Hank Aaron and the Home Run That Changed America

291 Pages·2004·2.53 MB·English

by  Tom Stanton

HANK AARON

HOME RUN
AND

THE

THAT CHANGED AMERICA

T S
OM TANTON
For Beth
CONTENTS
E-book Extras:
Stats, Facts, and Highlights
An Interview with Tom Stanton
A Note 1
1

Jackie’s Funeral 3
2

Invincible Babe 14
3

Spring in Florida 26
4

The Quest Begins 35
5

Atlanta Heartbreak 46
6

Cal’s Roscoe 62
7

The Rescue 74
8

Bowie and Mrs. Babe 86
9

Waiting for Roger 93
10
The Other Star 104
11

Sweet Home Alabama 112
12

A Hero Returns 125
13

Chicago Revival 133
14

Where Evil Lurks 139
15

Aaron’s Drama 150
16

Rainy Nights in Georgia 161
17

Atlanta’s Redemption 168
18

King Henry 180
19

The Hideaway 191
20

Amid a Storm 199
21

715 212
Epilogue: The Legacy 225
Bibliography: Selected Books,
Articles, and Other Sources 233
Acknowledgments 240
Searchable Terms 242
About the Author
Also by Tom Stanton
Credits
Cover
Copyright
About the Publisher
P hot og ra phs
A NOTE
I
n the early months of the 1973 baseball season, when reports
surfaced about the odious mail souring Hank Aaron’s
home-run pursuit, something stupendous happened. Tens
of thousands of children—from San Antonio, Texas, to Salem,
Oregon, from Marshfield, Wisconsin, to Mt. Vernon, New
York, and myriad places between—set out individually to lift
Hank Aaron’s spirits. This earnest, youthful army, raised on
Brady Bunch do-good and swayed by the words of Top 40
philosophers like Bill Withers (“Lean on me . . . I’ll help you
carry on”), rallied to Aaron’s side.
Through the eyes of these children, it seemed a simple
morality play, the line dividing right from wrong as sharp and
crisp as the one separating fair territory from foul on the ball
diamonds of our youths. The solution seemed just as simple:
Write a letter. That it occurred to so many of us at once testifies
to something universal in the unjaded heart. That we thought
our letters alone could eradicate the evil heaped upon our hero
affirms our age and naiveté.
I sent my letter that spring, in the twelfth year of my life,
decorating the white envelope with red and blue markers, the
2 Tom Stanton
patriotic colors of the Braves. In summer, a note of thanks came
from Atlanta, Georgia, accompanied by a postcard signed, “To
Tom. Best wishes. Hank Aaron.” Of course, given the quantity
of mail, there was no human way for Aaron to have personally
answered my letter. But I was convinced he had, and his words
endeared him to me. It’s not a unique story. That year, Hank
Aaron received more mail than anyone but the president. You
may have sent one of those letters yourself, and you may have
gotten one of those postcards, too. If so, you—like me and tens
of millions of others—were probably watching when he stepped
to the plate on April 8, 1974.
Some shared moments touch us so deeply that they be-
come part of our national fabric: John F. Kennedy waving from
the backseat of a limousine in Dallas; Neil Armstrong stepping
onto the moon; the space shuttle Challenger exploding in
sunny skies over Cape Canaveral. Rarely do sporting events
transcend athletics and resonate for the country in such a pow-
erful way.
Yet, three decades later, we still see the stands packed, the
field aglow, Hank Aaron swinging, the ball rising, the crowd
standing, the humble trot around the bases, two exuberant
college-age intruders, the embrace at home plate, a wet-eyed
smile, and a white ball clenched and held aloft by a black hand.
The images remain indelible.
This book tells the story. It is about Hank Aaron’s pursuit
of the national pastime’s most cherished record. It is about a
chase that provoked bigotry, shattered prejudice, and shook
stereotypes. It is about a quiet, private man who endured ha-
tred, suffered death threats, and grew more determined to
achieve his goal. It is also about heroes and friends and family—
and a brief span of time that helped America define itself.
Our story begins in 1972.
—Tom Stanton
January 2004
1

JACKIE’S FUNERAL
T
hey came in silence and in somber suits. Thousands of
them, many famous, most not, politicians and sports
stars and civil rights leaders alongside schoolchildren
and factory workers and fans of a team that long ago played in
Brooklyn. They came from across the country, by plane and
train and limousine, from Washington and Chicago, from
Pasadena, California, and Mobile, Alabama, and every borough
of New York City, a river of people flowing through the heavy,
etched doors of the Neo-Gothic Riverside Church near
Harlem, flowing beneath a dingy row of granite angels into the
cool, solemn darkness of a sanctuary where the Rev. Martin
Luther King once pleaded for peace.
They came for Jackie Robinson.
It was warm for late October, a Friday in 1972, the presi-
dential election just days away. Outside, the sky was bright with
sunshine, the crowded pavement drenched in the shadows of the
twenty-one-story church. Inside, light filtered through stained-
glass windows and touched the wooden pews as mourners
strode past the open, gray-blue casket of the man who in 1947
had become the first black to play baseball in the major leagues.