Atlanta stayed away from Aaron while he marched to immortality

Hank Aaron was a quiet superstar, never one to trash-talk, never one to seek attention.  Only once in his career was he ejected from a game.  I frequently covered the Atlanta Braves as he pursued, usually with few witnesses, the most sacred record in American sports: Babe Ruth’s 714 home runs.  

In 1973, the year he tied Ruth, the Braves averaged attendance of 9,900, but I recall games when only 2,000 were there.  From the press box I could hear foul balls rattling around the aluminum seats and pitchers cursing on the mound, Nolan Ryan being the loudest.  “You could almost hear someone cracking open a peanut,” Aaron wrote in his engaging 1991 autobiography, I Had a Hammer.  “Atlanta overwhelmed me with its indifference.”

Henry Louis Aaron died Friday in Atlanta, of heart disease, at 86.  The impact he had on baseball and the rest of American culture is incalculable.  

The visuals are not Ruthian.  He did not launch bombs.  Most of his home runs cleared the fence by only four or five feet.  He sought singles and doubles more than homers.  He was all about consistency on a team that didn’t have much.  His career batting average was .305 — ahead of the Hit King, Pete Rose.  Aaron holds the major-league records for RBI and total bases.

His success put him at the flashpoint of the civil rights battle.   White supremacists had even more swagger then than now.  They could not abide a black man overtaking Ruth.  

The city that prided itself on being “too busy to hate” found time to harass Hank Aaron.  I saw bumper stickers saying, “Aaron is Ruth-less.”

“My kids had to live like they were in prison because there were kidnap threats,” Aaron told The New York Times.  “My thousands of letters had to be opened by the FBI.  But I couldn’t let that stand in my way.”

He was uncomfortable as a crusader.  After his brief comments in New York about hatred engulfing him, I tried to entice him to open up.  But he demurred: “I’m putting that behind me.”  In fairness to Atlanta, Aaron said a majority of the death threats came from New York.

Wherever he was, he found limited enthusiasm for his march to immortality, though somehow he maintained a sense of humor.  

Like most big-leaguers, Aaron could enjoy a creative prank of dubious taste.  

One of his victims: traveling secretary Donald Davidson, who was 4-foot-2, his stature curtailed by a childhood bout of sleeping sickness.  

Prior to checking into a hotel, Aaron would call the front desk: “Mr. Davidson likes to be on the highest floor.”  After keys were distributed, “Bad Henry,” as he was jovially nicknamed, would hold back laughter as Davidson strained and jumped in the elevator trying to reach the button for the 20th floor.  

When it came to playing baseball, Aaron was the no-nonsense consummate professional.  He had a scientific approach to hitting.  Sandy Koufax said Aaron was by far the batter he most feared.  Asked how he was so so effective against the greatest pitcher of his generation, Aaron said, “Most batters waited for his fastball.  I went up there looking for the curve.  I knew he was going to throw me his best pitch.”

If Atlanta was not consumed by Aaron’s historic quest, the Atlanta Journal, where I worked, gave it its due, unleashing a brigade of reporters.  With Ruth and Aaron tied at 714, I was hoping to write a “sidebar” on the pitcher who gives up No. 715. 

Unfortunately, the LA Dodgers’ Al Downing refused to speak to media but left a tape recorder in the clubhouse with a short account of the fateful at-bat. 

Even though I had no story to write, I did receive a souvenir, along with everyone else  in the press box of Atlanta Stadium, which was two stadiums removed from the one the Braves use now.  Gold-plated medallions were distributed, with an image of Aaron swinging and, above him, in large numbers, “715.”  

Another Atlanta sportswriter who was not at the game asked me if he could have that keepsake.  This was before the memorabilia market took off, so I gave it away, having no idea what the limited-edition trinket might be worth some day.

My most rewarding encounter with Aaron would come a couple of decades later.  I sought his input on a favored topic of mine: the ineptitude of the lords of baseball.  Aaron provided a quote that attracted national attention: “Baseball has had very poor leadership.”

That evaluation upset commissioner Bud Selig, a close friend of Aaron ever since their time in Milwaukee in the 1950s. 

Selig called me at home to argue his case for being a very solid leader of baseball – certainly better than the iconic Kenesaw Mountain Landis, who he pointed out, correctly, “was a racist.”

I don’t think Aaron wanted to insult his long-time pal.  But he was committed to truth and shedding light, even when it caused him – and others — anguish.  He once said, “In terms of baseball I want to be remembered as playing the game the right way.  More important than that, I hope I was able to help mankind.”

“Playing the game the right way” was a gentle dig at Barry Bonds, who superseded Aaron as home run king by pumping himself up with steroids.  

As for helping mankind, Aaron did that by showing a still skeptical white America  that black athletes can excel mentally as well as physically.  That was an era when the NFL was shunning African American quarterbacks.  Meanwhile, Al Campanis, general manager of the Dodgers — the most forward-looking of ballclubs — infamously suggested that black players “lack the necessities” to manage.  Thankfully, times have changed, if not as much as we like to think.

Although Aaron in his prime was an above-average runner, he was not trackman- fast like Jackie Robinson and Willie Mays.  Nor was he massively sized like Willie McCovey.  But his understanding of the hitting process and his focused determination and grit were unsurpassed, as was his enduring dignity.  Putting the record book aside, Hank Aaron was a role model for everyone.  Of every race.