The Death of a Hero

I opened my laptop at 6 in the morning while rubbing the sleep from my eyes and saw the headline, Hank Aaron had passed. For reasons I cannot explain, I felt my throat constrict and tears forming in the corners of my eyes. As I have gotten older this sort of thing happens more frequently than I would like to admit. My childhood heroes, like me, are getting older, and yet when one of them dies it always comes as a shock to the system. Now Hammerin’ Hank is gone.

When I was 8 years old I began a life long love affair with baseball, largely due to my older brother’s devotion to the game. His favorite players became my favorite players. For me it was always Mickey Mantle, Willie Mays, and Hank Aaron. In that order. I was a Mickey guy, mostly because Donnie was a Mickey guy. I remember checking a book out of the Claiborne Elementary School library in New Orleans, Louisiana that told the story of Mickey Mantle. It was entitled, The Commerce Comet, and I was in the 3rd grade. It was the first book I had ever checked out from a library. I read it in one day. There was much to like about The Mick. He was movie star handsome, could run like the wind and hit a baseball to the moon. But I also loved Willie Mays. He did everything with style and flash, the best center fielder in the game. Then there was Hank Aaron who did nothing with style and flash. He wasn’t particularly handsome, hardly ever had anything to say. While Mickey’s smile beamed out from the cover of magazines and Willie was in every highlight reel, Hank just plugged along. The PR people with the Braves tried to juice him up with the national sports media who were Mantle v Mays obsessed by giving him the nickname Hammerin’ Hank. But it never really worked. He was just a ball player more comfortable with his real name...Henry Aaron. He lacked both the charm and charisma of Willie and Mickey, but never the talent. The press was in love with the charmers who’s rivalry started in New York City. The Yankees and The Giants, the two glamour teams. Nobody cared about the small market Braves no matter where they played...Milwaukee or Atlanta. But Hank kept showing up for work every day, playing the game brilliantly. Then one day it occurred to the baseball writers that he had an excellent chance to make a run at the most hallowed record in a sport full of hallowed records...Babe Ruth’s home run title. Finally, after a spectacular career of excellence, he would be plunged into the white hot glare of national scrutiny in the summer of 1973 and the spring of 1974 as he chased down the Babe. Suddenly after each game a throng of reporters were at his locker sticking microphones in his face. He answered their stupid repetitive questions with short, boring answers.

During this pressure packed pursuit of an icon’s record, Hank Aaron received hate mail. Tens of thousands of letters of vicious, racist hate mail. Death threats poured in among them. Yet Henry Aaron kept hitting and kept up his largely silent quest. When he finally launched a pitch by the Dodger’s Al Downing over the left field wall into the waiting glove of reliever Tom House, it was finally over. At home plate he was mobbed by his teammates, but that didn’t stop a strong, long suffering and worried to death woman from plowing through the crowd to reach her son...

And now this strong, proud and unassuming man is gone.

Willie Mays was asked once about Hank Aaron. His words seem appropriate as an ending for this tribute:

“ Hank Aaron was the best person I ever met.”