The Last Hero_ A Life Of Henry Aaron Part 12

That was when the old man164-Joseph P. Kennedy, patriarch of the family, whose financial wealth was rivaled only by the wealth of his connections, former amba.s.sador to the Court of St. James-stepped in. It was the resourceful Joe who knew whom to talk to in Wisconsin. Kennedy contacted Joe Timilty, one of his flamboyant and loyal (if not completely scrupulous) Boston a.s.sociates and directed Timilty to get in touch with Duffy Lewis, the Braves traveling secretary. The connection with Lewis came, naturally, from Boston, when Lewis was (with Harry Hooper and Tris Speaker) part of Boston's Million-Dollar Outfield, winning championships with the Red Sox back in the teens, and when Joe Kennedy was what he always would be: the power behind the power. It was Joe who understood at once that the best way to neutralize the famous Jackie Robinson was to enlist the most famous black man in the state of Wisconsin, Henry Aaron. Understanding the power of advantage, Joe also asked Lewis to recruit the second second most popular black man in the state, as well. And that was how both Henry Aaron and Billy Bruton enthusiastically agreed to campaign on behalf of John F. Kennedy for the 1960 Wisconsin primary. most popular black man in the state, as well. And that was how both Henry Aaron and Billy Bruton enthusiastically agreed to campaign on behalf of John F. Kennedy for the 1960 Wisconsin primary.

For the first time, Henry was in the act, beyond the batter's box. Bruton and Henry traveled throughout the state on behalf of Kennedy. In the heavily black areas of Milwaukee, where the city's black population comprised virtually that of the entire state, Henry stood firmly for Kennedy while his hero, Robinson, went on the attack, both in his Post Post column and on the campaign trail. column and on the campaign trail.

When the primary ended, Kennedy had scored a decisive victory over Humphrey, beginning the end of Humphrey's campaign. Henry would always talk about his campaigning for Kennedy as one of the significant moments in his life. Two years later, with Kennedy in office, Timilty wrote to Larry O'Brien, Kennedy's top aide, about obtaining a token of appreciation that Henry would treasure.

March 3, 1962My Dear Larry,165You will recall that during the Wisconsin Primary Campaign we needed the services of some Colored ball players to offset Jackie Robinson who appeared for Humphries [sic].At the suggestion of the Amba.s.sador I consulted Duffy Lewis and he obtained the services of the following players, who made personal appearances and speeches for us:Lou BurdetteHank AaronBill Bruton[...]I would greatly appreciate it, Larry, if you would honor this request.Sincerely yours, Joe A month later, on April 3, Timilty received the signed glossies (did they really really think Burdette, of all people, was a "Colored ball player"?) of President Kennedy and pa.s.sed them on to Duffy Lewis, but Henry would never know the backstory-that his usefulness to the campaign was not simply to help Kennedy win but to parry Robinson. Had Henry known that Robinson had chosen Humphrey, he might well have joined Robinson in supporting Humphrey against Kennedy. But he had no way of knowing he was being cultivated to neutralize the most iconic black athlete in the country's history. Henry would call his a.s.sociation in the 1960 campaign an "honor," and for the next half century, he would support Democratic candidates at every political level. think Burdette, of all people, was a "Colored ball player"?) of President Kennedy and pa.s.sed them on to Duffy Lewis, but Henry would never know the backstory-that his usefulness to the campaign was not simply to help Kennedy win but to parry Robinson. Had Henry known that Robinson had chosen Humphrey, he might well have joined Robinson in supporting Humphrey against Kennedy. But he had no way of knowing he was being cultivated to neutralize the most iconic black athlete in the country's history. Henry would call his a.s.sociation in the 1960 campaign an "honor," and for the next half century, he would support Democratic candidates at every political level.

Although Henry had always considered Jackie Robinson his standard of courage and commitment, the perfect blend of athletic achievement and social conscience, he would not approach his activism in the often isolated, crusading Robinson manner. Following Humphrey's withdrawal from the presidential race, Robinson campaigned vigorously for Nixon against Kennedy.

Robinson seemed particularly wounded by the Nixon defeat, and even as Nixon reached his first political nadir, Robinson continued to believe in him. On Chock Full o' Nuts stationery, Robinson wrote to Nixon on November 12, 1962: Mr. Richard Nixonc/o Republican HeadquartersLos Angeles, CaliforniaDear d.i.c.k:166It is difficult to write a letter such as this, but I shall do the best I can.The only regret I have in supporting you twice is that I was unfortunate not to have been able to help more than I did. I am sorry also that most Negroes were unwilling to believe the promises you made. I personally was, and still am, convinced that you were the best candidate for the presidency in 1960 and a man we need very much in Government Service.I am concerned because you have said that you have had your last press conference. I hope that you will reconsider, d.i.c.k, because it is the great men people attack. You are good for politics; good for America. As one who has great confidence in you and who sincerely appreciates the opportunity of having known and worked for you, I urge you to remain active. There is so much to be done and there are too few qualified people to do the job now. Your loss would be an added blow to our efforts. Do not let your critics cause you to give up your career. Each of us came into this world for a purpose. I believe that yours is service to our country.Cordially, Jackie Robinson Robinson would always pay the heavy price of loneliness for his activism and his headfirst approach. Pa.s.sion is often uncomplicated, and in complex political waters, Robinson flailed admirably and desperately, seeking a similar commitment for civil rights.

Yet in the end, before history would completely recognize Robinson's pa.s.sion triumphing over his strategy, he lived as the single-minded outsider, loyal to the cause, at the cost of his allies ignoring him. Once it became clear that whatever Robinson saw in him as a man, Nixon's loyalties were with a Republican party that regarded civil rights with hostility, Robinson would eventually even break with Nixon on a political level, while maintaining a personal fondness for him.

On July 25, two days after being elected to the Hall of Fame, Robinson seemed melancholy, his fire submitting to his heart. In a sentimental moment, he wrote a letter to Walter O'Malley, an attempt at reconciliation, or at least closure.

Dear Mr. O'Malley,167Sunday night, as I had dinner with my family at the Otesago Hotel in Cooperstown, I had the opportunity of chatting with Mrs. O'Malley briefly. We talked about things I am sure she does not remember, but I really wanted to talk with her about you and I.I couldn't help but feel sad by the fact that the next day I was entering the hall of Fame and I did not have any real ties with the game. I thought back to my days at Ebbetts Field, and kept wondering how our relationship had deteriorated. Being stubborn, and believing that it all stemmed from my relationship with Mr. Rickey, I made no attempt to find the cause. I a.s.sure you, Rae has on many occasions discussed this, and she too feels we should at least talk over our problems. Of course, there is the possibility that we are at an impa.s.se, and nothing can be done. I feel, however, I must make this attempt to let you know how I sincerely regret we have not tried to find the cause for this breach.I will be in Los Angeles on Friday. If you feel you have about fifteen minutes, I'll drop by. I shall call your office when I arrive.Sincerely yours, Jackie Robinson After writing the letter, Robinson lived ten more years, O'Malley for another seventeen. Robinson grew as an unquestionable American icon, while O'Malley would live as one of the venerable family names in baseball. For the sake of scrubbing history, Peter O'Malley, who succeeded his father in running the Dodgers for nearly another two decades, would say that Walter never held Robinson in anything less than admiration. Of course, as Robinson grew beyond baseball to the top shelf of American legend, O'Malley criticizing him was about as smart as trading Frank Robinson for Milt Pappas. Regardless of the reason, one fact remained throughout the lives of the particulars involved: The reconciliation Robinson sought between himself and Walter O'Malley in the summer of 1962 never took place.

Henry learned a valuable lesson. Beginning in the early years of the 1960s it would be Henry who often articulated the cost of Robinson's pa.s.sion, noting in interviews that Robinson was never offered a coaching, managerial, or front-office position at any level of the major-league baseball system. Nor was he asked to manage in the minor leagues or to scout. Even Branch Rickey, who had been part of two organizations, the Pirates and Cardinals, following Jackie's retirement, did not offer him a job. Where baseball was concerned, he was the loneliest immortal in history, his isolation comparable only to Babe Ruth's, who was discarded by the game as casually as a hot-dog wrapper.

INSIDE THE GAME, Henry was famous and respected and comfortable, and time and success had distanced him from the way things once were, from his old place in line. Segregation had ensured that he would never feel complete in Mobile, even though it was home, and when he'd arrived in Milwaukee a decade earlier, the heart and soul and imagination of the team had begun with Mathews and Spahn. Now, he was ten years older, and so, too, were the fans who had come to the ballpark for all those years. The kids who used to line Wisconsin Avenue for the parades of the 1950s had now gone to college and built families and careers, the younger ones-now that Spahn had aged and Mathews was less dominant-having grown up with Henry as their unquestioned star. Even fans like Bud Selig, who were the same age as Henry (Henry was six months older than Selig), knew the Henry Aaron routines by heart and would be as tickled by him as when they were teenyboppers looking for a prom date: the two bats he swung in the on-deck-circle dress rehearsal, no batting gloves; the front-foot stomp and drive as the pitch approached, leading easily into that signature flash of violence; the lightning spark of his bat slashing through the strike zone. They emulated him in their slow-pitch softball games, copied his moves in the backyard with their kids while playing Wiffle ball, and recalled from their lush reservoir of memories Henry's limp during his home-run trot. There was the way he stood impa.s.sively on deck, on one knee, watching the pitcher solemnly, awaiting his chance. These traits, the kids rattled off by heart. Even when he struck out, especially on a slider, Henry would pirouette, a futile corkscrew following a swing and miss, before walking, head down, toward the dugout, rarely giving the pitcher the satisfaction of that over-the-shoulder peek back at the mound. Fifty years later, Bud Selig still delighted in all of these unique stylistic traits, how Henry's bat would lash so viciously across the plate, lacing home runs into the Perini pines that didn't seem to lift more than ten feet off the ground, simple doubles in the alleys for other players. "n.o.body," Selig would say, "hit more home runs168 that everyone else thought that everyone else thought might might hit the wall. With Henry, you looked up, and the ball was. .h.i.t the wall. With Henry, you looked up, and the ball was gone." gone." Henry would lope stoically around the bases, stern as a lumberjack, only to break into smile once safely in the dugout. Henry would lope stoically around the bases, stern as a lumberjack, only to break into smile once safely in the dugout.

The Milwaukee fans even knew how Henry held his cigarette, right arm tight to his body as he took a long drag, head always facing in the opposite direction from where he would eventually flick away the spent b.u.t.t. Henry had smoked since he was a teenager shooting pool on Davis Avenue. During the 1950s, advertising campaigns often featured major-league players (how to smoke like a big leaguer) (how to smoke like a big leaguer), the perfect recruiting tool for a new generation of tobacco consumers. Sometimes, the fans with the best angle could look into the dugout and catch Henry stealing a drag before walking to the on-deck circle, extinguishing a b.u.t.t on the bottom of his spikes. Like his idol DiMaggio, Henry adopted Camels as his cigarette of choice. It would always be unclear whether Henry succ.u.mbed to advertising, but DiMaggio once appeared in a Camel ad: "Joe DiMaggio has something to say about how different cigarettes can be." Henry never admitted it to be true, but some Aaron fans distinctly remember Henry taking a drag once or twice near the on-deck circle. Take your pick of the magazines-Sport, Sports Ill.u.s.trated, The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post, and you would likely find a ballplayer selling cigarettes.

THE CAMEL MILDNESS TEST169How thorough can cigarette mildness be? Here's your answer!In a coast-to-coast test, hundreds of men and women smoked only Camels for 30 days, averaging 12 packs a day. Each well-noted throat specialist examined their throats. These doctors made 2,470 careful examinations and reported not one single case of throat irritation due to smoking Camels!VIC RASCHI-"You can't beat 'em for flavor-and they're mild!"BOB LEMON-"Camels are great tasting, and mild!"MEL PARNELL-"I like the taste and they get on fine with my throat. It's Camels for me!"

Seven years later, Henry got his turn, appearing in his own ad for Camels. Gracing the pages of a 1958 Life Life magazine advertis.e.m.e.nt, Henry wore a tweed jacket, a cigarette resting carefully in his left hand. magazine advertis.e.m.e.nt, Henry wore a tweed jacket, a cigarette resting carefully in his left hand.

HANK AARON HIT MORE HOMERS than any other ballplayer in the majors last season. He also led both leagues in total runs batted in, won the National League's Most Valuable Player Award, and paced the Milwaukee Braves to their world championship. This real pro smokes Camel, a real cigarette. "Can't beat 'em for flavor. And Camels sure smoke mild."

The fans were protective of their hero, and he made them feel safe and good about their unexpected, glorious moment in time. The only problem was that in the 1960s, for the first time, the graphlines of Henry Aaron and those of the Milwaukee Braves trended divergently. In the beautiful 1950s, with the Braves challenging for pennants, Milwaukeeans raced through the turnstiles as if it were ten-cent beer night, and Henry was just another one of the players, an undeniably outsized talent to be sure, but without the clubhouse influence (and responsibilities) of Mathews and Spahn, Burdette and Logan and Bruton.

Within a decade, though, Henry had run right past them all. Some of the distance from his early years certainly benefited him, for he was eager to escape so much of the old life, starting with the tiresome act of having to accept the daily humiliation of being depicted as a simpleton. He had actively begun to reinvent himself, augmenting his awesome statistics with political awareness and social clout, while all the while growing more resolute in his belief that his baseball talent meant nothing if it did not translate to improving the general condition of the world around him. He was a man rounding into substantive form. Some of the changes were dramatic. He had made the conscious decision to be more outspoken on racial issues, striking up a friendship with the football player Jim Brown, then considered the most politically minded black athlete in the country. He had chosen to be more active in politics. These characteristics were easily detectable to his teammates (if not exactly understood), while others were deemed only superficial. One such change was in his dress. In the 1950s, Henry dressed like an insurance salesman-short-sleeve oxford-cloth shirt, dark, thin tie with a half Windsor knot, dark pants. Into the 1960s, as he began to make more money and grew more into himself, compared to his first years in the league, Henry looked more like a kaleidoscope: plaid and checkered suits, sungla.s.ses, Afro, and, that great staple of the 1960s, turtlenecks with a sport coat. Both poles, those of politics and fashion, however, represented a singular truth: Henry had left one stage of his career and entered another.

And as he grew, the Braves just could not keep up. For 130 games in 1960, Milwaukee fought emerging Pittsburgh for the pennant, only to finish second, seven games back. The key sequence between the two clubs occurred in late July, with the young Pirates-led by the hard-nosed shortstop d.i.c.k Groat (who would win the league MVP that year) and featuring the pa.s.sionate, determined right fielder Clemente-holding a half-game lead. Two years earlier, when the Braves won their second pennant, the Pirates had challenged but wilted at roughly the same point in the season, late July, when pitching arms die and the bats feel more like lead than lightning. And here it was, poised to happen all over again, the Braves, veterans at breaking pretenders as the summer intensified, ready to catapult the Pirates back into the land of the almost ready. On the night of July 26 in San Francisco, Sam Jones blinded the Braves lineup for six innings. He would strike out eleven, including a furious Henry, to lead off the seventh. But Milwaukee pushed home a run in the seventh, and then Henry singled and scored off Jones for payback, as well as making an eighth-inning insurance run, in a 31 win. The lead was still wafer-thin. Spahn and Burdette were next in the rotation, while Pittsburgh was in St. Louis to face a Cardinals team that was just beginning to show threats of being dangerous. The pressure was on the Pirates.

Then, over the next fifteen games, the Braves lost eleven times, five to the Dodgers, dropping them down to fourth place, while Pittsburgh, green to the fight, embraced the pressure and won eleven games during the same stretch. The lead was seven, and the pennant was gone. The following year, it was an inspired Cincinnati team that clubbed its way to the pennant, while Milwaukee dropped to fourth, ten games back. Nineteen sixty-two belonged to the West Coast, the renewal of the old New York rivalry to a new time zone. The Dodgers and Giants won 205 games between them, and played an epic three-game play-off that ended with Mays once again in the World Series. The Braves didn't overcome the .500 mark for good until July 25 and finished as poorly as they'd ever had since arriving in Milwaukee, fifteen and a half games out, in fifth place.

The only thing that gave 1962 special heft was that Henry's little brother Tommie made the big-league club out of spring training. For the first time in organized ball, Henry and Tommie would be teammates. Five and a half years younger, Tommie Aaron was a big kid. He stood six-one, and weighed 190 pounds, fifteen pounds more than Henry had at eighteen. He had played baseball as religiously as Henry, but also football at Central High.

The Braves had signed Tommie back in 1958, but, unlike Henry, Tommie Aaron was not a can't-miss prospect. Henry played a total of just 224 games in the minor leagues, and hit .353 in those games. Tommie followed immediately in Henry's footsteps-two seasons in Eau Claire, Cla.s.s C ball, then a full season at Cla.s.s B Cedar Rapids of the Three-I league in 1960, with cups of coffee in Jacksonville and Louisville. In 1961, he played 138 games in Double-A Austin of the Texas League, but the game did not seem to come easily to him. Henry believed he indirectly affected Tommie's progress, for the Aaron name produced expectations that the little brother would possess the same magic of his older, famous sibling.

For Tommie, just reaching the majors, to be on the roster, he would need to study and learn the game, find coaches interested in his success, and work at it. In the minor leagues, he was a respectable hitter-.274 his first year in Eau Claire, .299 both at Cedar Rapids and Austin-and had power. In the majors, hitting-which was the difference between staying with the club and being sent back down-would be the weakest part of Tommie's game.

Yet having Tommie in the big leagues changed the dynamic of the Braves clubhouse, and the other Braves asked themselves that old saw: How could two people who grew up in the very same circ.u.mstances, in the same house, with the same parents, be so different?

While Henry kept his distance, Tommie was the gregarious one, navigating each clique that existed in the room, soaking up the clubhouse energy, recycling it back. Henry loved baseball, but Tommie seemed to love it and and enjoy it simultaneously. Joe Torre used to marvel at just how fast after games Henry would dress and leave the clubhouse, but Tommie was the opposite. He talked the game, chatted up the coaches and the managers and the clubhouse kids. It was part of Tommie's personality that had been evident even back in Mobile. enjoy it simultaneously. Joe Torre used to marvel at just how fast after games Henry would dress and leave the clubhouse, but Tommie was the opposite. He talked the game, chatted up the coaches and the managers and the clubhouse kids. It was part of Tommie's personality that had been evident even back in Mobile.

"He was such a good, open man,"170 Joe Torre said. "A really good man with a really good baseball mind. Tommie was always quick with a laugh, and he made it easier for Hank." Joe Torre said. "A really good man with a really good baseball mind. Tommie was always quick with a laugh, and he made it easier for Hank."

For a time, Tommie lived with Barbara and Henry. He hadn't been on the big-league club long before he met a girl, whom he would marry. Carolyn Davenport had been a friend of Nancy Maye, wife of Braves reserve outfielder Lee Maye. Carolyn had grown up in Little Rock, but the family moved to Milwaukee when she was fifteen. Her father, Willis Davenport, was a steelworker and relocated the family after finding work at Inland Steel.

She had little interest in baseball, but she and Tommie connected quickly. "It was almost from the time we met,"171 she recalled. "I met Tommie at the ballpark and little did I know. I didn't know the rules, but it became normal fast. I just got used to it." she recalled. "I met Tommie at the ballpark and little did I know. I didn't know the rules, but it became normal fast. I just got used to it."

Having Tommie on the club brought Henry even closer to the city and the club, but one by one, the old cast who'd whooped it up at Ray Jackson's faded. Pafko was finished after the 1959 collapse to the Dodgers, remaining with the team as a coach. Johnny Logan lost his starting job to Roy McMillan, and he was traded to the Pirates for Gino Cimoli in June 1961. He played two more uninspired years for Pittsburgh and retired to his house on the South Side. Joe Adc.o.c.k's last big year came in 1961; then the bottom fell out and he was done in Milwaukee the following year. Bruton was never again the same player defensively after the collision with Mantilla in 1957. He led the team in hits in 1960, then was sent off to Detroit that winter for Neil Chrisley and Frank Bolling, the Mobile boy against whom Henry played as a kid in the sandlots but never as a teammate, since whites and blacks were prohibited from competing in Alabama. Mantilla, who never could convince management he was good enough to be an everyday player, was gone in 1962, sent to the hapless expansion Mets, where he played for Casey Stengel. Frank Torre got hurt in 1960, played just twenty-one games, and was released, replaced in 1961 by his talented little brother Joe. There were two whippersnappers, Tony Cloninger and Joe Torre, who were destined for long, productive careers, and another, the talented Ricardo Adolfo Jacobo Carty, whom Henry would take under his wing, but many of the new faces wouldn't last. Chuck Dressen, Jackie Robinson's favorite manager, took over the club in 1960; he talked tough but lasted just two seasons. Dressen never blended with this club;172 he lost Spahn and Burdette almost immediately, reduced to calling the two "the Katzenjammer Kids." Birdie Tebbetts, the general manager, came down from the front office and guided the team right into fifth place. Bobby Bragan, the southerner who once preferred to be traded than to have Jackie Robinson as a teammate, took over, and the results didn't get any better. he lost Spahn and Burdette almost immediately, reduced to calling the two "the Katzenjammer Kids." Birdie Tebbetts, the general manager, came down from the front office and guided the team right into fifth place. Bobby Bragan, the southerner who once preferred to be traded than to have Jackie Robinson as a teammate, took over, and the results didn't get any better.

Some of the names were still there, but they were just ghosts, closer to the Old-Timers Game than a September pennant race. Spahn stubbornly beat back time, winning twenty-three games as a forty-two-year-old in 1963, but he would be gone a year later to the Mets and Giants and Cooperstown. Burdette won eighteen games in 1961 but would never win more than ten in a season thereafter. By 1963, he was traded to St. Louis for Gene Oliver and Bob Sadowski. Even Mathews, once projected to give Ruth a run for his money, wheezed to the finish. He would remain with Henry in Milwaukee, but he could never drive in one hundred runs or hit better than .265 after 1961. Mathews, in his time the greatest power-hitting third baseman ever, would hit thirty home runs only once more. In Milwaukee, the names were just that, names that produced a seductive whiff of sentimentality, giving off a teasing and bittersweet aroma no different from that of the old bread factory, which had long ceased production.

AND THEN THERE was Henry. As a player in his prime who could conjure up the old wistful magic and still put a hurting on Koufax, Drysdale, and the new kids who were starting to dominate the National League, there was, in Milwaukee, only Henry. And he was brilliant: .292 average, 40 homers, 126 RBI, 11 triples in 1960; 34 home runs, a .327 average, and 120 driven in the following year. Then came the two monster years that dwarfed Mays, Mantle, Maris, all of them, and put Henry on the Cooperstown track, an equal with the greats but second to n.o.body: .323, with 45 bombs, 128 driven in 1962, backed up by a torrid .319 average, with 44 homers, 130 RBI, and 201 hits in 1963. was Henry. As a player in his prime who could conjure up the old wistful magic and still put a hurting on Koufax, Drysdale, and the new kids who were starting to dominate the National League, there was, in Milwaukee, only Henry. And he was brilliant: .292 average, 40 homers, 126 RBI, 11 triples in 1960; 34 home runs, a .327 average, and 120 driven in the following year. Then came the two monster years that dwarfed Mays, Mantle, Maris, all of them, and put Henry on the Cooperstown track, an equal with the greats but second to n.o.body: .323, with 45 bombs, 128 driven in 1962, backed up by a torrid .319 average, with 44 homers, 130 RBI, and 201 hits in 1963.

Nineteen sixty-three was the big one big one. At the plate, n.o.body was better. He led the league in home runs, but only once, on September 10 against Cincinnati, did he hit two in a game. He led the league in runs batted in and runs scored, was second in the league in stolen bases and hits. He lost the batting t.i.tle to Tommy Davis by seven points-finishing third behind Davis and Clemente-and those seven points would have given him the Triple Crown. The future Hall of Famers on the mound didn't want any part of him. Henry hit .471 against Drysdale with four homers and .318 off Marichal (though one, Bob Gibson, handled him easily, holding Henry to just two hits in fifteen at bats).

Perhaps more than any other period in his professional life, the years from 1960 to 1965 would define the enduring parameters of the Henry Aaron story, for it was during those years when the common and convenient belief that Henry Aaron played his entire baseball career in relative obscurity was born. The press was rightfully blinded by Mays and Mantle, but the professionals knew the Aaron presence. It was after 1963 that Drysdale and Koufax nicknamed Aaron "Bad Henry," and why not? At Dodger Stadium, even though Koufax kept Henry mortal (no homers, three RBI on the year), Henry hit .406.

"The two things I remember most173 about being behind the plate when Henry came up was that you really couldn't pitch to him in any sort of pattern and this wonderful sound he made when he came to bat," said Tim McCarver, the Cardinals and Phillies catcher. "He would step to the plate, settle in to hit. But before he did, he would give this noise that came from the bottom of his throat. about being behind the plate when Henry came up was that you really couldn't pitch to him in any sort of pattern and this wonderful sound he made when he came to bat," said Tim McCarver, the Cardinals and Phillies catcher. "He would step to the plate, settle in to hit. But before he did, he would give this noise that came from the bottom of his throat.

"There were only two hitters I ever remember making that, that sound sound when they came to bat: Henry Aaron and Mike Schmidt," McCarver recalled. "It was so when they came to bat: Henry Aaron and Mike Schmidt," McCarver recalled. "It was so regal regal, the gentleman clearing his throat before going to work. Never forgot it."

The greatest Aaron protectors in the press were on the West Coast, the most prominent being Jim Murray, the legendary Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times columnist. Murray believed Henry to be a better player than Willie or the rest. Henry was not exactly pleased, but he adopted the persona of the stoic construction worker building a skysc.r.a.per in the Midwest while the entire world was paying attention to Yankee Stadium to the east or to Willie Mays to the west, his peers only reminded by the enormous shadow of his c.u.mulative achievements when he quietly pa.s.sed another milestone. The other was Frank Finch, the columnist. Murray believed Henry to be a better player than Willie or the rest. Henry was not exactly pleased, but he adopted the persona of the stoic construction worker building a skysc.r.a.per in the Midwest while the entire world was paying attention to Yankee Stadium to the east or to Willie Mays to the west, his peers only reminded by the enormous shadow of his c.u.mulative achievements when he quietly pa.s.sed another milestone. The other was Frank Finch, the Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times writer who covered the Dodgers. Few of his paragraphs regarding Aaron were not prefaced by Finch calling Henry the game's most devastating hitter. writer who covered the Dodgers. Few of his paragraphs regarding Aaron were not prefaced by Finch calling Henry the game's most devastating hitter.

Though for all of Henry's determination to be that person of substance and value, to make his presence as a dominant one on the field and in the public eye, a perfect storm was taking place during these years that would permanently conspire against him and his legacy.

THE VAUNTED CHARGE that turned Spahn and Burdette, Mathews, and Aaron into superstars never again materialized. Over a span of 959 games over 1,052 regular-season days between opening day 1960 and the close of the 1965 season, the Braves never spent consecutive days in first place, and in those six years, they spent just four days that turned Spahn and Burdette, Mathews, and Aaron into superstars never again materialized. Over a span of 959 games over 1,052 regular-season days between opening day 1960 and the close of the 1965 season, the Braves never spent consecutive days in first place, and in those six years, they spent just four days total total in first place, easily counted on one hand: one April day in 1961 (record 72), another April afternoon in 1963, and August 18 and 20 in 1965. in first place, easily counted on one hand: one April day in 1961 (record 72), another April afternoon in 1963, and August 18 and 20 in 1965.

And because of that, n.o.body cared that Henry was making a ferocious charge toward Mount Olympus, toward Cooperstown, toward respect. As the Braves disappeared in the standings, Henry was transformed from a phenomenon to the same una.s.suming, workmanlike figure they remembered from the 1950s, defined by the stilted commentaries of Furman Bisher and the imperceptive beat coverage of his earlier seasons. Even when a new breed of better educated, younger reporters arrived in the clubhouse, Henry was cold. The new generation viewed race differently from their predecessors and were clearly more sympathetic, but it did not matter. By this time, Henry was no longer a kid, willing to forgive. He had built up a protective wall around his heart, his privacy, his feelings. By this time, Henry had quit trying to cultivate the press.

"Anytime you went to talk to Aaron, he wouldn't let you in. You couldn't get through. You knew that it was rough for him and you tried to let him know that, but he was just mean," said Jack O'Connell, who has covered baseball for half a century.

Aside from the periodically jarring wire headline that that quiet Henry Aaron was upset about the sport's paternalistic role with regard to blacks ("WHEN WILL BASEBALL ADMIT WE HAVE BRAINS?"-AARON) the public at large did not take real notice, either of his dramatic personal evolution or the fact that for six full seasons on top of the five he had already produced during the glory years, he was absolutely killing the baseball.

He suffered from the fact that his team had lost its relevance and from the unfortunate curse of geography, but he did not know just how right he was about money. His ambitions were easy to misread, for he did not boast as Ruth and Williams and Foxx would, nor did he roil compet.i.tively in the mold of a Robinson or Cobb. Still, he knew whom he had to beat to secure his place in the order and he also believed that, to a degree, respect was reflected in money. He had eclipsed many of his teammates on the field of play and yet could not pa.s.s them in salary. In 1960 and 1961, Henry earned $45,000, $47,500 in 1962, followed by $53,000 in 1963, $61,000 in 1964, and $63,000 in 1965, according to salary data maintained by the National League. It would not be until 1963 that he would pa.s.s Burdette in salary, and he would not pa.s.s Spahn or Mathews while each wore a Braves uniform.

Over the history of the game, there had been only a few players who could bend the system. The original, of course, was Ruth, whose first contract in 1914 called for a salary of $350 per month, but by 1921 he was earning $40,000 per year. In 1927, Ruth earned seventy thousand dollars, and by 1930, with the country in the clutches of the Great Depression, eighty thousand.

Ted Williams was another. Williams received bonuses based on the Red Sox home attendance. By 1950, Williams was earning ninety thousand dollars.

But Willie Mays set the pace. In 1960, he signed for $80,000, $85,000 in 1961, $90,000 in 1962, and $105,000 in 1963, 1964, and 1965. During the same period, Mantle earned $60,000 in 1960, followed by $70,000 in 1961, $90,000 in 1963, and $100,000 in both 1964 and 1965.

Henry did not receive substantial raises, but it was the great Clemente who was clearly the most underpaid player of his era. Clemente earned $17,500 in 1960, the year the Pirates won the World Series, and did not receive a raise. By 1965 he was earning $34,000. For his career, Clemente topped out at $63,333, which he earned in 1972, the final year of his life.

Henry understood that playing in Milwaukee may have meant free gas from Wisco, but being situated away from the marketing and intellectual capitals of the country would have a significant cost.

I don't think I've earned my due174 in publicity or money. I've had a few magazine stories, a few endors.e.m.e.nts, mostly when we had a strong club in '57 and '58. A ballplayer felt it in his pocketbook when there was no National League team in New York, which is where the money is. When the Giants went to San Francisco, I never got what I should. The fans in Milwaukee have been very good to me. They never have booed me, even when I've been in some slumps and pulled some b.o.o.boos on the basepaths. They've always been very courteous to me. in publicity or money. I've had a few magazine stories, a few endors.e.m.e.nts, mostly when we had a strong club in '57 and '58. A ballplayer felt it in his pocketbook when there was no National League team in New York, which is where the money is. When the Giants went to San Francisco, I never got what I should. The fans in Milwaukee have been very good to me. They never have booed me, even when I've been in some slumps and pulled some b.o.o.boos on the basepaths. They've always been very courteous to me.There's been improvement for the Negro player these last few years, but I still think a lot more can be done. Take myself-I'd like to get the same treatment that the Mantles and Marises have gotten when I do as well as them. We have Mays and Robinson and myself over here in the National League. When we do well we don't get the publicity and what goes with it like they do. Mays gets more than the rest of us, but he don't get what he should be getting.

Aaron was the first of the major black stars who did not benefit from geography, either before he reached the big leagues or after, and what other black players may have lost in financial compensation compared to their white counterparts, Henry lost both in money and, in many ways, in dignity which he would fight to regain and to protect. He came from the nation's racially charged epicenter-Alabama-where the att.i.tudes and customs reflected those that first drove the country into the Civil War and then sheared it anew after Reconstruction.

He had sought respect, both as a man and a ballplayer. The perfect storm had conspired against him; other players better situated, with different, more marketable gifts, seemed destined always to be a step ahead of him in the public eye, even if not in the statistical columns. As the second half of the 1960s lurched forward, Henry knew what would separate him not simply from Robinson, Clemente, and Mays but also from Babe Ruth. That something was the all-time home-run record. If he corralled that, they would listen to him. They would all have no choice but to pay attention to what he had to say for the rest of his life.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

ATLANTA.

THE END OF the Milwaukee Braves was ugly and litigious, grievances thrown around like third graders do in the middle of a lunchtime food fight: the aggrieved citizens and public figures of Milwaukee versus the eager newcomers of Atlanta, lawsuits directed toward the once-beloved Braves front office, which returned fire with counter accusations and countersuits against the city that had once come gallantly to its rescue. The height of the rhetoric came courtesy of one Mr. John Doyne, an executive for Milwaukee County, who oversaw the Braves County Stadium lease. Doyne believed G.o.d and Commissioner of Baseball Ford Frick (in this instance, quite close to the same person) needed to intervene on behalf of his city. "This is a moral issue. the Milwaukee Braves was ugly and litigious, grievances thrown around like third graders do in the middle of a lunchtime food fight: the aggrieved citizens and public figures of Milwaukee versus the eager newcomers of Atlanta, lawsuits directed toward the once-beloved Braves front office, which returned fire with counter accusations and countersuits against the city that had once come gallantly to its rescue. The height of the rhetoric came courtesy of one Mr. John Doyne, an executive for Milwaukee County, who oversaw the Braves County Stadium lease. Doyne believed G.o.d and Commissioner of Baseball Ford Frick (in this instance, quite close to the same person) needed to intervene on behalf of his city. "This is a moral issue.175 Moral law, if you can use that term, would dictate that we would not try to pirate someone else's club," he told United Press International in the summer of 1964. Moral law, if you can use that term, would dictate that we would not try to pirate someone else's club," he told United Press International in the summer of 1964.

Now that really was a cheeky thing to say. Moving the franchise to Atlanta contained precisely the same "moral issues" as when Milwaukee celebrated the arrival of the Braves from Boston in 1953. The only difference this time was that instead of benefiting from the immorality of baseball piracy, Doyne and his friends at the Milwaukee Chamber of Commerce were the ones sitting in the loser's dugout.

The Braves, meanwhile, were quite ahead of their time, which in the taverns along Wisconsin Avenue was no compliment. Even more than the Dodgers and the Giants, teams more famous for their bitter departures, the Braves had now perfected the art of playing cities against one another for the purpose of extracting more money, better leases, new stadiums, bigger wedges of the financial pie. In future years, sports and business issues between munic.i.p.alities would become even more important than the score on the field, and in 1964 the Braves had engineered an enduring template. After nearly a century of being a generally nondescript franchise, the Braves had now become infamous pioneers, for teams across all professional sports would, if need be, follow their model, needing nothing more than a few years of tough times before either demanding from the city a new stadium (paid for by the public, of course) or ripping the hearts out of one fan base in search of love from another.

Unlike ownership's old guard, which was convinced that television would be the ruin of its collective financial empire, any new owner entering the game needed to learn how to transition from the prewar box-office model to the radio model to television. To the misfortune of Milwaukee as a baseball town, Perini was one of the first owners who began to think about cities not as cities, but as media markets markets, best valued by the amount of revenue they could produce through electronic media.

Attendance would always be important, but over time less from actual dollars and more because of what it represented: a product with which people would want to be a.s.sociated, a product advertisers would pay to support. The Milwaukee Braves radio broadcast network stretched as far as South Dakota, but the 1961 arrival of the Minnesota Twins (the old Washington Senators had run their course) began to choke the outer tributaries that once had belonged to Milwaukee. South Dakota became Twins country. Closer to Milwaukee, Cubs and White Sox games were broadcast to the city, both by grandfather rules and sheer proximity, forcing the Braves to compete with two other teams in its own city. Perini did not help matters, for he would only televise around thirty games per year, not many more than residents in the southern portions of the city and state could see from the Cubs.

ATLANTA OFFERED THE potential to own the entire region of the South. The closest baseball big-league team was the Cincinnati Reds, 450 miles away. Pro football was even more remote. Not only was it 550 miles to the closest pro city but the team happened to be those weekly Sunday football disasters, the St. Louis Cardinals. These geographic considerations represented an opportunity not to be squandered. Atlanta was the growing hub of the last region in the country not to be tapped for professional sports. potential to own the entire region of the South. The closest baseball big-league team was the Cincinnati Reds, 450 miles away. Pro football was even more remote. Not only was it 550 miles to the closest pro city but the team happened to be those weekly Sunday football disasters, the St. Louis Cardinals. These geographic considerations represented an opportunity not to be squandered. Atlanta was the growing hub of the last region in the country not to be tapped for professional sports.

Lou Perini and the Steam Shovels packed it in in 1962, selling the team to a group of kids for $5.5 million. The head kid was an ambitious thirty-four-year-old Chicago insurance man, William Bartholomay III. The rest of the group, virtually all scions of wealthy Chicago families, wasn't much older than Bill Bartholomay, who was the youngest of the conglomerate, but it was he who was clearly in charge. And John McHale, Perini's general manager, who also joined the Bartholomay group, received a share, proof that the transition would be seamless.

At the initial press conference about the sale, November 16, 1962, Bartholomay endeared himself and his ownership group to city officials by vowing that being from Chicago, a mere eighty-five miles from Milwaukee, qualified them as "local ownership," a shrewd strategy, considering that even during the winning years, Perini's emotional and physical distance had worn thin in the city.

Thirteen years earlier, it had been Milwaukee that represented the future. Now, it was Milwaukee that was geographically challenged, flanked to the south by two teams, the White Sox and Cubs, eighty-five miles away, and now by the former Washington Senators, the American League Minnesota Twins, 375 miles to the west. The region, even though Milwaukee's population actually increased increased, had simply grown too small to support a major-league ball club.

The future was what all mortal men craved, if not the whole thing, then just a slice big enough to serve as an epitaph. In this latest version, Bartholomay thought of himself as a man of singular vision, with an ambition to open a neglected but emerging region to baseball in the same audacious manner as Walter O'Malley. Atlanta was a city with a restless business community and a political landscape undergoing a revolutionary transition, one that would either exacerbate or soothe the racial conflicts that branded the region and divided the nation.

Bartholomay believed the city represented fertile territory for the right person, someone who could see opportunity where others saw only obstacles. "I thought about history,"176 he recalled. "The South was changing. Atlanta was the center of commerce there, with an aggressive, committed business community. I thought about how historic it would be to bring baseball to Atlanta in 1965, exactly one hundred years following the Civil War. I was very cognizant of that." he recalled. "The South was changing. Atlanta was the center of commerce there, with an aggressive, committed business community. I thought about how historic it would be to bring baseball to Atlanta in 1965, exactly one hundred years following the Civil War. I was very cognizant of that."

It was a good story, and maybe even parts of it were true, but little did anyone know the fix Atlanta was already in. No one admitted it, of course, but piece by piece, little by little, the forgotten sc.r.a.ps of details formed the entire, cynical canvas. Bartholomay may have thought about Sherman and Reconstruction and second chances a century later, but before he had even purchased the club, Perini already had his eye on moving the club to Atlanta. During the 1962 All-Star Game in Washington, McHale met with Furman Bisher, the sports editor and influential columnist (and noted Henry Aaron nemesis) of the Atlanta Journal Atlanta Journal, requesting a private meeting with Atlanta's mayor, Ivan Allen, Jr.

"Mr. Perini is planning to move the Braves,"177 McHale told Bisher. "I'm certain you'll keep this in confidence at this time, but he's very interested in Atlanta and wants me to look into it. I want you to take me to see the mayor, but I want to keep my visit between us." Bisher maintained his silence for two years, and though Perini sold the team to Bartholomay and never met with Allen, events took precisely the course Perini had envisioned. Perini most likely disclosed his Atlanta plan to Bartholomay during the negotiations, and the Atlanta back channel explained why Perini did not entertain local offers to purchase the club. The secret deal with Atlanta also explained why Perini sold the club without announcing it was for sale, for perhaps a different ownership group would actually have been committed to keeping the team in Milwaukee. Moreover, the combination of forces answered the question originally posed by Doyne: The commissioner did not step in on behalf of Milwaukee because the wheels toward Atlanta were already in motion, four years before the team ever played its first game there. McHale told Bisher. "I'm certain you'll keep this in confidence at this time, but he's very interested in Atlanta and wants me to look into it. I want you to take me to see the mayor, but I want to keep my visit between us." Bisher maintained his silence for two years, and though Perini sold the team to Bartholomay and never met with Allen, events took precisely the course Perini had envisioned. Perini most likely disclosed his Atlanta plan to Bartholomay during the negotiations, and the Atlanta back channel explained why Perini did not entertain local offers to purchase the club. The secret deal with Atlanta also explained why Perini sold the club without announcing it was for sale, for perhaps a different ownership group would actually have been committed to keeping the team in Milwaukee. Moreover, the combination of forces answered the question originally posed by Doyne: The commissioner did not step in on behalf of Milwaukee because the wheels toward Atlanta were already in motion, four years before the team ever played its first game there.

The desire to move the Braves to Atlanta all along finally explained the sad case of Harry Sampson, the Milwaukee businessman who had offered to buy the Braves three months before Perini sold to Bartholomay. Instead, with an offer in hand he did not intend to entertain, Perini met with Bartholomay and another member of the ownership group, thirty-four-year-old Tom Reynolds, secretly in Toronto, and they closed the deal in just over a week.

MILWAUKEE SYNDICATE OFFER178.

REJECTED TWO DAYS EARLIERMILWAUKEE, WIS.-Harold Sampson, a Milwaukee businessman, revealed after the sale of the Braves was announced November 16, that a group he had headed had tried unsuccessfully to buy the club."We had a firm offer on file with Lou Perini since September," Sampson said. "Our offer was kept confidential at his request. He said he did not want it generally known that the Braves were for sale. He formally declined our offer two days before he announced the sale."Sampson said that his group was made up entirely of Milwaukeeans.

In 1964-perhaps as a last attempt to prove to the baseball cartel that economics did not make baseball untenable in Milwaukee-attendance rose by 200,000, even as the team sank to fifth place. Eugene Grobschmidt, the chairman of the governing board of County Stadium, not only accused the team of sandbagging the city but also claimed the Braves had tried to lose their remaining games to make their departure appear less egregious. In his final year with the club, even Spahn, the greatest pitcher in the history of the franchise, said that Bragan wasn't trying to win.

In Atlanta, Mayor Allen oversaw construction of an eighteen-million-dollar stadium that awaited a baseball team, soon to be named AtlantaFulton County Stadium. Bartholomay and the Braves foresaw arrival in Atlanta in 1965-that is, until Grobschmidt led a court battle that kept the Braves from leaving town until 1966.

The bitterness broke the link with the past. In a bygone era, young sportsmen had bought baseball teams to fulfill their own egos, to compensate for their own limited athletic abilities. Now, they were speculators, real estate prospectors whose job it was not only to build a pennant winner but to sense when a market had reached the point of diminishing returns, had outlived its usefulness. Milwaukee would be the city of firsts, the first in the modern era to provide a rebirth for a team that had languished near extinction in two-team Boston. And now it was the first in the modern era to suffer no obvious economic trauma and still somehow outlive its usefulness. As one embittered Milwaukee fan wrote of Milwaukee in The Sporting News The Sporting News when the Atlanta deal became final, "The cow had been milked." when the Atlanta deal became final, "The cow had been milked."179 The players did not suffer the wrath of the city. Milwaukee was loyal to Spahn, Mathews, Adc.o.c.k, Logan, and, naturally, to Henry. The players would live forever as a symbol of youth and vitality, of a nostalgic time when everything seemed good, when a person's word actually meant something. In Henry's case, the ign.o.ble actions of the front office only seemed to burnish his standing, and the last of the Milwaukee years created something of a pact between Henry and Milwaukee. He would promise the people of the city that he would never forget them, never refuse their hospitality, and, in turn, they would always consider him one of their own.

Four days before Thanksgiving, 1965, the Mary Church Terrell Club held Henry Aaron night, his first testimonial dinner. Four hundred guests crowded the Sheraton-Schroeder Hotel. Henry, wearing a dark suit, along with a skinny tie and white pocket square, was presented by Billy Bruton, who had since retired and was working in public relations for Chrysler. Henry received a silver bowl, Barbara an orchid. The crowd gave him a standing ovation, and he would later admit to being embarra.s.sed by their warmth. It was not lost on him or the crowd that no one from Braves management was in attendance. No one from the Braves showed up, largely, because they had all since moved to Atlanta. a.s.sistant general manager Jim Fanning sent a telegram.

For the better part of three years, while Perini had been playing cloak-and-dagger with Furman Bisher and as Bartholomay jousted with Milwaukee politicians, Henry had something else in the back of his mind: the prospect of returning to the South. For the team's black players, especially the ones who had been raised in the Deep South, the prospect of returning-the prospect of reliving indignities and humiliations-was not met with enthusiasm. Lee Maye, a young black outfielder who grew up in Tuscaloosa, began voicing his trepidation about Atlanta to Henry, who went a step further. While Bartholomay and Grobschmidt traded epithets and legal briefs, Henry initially said he would not go.

MOVE TO GEORGIA PEACHY? NOT TO AARON180The Milwaukee Braves ask the National League this afternoon for permission to move to Atlanta. There are at least two Braves players, Lee Maye and Hank Aaron, who have their fingers crossed that the league says "no," although they know that is wishful thinking.Maye and Aaron, Negro outfielders, yesterday expressed fear of racial discrimination if the club moves to Atlanta, although both added they would go because it's their "job."AARON AND MAYE DISTURBED181 BY BY DECISION TO GO TO ATLANTAMILWAUKEE, WIS.-The Braves' decision to move to Atlanta was accepted with regret by two of their Negro players, outfielders Henry Aaron and Lee Maye. Both said they disliked the idea and would not move their families to the Georgia city. Both have children in integrated schools in the Milwaukee area.Aaron even planned to take a trip to Atlanta to investigate conditions for Negroes there.State Sen. Leroy R. Johnson, the only Negro legislator in the South, said he was writing Aaron to a.s.sure the Braves' slugger that he need have no fears about racial problems in Atlanta.

HENRY HAD NEVER considered himself as important a historical figure as Jackie Robinson, and yet by twice integrating the South-first in the Sally League and later as the first black star on the first major-league team in the South (during the apex of the civil rights movement, no less)-his road in many ways was no less lonely, and in other ways far more difficult. considered himself as important a historical figure as Jackie Robinson, and yet by twice integrating the South-first in the Sally League and later as the first black star on the first major-league team in the South (during the apex of the civil rights movement, no less)-his road in many ways was no less lonely, and in other ways far more difficult.

He would receive credit for handling the inequities of his life with dignity, and yet he was rarely afforded the dignity of being recognized as having played a significant role in eradicating important barriers to the movement. Robinson had confronted the first, impenetrable obstacle of being allowed to compete at the major-league level; his was the first success, which made all other successes-including Henry's-possible, and Henry was never so presumptuous as to believe anything to the contrary. But after Robinson, the integration of other levels of the sport, in regions where breaking the social customs proved far more difficult (with considerably less interest), was not a story that received much coverage.

Rather, the conventional thinking concerning minor-league integration held that sooner or later, black prospects would have to play with their white teammates. Either that or the clubs would be forced to relocate their minor-league teams, moving away from the South, at considerable expense and difficulty. Thus, the breakthrough of playing baseball in the segregated South would largely be seen as an inevitablility, no real breakthrough at all.

Henry had not been recognized for his groundbreaking achievement, and now he was being told to return to the South once more. Playing in Atlanta meant confronting the South all over again, with its contradictions and its conditions. It meant being reduced once more to a person with no rights and no dignity. That had been hard enough when he was a kid, when he knew no better. But in 1966, Henry was thirty-two years old, was earning $70,000 per season, and was on a clear Hall of Fame path. He was famous and accomplished and angered that in the South all he had produced could be taken away by a teenage store clerk or an average housewife, just because they were white and he was not.

"I have lived in the South182 and I don't want to live there again," Henry told a reporter in 1964. "This is my home. I've lived here since I was a kid 19 years old. We can go anywhere in Milwaukee. I don't know what would happen in Atlanta." and I don't want to live there again," Henry told a reporter in 1964. "This is my home. I've lived here since I was a kid 19 years old. We can go anywhere in Milwaukee. I don't know what would happen in Atlanta."

In Milwaukee, Henry fought hard for his comfort. During one offseason, he took a job as a spokesman for the Miller Brewing Company. In another, he and Bruton formed a small real estate company, the Aaron-Bruton Investment Co. When the team struggled as Perini and Bartholomay began to distance the Braves from the city, Henry volunteered to sell season-ticket packages to fans (but even the great Henry Aaron had little success once it became clear that Bartholomay had other plans for the franchise).

He had become a part of Milwaukee. By the early 1960s, just as Perini sold out to Bartholomay, Henry's friendship with Bud Selig had grown stronger. Selig was already something of a name in Milwaukee, thanks to the family car dealerships and the powerful connections he had made at the University of WisconsinMadison. His college roommate was Herbert Kohl, who would go on to a long career in Wisconsin and national politics. Both Kohl and Selig maintained a strong interest in sports and both would one day own professional sports clubs. One of Selig's fraternity brothers, Lewis Wolff, built a fortune as a real estate developer. Selig, with his folksy demeanor, would often be easily underestimated. He was not the loudest or the most opinionated person, and yet he possessed a deceptively keen ability to gain the ear and confidence of a majority of people in any given situation. For years, Selig would cultivate a persona as someone who just happened to fall into leadership positions, and it was that persona that provided a certain cover for his own desires and vision. Bud Selig was driven and ambitious, with an understated, but no less fierce, desire to lead.

Selig also knew how to navigate in various arenas. One that held his attention above the rest was baseball, and he had made his first inroads modestly, befriending players by doling out favors. When he was younger, his father sent him to the annual business school in Dearborn, Michigan, sponsored by Ford, where Selig learned the car business. While there, he met a fellow student who happened to be friends with Frank Torre. Soon, Torre and Selig became friendly, and after that first introduction, Bud Selig became the man players went to when they needed cars during the season. When Torre's younger brother Joe was called up to the big club, it was Bud Selig who sold Joe Torre his first car, a 1961 Thunderbird.

Selig's relationship with Henry flourished at City Stadium, home of the Green Bay Packers. Selig was a die-hard season-ticket holder, a devoted worshiper of all things Lombardi. Henry, meanwhile, was committed to the Cleveland Browns, and the two men built a friendship around football, around Ray Nitschke and Jim Brown. Selig did not remember who initiated the first contact between the two, but he recalled Henry, predictably in those times, as quiet, somewhat unsure of himself, but with a dark, sarcastic sense of humor.

He would never call Henry Hank, and it was a subtlety that accelerated Bud Selig into Henry's inner circle.

"I don't think it was on purpose. It definitely wasn't calculated, but it just seemed natural to me," Selig said. "Henry Aaron. That was his name. I don't think I ever called him 'Hank.'"

Bud Selig was eating his breakfast when he read Bob Broeg's piece in The Sporting News The Sporting News in 1964, which confirmed what he and other Milwaukeeans had refused to believe: The Braves were leaving. The Milwaukee press was quick to cover the story, albeit slower to a.n.a.lyze the implications. Ollie Kuechle, the sports editor and columnist of the in 1964, which confirmed what he and other Milwaukeeans had refused to believe: The Braves were leaving. The Milwaukee press was quick to cover the story, albeit slower to a.n.a.lyze the implications. Ollie Kuechle, the sports editor and columnist of the Journal Journal, had maintained that the Braves were not leaving. The mayor of Milwaukee may have been a Braves shareholder, but the king of Wisconsin, Lombardi, was one, as well, and both were in the dark. "Yes, Vince was a shareholder. He was on the Braves board," Selig recalled. "And even he couldn't save them."

Selig remembered finishing the story and thinking it was the "worst day of my life." He then began to canva.s.s Milwaukee businessmen to mount a counterattack. If the Braves were going to be stolen, he would form a committee that would attract another team to Milwaukee, taking the first steps toward becoming the man who was synonymous with baseball in Milwaukee. From watching his team be yanked away, Selig would learn the rules of power and would vow to return big-league baseball to the city. While Doyne had once denounced "piracy," Selig was naked in his coveting of vulnerable teams. Once the Braves departed, Selig staged exhibitions for the Chicago White Sox and Cleveland Indians, with the hope of attracting them to Milwaukee.

Over thirteen years in Milwaukee, only the Dodgers outdrew the Braves on average, and that franchise played in the megalopolises of New York City and Los Angeles. As far as Bud Selig was concerned, his city had done everything right and had still ended up with a handful of sawdust. Selig was thirty-one when the Braves played their final season in Milwaukee, and he decided he would not stand on the fringes of power again. For the better part of the next half century, Bud Selig would, in his own seemingly una.s.suming way, become one of the game's most astute and formidable power brokers. In later years, when baseball made both men extremely wealthy, Selig recalled that Bartholomay would often joke with him, telling him that the wrenching years of the mid-1960s were the best thing that could have happened to Selig. Without his havin