could have explained much of Henry's hesitation, but Bisher, a southerner comforted by his own sense of normalcy, saw Henry merely as an unsophisticated black character. Even Jackie Robinson, insulated in the minor leagues by playing in Montreal, had not had to endure the indignities that came with playing in the South on a daily basis.

The Sally League had long been considered perhaps the most notorious of the minor-league systems, and baseball people believed the league seemed the most unlikely to transition smoothly to integration. The Sally League's reputation (combined with the cities and states that comprised it) was so formidable that big-league teams (the Red Sox and Cardinals primarily) used the fear of conflict in their minor-league affiliations in the South as reasons the big-league teams did not integrate. Bisher, and by extension Henry's teammates and the men in the Jacksonville front office, captured Henry's reticence, but they interpreted his hesitancy as an inability to navigate or a lack of intelligence, instead of recognizing the social forces at work. In the South, blacks were forced by habit, custom, and the law to be careful about how or if to approach whites. Henry had been taught from birth not to a.s.sume, and thus he would not have believed that he was ent.i.tled to the perk-which likely seemed extravagant at the time-of choosing a personal collection of bats.

In the fifteen hundred words he used, Bisher painted a disturbing portrait of Henry as nothing more than a country simpleton. Bisher wrote of him in the most condescending of terms, portraying a kind of hitting savant unaware of the larger, sophisticated world around him and without a pa.s.sable IQ. The device Bisher used most effectively was language. Sharp and yet subtle, language could convey intelligence, stupidity, or nothing nothing. It could be deftly used to feed into racial stereotyping.

"I guess the thing I'd most rather do of all," he said, c.o.c.king his head and biting his lower lip, "I'd rather hit four hundred. A lot of guys are hitting forty homers nowadays, but n.o.body is. .h.i.t four hundred since Ted Williams a long time ago."

In 1955, Henry and two other Braves players arrived in Bradenton to begin early work before spring training. Today, players are allowed to work out at a club's minor-league facilities during spring training but are prohibited from arriving at the major-league grounds until the league-scheduled reporting date.

But in 1955, players were not allowed to use the club facilities at all until the mandatory reporting date. Commissioner Ford Frick wired the Braves and fined the players fifty dollars. Charlie Grimm alerted Henry with a note, telling him he'd been fined by Frick, and Aaron's reply was, "Who's that?"

The Frick story had been told many times and would become an apocryphal anecdote that would follow Henry. FRICK-"WHO'S THAT?" HENRY ASKED WHEN TOLD OF FINE FRICK-"WHO'S THAT?" HENRY ASKED WHEN TOLD OF FINE, read one headline in The Sporting News The Sporting News.

Aaron, so the story goes, crumbled a telegraphic notice of his fine without reading it. Manager Charlie Grimm asked if Aaron knew who sent him the wire. Aaron said he didn't."Ford Frick," Grimm told him."Who's that?" asked Aaron without batting an eyelash, tossing the wire into the wastebasket.

Bisher retold the Frick story in his profile.

When Manager Charley [sic] [sic] Grimm handed Aaron his copy of the telegram, Henry shoved it into his pocket unopened. Grimm handed Aaron his copy of the telegram, Henry shoved it into his pocket unopened."Better read that thing, Henry," Charley said. "It's from Ford Frick."The picture of innocence, Henry looked at Grimm and said, "Who's dat?"As even the best hitters must, Aaron has his batting slumps. He got into one at the end of spring training, going nine straight times without a hit. "I saving up for opening day," he said.

If Bisher was taken by Barbara, he did not spare her in his writing.

In Milwaukee, the Aarons live in a little upstairs flat at the rear of a faded brown house on North 29th Street, just off busy West Center. Two pieces of furniture eat up most of the limited s.p.a.ce in the living room-a big leather easy chair and a large screen television set. "He just sit there and watch those shooting westerns and smoke cigarettes," his wife says, chuckling at the chance to poke fun at her mate.

Later, Bisher asked Henry if he had been motivated to play baseball because Satchel Paige, one of the great pitchers of the day, had grown up in Mobile. "I never heard of him till I was grown," Bisher quoted Henry as saying. "I didn't know he come from Mobile, and I never seen him till yet."

With language, that was all it took-a little manipulation in p.r.o.nunciation here, a phonetic license there-and the desired effect could be achieved. Though both were southerners at a time when social issues were reaching the confrontation point, Bisher did not ask for Henry's opinion of the emerging fight for civil rights. Bisher did not believe Henry to be particularly bright, and the clear picture he painted of Henry is unmistakable for any reader.

The most devastating effect of the profile would be its influence on future profiles about Aaron. A profile on him would always be some form of referendum on his intelligence. It would, however, be misleading to suggest that Furman Bisher alone created the composite that would become Henry Aaron's public personality. He did not. It would be more accurate to say that the Bisher story legitimized that point of view, for ever since Henry's rookie season, a certain type of scrutiny had always been reserved especially for him.

Three weeks before the Bisher's story was published, The Sporting News The Sporting News took note of Henry's batting surge and ran a two-page feature. If Bisher focused on Henry's diction, took note of Henry's batting surge and ran a two-page feature. If Bisher focused on Henry's diction, The Sporting News The Sporting News article, written by Lou Chapman of the article, written by Lou Chapman of the Milwaukee Sentinel Milwaukee Sentinel, portrayed Henry as graced with natural hitting talent but insufficiently intelligent to grasp such a complicated game.

BRAVES' BLAZING AARON BIDS FOR BATTING t.i.tLE113Amazing Wrist-Action Gives Outfielder Whiplash Power The accompanying cartoon-a montage of ill.u.s.trated anecdotes that underscored the widely held perception of Aaron's disdain for hard work or hard thinking-was more demeaning than the story itself, but one section remained with him.

Aaron was guilty of particularly atrocious base-running in one game....... one of the veterans took Henry aside to give him some pointers...."Henry," he said, "you've got to watch the ball when you're running the bases and you've got to decide whether and when you should tag up and go to another base.""I can't do all that," Aaron said, thus ending the discussion.

For years, Henry would speak about Herbert's determined pride, and the admiration he held for his father, who had been able to carve out an existence despite his harsh circ.u.mstances. The early portrayals of Henry were painful. He had endured the taunts and a.s.sumptions of the Sally League ("Just wanted to let you n.i.g.g.e.rs know you played a h.e.l.l of a game") and now was in the major leagues, beyond the reach of his expected place in Mobile, beyond the reach of the old limitations. Race was never America's dirty little secret, for it was never a secret at all. The real secret was cla.s.s, and all of its insidious tentacles. If Henry had thought he had finally escaped and was ready to be introduced to the American public as the new force on baseball's emerging team, Bisher, with a pen stroke, brought Aaron, if not physically then at least mentally, back into the condescending caste system of the South.

A FEW WEEKS FEW WEEKS before the all-star break, Fred Haney was in the dugout, grousing about his bench. The reserves, usually the strength of a balanced team, were melting over the summer months. Pafko wasn't hitting. Frank Torre was an excellent defensive first baseman, but he didn't scare anyone at the plate, and Haney had already sent Covington out. The front liners-Aaron, Mathews, Bruton, Logan, and Adc.o.c.k-were holding up their end and more. The starters who weren't-Thomson and O'Connell-well, they'd been shipped out, responding to being traded from the Braves by going on hitting tears for the Giants. During one pregame bull session, a reporter asked Haney, "What would happen to your club if Adc.o.c.k were to break his leg?" before the all-star break, Fred Haney was in the dugout, grousing about his bench. The reserves, usually the strength of a balanced team, were melting over the summer months. Pafko wasn't hitting. Frank Torre was an excellent defensive first baseman, but he didn't scare anyone at the plate, and Haney had already sent Covington out. The front liners-Aaron, Mathews, Bruton, Logan, and Adc.o.c.k-were holding up their end and more. The starters who weren't-Thomson and O'Connell-well, they'd been shipped out, responding to being traded from the Braves by going on hitting tears for the Giants. During one pregame bull session, a reporter asked Haney, "What would happen to your club if Adc.o.c.k were to break his leg?"

It was one of those apocryphal baseball stories, surreal, ridiculous, and, of course, 100 percent true. On the afternoon of June 23, in the second game of a bitter doubleheader with the brash, contending Phillies at County Stadium, Joe Adc.o.c.k broke his right leg. He would be gone until mid-September.

On July 11 in Pittsburgh, two days after the All-Star Game, Bill Virdon led off the bottom of the first with a dying quail to short center. Bruton raced in from center, Mantilla out from short, and neither slowed down. When the play was over, Virdon was on second with a double. Mantilla and Bruton were both knocked cold. When Bruton came to, he was on a stretcher, out for the year with a knee injury that would affect him for the rest of his career. Even Haney spent a week in the hospital, missing six games due to ulcers.

With Bruton gone, Haney chose Henry to fill the s.p.a.ce in center field. To Fred Haney, acknowledging Aaron's versatility was a compliment. Henry filled in at second base a few times. He had batted second, and now, in the middle of a five-team race, he would be the new center fielder.

But for Henry, the constant shifting hampered his development as a player. He wanted to learn how to be a great right fielder, and playing center would not help. Haney had placed him out of position in the batting order and now in the outfield.

IF THE PENNANT had been lost at happy hour in 1956, the 1957 flag was being left in the emergency room. Already Bob Wolf in the had been lost at happy hour in 1956, the 1957 flag was being left in the emergency room. Already Bob Wolf in the Journal Journal crafted a preemptive epitaph, referring to the Braves as "fading." crafted a preemptive epitaph, referring to the Braves as "fading."

John Quinn made two moves. He acquired first baseman Vernal "Nippy" Jones to back up Frank Torre at first. Second, he purchased from Wichita the contract of light-hitting outfielder Bob Hazle, who then put on the greatest five-week show in the history of baseball.

And that is the other beauty about the American game of baseball: There isn't just one way to become an immortal. The G.o.ds could go to Mobile and touch Henry Aaron, giving him so wondrous a gift that he could hit a baseball four hundred feet with his hands in the wrong position, or you could be twenty-seven-year-old Bob Hazle, a guy held in such low esteem that the Braves tried to give him away for free in the draft and n.o.body wanted him.

That included Quinn, who told his farm director, John Mullen, that Ray Shearer, hitting .330 at the time, was the guy he wanted. Mullen convinced Quinn that Hazle was the better choice, because with Frank Torre in the starting lineup, the Braves did not have a left-handed batter on the bench.

On August 1, Conley shut out the Dodgers, 10. It was the kind of day Conley craved. He had started the season 04 but had evened his record and was beginning to see the results reflect how good he felt about his arm. The Braves were 6141 after the win, in second place by half a game to St. Louis and two and a half games ahead of the Dodgers. Three days later, Hazle rapped two hits in another win over Brooklyn.

Then came the showdown for first place at Sportsman's Park against the Cardinals. In the opener, Henry doubled home a run in the first. Hazle led off the second with a long homer off Lindy McDaniel. Henry hit a two-run homer in the third, and it didn't matter that Buhl was in the middle of another heinous masterpiece (complete game, nine hits, eight walks, but only two runs), because Hazle went four for five with two runs scored, two RBIs, and a home run in a 132 demolition. The next day, Hazle ripped three more hits and drove in three more in a 90 win. In two games, Hazle was seven for nine with five RBIs and a home run, and the Braves swept. In Cincinnati, Hazle led a sweep of the Reds by scores of 124, 133, and 81, going seven for ten with a home run and five RBIs.

Robert Sidney Hazle was born December 9, 1930, in Laurens, South Carolina. He grew to cut an imposing figure at six one, 190 pounds, but baseball had never come easily at the professional level. After two years in the army, Hazle played two games for Cincinnati before being traded to the Braves as a throw-in as part of the deal for George Crowe. He remained in the minor leagues, with their punishing schedule and meager pay. He had often thought about quitting. At the time Quinn called him to the Braves, Hazle was. .h.i.tting .289, but even the Braves front office hadn't thought his streak was anything more than that of a mediocre player enjoying a rare hot month; thirty days earlier, Hazle had been hitting .230.

The Braves had won ten straight, and Hazle's average was .556. In forty-one games, Hazle hit .403, and now the press was making up nicknames for Hazle. Within a year, his career would be over, a rash of swings and misses, harmless outs and feeble explanations, either for his miraculous 1957 season or his inexplicable inability ever to hit the ball safely again. For the next thirty-five years, until his death in 1992, Bob Hazle would forever be known as "Hurricane" Hazle, named by teammates and writers after Hazel, the deadly 1954 hurricane that killed close to two hundred people from North Carolina to Toronto. He would be the greatest of comets, and when Milwaukeeans would speak of the Braves years in Wisconsin in elegiac tones, he was as important and beloved a figure as Henry, Spahn, and Mathews, his more accomplished Hall of Famebound teammates.

For the month of August, Hazle hit .493. By the end of the month, the Braves finally had separation. Twisted in the wreckage were the Dodgers (seven back), the Cardinals (seven and a half out), Philadelphia (Good night and good luck at fourteen and a half out), and the Reds (fifteen and a half back: See you next year and drive safely!). The Hurricane rampaged, and all that was left in his wake was the inevitable clincher.

The great irony was that as the Hurricane was unleashing his greatest damage and the Braves had engineered that championship run that distanced themselves from the pack, Henry Aaron, the Triple Crown threat and MVP leader, endured his worst month of the year, hitting .255 during August.

WHEN THE HISTORY of the great ones is written, the words are never merely a mundane compendium of numbers. Somewhere, there must be a singular feat that stands as a calling card. Just being good every day by itself does not merit a ticket to Olympus. It is the reason why there is a difference between stars and of the great ones is written, the words are never merely a mundane compendium of numbers. Somewhere, there must be a singular feat that stands as a calling card. Just being good every day by itself does not merit a ticket to Olympus. It is the reason why there is a difference between stars and superstars superstars.

Ted Williams took his team to only one World Series, and in it he hit poorly, but people still still talk about the Williams starbursts: the home run in the World Series in 1941, going six for eight over the season-ending doubleheader to hit .406, instead of sitting out to qualify for .400 at .3995, the home run in the final at bat of his career. talk about the Williams starbursts: the home run in the World Series in 1941, going six for eight over the season-ending doubleheader to hit .406, instead of sitting out to qualify for .400 at .3995, the home run in the final at bat of his career.

Ruth? Too many to count, but leave it at the 1932 World Series. Mays wasn't just electric. He was a one-man power grid. Every great Yankee pennant run contained some DiMaggio stretch where he was the difference maker. In Clemente's lionish pride, you could practically hear hear the Puerto Rican national anthem with each and every one of his raging steps. Then, lonely on the other side of the trail, was Ernie Banks, who carried that heavy and unfortunate asterisk of being the greatest player never to take his team to the World Series, of never having the the Puerto Rican national anthem with each and every one of his raging steps. Then, lonely on the other side of the trail, was Ernie Banks, who carried that heavy and unfortunate asterisk of being the greatest player never to take his team to the World Series, of never having the moment moment that separated winning from losing, and him from the rest. that separated winning from losing, and him from the rest.

That's why they were different, these millionth-percentile players. Just having one on the team meant somewhere, at some point, even if it occurred just once, there would be champagne at the end of the summer journey. They would do something that made the words sparkle when they hit the page, leaping magically, like a child's eyes on Christmas morning.

THE OLD B BRAVES modus operandi of squeezing the bat just a little tighter as the September leaves changed did not disappear without resistance-old habits die hard-and the result was a tension that could have been felt from County Stadium up and down Wisconsin Avenue. The "Slop Thrower," Herm Wehmeier, journeyman to the rest of the world but a Walter Johnson against Milwaukee, pitched a twelve-inning complete game, striking out eight, and St. Louis beat the Braves 54. The losing streak hit three; it swelled to eight out of twelve when the Phillies beat Spahn 32 in ten innings September 15. The lead was shrinking, and that wasn't the only part of the trouble. Two of Henry's greatest pitching enemies were the ones threatening to steal 1957 the way one of them had taken 1956. While Spahn was losing, Wehmeier beat the Pirates in the first game of a doubleheader, and Sam Jones finished the sweep in the nightcap, cruising 113. The lead was two and a half games. modus operandi of squeezing the bat just a little tighter as the September leaves changed did not disappear without resistance-old habits die hard-and the result was a tension that could have been felt from County Stadium up and down Wisconsin Avenue. The "Slop Thrower," Herm Wehmeier, journeyman to the rest of the world but a Walter Johnson against Milwaukee, pitched a twelve-inning complete game, striking out eight, and St. Louis beat the Braves 54. The losing streak hit three; it swelled to eight out of twelve when the Phillies beat Spahn 32 in ten innings September 15. The lead was shrinking, and that wasn't the only part of the trouble. Two of Henry's greatest pitching enemies were the ones threatening to steal 1957 the way one of them had taken 1956. While Spahn was losing, Wehmeier beat the Pirates in the first game of a doubleheader, and Sam Jones finished the sweep in the nightcap, cruising 113. The lead was two and a half games.

During the next seven days, Henry Aaron took hold of the National League pennant, wrestled it to the ground, and stomped the life out of it: two hits and an RBI against the Phillies, three hits and home run number forty-one in the eighth inning to finish the Giants, two runs scored and an RBI the next day as Burdette beat the Giants again.

And on it went: back-to-back two-hit games in routs of Chicago, the first a 93 win for Spahn's twentieth, home run number forty-two in the 97 finale September 22, when Hazle won it with a homer in the top of the tenth. They had won six straight and the lead was now five, with six games left to play.

The Cardinals arrived at County Stadium, with the Braves needing a win for the pennant. As is so often the case in baseball, the parallels were delicious, poetic. The Braves had been here before at the end, looking at the World Series, only St. Louis blocking their view of the promised land, when the Slop Thrower s.n.a.t.c.hed the t.i.tle away and Fred Haney promised them a summer of h.e.l.l.

The night was September 23, Burdette versus that old cur, Wilmer "Vinegar Bend" Mizell. They would play three hours and thirty-three minutes, the second-longest game of the year, topped only when Gino Cimoli had homered off Red Murff in the bottom of the fourteenth at Ebbets way back in May. Burdette had been on the mound that day, too, a twelve-inning, eleven-hit, six-walk no-decision. Koufax was the winner.

Forty thousand came to County to witness the completion of the mission. One, a twenty-three-year-old history major at the University of Wisconsin named Allan Selig, was faced with a difficult choice: go to a night cla.s.s or go to the game, with the hope that the Braves could clinch it that night. In later years, Selig would recall that the choice was not such a difficult one after all. He bought a bleacher ticket. In the first, Burdette escaped the first two batters before giving up an opposite-field double to Stan Musial, who would be stranded at second. Schoendienst singled in the bottom of the inning, only to have Logan kill the momentum with a double play.

Henry pulled a single to lead off the second. Adc.o.c.k, back from his broken leg, and Pafko followed as the crowd fidgeted, eager for a reason to explode. Covington drove Henry home with a sacrifice fly that sent Fred Hutchinson out of the dugout. After one inning, Mizell was finished.

Into the game came another Aaron nemesis, head-hunting Larry Jackson, the same Jackson whom Henry had accused of throwing at him back in his rookie year, the same Jackson whom Chuck Tanner would refer to only as "that right-handed son of a b.i.t.c.h."

But Jackson was good this night, quelling the insurrection. He would pitch the next seven innings on a wire, dancing into trouble as Milwaukee waited to erupt. In nine of ten innings, the Braves would put a runner on, and yet there would be no celebration. In fact, the place was at times monastery-quiet.

With one out in the sixth, Wally Moon singled and Musial doubled again. This time, Alvin Dark bounced a two-run single to center and Burdette would not escape.

In the seventh, Schoendienst singled. Logan sacrificed him to second and Mathews doubled him home to tie the score. Fred Hutchinson's next move made clear Henry's influence. With none on and one out in a tie game, the Cardinal manager intentionally intentionally walked Aaron-the go-ahead run-with another right-hander, Adc.o.c.k, on deck to face the lefty Jackson. Adc.o.c.k bounced into a rally-killing double play. walked Aaron-the go-ahead run-with another right-hander, Adc.o.c.k, on deck to face the lefty Jackson. Adc.o.c.k bounced into a rally-killing double play.

The Cardinals increased the pressure. Moon singled in the eighth and Musial knocked him to third with his third hit of the game. Irv Noren grounded to short and Logan threw out Moon at the plate.

For the Braves, dying to exhale, the game was excruciating. Milwaukee loaded the bases, with one out in the tenth, off Billy m.u.f.fett. Haney called Burdette back for Frank Torre, who hit into a double play to end the inning.

Fifty years later, Chuck Tanner sat behind the dugout at the Pittsburgh Pirates minor-league facility in Bradenton, not far from the Pink Motel, where he and Gene Conley had been roommates, and where he and Henry had become friends those dusty years past. He had been traded to Chicago earlier in the summer and hadn't been part of the final pennant race, but Milwaukee was never far from him. He had struggled badly before he was traded and understood that being a bench player, sitting around for days, cold without being in the action and being asked to produce without the benefit of rhythm, was the hardest of jobs. Tanner was fond of Fred Haney, and it was Haney who'd given him his first job managing in 1963. The Braves were long gone from Bradenton, but Tanner thought about Henry.

"I don't know if there was a way to figure it,114 but I felt it then and I feel it now. There wasn't a player I'd ever seen get more hits with two outs than Henry Aaron. A two-out hit, one that scores a run, is just but I felt it then and I feel it now. There wasn't a player I'd ever seen get more hits with two outs than Henry Aaron. A two-out hit, one that scores a run, is just devastating devastating to a pitcher. It's like a tease. You think you're gonna get out of it, but you're not. Before you know it, you're dead meat, mister." to a pitcher. It's like a tease. You think you're gonna get out of it, but you're not. Before you know it, you're dead meat, mister."

m.u.f.fett retired Henry in the ninth, but the two had met in extra innings before, on August 17, when the Cardinals were taking three of four from the Braves. With a chance to sweep the series and make a tight race even closer, Henry hit a game-winning, one-out double off m.u.f.fett in the tenth for a 54 win.

Now, here they were in the eleventh. Logan singled between outs by Schoendienst and Mathews. Henry stood at the plate, with two outs. With none on back in the seventh, Hutchinson had walked him intentionally. Now, Adc.o.c.k wasn't even in the game, having been lifted for a pinch runner, and the pitcher, Conley, was on deck. Yet Fred Hutchinson made the fateful decision to pitch to Henry.

Bud Selig would not forget the sequence. It was the first pitch, and Henry leaned forward, hands back, and sliced the ball into the right-center gap. He quickly rose to his feet, more hopeful than certain that the ball would drop, that Logan could score from first. The right fielder, Irv Noren, took a hard angle racing toward the fence.

Chuck Tanner had seen that kind of swing from Henry many times before. "You wanna know how quick his hands were? There was a game when Henry had two strikes on him. The umpire was an old, tough b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Al Barlick. The ball was on the outside corner and Barlick had raised his right hand to call strike three. Henry was out! Henry was out! The ball was by him. The signal was up. And he swung and hit the ball out of the ballpark. Never saw anyone do it as many times as he could. Hit it right out of the park." The ball was by him. The signal was up. And he swung and hit the ball out of the ballpark. Never saw anyone do it as many times as he could. Hit it right out of the park."

Logan ran furiously, head down, and only the crowd told him the ball had cleared the fence. Henry had won the pennant. During the weeklong stretch that turned a close race into a t.i.tle, Henry had come to bat twenty-eight times, nailed fourteen hits, scored eight runs, and hit three home runs.

The next day, after a night of beer showers and champagne and thinking about the Yankees in the World Series, "Toothpick Sam" Jones took the mound for the Cardinals. It was a meaningless game, but no confrontation between Henry and Sam Jones could ever be entirely meaningless. Jones loaded the bases in the first inning, and Henry, looking for an appropriate exclamation point to the regular season, blasted home run number forty-four-a grand slam-into the left-field seats.

When the pennant-winning home-run ball cleared the fence, Henry's teammates carried him off the field. Time Time, which two months earlier had referred to him as "The Talented Shuffler," now used words out of Scripture, Exodus 8:17, to paint the deed: "For Aaron stretched out his hand115 with his rod, and smote the dust of the earth." with his rod, and smote the dust of the earth."

When Henry was a boy, tossing stones in the air, driving them into the right-center-field gap of his imagination, he wanted to be Bobby Thomson, carried off the field by his teammates. The front page of the Journal Journal the day after the Braves-Cardinals game served as a bittersweet reminder of the conflicts and contradictions that would define the rest of his life. the day after the Braves-Cardinals game served as a bittersweet reminder of the conflicts and contradictions that would define the rest of his life.