The Last Hero_ A Life Of Henry Aaron Part 15

Now, Henry made a marathoner's final kick toward Ruth. Atlanta hosted the All-Star Game in 1972, the first held in the Deep South, the young blazer Jim Palmer against the old pro Bob Gibson. Palmer froze Henry with a called strike three in the first and Mickey Lolich induced a lazy fly to right. But in the sixth inning, down 10, Henry faced his favorite spitballer, g.a.y.l.o.r.d Perry, and launched a two-run home run to deep left-center field. It was the first home-run hit in an All-Star Game in Atlanta.

The rest of the year, he followed this star turn, backing up his forty-seven-homer year with thirty-four more in 1972. That put him at 673 for 1973. The hype machine, which had generally left him alone during the 1960s, had returned for a sober, often unflattering reappraisal: to a.s.sess whether Henry was worthy of surpa.s.sing the iconic Ruth. As early as the end of the 1971 season, as Henry a.s.saulted the record book, the combination of journalists who pointed out that Henry's consistency did not match Ruth's dominance and a segment of the public that sent him death threats returned the favor.

And it was there that Henry Aaron retrenched. He had escaped Mobile. He had realized his talent, played the game hard, and yet for all of it he was being reminded that none of it mattered, that he was again reduced, in his words, to "being just another n.i.g.g.e.r."

THERE WAS PERHAPS no better barometer that Henry was now a central figure in the national conversation than that fact that he was included in the comic strip no better barometer that Henry was now a central figure in the national conversation than that fact that he was included in the comic strip Peanuts Peanuts, Charles Schulz's daily masterpiece.

Schulz was the most famous cartoonist in America, and more: Peanuts Peanuts uniquely represented the heart of the American mainstream as well as baseball's place in it. According to Schulz's biography, by 1967, the strip appeared in 745 daily newspapers across the country and in 393 Sunday papers. According to United Feature Syndicate, more than half of the nation's population made the travails of Charlie Brown part of their daily reading. uniquely represented the heart of the American mainstream as well as baseball's place in it. According to Schulz's biography, by 1967, the strip appeared in 745 daily newspapers across the country and in 393 Sunday papers. According to United Feature Syndicate, more than half of the nation's population made the travails of Charlie Brown part of their daily reading.

Even in the funny pages, Willie held dominion. "It's kind of fun now and then215 to use the names of real people in my comic strip, to use the names of real people in my comic strip, Peanuts," Peanuts," Schulz once told Mays biographer Charles Einstein. "And after looking over about twenty-five years' acc.u.mulation of strips, I discovered that I used the name Willie Mays more than any other individual. I suppose it's because to me, Willie Mays has always symbolized perfection." Schulz once told Mays biographer Charles Einstein. "And after looking over about twenty-five years' acc.u.mulation of strips, I discovered that I used the name Willie Mays more than any other individual. I suppose it's because to me, Willie Mays has always symbolized perfection."

Yet from August 8 to August 15, 1973, Schulz featured Henry, and it was a seminal moment for each. Henry was national now, and it was widely a.s.sumed that as he continued his ascension, he could pa.s.s Ruth in 1973. As such, he had taken over some of Willie's real estate.

Simultaneously, Willie had fallen once and for all. Though his team, the New York Mets, would advance to the World Series, Mays would play out the rest of the 1973 season hitting .211.

Schulz created a prescient story line, where Snoopy needed one home run to break Babe Ruth's home run record while facing a hostile public. If Henry had always been handicapped by playing in markets that were a shade below prime time, Schulz, in his ubiquitous way, had elevated Henry and the politics of the chase into the mainstream discussion, while at the same time providing a clever, biting social commentary: Snoopy [wearing a baseball cap, reading a letter on his doghouse]: "Dear Stupid, who do you think you are? If you break the Babe's home-run record, we'll break you! We'll run you out of the country. We hate your kind!"Charlie Brown: Is your hate mail causing you to lose any sleep?Snoopy [now lying flat on his doghouse, a rising tidal wave of letters hovering high over him]: "Only when it falls on me."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

RUTH.

ALL WEEK LONG, Bob Hope dreamed of naked people. In the morning, he could see them, bare feet tramping blissfully across the cool, crunchy gra.s.s, bodies flapping, arms cutting feverishly in free release through the humid air. When Hope lay down to sleep, the naked people followed into his bedroom, giggling with delight as they ran him straight into ruin.

It was perfection that stood at the center of his anxieties, and so far, even as ulcers pierced his gut, he felt he was close to achieving it. He believed he had done everything right in managing the demands of Henry's pursuit of Ruth, and now, following the first week of the 1974 season, Henry stood on 714 home runs, an eleven-game home stand all but guaranteeing that Bill Bartholomay's engineering to have Henry break the record in Atlanta would pay off.

Hope had tried to provide Henry with some semblance of personal s.p.a.ce, an oasis to ease the ordeal. Hope loved baseball so much that he was all too aware of Roger Maris-the last person to challenge Babe Ruth-and all that his team, the New York Yankees, had not done for him in 1961, when Maris would break Ruth's single-season record of sixty home runs. With history in mind, he was determined to protect Henry. Once, during the chase, word got out that the Braves had arranged for a dying boy to meet with Henry briefly before a game. "He had leukemia.216 He was dying and he asked can he meet Hank Aaron. Well, suddenly our phone started ringing, and with every one of these calls, every kid had one disease or another," Hope recalled. "As the pressure is growing and we're getting faster and faster toward the record, I go to an NL meeting, and the league adopted a rule that no youngsters would be allowed in the dugout before games. I told Hank we had all these requests and now we could get out of it. I told him I could get him an extra twenty minutes. And besides, I told him that all these kids, well, most of them, aren't sick. I can just tell them it's against the rules. So we go back and forth and I keep telling him, 'Hank, they aren't sick.' And Hank said, 'Yes, but some of them are.' He was dying and he asked can he meet Hank Aaron. Well, suddenly our phone started ringing, and with every one of these calls, every kid had one disease or another," Hope recalled. "As the pressure is growing and we're getting faster and faster toward the record, I go to an NL meeting, and the league adopted a rule that no youngsters would be allowed in the dugout before games. I told Hank we had all these requests and now we could get out of it. I told him I could get him an extra twenty minutes. And besides, I told him that all these kids, well, most of them, aren't sick. I can just tell them it's against the rules. So we go back and forth and I keep telling him, 'Hank, they aren't sick.' And Hank said, 'Yes, but some of them are.'

"So after it's all said and done, years later I'm walking through an airport or something and a man stops me and recognizes me as being part of the Braves. He tells me that his son got to meet Hank Aaron and not long after that he died on the operating table. So you can imagine how I felt."

Hope was convinced that he had successfully executed the virtually impossible balancing act of providing Henry privacy without alienating the throng of journalists, well-wishers, and dignitaries who wanted to be close to him.

Over the winter, he and his staff had updated a growing pamphlet chronicling Henry's career; the booklet had now swelled to dozens of pages, opening with the words "The Greatest Sports Story in America Is Taking Place in Atlanta." The Braves had issued daily press credentials to an average of four hundred journalists per day, forcing Hope to open the football press box at AtlantaFulton County Stadium for the spillover. "It was," Hope said, "like doing public relations for two teams at once: the Braves and Henry Aaron."

Bob Hope did not fear the alleged a.s.sa.s.sins who were now attracting so much attention. Since the early part of 1972, when the mathematics of Henry hitting 715 home runs grew closer to a certainty, and his was the only name to challenge Ruth's record, the threat of death increased. Carla Koplin served as Henry's personal secretary and Calvin Wardlaw, an off-duty Atlanta police officer, was a.s.signed to Henry as a personal bodyguard. As ubiquitous as his home run total were the letters he would receive from his fellow Americans, guaranteeing his death should he continue the quest.

Hope believed that so much of the talk of murdering Henry Aaron was just that, the work of a lunatic fringe just unbalanced enough to threaten anonymously and ruin Henry's peace of mind, but not sufficiently motivated to kill. The letters Henry had received were real enough, and existed in great enough volume that Hope was not cavalier about the possibility of violence. But Hope felt that the combination of the FBI, the Atlanta police, and the two-man personal security force of Wardlaw and Lamar Harris would be sufficient to deter any maniac who may have thought his bullet could change history.

Instead, a more likely and embarra.s.sing image continued to dominate his thinking: the sight of Henry Aaron hitting the momentous record-breaking home run, rounding first under a deafening, triumphant roar, the nation and the world's journalists chronicling every detail of the moment by typewriter, microphone, and television camera, Ivan Allen's dream of the country focusing its collective eyes on Atlanta for something other than the collision between blacks and whites at last realized. And then Hope could see the rest of the scene unfolding in his mind's eye, almost in slow motion: Henry rounding second and then, there they were, a couple of streakers running onto the field, as naked as the day they were born, zigzagging away from security, probably freaked out on LSD, upstaging Henry, embarra.s.sing the Braves, baseball, and the city of Atlanta, his perfect night lampooned for all time.

"That's all I could think of," Hope recalled. "Can you imagine that? You have to remember that those were the days of Morganna the Kissing Bandit and kids taking off their clothes and jumping onto the field. At that moment! We would have never, ever, lived something like that down."

BOB H HOPE WAS convinced that by virtue of his connection to Henry, who was challenging the home run record, he was party to something truly historic, especially in the South. The arc of his own personal life told him so, for a black person attaining such a valued place in American history in of itself represented the promise of dignity for black people that had not existed during his upbringing. Hope had grown up in the twin gulfs of cla.s.s privilege and racial segregation, a cla.s.sically southern motif, in an affluent section of Atlanta. His parents and grandparents routinely used the word convinced that by virtue of his connection to Henry, who was challenging the home run record, he was party to something truly historic, especially in the South. The arc of his own personal life told him so, for a black person attaining such a valued place in American history in of itself represented the promise of dignity for black people that had not existed during his upbringing. Hope had grown up in the twin gulfs of cla.s.s privilege and racial segregation, a cla.s.sically southern motif, in an affluent section of Atlanta. His parents and grandparents routinely used the word n.i.g.g.e.r n.i.g.g.e.r in their common speech, as did all of their friends. The Hope family owned a vacation home at Lake Lanier, in Forsythe County, and for years a black maid, a woman named Johnnie Lue, worked for the family. When he was a teenager, Bob Hope was constantly frustrated by one of his responsibilities, for it cut into his free time: When the family stayed at the vacation house, he was to keep track of the time, for Forsythe County was a sundown town: No blacks were allowed within county limits after dark, and the Hope family had to shuttle Johnnie Lue out of town or risk both violation of local ordinances and their standing in the eyes of their white neighbors. "When I was sixteen, I had to watch the sun because she had to be out of the county before the sun went down," Hope recalled. "I knew it was a law, but it was a pain in the neck. It's hard to fathom that there was a time when these things were considered normal." in their common speech, as did all of their friends. The Hope family owned a vacation home at Lake Lanier, in Forsythe County, and for years a black maid, a woman named Johnnie Lue, worked for the family. When he was a teenager, Bob Hope was constantly frustrated by one of his responsibilities, for it cut into his free time: When the family stayed at the vacation house, he was to keep track of the time, for Forsythe County was a sundown town: No blacks were allowed within county limits after dark, and the Hope family had to shuttle Johnnie Lue out of town or risk both violation of local ordinances and their standing in the eyes of their white neighbors. "When I was sixteen, I had to watch the sun because she had to be out of the county before the sun went down," Hope recalled. "I knew it was a law, but it was a pain in the neck. It's hard to fathom that there was a time when these things were considered normal."

When he was a teenager on the football team at Northside High School in Atlanta, his coach explained to the team why Northside never played the local black high school, even though the schools were but a few miles apart.

"Clearly, growing up in the South, if you were white, you didn't have an opportunity to be around blacks. I went to high school and graduated before they had integrated sports. We had only two blacks at our school," he recalled.

"It wasn't like you had anything against them, but you hadn't affiliated with them, either. My parents and grandparents still used the N word. The white South didn't understand the black South. The black South was still a novelty. You didn't go to the same places. You heard about the colored water fountains. When I was a kid, I thought 'colored water' meant that the water was a different color, and as a kid, you wanted to drink the colored water. Then you learned the Negroes were segregated. You read the newspapers and you realized that Martin Luther King, Jr., was there. You understood what they were marching for was fair, but you didn't understand the full magnitude of what was going on."

When Hope attended Georgia State College, just ten years earlier, the law prohibited blacks and whites from competing together in the major college conference in the region, the Southeastern Conference, in either basketball or football, and now Henry was about to break a record considered una.s.sailable, set during the tail end of the most aggressive period of segregation since Reconstruction. That the home-run record had been established at a time when blacks were not allowed to play in the major leagues carried its own degree of meaning. It was as if breaking the record would signify the hard-won fall of another barrier in the struggle for acceptance, proof of the illegitimacy of keeping blacks out of the game in the first place, proof of all that could have been possible years earlier. Henry identified with the words of Buck O'Neil, the Negro league player and manager who had never been granted the opportunity to test his skills against the great white players in the major leagues but would become the first black scout in the major leagues, discovering Ernie Banks and Lou Brock for the Chicago Cubs. "Just give us the chance,"217 O'Neil often said, "and we'll do the rest." O'Neil often said, "and we'll do the rest."

PUBLICLY, HENRY ADOPTED a typically American position. He was just another in a line of kids who in this country could grow up to be anything, do anything, if they put their mind to it, he said. It was a convenient path to follow, because it made America feel good about itself and its possibilities. Henry appeared grateful and not resentful that the opportunity for blacks had been so long in coming. On March 20, 1974, an article under Henry's byline appeared in the a typically American position. He was just another in a line of kids who in this country could grow up to be anything, do anything, if they put their mind to it, he said. It was a convenient path to follow, because it made America feel good about itself and its possibilities. Henry appeared grateful and not resentful that the opportunity for blacks had been so long in coming. On March 20, 1974, an article under Henry's byline appeared in the Montgomery Advertiser Montgomery Advertiser, with Henry writing, "The Babe is a legend now. He created more excitement than any player who ever lived.

"What I find so hard to believe is that Hank Aaron, a n.o.body from Mobile, Alabama is the first player in 40 years to challenge that home-run record. How did it come about?"

What was clearer than the myth America liked to tell itself was how breaking the record would represent the fall of another domino in the acceptance of black athletes in professional sports, and the speed at which the old rules were being rewritten by force of time and personality. Robinson destroyed the belief that blacks weren't talented or disciplined enough to compete alongside and against whites. Ali changed the way the black athlete could express himself to the public. By challenging the all-time home-run record, Henry represented a third front: the black athlete at the top of a team sport who would break a record held by a transcendent white athlete.

By 1974, Bill Russell had been retired five years. He had won eleven NBA championships and become the first black head coach in mainstream American professional team sports, winning two championships as a player-coach. Wilt Chamberlain had statistically dominated his sport as no athlete since Ruth. Jim Brown retired as the all-time leading rusher, but in becoming the most prolific runner in his sport, Brown acc.u.mulated only numbers. He did not surpa.s.s a player who held the public imagination in a way that rivaled Ruth. In basketball, Chamberlain was every bit as dominant as Ruth in baseball, but basketball, if not exactly a fringe sport, did not define any substantial portion of America, nor did the sport's records. Who was the all-time leading scorer in NBA history before Chamberlain was a trivia question hardly even basketball fans knew the answer to.

Apart from Ruth, the sports icon with whom white America most closely identified may have been Jack Dempsey, the richest, most popular heavyweight champion of his day, and Dempsey would not fight black challengers. Joe Louis beat Jim Braddock, thereby winning the heavyweight t.i.tle, but he and Jesse Owens made their initial mark nationalistically, as Americans, defeating Germans, not other Americans, for even though Louis beat the American Braddock to win the t.i.tle, it would be his knockout of Max Schmeling that catapulted him into the American conscience, the symbol of American values at a time when the world faced its own larger questions of morality. Preparing to attend the first game of the Braves home stand against the Dodgers in hopes that Henry would break the record was the Georgia governor and future president, Jimmy Carter. Carter had already contributed to the antic.i.p.ated celebration of Henry's victory by announcing an executive order: The state's prisoners would get right to work on a new commemorative state license plate that would read HENRY-715. Carter remembered that night in 1938 when Louis beat Schmeling and won the t.i.tle, and he at once understood the deep roots of white superiority toward blacks, and by extension, this ill.u.s.trated to him how Henry's surpa.s.sing Ruth would seem even more offensive to the white sense of superiority than Schmeling's losing to Louis.

Carter recalled how the whites along the dirt roads of Plains, Georgia, had rooted for Schmeling, and he could remember the roars of the black citizens down the street when Louis destroyed Schmeling in the first round. "For our community,218 this fight had heavy racial overtones, with almost unanimous support at our all-white school for the European over the American," Carter wrote in his book this fight had heavy racial overtones, with almost unanimous support at our all-white school for the European over the American," Carter wrote in his book An Hour Before Daylight An Hour Before Daylight. "A delegation of our black neighbors came to ask Daddy if they could listen to the broadcast, and we put the radio in the window so the a.s.sembled crowd in the yard could hear it. The fight ended abruptly, in the first round, with Louis almost killing Schmeling. There was no sound from outside-or inside-the house. We heard a quiet 'Thank you, Mr. Earl,' and then our visitors walked silently out of the yard, crossed the road and the railroad tracks, entered the tenant houses, and closed the door. Then all h.e.l.l broke loose, and their celebration lasted all night long. Daddy was tight-lipped, but all the mores of our segregated society had been honored."

Babe Ruth had held the all-time home record not for forty years, as Henry and most of America had once believed, but considerably longer. While it was true that Ruth retired in 1935 with 714 home runs, he had actually taken over the major-league lead in his eighth year in the big leagues, in 1921, when he hit his 139th homer. His record actually stood for fifty-three years. When Ruth hit his final home run in 1935, he had merely piled on his own record, as he had for fourteen years. Like Jimmy Carter, Bob Hope also felt a certain swell219 of civic pride that baseball history was going to be made, in Atlanta of all places, and, like Carter, he believed that even something as ephemeral as a sports team had contributed to the rehabilitation of their city. And that meant that despite the discomfort, the problems, the history, and the countless number of instances when it appeared that of civic pride that baseball history was going to be made, in Atlanta of all places, and, like Carter, he believed that even something as ephemeral as a sports team had contributed to the rehabilitation of their city. And that meant that despite the discomfort, the problems, the history, and the countless number of instances when it appeared that change change was a dreamer's word, life in the South had actually changed dramatically. A year earlier, in 1973, Maynard Jackson, a proud descendant of one of Atlanta's most venerable black political families, the Dobbs family, was elected mayor. Carter recalled that in the years before he became president, a generation of white liberal politicians had quietly played a historic role in toppling the old order. was a dreamer's word, life in the South had actually changed dramatically. A year earlier, in 1973, Maynard Jackson, a proud descendant of one of Atlanta's most venerable black political families, the Dobbs family, was elected mayor. Carter recalled that in the years before he became president, a generation of white liberal politicians had quietly played a historic role in toppling the old order.

THE RECORD WAS going to be broken on his watch, Bob Hope thought, and on whatever night it occurred, it had to be a moment that would be remembered for all the right reasons. The first game of the home stand, Monday night, April 8, against the Los Angeles Dodgers, would be the first test of Bob Hope's expectations and preparations. Henry's father, Herbert, would throw out the first ball. Maynard Jackson and Jimmy Carter would be there. The team had arranged for Pearl Bailey, one of Henry's favorite vocalists, to sing the national anthem. The actor Sammy Davis, Jr., who had been periodically involved in trying to put together a movie deal for a biopic of Henry's life, would try to attend. Everything would be perfect. Hope believed that the night the record fell was not going to be just something that baseball fans remembered but that it would be a demarcating line in American history, another seminal moment signaling that whatever America was, it would no longer be from that day forward. That was why the naked people frightened him so much. They were the unpredictable variable. They were the one thing that could turn a seminal moment in America into a sideshow. going to be broken on his watch, Bob Hope thought, and on whatever night it occurred, it had to be a moment that would be remembered for all the right reasons. The first game of the home stand, Monday night, April 8, against the Los Angeles Dodgers, would be the first test of Bob Hope's expectations and preparations. Henry's father, Herbert, would throw out the first ball. Maynard Jackson and Jimmy Carter would be there. The team had arranged for Pearl Bailey, one of Henry's favorite vocalists, to sing the national anthem. The actor Sammy Davis, Jr., who had been periodically involved in trying to put together a movie deal for a biopic of Henry's life, would try to attend. Everything would be perfect. Hope believed that the night the record fell was not going to be just something that baseball fans remembered but that it would be a demarcating line in American history, another seminal moment signaling that whatever America was, it would no longer be from that day forward. That was why the naked people frightened him so much. They were the unpredictable variable. They were the one thing that could turn a seminal moment in America into a sideshow.

THE ENTIRE WINTER reminded Henry of what he wasn't able to do in 1973. On September 1, Henry stood at 706 home runs. There was nothing else to that season for the Braves, who epitomized the word reminded Henry of what he wasn't able to do in 1973. On September 1, Henry stood at 706 home runs. There was nothing else to that season for the Braves, who epitomized the word mediocre mediocre. They had reached the .500 mark just once during those 162 games, when Henry broke a 11 tie in the sixth on April 12 in San Diego with career home run number 675, this one off willowy left-hander Fred Norman. The Braves won the game 32 and their record was 33, after which they would lose seven straight, and by that time, the compet.i.tive portion of the season was effectively over. The rest of the year was focused more on Henry and Calvin Wardlaw and Carla Koplin and hate mail than on winning the National League West flag.

At certain points, his stoicism would lapse, and Henry would then reveal just how sick of it all he had gotten. In the great pantheon of the game, only Ruth had hit seven hundred home runs, and during the challenge march came another drumbeat: There was only one Ruth. Baseball people, the crusty old-timers like Bob Broeg in St. Louis, made a point that Henry may have produced numbers but that Ruth was bigger than the game, the universe, life itself. Henry had played more games than Ruth, had come to bat a gazillion more times, and would have had to hit 250 homers in a season to outhomer every team in the league, as Ruth had done in 1921, and therefore Henry was not the man Ruth was. The comparisons were endless, and to Henry, they were insidious in their obvious insinuations that he was not worthy of the record.

The exact date Henry's imperturbability seemed closest to cracking was July 17, 1973. Nine days earlier, at Shea, he had single-handedly trashed the Mets-two for three, two homers-crushing the big left-hander George Stone. Stone was built like a house, six-three and 210 pounds. He and Henry had been teammates for six years in Atlanta, but now George was a Met, and Henry took him over the fence in the fourth and then again in the sixth. On the thirteenth, Bill Stoneman, the Montreal pitcher, threw Henry a mistake with two on in the fifth in Atlanta for a three-run homer and home run number 697.

On the seventeenth, against Philly, Dusty Baker, as only he and Garr could, cornered Henry in the dugout to try to pull him out of the darkness with humor. He hadn't homered in five days and had grown weary of the constant cosmic question of when he would hit number seven hundred. He was tense, annoyed, and exasperated, but he hadn't snapped. Baker saw that Henry walked around the clubhouse as if he were wearing a beauty mask, trying hard not to move a single muscle in his face. Baker angled up to Henry, holding the k.n.o.b of the bat as a microphone, imitating Howard Cosell. "Hank, what do you have to do to hit seven hundred home runs?" he asked.

On this day, even Baker couldn't rescue Henry. He had not come this close to cracking since he blew up at Milo Hamilton years earlier, a confrontation so involved that Bartholomay and the front office had to broker a peace treaty. But now, Henry was having a Roger Maris moment, Ralph Garr thought. Once, in 1961, when asked one time too many if he believed he could break Ruth's single-season home-run record, Maris finally cracked, responding in a group interview session, "How the f.u.c.k should I know?"

But even on the edge, Henry did not break. He composed and steeled himself. There had been weaker, despairing moments, like the time the writers had at last left his locker after a home game and he turned to Bob Hope and pleaded softly to be left alone. "I just want to play baseball. That's it." Hope realized that Henry began to tear up; he was talking more to himself than to Hope.

At this moment, Henry looked at Baker, one of his proteges, gave a wan smile, and said before walking away, "How? Hit three more home runs. That's how."

Hours later, up 61 on the Mets in the sixth, Henry belted a Tug McGraw meatball into the left-center bull pen. Three days later against the Phillies, facing Wayne Lee Twitch.e.l.l, another man-mountain at six-six, 220 pounds, Henry stepped in, down 50, with one out in the seventh, and cranked another; this one glanced off the BankAmericard sign in left-center field. The next day, the steamy Sat.u.r.day afternoon of July 21, Ken Brett, with one on in the third, threw a weak fastball that Henry crunched into the seats in left, over the bull pen, and seven hundred was complete. The Braves immediately painted the seat red to commemorate the moment.

Only 16,236 fans showed up for Henry's seven hundredth, the Atlanta fan base thereby solidifying its reputation for being ambivalent to baseball. That wasn't even the worst of it, which happened to be the official baseball response to Henry's achievement. Nothing. Not a phone call or telegram congratulating him from Bowie Kuhn, the commissioner of baseball.

For two years, Henry had played it cool where baseball was concerned. He said nothing bothered him, not the pressure of the chase, not the hate mail, not the death threats that arrived by the bucketful so often on stained composition paper, the suffocating press coverage, or even the unwinnable comparisons to Ruth.

Bowie Kuhn, the commissioner, however, had insulted Henry. It would never be quite clear why Henry held Kuhn in such high esteem. The two had no previous history and it wasn't as if this commissioner was particularly fond of the players. Marvin Miller had been installed as the head of the surging Major League Baseball Players a.s.sociation and he had begun to establish a new, empowering orthodoxy: The commissioner was not your friend. The commissioner was not your ally. The commissioner was not impartial. The commissioner of baseball, despite the rhetoric of using his power in the "best interests of baseball" actually used his power in the best interests of the clubs. After all, the owners hired the commissioner. If the commissioner were a nonpartisan advocate for players and owners alike, the players would have input in who actually got the job and who kept it. There was, too, the biggest of disconnects that Miller pa.s.sionately imparted to the black players: No commissioner ever used his "best interest of the game" power to integrate the sport. One-Landis-actively kept blacks from playing, for it was not a coincidence that integration moved quickly after Landis's death in 1944. Nevertheless, Henry seemed to possess respect for the office of the commissioner. He was, if nothing else, a believer in the hierarchy.

If Henry had his reasons for his drive toward beating Ruth's record, people like Bowie Kuhn represented an important motivation. Kuhn was a member of the baseball establishment, first a longtime lawyer for the league before being elected commissioner in 1969. He was arrogant and uninterested in the larger tapestry of black achievement or in much beyond maintaining the power of the elite. Kuhn was an unimpressive thinker, unable to recognize the speed of change taking place in his sport and society in general. He was unprogressive, and his inability to acknowledge the reserve clause as untenable (and recognize Marvin Miller's superior intellect) cost the owners billions of dollars and years of control. His comportment was one of a man who believed himself above being held accountable to players. He was condescending and seemed totally unaware that Henry saw right through him.

The commissioner would say that he did not want to set the precedent of congratulating every player for their daily milestones-hitting for the cycle, their 100th double, 135th win, and 1,000 th hit-as if he or any baseball fan had been fans when both Ruth and Aaron had reached their individual milestones. He a.s.sured Henry that he hadn't shown up for his seven hundredth because he was saving his appearance for the big one big one, when Henry broke Ruth's record. As the news cycle mushroomed, Kuhn and Henry conversed days later and the commissioner made Henry a promise: "I'll be there for seven hundred and fifteen."

Two weeks later, before the Braves played the finale of three games the perennially lost Cubs, the Reverend Jesse Jackson invited Henry to be the breakfast speaker at a gathering sponsored by Jackson's organization, Operation Push. During the late 1960s, as Jackson and Henry both gained national prominence, the two formed a budding friendship. At a south-side storefront, Henry was greeted by an overflow crowd of black Little League teams, black Boy Scout troops, and community organizers. Standing tall and athletically next to Henry, Jackson wore an olive T-shirt with green horizontal stripes and a dark collar, sporting a full Afro, a mustache, and muttonchop sideburns. Jackson was thirty-one at the time and had been a collegiate athlete. With his familiar oratory, Jackson introduced Henry: He refused to defile his body220 and refused to have his mind defiled, and because he's overcome staggering odds we look to him as a success model, as one who represents the very best in our people. When we look at Hank, there's something on the outside in his presence that tells us that we can achieve, and because he's just like us, there's something on the inside that tells us that we deserve to achieve, and if he can any man can. and refused to have his mind defiled, and because he's overcome staggering odds we look to him as a success model, as one who represents the very best in our people. When we look at Hank, there's something on the outside in his presence that tells us that we can achieve, and because he's just like us, there's something on the inside that tells us that we deserve to achieve, and if he can any man can.

Henry stepped to the podium and addressed the crowd. A poster stood on the wall behind him, red bordered in gold, in the center a black silhouette of the African continent. Henry was dressed fastidiously but stylishly-a brown suit and eggsh.e.l.l shirt-a brown striped tie with a double Windsor knot: I would like to read to you221 this morning a letter I received from Chicago and I consider this a real good letter, considering some of the letters I've gotten in the past, and it reads as follows: this morning a letter I received from Chicago and I consider this a real good letter, considering some of the letters I've gotten in the past, and it reads as follows:Why are they making such a big fuss about you hitting 700 home runs? Please remember you have been to bat 2700 more times than Babe Ruth. If Babe Ruth came to bat 27 [sic] more times he would have hit 814 home runs. So Hank, what are you bragging about? Let's have the truth: you mentioned if you were white, they would give you more credit. That's ignorant. Stupid. Hank, there're three things you can't give a n.i.g.g.e.r: a black eye, a puffed lip, or a job."

In delivering the punch line, Henry gave a genuine laugh, because even gallows humor could be funny in the right crowd, and here with Jackson, surrounded by black faces, he was protected, in a positive environment, by his people. He beamed the thousand-watt smile that had been suppressed by fog for the previous two years, the one that even Dusty Baker could not lift. Then he continued: And it went on to say the Cubs stink, stink, stink, and gave me a phony name and address at the end. But these are the kind of letters I receive, and when I was talking about hate mail, this is a good one compared to some of the others. So I consider this a good one. Things like this just make me push a little harder, because just as Reverend Jesse Jackson said, first of all, growing up in Mobile, Alabama being a black person, I already realized I had two strikes against me, and I certainly wasn't going to let them get the third strike against me. I figured that being a baseball player, there was only one way to go, and that was up.

A few hours later, Henry hit home run 702 at Wrigley, and then 703 and 704 the next two nights at Jarry Park in Montreal. The next one came at home, against the Cardinals, off of a weak slider from the Canadian right-hander Reggie Cleveland. He hit seven during the month of September, to finish with forty for the season, but, sitting on 713 on the final day of the season in Atlanta, in his final at bat, with the Aaron shift on against Houston pitcher Dave Roberts, he popped up weakly to second. It was over until 1974.

IT HAD ALWAYS been true that Henry found his solitude in the winter, when the baseball season had finally ended. The regular season provided no respite. At home, Henry was smothered under the crush of interview requests and public appearances. On the road, Henry had set up an elaborate plan to create a sliver of privacy: two hotels on the road, one that remained empty under the name Henry Aaron, the other-where Henry actually slept-listed under the alias A. Diefendorfer. When he was young, Henry would find the most secluded spot on Three Mile Creek and sit on the banks of the river in Toulminville, fishing and skipping rocks, usually with his friend Cornelius Giles, hidden from view. At thirty-nine, he took to the water anew, on the seventeen-foot speedboat he'd bought as a refuge, first going out into Polecat Bay and then north up the Spanish River toward Grand Bay. Henry also owned a twenty-seven-foot cabin cruiser, which he would use when he ventured south into larger bodies of water, taking down into the mouth of Mobile Bay and beyond. "It's the only place," been true that Henry found his solitude in the winter, when the baseball season had finally ended. The regular season provided no respite. At home, Henry was smothered under the crush of interview requests and public appearances. On the road, Henry had set up an elaborate plan to create a sliver of privacy: two hotels on the road, one that remained empty under the name Henry Aaron, the other-where Henry actually slept-listed under the alias A. Diefendorfer. When he was young, Henry would find the most secluded spot on Three Mile Creek and sit on the banks of the river in Toulminville, fishing and skipping rocks, usually with his friend Cornelius Giles, hidden from view. At thirty-nine, he took to the water anew, on the seventeen-foot speedboat he'd bought as a refuge, first going out into Polecat Bay and then north up the Spanish River toward Grand Bay. Henry also owned a twenty-seven-foot cabin cruiser, which he would use when he ventured south into larger bodies of water, taking down into the mouth of Mobile Bay and beyond. "It's the only place,"222 he said of his boats in 1973, "where the phone doesn't ring." he said of his boats in 1973, "where the phone doesn't ring."

That Henry escaped along the rivers toward the mouth of the Gulf of Mexico was somewhat incongruous, for his mother, Stella, had always discouraged him from going near the water. Even now, when he was almost forty, the owner of two boats, Henry could not swim well enough to save his own life. Yet, throughout his periods of turmoil, it was the inky waters of Mobile Bay to which he turned for catharsis. His routine was often the same: He would arrive in Mobile without warning, sneaking in a day or so early. Quite often, he would not even tell Herbert or Stella that he would be arriving, for with fame there was never any such thing as a secret. But the locals in Mobile, the ones who worked in the restaurants and the hotels, always knew when Henry was coming to town. The good ones, the ones who knew a day early, would understand, of course. But the ones who weren't connected, who found out that the great Aaron had just blown through town, unseen (again) (again), began to wonder just what Henry held against Mobile, so concretely and for so long. The locals were proud of him; that was all. They couldn't exactly be blamed, either, for it was no secret that Henry's relationship with Mobile was complicated. Even when he was in his mid-seventies, there would be people in Mobile who believed Henry could never quite forgive the city for its past, for what it had done to Herbert and to so many other black men. But during the fall and winter months of 1973, Henry did not advertise his visits anywhere. One day of warning could ruin the entire purpose of the trip, which was to escape, to indulge in a moment of peace.

Safely in Toulminville, Henry would contact his brother Hebert junior, who would contact Joseph Coleman, one of Henry's old cla.s.smates, who was known as an expert with a boat, rod, and reel. Calvin Wardlaw, always armed, always watching, would be with them, as well. Sometimes, there were others, but those invitees always came at a moment's notice. On the water, Calvin enjoyed Henry best. Henry would reminisce about Mobile, point out the physical markers of his history, drift into the years that belonged to him, long before he was Hank. And it was in these moments, too precious to last, when Henry recharged, watching Joe Coleman, soft-bellied and shirtless, his torso mimicking the winding river: vertical for a moment before curving wide and growing expansive. Herbert junior looked casual in his plaid pants, the group sauntering down the river in search of croakers and ba.s.s. Croakers were the toughest ones to catch, Henry said, because once caught, their gills popped out, felt like needles.

Henry would sit in the boat,223 his legs dangling over the bow, like a twelve-year-old surrounded by grown-ups, the only man of the group who always wore a life preserver. He would sit on the edge of the boat, rod in his right hand, soaking in the pieces of himself that seemed so difficult to keep, immersed less in the camaraderie than in the serenity surrounding him, the chopping waters, hunched trees, and faint lavender of the wisteria, the elements upon which he would rely for regeneration. his legs dangling over the bow, like a twelve-year-old surrounded by grown-ups, the only man of the group who always wore a life preserver. He would sit on the edge of the boat, rod in his right hand, soaking in the pieces of himself that seemed so difficult to keep, immersed less in the camaraderie than in the serenity surrounding him, the chopping waters, hunched trees, and faint lavender of the wisteria, the elements upon which he would rely for regeneration.

IN D DECEMBER 1973, Henry announced he had signed a five-year, one-million-dollar personal-services contract with the television manufacturer Magnavox. Henry would do commercials, make public appearances on behalf of the company, and grace virtually every Sunday paper in the country, standing next to a shiny Magnavox color TV in a full-page ad. 1973, Henry announced he had signed a five-year, one-million-dollar personal-services contract with the television manufacturer Magnavox. Henry would do commercials, make public appearances on behalf of the company, and grace virtually every Sunday paper in the country, standing next to a shiny Magnavox color TV in a full-page ad.

To the outside world, Henry stood in an enviable position; the breaking of Ruth's record would produce even greater financial opportunities. He was already the highest-paid star in the game. Things were moving quickly. Sammy Davis, Jr., flew Henry to Beverly Hills to discuss a movie project, tentatively t.i.tled The Hank Aaron Story The Hank Aaron Story.

What was not so well known at the time was that Henry was teetering on the verge of financial collapse, and he had signed the exclusivity deal with Magnavox (though he likely could have commanded more than a million) as a sure way to begin reversing his sinking finances. When he first arrived in Atlanta, he teamed with a consortium of white businessmen for a barbecue restaurant start-up in southwest Atlanta. The restaurant was called Hammerin' Hank's, and the initial goal of the business plan was for the first restaurant to be the centerpiece of a powerful local chain. The restaurant disappeared faster than one of Henry's home-run b.a.l.l.s into the night. Not long thereafter, Henry connected with another business partner, who enticed him to think big and invest in sugar futures, a risky enterprise, which sounded better than it actually was. When he looked at the balance sheet, Henry saw he had lost twenty thousand dollars.

Then, soon after Henry signed the richest contract in baseball history, came the big fall. In the spring of 1972, Henry finalized a three-year, $200,000 contract. He immediately teamed with two investment bankers (men he would refuse to name) and gave them power of attorney-which is to say, complete control over his finances. His paychecks were signed over directly to them. The firm invested his money for him, and it was so easy, he was told, he didn't have to lift a finger. Over the ensuing months, Henry proceeded to hit home runs, make the all-star team, and lose his shirt. Finally, his secretary, Carla Koplin, suggested that he hire an auditor to check out where his money was going and investigate the firm's legitimacy. Henry would tell the story that when the auditors arrived, they found that the firm did not exist. Their offices were vacated and the two men had blown town.

The swindle had damaging implications. Following the 1965 season, Henry had begun thinking about his future beyond baseball. He had just completed his twelfth season and started to take the long view that he naturally could not play forever. In 1966, for the first time, he began deferring portions of his salary for when he retired, so he would still receive income. That year, Henry's salary was $70,000 and he deferred $20,000 for future payment. The following year, Henry received a raise to $92,500, with $42,500 to be deferred, disbursed in semimonthly cash payments following his retirement.

In 1973, Henry earned $165,000, with $50,000 to be disbursed over a ten-year period beginning at retirement. As he grew more involved with his real-estate and restaurant ventures, Henry needed cash flow. On June 12, 1973, he took out a bank loan of $300,000 secured by the Braves. As part of the agreement, Henry made a handshake deal, verbally agreeing to repay the loan-$10,000 per quarter, or all of the cash flow from the project, whichever was greater. When the project went bust, Henry was on the hook for the loan, $40,000 per year.

When he totaled the damage, Henry figured he'd lost his entire life savings, well in excess of one million dollars. His lawyers told him he had been taught an expensive, cautionary lesson and that perhaps he needed to file for bankruptcy. There was only one way to a.s.sess where Henry stood during 1973 and 1974.

"I was wiped out," he said.

EVEN THE OFF-SEASON could not protect him, and during the final months of 1973, Henry's problems at least rivaled the discomfort of his fame. On November 12, 1973, a month before the Magnavox deal was announced, on November 14, 1973, Henry married Billye Williams, a former Atlanta television host, in a private ceremony at the University of the West Indies chapel in Mona, Jamaica, after nearly three years of dating. But after hearing about the Magnavox deal and his $200,000 baseball contract, Barbara wanted more money. Not long after he became the home-run king, she took him to court to get it. He was the highest-paid player in baseball, and the two would trade accusations, his that she was obstructing him from spending more time with his children, hers that now that his income had increased, so should her alimony, from $1,600 a month to $16,000. could not protect him, and during the final months of 1973, Henry's problems at least rivaled the discomfort of his fame. On November 12, 1973, a month before the Magnavox deal was announced, on November 14, 1973, Henry married Billye Williams, a former Atlanta television host, in a private ceremony at the University of the West Indies chapel in Mona, Jamaica, after nearly three years of dating. But after hearing about the Magnavox deal and his $200,000 baseball contract, Barbara wanted more money. Not long after he became the home-run king, she took him to court to get it. He was the highest-paid player in baseball, and the two would trade accusations, his that she was obstructing him from spending more time with his children, hers that now that his income had increased, so should her alimony, from $1,600 a month to $16,000.

AARON SUED FOR TENFOLD ALIMONY224ATLANTA, JUNE 3 (AP)-Hank Aaron's former wife filed a pet.i.tion in Superior Court here today seeking an increase in the alimony and child support payments she currently receives from the Braves' baseball star.Barbara Aaron said the Atlanta Braves' slugger was earning about $100,000 a year when they divorced in February 1971, but now earns "in excess" of a million dollars per year.

Years later, he would discuss these years with a fair amount of regret, saying that in some instances he had become what he had always dreaded: the rich ballplayer with no money. "I was easy, just like so many athletes today," he recalled. "It's not easy when you don't know anything about nothin' and you have all this money." He had been careful about frivolities, enjoyed being famous without the extravagances that would define the modern-day athlete. He drove a 1973 Chevrolet instead of a Porsche, wasn't the kind of player who wore a shirt once and threw it out, and yet in the months before he would break the record, he was broke.

Once the Magnavox deal was finalized, Henry began to prepare for spring training with an eye on the future. On February 5, 1974, he turned forty, and Henry had resolved that he would endeavor to make ma.s.sive changes with regard to business matters. Taking better care of his finances was a given. He would be more involved. He would learn the businesses that carried his name. Women, cars, and clothes were easy, high-profile ways to lose it all, but so, too, were bad investments.

"I was angry, but I wasn't helpless. I still had my name and time to recoup," he said. "I decided to be more careful with my money."

HE DID NOT approach the challenge of breaking Ruth's record, at least privately, with self-deprecation, that "Aw, shucks, fellas" immodesty. Now that it was in sight, surpa.s.sing Ruth, being the best there ever was at hitting home runs, if not an obsession, something he craved, and now he had to wait for the entire offseason. One day in Mobile, he told Stella that he wanted the record. "He said, 'I want a record of my own,'" she recalled. To his mind, because he was so close, it was as if the record already belonged to him, and that was where his mind played such cruel tricks on him, where life teased and taunted him with its power over him and destiny, where he knew he was at his least potent. At the tail end of the 1973 season, a piece ent.i.tled "Henry Aaron's Golden Autumn" appeared in approach the challenge of breaking Ruth's record, at least privately, with self-deprecation, that "Aw, shucks, fellas" immodesty. Now that it was in sight, surpa.s.sing Ruth, being the best there ever was at hitting home runs, if not an obsession, something he craved, and now he had to wait for the entire offseason. One day in Mobile, he told Stella that he wanted the record. "He said, 'I want a record of my own,'" she recalled. To his mind, because he was so close, it was as if the record already belonged to him, and that was where his mind played such cruel tricks on him, where life teased and taunted him with its power over him and destiny, where he knew he was at his least potent. At the tail end of the 1973 season, a piece ent.i.tled "Henry Aaron's Golden Autumn" appeared in Time Time magazine. It was clear in the article that he had begun to smell the record. "I've always read Mickey Mantle, magazine. It was clear in the article that he had begun to smell the record. "I've always read Mickey Mantle,225 Willie Mays, Roger Maris-then Hank Aaron. I've worked awfully hard to get my name up front," he told the interviewer. "I've waited for my time, and it's just now coming." Willie Mays, Roger Maris-then Hank Aaron. I've worked awfully hard to get my name up front," he told the interviewer. "I've waited for my time, and it's just now coming."

Still, the forces of life, Henry knew, were far more difficult to face than any hard thrower on the mound. The batter's box was the easy part. That was where Henry was king, the most powerful man on earth, in control of every facet of his life-but only at that moment. Guaranteeing that he would have another opportunity to stand in the box, to dig in and take the record in his hands and claim it for his own was another story altogether.

When his mind wandered, it brought him back most vividly to the dynamic Clemente, who had reached his three thousandth hit on the final day of the 1972 season and never lived to see the new year, killed in a tragic, unnecessary plane crash over the Caribbean. He thought about Roy Campanella, the Dodgers catcher headed for the Hall of Fame when the 1957 season ended, but after a terrible car crash on January 28, 1958, would not walk or use his hands ever again. And there was always Jackie, who had seriously thought of playing for the Giants in 1957, but then he climbed out of bed one day and life made the decision for him: He crumpled to the floor, betrayed by an arthritic knee that would never again cooperate. And maybe those nut jobs out there with their pens and their pads and stamps weren't as bl.u.s.tery as Bob Hope thought. Maybe he would walk down the street and one of them would see his chance, size Henry up, and take it all away with a single shot.

"I don't want to wait," Henry said when a reporter told him there was no need to worry, that he was so close to the record that it would be his within the first month of the 1974 season. "You can't wait. Look at Clemente. What would have happened to Roberto Clemente if he had waited?"

THE INVENTORY LIST for the Braves home opener looked as though it belonged to the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade instead of to a baseball game. Bob Hope had the final figures and details for the evening: five thousand balloons, dancing girls, and two bands. For the eight previous home openers in Atlanta, an average of seventeen policemen had been a.s.signed to work the game. But for the ninth, the April 8, 1974, home opener, the Atlanta Braves versus the Los Angeles Dodgers, that number would increase to sixty-three. Joe Shirley, the team director of security, discussed with Bartholomay the possibility of a riot when Henry hit his 715th home-run ball, so Shirley had mapped out a strategy to combat a potential free-for-all: The left-center-field bleachers had been designated ground zero, since that happened to be Henry's power alley. Shirley would dispatch six policemen, four security men, and eight extra ushers to the left-center bleachers, with the intention of keeping order should the record breaker land in the same spot as so many of his b.a.l.l.s in the past. The grounds crew was working to beat the forecast of intermittent rain, but they were professionals, so there was no reason to worry. Nearly a full day before game time, they had completed painting a red-white-and-blue replica of the map of the United States across shallow center field: 140 feet by 80. for the Braves home opener looked as though it belonged to the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade instead of to a baseball game. Bob Hope had the final figures and details for the evening: five thousand balloons, dancing girls, and two bands. For the eight previous home openers in Atlanta, an average of seventeen policemen had been a.s.signed to work the game. But for the ninth, the April 8, 1974, home opener, the Atlanta Braves versus the Los Angeles Dodgers, that number would increase to sixty-three. Joe Shirley, the team director of security, discussed with Bartholomay the possibility of a riot when Henry hit his 715th home-run ball, so Shirley had mapped out a strategy to combat a potential free-for-all: The left-center-field bleachers had been designated ground zero, since that happened to be Henry's power alley. Shirley would dispatch six policemen, four security men, and eight extra ushers to the left-center bleachers, with the intention of keeping order should the record breaker land in the same spot as so many of his b.a.l.l.s in the past. The grounds crew was working to beat the forecast of intermittent rain, but they were professionals, so there was no reason to worry. Nearly a full day before game time, they had completed painting a red-white-and-blue replica of the map of the United States across shallow center field: 140 feet by 80.

Hope's celebrity overtures had borne fruit. Pearl Bailey was no longer just a wish. She was on board, having agreed, per Henry's request, to sing the national anthem. Sammy Davis, Jr., had not only confirmed that he would attend but had already offered the Braves $25,000 for the home-run ball. Herbert Aaron would throw out the first pitch and both he and Stella would be part of the pregame festivities. Hope had concocted a program that would resemble the old TV show This Is Your Life This Is Your Life. Herbert and Stella would stand in Alabama on the painted map, representing Mobile. Hope had contacted John Mullen, the old Braves executive who had signed Henry from the Clowns. Mullen would represent Indianapolis. Donald Davidson would stand on Boston, where the Braves were located when Henry signed in 1952. And Henry's first big-league manager, Charlie Grimm, would appear, standing in for Milwaukee. Around the chain-link outfield fence would be eight-foot-high letters that read ATLANTA SALUTES HANK AARON ATLANTA SALUTES HANK AARON.

There would be no fraud, Bill Acree, the Braves clubhouse man was a.s.sured. Acree had been given the responsibility of guarding the specially marked baseb.a.l.l.s that had been used for Braves games since Henry hit number seven hundred. It was one of the details that had been a colossal pain for the pitchers, since these were the years before memorabilia would become an industry, pitchers having gotten annoyed that a perfectly good ball was being tossed aside whenever Henry stepped to the plate. In a certain way, the pitchers felt Henry was being given an advantage, because a fresh ball was just a bit slicker, harder for a pitcher to grip. Any disadvantage to a pitcher, no matter how slight, tipped the scale in favor of a hitter of Henry's skill.

These were also the years before milestones had become marketing opportunities, moments to be captured and manipulated, and, of course, profited from. That made Bill Bartholomay the villain in the pinstriped suit, again ahead of his time for all the wrong reasons. In his first at bat in the first inning of the first game of the 1974 season in Cincinnati, April 4, Jack Billingham-who had already surrendered home runs number 528, 636, 641, and 709 to Henry-threw a sinking fastball that Henry on his first swing of the season, redirected toward the left-center gap and over the fence to tie Ruth. The businessman in Bartholomay saw potential disaster, and Bob Hope's ulcer-riddled stomach began churning anew. With eight more innings in the opener and two full games remaining in Cincinnati before the Braves went back to Atlanta to play their first home game of the season, Henry could conceivably break the record on the road, in the antiseptic bowl that was Riverfront Stadium, and rob the Braves of at least one sellout home date and possibly more. After the game, Bartholomay would tell his manager, Eddie Mathews, to sit Henry for the remaining two games, which inflamed Kuhn, who ordered Henry to play. The players had never respected Kuhn in the first place. Before the next game, Pete Rose walked to the batting cage and yelled out to Joe Morgan, "Hey, Joe, you playing today? Did you check with the commissioner?"

Given the kind of reaction Bartholomay would receive, he would have been better off fixing the World Series. The outcry would have been less. When Kuhn stepped in and ordered Henry to play in at least one of the remaining two games, which he would do, that only made matters worse, since Henry had never quite gotten over the commissioner refusing to acknowledge his seven hundredth home run. "For that," Bartholomay would recall thirty-four years later, "I got really pounded in the press, but I thought our fans deserved to see the record. I thought it was only fair to Hank, after all he went through to have the opportunity to break the record at home."

Henry's ball burned through the crisp Cincinnati air like a comet, over the heads of Billingham, Dave Concepcion at short, and Pete Rose in left, before returning to earth somewhere in the seats in left center. Cornered by the press hours later, Billingham would explain his yielding a home run to Henry Aaron with a forlorn inevitability, a guy who had left his umbrella at home during a rainstorm. "I was behind three and one, so I wanted to come to him. Well, I came to him, but it didn't come like I wanted it to. It didn't sink. That was a mistake and a mistake to Henry Aaron is a home run."

The game was being televised on Channel 17,226 and for the people of Atlanta, Milo Hamilton was on the call. and for the people of Atlanta, Milo Hamilton was on the call.

Base hit for Lum. He gets the first base hit of the '74 season. This is the only game today. So Darrell Evans, who last year moved into superstar status-41 home runs, 104 RBIs, he led the club in spring homers with four. Jack Billingham in first inning trouble ... walked Garr, Lum got a base hit through the left side with the runner going and pulled the shortstop over. Lum hit it perfectly through the vacated spot.... Darrell Evans the batter with two on as you look down the first base side and Joe Morgan is coming in to talk to Billingham ... already on deck is the man of the hour, Henry Aaron. It's the biggest sports story in a quarter century. One away from the Babe, two to set the all-time new record ... two b.a.l.l.s and no strikes ... the crowd starting to buzz. Could Henry Aaron come to bat with the bases loaded? There's n.o.body out, opening inning. A fly ball, left field. Pete Rose waiting ... easy play. One out ...

Jack Billingham was already shaken, having slept the night before on a mattress on the bas.e.m.e.nt floor of his home in Delhi, Kentucky, huddled with his wife, Jolene, and his two children, John and Jennifer, as tornadoes ripped through town.

He would not fall asleep until nearly 3:00 a.m., and when he awoke, he learned that the storms that rattled his house and nerves had already killed five people.

Now the crowd warming to the introduction of Henry Aaron. Henry Aaron has three spring homers, last year hit 40.... Drove in 96 runs ... had a batting average of .301. Steps in for his first at-bat of the season with two on