The Last Hero

Like many young baeball fans of the 1970s, one of my favorite players was Hank Aaron (the others were Al Kaline and Roberto Clemente). I was at just the right age to be excited about his breaking of Babe Ruth's all-time home run record, and watched live on April 8, 1974, when he took Al Downing deep for number 715. At that time he was the toast of America, but it was no secret, as revealed in Howard Bryant's fine biography of Aaron, The Last Hero, that it was a trying time for the man.

Henry Aaron (those who knew him never called him Hank), was from Mobile, Alabama. He had little formal baseball training, but despite that he dreamed of being a pro player. He didn't even play high school ball, instead honing his skills by hitting bottle caps with sticks. He signed with the Negro Leagues team the Indianapolis Clowns, and thus, before he retired in 1976, was the last active Major Leaguer who had played in those leagues.

Aaron was the first black player in the notoriously intolerant South Atlantic, or Sally, League, where he played for Jacksonville. He was such a good hitter that it was hard to keep him on the farm, and he ended up on the Milwaukee Braves in 1954.

Bryant covers those early years closely. The Braves, who had just moved over from Boston, were starting to form a good nucleus. I was interested to read how teams were shaking the dust and contemplating movement. The St. Louis Cardinals thought about moving to Houston (!), and Bill Veeck of the Browns wanted to move to Milwaukee, but ended going to Baltimore. If the Braves' ownership had hung on, they might have ended up staying in Boston and the Red Sox would have moved, as the latter would start on a several-year period of doldrums. Imagine how baseball would be different today without the Red Sox in Boston!

The Braves would end up in the World Series in 1957 and 1958, both times playing the Yankees. In '57 Aaron was MVP and they won, in '58 they would be one of the few teams that would blow a 3-1 game lead.

As the book goes on after that, though, the tone shifts from a seasonal diary to a more general approach to the man. The Braves, who would move to Atlanta in 1966, would go to the postseason only once more while Aaron was on the team (in 1969). Instead, Bryant focuses on Aaron's place in baseball history, and the most elusive subject of all--Aaron himself.

Bryant was able to interview Aaron for the book but he is the most incomplete character of the story. Bryant, in fact, goes off on tangents that at times made me forget the main subject of the book, particularly a chapter that is more about Jackie Robinson than Aaron. The truth appears to be that Aaron was a closed figure to most of the world, and very few people got to know him. After his career ended, many thought he was bitter or angry. He would be forever compared to Willie Mays, and Aaron always thought he was a better hitter.

The chapter detailing his chase of Ruth is terrific. Aaron snuck up on the record--it was thought Mays had the best chance, but tailed off at the end of his career. It was only after Aaron passed the 500-homer mark that people started taking him seriously. In 1973, at 39 years old, he hit 40 homers and ended the season one shy of Ruth. Death threats had already started pouring in, and he had his own security detail. On the first day of the 1974 season, in his first at bat, Aaron hit number 714 off of Jack Billingham in Cincinnati. The Braves' management, fearful he would set the record on the road, ordered manager Eddie Matthews to leave him on the bench, which prompted the ire of commissioner Bowie Kuhn (Aaron would have a long-time enmity for Kuhn).

But on that Monday night in Atlanta three days later Aaron did set the record at home. Bryant chooses to quote Vin Scully's eloquent call of the moment: "It is over. And for the first time in a long time that poker face of Aaron shows the tremendous relief...What a marvelous moment for baseball. What a marvelous moment for Atlanta and the state of Georgia. What a marvelous moment for the country and the world. A black man is getting a standing ovation in the Deep South for breaking a record of an all-time baseball idol. And is a great moment for all of us, and particularly for Henry Aaron."

Of course, underlying the Aaron story is what Philip Roth called the "human stain," race. Aaron battled racism, as did all black players in those days, when they couldn't stay in the same hotels that their white teammates stayed in. Aaron, who today is 77 years old, covered the period from when blacks couldn't play in the big leagues to when the stadium in Mobile, in which he wasn't allowed to attend or to play, now bears his name. It is an American story, and no matter how often it is told is resonates with the courage of those who defied the odds and achieved greatness.

Bryant ends the book with the spot Aaron was put in with regard to Barry Bonds breaking his record. It was a no-win situation--if Aaron showed any petulance, it would be seen as sour grapes, but to embrace it would have been a denial of Bonds' obvious cheating (Aaron hated cheating--Gaylord Perry and his spitball was a long-time nemesis). Aaron had no love for Bonds, and would not travel around with him as he passed milestones, but did finally tape a congratulatory message for him on the night Bonds hit home run 756.

The book, which is at times as serious as an autopsy, is well-written but occasionally sloppily copy edited. In one sentence, two different dates are listed for Aaron's second marriage. Bryant is thorough, but he has the uphill battle of trying to decipher a man who will not be solved. I think this passage says it best: "At virtually every major stage in Henry Aaron's professional life, a familiar pattern would develop, predictable as a 3-0 fastball: He would excel on the field and somehow become wounded off of it, slowly burning at yet another personal slight. It was only after he'd walked out the door, embarking on the next chapter of his life, that he would be rediscovered, the people he'd left behind realizing, too late, that the world without him seemed just a bit simpler. The reassessment would always be the same: Henry Aaron was a treasure after all. He carried himself with such dignity! And the people who wanted to celebrate him anew and be close to him and tell him how much he had touched them would always wonder why he appeared to live at a certain remove, and why he did not seem particularly overjoyed by their sudden and heartfelt acknowledgment."

In Tiger Stadium one day in 1975 or 1976 I had the chance to see Henry Aaron in person, while he played for the Milwaukee Brewers, and he hit a home run. The Tigers won the game, but I think I was more thrilled about seeing a bit of history.