The Last Hero_ A Life Of Henry Aaron Part 4

INSIDE THE CLUBHOUSE, the youth of the team served as a major benefit. It meant there would be less sifting through an established, rigid culture. Unlike most clubs that contended for a championship, the 1954 Milwaukee Braves possessed an optimism that stemmed more from talent than experience. The Braves were in gestation, a talented club high on potential but low on actual checks on their big-league resumes. The Rookie Rocket may not have been able to keep the club in Boston, but Perini was correct in his belief that his club was on the verge of becoming a force. Henry was now another addition to the Braves stockpile.

The lone exception was Warren Spahn, who represented the dominant personality of the clubhouse. In 1954, Spahn was thirty-three, eleven years older than Mathews, thirteen years older than Henry. He had been with the organization since before Pearl Harbor, having signed as an amateur free agent with the Boston Bees in 1940. When the Braves were poised to rise to prominence in their new home, Spahn was already the most gifted and prolific left-hander in the game.

He came from Buffalo and was from the outset a star athlete. His father, Edward, pitched in the semipro leagues and city teams in Buffalo and played on and managed traveling teams in Canada. The city teams had no age limits, and Edward Spahn and young Warren played on the same team.

He was, like most superior athletes, always compet.i.tive, on and off the field, but perhaps not exactly by choice.

"My grandfather was a shortstop,58 played third base on occasion when the team needed him to," Warren Spahn's son, Greg, recalled of his grandfather Edward Spahn. "He was a little, wiry guy. He absolutely loved baseball. He drove my father so much, he always told me he wasn't going to do to me what his father had done to him. My father was given no other option but to play baseball. Looking back on it, I wish he would have driven me more. It was just an overreaction to what his father had done to him." played third base on occasion when the team needed him to," Warren Spahn's son, Greg, recalled of his grandfather Edward Spahn. "He was a little, wiry guy. He absolutely loved baseball. He drove my father so much, he always told me he wasn't going to do to me what his father had done to him. My father was given no other option but to play baseball. Looking back on it, I wish he would have driven me more. It was just an overreaction to what his father had done to him."

There were qualities in his personality and background that set Warren Spahn apart from his contemporaries. The writers consistently made note of his extensive vocabulary, erudition, and wide interests, taking great effort to paint him as the pitcher as intellectual. His arrival in the big leagues in 1942 as a twenty-one-year-old was nearly his downfall. Casey Stengel, salty and unsentimental, was the Braves manager. Stengel banished Spahn to the minor leagues one day after he refused to throw at Brooklyn shortstop Pee Wee Reese during a spring-training game. "He told my father he did not have enough guts to be a major-league pitcher, and that became a big point of contention for my family over the next couple of years," Greg Spahn said.

Spahn was drafted in 1942 and served three full years with the U.S. Army Combat Engineers. Unlike that of many higher-profile players, his military service was not a country club existence, putting on baseball exhibitions stateside for starry-eyed superiors. He saw combat in Europe, was wounded in Germany, and fought in the Battle of the Bulge, the monthlong battle along the Rhine, where 19,000 Americans were killed and another 47,000 wounded. He received a battlefield commendation in France. During the European campaign, Spahn suffered a shrapnel wound to the leg. For his wartime service, he would be awarded two Bronze Stars and two Purple Hearts.

"At the Bridge at Remagen his foot was. .h.i.t by shrapnel from the bridge being bombed. At the Battle of the Bulge he suffered a laceration across the back of his neck," Greg Spahn recalled. "He had a six-inch scar across the back of his neck. After he came back from the war, he would always say, 'Pressure? This isn't pressure. No one's going to shoot at me if I don't pitch well.'"

During the war, Warren met his wife, LoRene, a native Oklahoman, and the family settled in Broken Arrow, near her hometown. When he returned to the major leagues in 1946, Stengel was gone and Spahn, at twenty-five, won his first big-league game. He posted an 85 record in 1946 and then began one of the great pitching streaks in baseball history. In 1947, Spahn won twenty-one games and lost ten. The next year, the Braves won the pennant for the first time since 1914, with Spahn immortalized in baseball history by Boston Post Boston Post sports editor Gerald V. Hern. sports editor Gerald V. Hern.

First we'll use Spahn then we'll use Sain Then an off day followed by rain

Back will come Spahn followed by Sain And followed we hope by two days of rain The poem survived the years as a two-verse rhyme, "Spahn and Sain and Pray for Rain." For his part, Spahn went just 1512 in 1948, producing the second-lowest win total of his career between 1948 and 1963. Johnny Sain, who won twenty-four that year, was the legitimate ace of the staff, but legend never worries about such details.

Like Johnny Logan, the shortstop, Spahn was hesitant about the move to Milwaukee. Months before Perini pet.i.tioned the National League to relocate, Spahn opened a restaurant in Boston, Warren Spahn's Tavern on Commonwealth Avenue, just across from Braves Field.

Spahn was simply different, distant in age and experiences from the younger players. He was a practical joker but could possess a cruel sense of humor, one that could make other players uncomfortable. Over the years, the relationship between Warren Spahn and Henry Aaron would fluctuate. Henry thought Spahn took pleasure in being a merry antagonist, the kind of person who would locate someone's most sensitive spot and use it as fertile ground for humor. Spahn's personality was exactly the kind Henry disliked the most-the guy who needled others for fun. "Spahn and I,"59 Henry would say fifty years later, "we had our problems." Henry would say fifty years later, "we had our problems."

While always respectful of each other's considerable ability, the two were not always friendly. "Hank didn't always get Dad, but they definitely had great respect for one another," Greg Spahn recalled.

If Spahn was the established veteran on the young team, Eddie Mathews was symbolic of its youth and vitality. If Spahn was the old pro, Logan the gritty street fighter, Lew Burdette the wily and guileless old pro, and Henry the prodigy, Eddie Mathews was the instant star, the matinee idol who immediately gave a face to the Braves. From the start, though he played his first season in Boston, Mathews captured the imagination of the Milwaukee baseball fan in a way no other member of the Braves would.

Edwin Lee Mathews, Jr., was born October 13, 1931, in Texarkana, Texas, but was raised in Santa Barbara. His father, Edwin senior, moved the family in 1935, in search of work during the Depression. He eventually landed a job as a wire chief, transmitting, among other news, baseball games for Western Union. As a boy, young Edwin was not close to his father. While the elder Mathews made a great effort to play catch with his son, Eddie's earliest memories of his father were the odd hours Edwin senior worked, which prevented him from being home during the hours most fathers were, and the small bottles of alcohol Eddie would find hidden around the house.

Eddie was a two-sport athlete while growing up, excelling both in football and basketball. It was clear even in middle school that he had a special talent. In other, less forgiving cities, a player would have to be homegrown to truly reach the soul of the hometown. When the New York Giants relocated to San Francisco in 1958, Willie Mays was clearly the signature player of the franchise, but the city would not warm to the team until it produced Willie McCovey, its first star without ties to New York. Mathews was different. He was a hero almost from the beginning and would grow as a baseball player as the city became one of the new capitals of the sport. It was a glossy photograph of Mathews swinging away one night in 1954 at County Stadium that served as the initial cover for a new, sports-only magazine, Sports Ill.u.s.trated Sports Ill.u.s.trated.

He played baseball with a rugged intensity, wore his emotions nakedly, and was, on the surface, an uncomplicated compet.i.tor. What drew Milwaukee to Mathews was his grinding drive, often bordering on a rage, which, because of his pa.s.sion, seemed glamorous. His youth and power made him something of a heartthrob to female fans. He connected to Milwaukee, Chuck Tanner thought, because of his almost pathological drive to succeed. That, plus Mathews's rages, gave Milwaukee a player who reflected the city's idealized vision of itself as a blue-collar, hardworking city.

He did not back down, ever. Mathews once engaged in a fistfight at third base with Frank Robinson after a hard slide, and brawled with six-foot-six-inch Don Drysdale for making a habit of throwing at Johnny Logan. Mathews, it was said, intimidated even fellow players with a look.

He was so gifted an offensive player, blessed with a smooth, slashing left-handed swing, that players and coaches alike underestimated his defense. In turn, Mathews played with a persistent self-consciousness regarding his abilities as a defensive player. Spahn was considered a sophisticate around the press, while Mathews was p.r.o.ne to fits of silence. He was wary of the writers in general and especially of the ones who did not cover the team on a daily basis. Mathews, even as a young player, was combative with the press. It was Mathews who fit the role of the prototypically tough third baseman, short on words, long on home runs, quick in temperament. He was not a vocal leader, the kind of player the press referred to in those days as a "holler guy." Mathews could be dark and moody, p.r.o.ne to fits of anger and, some of his teammates thought, depression. He was to be feared when he drank, which was often. Mathews was the enforcer in the clubhouse and in the lineup. Almost immediately, Eddie Mathews earned a reputation as a player not to be crossed.

He would be anointed as a superstar not long after he was legally able to drink. Mathews possessed an uncanny level of star power, which attracted immediate attention. Within months of his arrival in the big leagues, he had been forecast to become among the greatest of players. In 1954, it was Mathews whom Charlie Grimm predicted had the best chance to break Babe Ruth's single-season record of sixty home runs, even though County Stadium, with its symmetrical dimensions, did not favor left-handed hitters. The connection to Ruth had begun a year earlier, when before the all-star break, Mathews was ahead of Ruth's 1927 pace, the year he hit sixty home runs. Mathews did not sustain his level of home-run hitting, but he had given everyone a taste.

The Milwaukee hierarchy was so taken with Mathews that one day during the spring, as Henry put on another batting exhibition, Red Thisted of the Sentinel Sentinel asked Mickey Owen if he thought Henry would ever hit for power on a par with Mathews. asked Mickey Owen if he thought Henry would ever hit for power on a par with Mathews.

"No way,"60 Owen said. Owen said.

Mathews, dark and distrusting, took time to warm up, but once he did, he could be the fiercest, most loyal of friends. It would be Mathews who would attempt to lessen the pressure on Henry by shielding him from the press when he played well and especially when he did not. "He knew Henry was going to have it rough,"61 Chuck Tanner recalled. "Not that the writers meant anything by it, but Henry was so quiet, so soft-spoken at first that he wasn't going to defend himself when some of the writers got out of line. Eddie used to tell them, 'Get out of here. Leave that kid alone.' And here he was, just a kid himself." Chuck Tanner recalled. "Not that the writers meant anything by it, but Henry was so quiet, so soft-spoken at first that he wasn't going to defend himself when some of the writers got out of line. Eddie used to tell them, 'Get out of here. Leave that kid alone.' And here he was, just a kid himself."

Spahn, Mathews, Burdette, and Bob Buhl formed the core of the most influential clique on the Braves. Burdette and Spahn were roommates in spring training and on the road, as were Buhl and Mathews. They were the best players and the closest friends. Henry was not part of that group, partly because as a black player there were simply too many uncomfortable moments to navigate socially. The other part, however, was because Henry did not drink much, if at all. Growing up as a clubhouse kid in Milwaukee, Henry, Greg Spahn would recall, occasionally sipped a beer after a game, but most times, Greg Spahn would take a bottle of Coca-Cola over to Henry.

The rest of the Braves lived in orbit around the Spahn clique. The pitchers Gene Conley and Carl Sawatski roomed together. Conley was a six-foot-eight-inch right-hander, and after the Antonelli trade for Bobby Thomson, he was expected to be the fourth starter in the rotation behind Spahn, Burdette, and Bob Buhl. Conley, like Spahn, grew up in Oklahoma and was a natural athlete. He played football, baseball, and basketball. He accepted a scholarship to Washington State and found himself in the fortunate position of being in the middle of a bidding war between John Quinn and Red Auerbach, the coach of the Boston Celtics.

Gene Conley was the athlete as individual. He cut his own figure in an industry where a certain unchallenged conformity was expected. He was not apolitical, nor, despite coming of age during a time of political and social upheaval, did he share strong views on race. He often spoke of himself as somewhat naive about the pressures of racial separation. Once as a ten-year-old living in Muskogee, Oklahoma, Conley took a black friend to the munic.i.p.al pool. The two swam and enjoyed themselves without incident. When young Gene walked home, the director of the pool stopped him and told him never to bring his friend to the public pool again or both would face serious consequences.

In later years, when playing for the Boston Celtics, Gene Conley was drawn to the complexities and talents of Bill Russell, but at the time he was not attuned to the different, harsher road for black baseball players. Conley remembers the early black ballplayers on the Braves-George Crowe, Bill Bruton, Jim Pendleton, and Henry Aaron-dressing in the same corner of the clubhouse. The clubhouse man, Joe Taylor, gave the black players lockers in the same corner, away from the whites. Henry and his black teammates were unofficially segregated from the rest of the team, often showering together and dressing together when the white players had finished, unsure about crossing in the clubhouse the racial divide that had not yet been erased in society at large. Conley recalled the dynamic being appalling, but he also did not remember knowing quite how to confront an obvious wrong.

Henry's inaugural season in the major leagues would be more a challenge of maddening perseverance than Broadway triumph. The pennant forecast for 1954 never materialized. He was quite good, proving that the spring hype surrounding him was no mirage, but the dream of duplicating the grand entrance to the big leagues of his two childhood idols-both Joe DiMaggio and Stan Musial won the World Series in their first full seasons-was a fantasy best left to the silver screen.

The Braves jerked around in the standings, wobbly at sea all season long, at times fearsome, only to then nose-dive into the mud. No team in baseball-not the perennials, the mighty Yankees and Dodgers, nor the two teams that actually won the pennant, the Giants and 111-win Cleveland-would beat other teams as manically as Milwaukee, only to follow such wins with fatal stretches of mediocrity. Three times over the course of the campaign, the Braves would catch fire, winning at least ten games. On a fourth occasion, they were nearly as good, winning nine in a row. But while those torrid streaks represented nearly half of the Braves eighty-nine wins, the rest of the season wasn't nearly so glamorous. Spahn won his requisite twenty-one games, but Burdette was a languid 1514. One of the Rookie Rockets, Buhl, lost his first seven starts and lost his spot in the rotation, while another, Conley, won fourteen and kept an uneven team interesting.

HENRY WOULD EXPERIENCE much of the same, his rookie season resembling a volatile stock. There was opening day, April 13, at Crosley Field in Cincinnati, facing Joe Nuxhall, and Henry Louis Aaron, twenty years old, starting left fielder, batting fifth between Andy Pafko and Joe Adc.o.c.k, bounced into an inning-ending double play in his first big-league at bat, debuting with the goose egg, zero for five. Two days later, at home against the Cardinals in the bottom of the first, he doubled in the right-center gap off Vic Raschi for his first big-league hit. Eight days later, in St. Louis, it was Raschi again, the ill-tempered ex-Yankee, who served up home run number one. It came in the sixth inning of a fourteen-inning, 75 win. And two days after that came the first breakout game, when Henry went five for six. much of the same, his rookie season resembling a volatile stock. There was opening day, April 13, at Crosley Field in Cincinnati, facing Joe Nuxhall, and Henry Louis Aaron, twenty years old, starting left fielder, batting fifth between Andy Pafko and Joe Adc.o.c.k, bounced into an inning-ending double play in his first big-league at bat, debuting with the goose egg, zero for five. Two days later, at home against the Cardinals in the bottom of the first, he doubled in the right-center gap off Vic Raschi for his first big-league hit. Eight days later, in St. Louis, it was Raschi again, the ill-tempered ex-Yankee, who served up home run number one. It came in the sixth inning of a fourteen-inning, 75 win. And two days after that came the first breakout game, when Henry went five for six.

And then there would be games like the epic one on the afternoon of June 10, against Willie Mays and the first-place Giants. The Braves were home, playing the twelfth game of what would be a disastrous seventeen-game home stand, in which they had already lost nine games and were falling out of the pennant race before the solstice. Henry endured a day to remember. He went two for four that day, and while in the box score that was all that mattered, Henry just might have played the worst game of his life. Twice he came to bat with runners on. First, he bounced into a double play, only to follow up by hitting into a force play while each pitcher tossed zeroes at the other.

NONE OF THIS would have mattered much under normal circ.u.mstances, but on this day, Gene Conley and Ruben Gomez weren't pitching; they were fighting for the last sc.r.a.p of beef on the table. Plus, Willie was in center, and the rookie Henry would always feel a special twinge when playing against Mays. Neither pitcher had given up a run, nor had either one of them any intention of giving in. Henry singled in his other two at bats, but once he got on base, that was when the trouble started. Standing on third, with one out, Bruton lofted a fly to center. Mays camped under the ball, squaring himself to throw. Henry tagged and broke for the plate, the would have mattered much under normal circ.u.mstances, but on this day, Gene Conley and Ruben Gomez weren't pitching; they were fighting for the last sc.r.a.p of beef on the table. Plus, Willie was in center, and the rookie Henry would always feel a special twinge when playing against Mays. Neither pitcher had given up a run, nor had either one of them any intention of giving in. Henry singled in his other two at bats, but once he got on base, that was when the trouble started. Standing on third, with one out, Bruton lofted a fly to center. Mays camped under the ball, squaring himself to throw. Henry tagged and broke for the plate, the rookie challenging the great Mays in a 00 rookie challenging the great Mays in a 00 game game. Mays uncorked a good one, a hard one-hopper that skidded off the dirt cutout at home plate and into the mitt of the Giants catcher, Wes Westrum. The throw was true, and the home plate umpire, Jocko Conlan, waded into the choking cloud of dust, looked at Westrum and Aaron tangled on top of home plate, threw up the right hand, and signaled Henry out. It didn't matter that Johnny Logan dressed Conlan down for blowing the call (Logan got tossed, and so did Burdette, who seconded Logan's argument); Mays had won the battle, and Henry skulked to the dugout.

It was still scoreless in the ninth, and Henry singled again to start the winning rally. Danny O'Connell sacrificed him to second, and the managerial wheels started turning. Leo Durocher, the Giants manager, walked Catfish Metkovich to get to Conley, who even in the ninth inning was. .h.i.tting for himself against Gomez. Conley looped a short fly to right. Don Mueller, the right fielder, snared the ball and, to his surprise, saw Henry off the bag between second and third. Mueller fired to second, and for the third time in one game, Henry ended an inning with a double play.

Only the finale made it worse. Conley started the tenth by striking out Mays and then gave up a pinch home run to Bill Taylor, losing the game, 10.

THROUGH IT ALL, Charlie Grimm, the skipper, took on the persona of a double agent. On the good days, he would talk about Aaron as they all did in the spring, the can't-miss, a member of the millionth percentile club, the guy with talent to spare.

But during the bad times, when Henry struggled through a slump in May and Grimm benched him, replacing him with a trimmer, slimmer Pendleton (it lasted one day; Pendleton went zero for three), it was "Jolly Cholly" (as the papers called him), who so very much enjoyed being one of the guys, who would join in with the razzing of Henry. Grimm told the writers that Henry had seemed tired from playing baseball year-round, and that he was probably a little stressed that the draft board had contacted him and it wasn't quite clear if he would be wearing a different type of uniform in 1955. But Grimm still borrowed Adc.o.c.k's line and referred to Henry as "Snowshoes," yukking it up with the boys at the rookie's expense. It was Charlie Grimm who would remark to the writers that Henry looked as though he were sleepwalking, except when he was. .h.i.tting. Occasionally, even Grimm, the manager, would call Henry "Stepin Fetchit," a nickname the press-since it came with the imprimatur of the skipper-was all too willing to pick up and print.

AARON GOOD NOW,62 MAY TURN GREAT MAY TURN GREATYoung Braves Fielder Has Won Respect of Pitchers over League as Dangerous. .h.i.tterNEW YORK, N.Y.-He throws sidearm from the outfield and runs the bases like Stepin Fetchit with a hopped up motor. But ... Henry Aaron is one of the most promising hitters in the major leagues....... the 20-year-old Negro is deceptively fast, and at least an ordinary hand at getting his outfield ch.o.r.es done, even if he has his own way of going about them.

On the Braves, the prevailing view of Charlie Grimm was one of benevolence. Johnny Logan loved Grimm, as did Conley and Mathews. Mathews believed Grimm to be one of the better baseball men he'd encountered, but he knew Charlie was too close to his players. Henry, however, did not care much for Grimm. Aaron believed it was Grimm who was responsible for much of the hazing he took from his teammates and the press during the season.

If nothing else, Henry believed that Grimm should not have encouraged the creation of a minstrel character. It was Grimm's responsibility, Henry believed, to shield him from some of the harsher layers as fans adjusted to seeing blacks on the same field as whites. Robinson had such protectors, Branch Rickey and Charlie Dressen, as did Mays with Durocher. Henry had a guy calling him "Snowshoes" to the press.

The Sporting News would devote an item on April 15, 1954, a full seven years after Robinson reached the majors, to the moment in the Braves-Cardinals game when, in the eighth inning, Milwaukee became the first team to field an all-black outfield during a regular-season game. would devote an item on April 15, 1954, a full seven years after Robinson reached the majors, to the moment in the Braves-Cardinals game when, in the eighth inning, Milwaukee became the first team to field an all-black outfield during a regular-season game.

But he kept hitting, not to the .300 mark, which was the gold standard for good hitters, but not under .270, either. In late May, Grimm moved Henry to the cleanup position and Henry struggled with the responsibility of hitting fourth, at one point posting a dreadful mark of just five hits in forty-one at bats. He was fourth in the all-star balloting, but making the all-star team as a rookie was, in those days, a long shot (though it wasn't lost on Henry that DiMaggio was the first to ever accomplish the feat). At one point during the season, Henry admitted that there were a couple of pitchers who were intent on giving him the business. One was Larry Jackson, the hard-throwing lefty with the Cardinals, and the second was a journeyman with the Philadelphia Phillies named Herm Wehmeier. "I don't know what I did to those fellows," Henry said. "But they both worked me over pretty good."

At the all-star break, the Braves were fifteen and a half out. By August 1, the Braves had shaved six games off the lead. Being a mile away from first place wasn't part of the plan, but the Braves were especially galling, considering they were in fourth place, with the best pitching staff in the league. But they won twenty of twenty-two games in August to make it interesting. By the fifteenth, the lead was three and a half.

In the second game of a doubleheader at Crosley Field, where Henry had made his big-league debut, fate reappeared. The Braves won the first game 118, their sixth in a row. The lead was still six and a half games, with twenty-three to play, but they were alive and still had three games left with the league-leading Giants.

In the nightcap, the Reds had leaped all over them. First it was Jim Wilson, then Joey Jay, the bonus baby, and, finally, Spahn in relief. Down 71 in the top of the seventh, Pendleton singled for Spahn and the dam burst. The Braves batted around. Henry singled and scored a run and a poor sucker named Corky Valentine walked off the mound at the end of the inning, down 87.

The next inning, Henry faced a big left-hander named Harry Perkowski and boomed a cannon shot into the deepest part of the old park. Adc.o.c.k raced around with an insurance run and Henry dashed to third, sliding hard. His body carried past the bag. His left ankle did not. The bone snapped cleanly. The stretcher came next. Bobby Thomson, the man whose broken ankle in spring training had put Henry in the big leagues in the first place, ironically ran for him at third.

Once Henry went down, the end came quickly. On September 10, down four games to the Giants and two ahead of the Dodgers, with seventeen to play and riding another ten-game win streak, the Braves arrived in Brooklyn for a two-game showdown and lost both. Adc.o.c.k, who made a habit of wearing out the Dodgers (Clem Labine had already beaned him earlier in the season), followed Henry to the hospital, after Newcombe fired a fastball headed for Adc.o.c.k's cheek in the opener. Big Joe threw up his right hand in defense and the ball cracked the bone. Then they lost another in Philly, and all three at the Polo Grounds to the Giants. They finished in third place, eight games behind the Giants and four behind the Dodgers. Henry underwent surgery, had pins set into his ankle, and thought about 1955.

After the World Series, Henry found the price of losing wasn't just the pennant. He'd lost the final month of the season and, with that, a chance at the Rookie of the Year award. He finished fourth, behind his teammate Conley, a young shortstop with the Chicago Cubs named Ernie Banks, and the winner, Wally Moon of the Cardinals.

IN LATER YEARS, Henry would reveal modest disappointment at not having won the award, and even a bit more at having finished fourth. By the time the season was over, however, Henry Aaron had learned something far more valuable than a trophy. He had seen them all up close-Willie Mays, the rookie Ernie Banks, the great Stan Musial, and, as a player, even the great Jackie Robinson-and none had intimidated him. He would later say he had learned how deeply his pride ran, and how that pride, comparing his abilities with those of his contemporaries, was the ingredient that truly fueled his motivation.

In the off-season, after the pins were taken out of his ankle and he could walk without crutches, Henry did not think about the 1955 season or about fitting in with his new team. He thought of the big picture, about his legacy. He had been in the big leagues for all of five months, and he had resolved to pursue one goal: He wanted three thousand hits. It was a goal that seemed far outside what he had accomplished in just one injury-shortened season, the place of immortals. At the end of the 1954 season, only seven players in the history of the sport had crossed the three thousand mark, but after only one season in the big leagues, Henry had reached a seminal conclusion: There was nothing on a baseball diamond that he could not do.

PART TWO.

MAGIC.

CHAPTER FIVE.

WEHMEIER.

ON THE FRIGID, festive evening of January 22, 1956, in the middle of Milwaukee's most prestigious banquet room, the Grand Ballroom of the Wisconsin Club, Charlie Grimm took out his banjo and strummed "Has Anybody Seen My Gal?" When Charlie followed up with "When You Wore a Tulip"-a capella, in German in German, no less-the place went wild.

That was the night the Milwaukee chapter of the Baseball Writers a.s.sociation of America descended upon the Wisconsin Club and honored Charlie as the inaugural recipient of the Sam Levy Memorial Plaque, for meritorious service to baseball. Not a whiff of negativity interrupted the bonhomie. Jolly Cholly was in his element, awash in the moment, whooping it up with the scribes, sharing the dais with two of his best kids, Chuck Tanner, the outfielder whom the writers had chosen as the 1955 team's top rookie, and Henry Aaron, who in his second year had been chosen-over the forty-one-homer Mathews-as the team's Most Valuable Player.

Pretty heady stuff, all of it was-a harbinger. The season itself had been anticlimactic: the Braves had spent all of 1955 looking up at the Dodgers-who not only dusted the rest of the National League but finally beat the Yankees in the World Series after five losses-but individually, Henry had turned in a star performance: .314 average, 27 home runs, 106 runs driven in. In keeping with their unflattering portraits of Henry the person, the writers would have been remiss had they not reminded the world that Henry that night was about as animated as a three-toed sloth: "Aaron, who rarely shows emotion63 of any kind, admitted he was 'thrilled' by the honor," of any kind, admitted he was 'thrilled' by the honor," The Sporting News The Sporting News reported. The truth was that Henry was quite proud of his 1955 season. He was upset that the year before, in 1954, Wally Moon had hit .300, while he had not, and it likely had cost him the Rookie of the Year award. In later years, he would remark that he was "disappointed at not winning. Not because Moon didn't deserve it ... he did. I just thought I could have done better. I figured if he could hit .300, I could, too." He had better than doubled his home run total and by crossing the 100-RBI mark had initiated an enduring history as a devastating run producer. reported. The truth was that Henry was quite proud of his 1955 season. He was upset that the year before, in 1954, Wally Moon had hit .300, while he had not, and it likely had cost him the Rookie of the Year award. In later years, he would remark that he was "disappointed at not winning. Not because Moon didn't deserve it ... he did. I just thought I could have done better. I figured if he could hit .300, I could, too." He had better than doubled his home run total and by crossing the 100-RBI mark had initiated an enduring history as a devastating run producer.

The banquet was held ten days before his twenty-second birthday, and Henry was already enjoying a healthy sampling of the big-league caviar: single-breasted tuxedo with notched lapels, white carnation and winged collar, rubbing elbows with Frank Zeidler, the Socialist mayor of Milwaukee, National League president Warren Giles, and the commissioner himself, Ford Frick. The Grand Ballroom packed in over six hundred that night. But the club, as a general rule since opening its doors in 1891 with a goal of "promoting and providing a venue for German-American understanding and fellowship," did not yet routinely admit blacks. For Henry, the rules were waived for one evening.

The night belonged to Grimm. No less an authority than The Sporting News The Sporting News reported that even sharing the stage with an obvious comer like Aaron and the kid Tanner, shining brightly as a future star of the Braves, it still was Grimm who "stole the show," strumming "Shanty Town" on his left-handed banjo. While Grimm gushed about his excitement over the coming year, Henry reached the podium with characteristic deference. "We'll be striving," he said, "to bring all you fine Milwaukee people a pennant in 1956." Tanner, green as the outfield gra.s.s, did not veer off of the reservation: "I'm sure we have the men who can do it." reported that even sharing the stage with an obvious comer like Aaron and the kid Tanner, shining brightly as a future star of the Braves, it still was Grimm who "stole the show," strumming "Shanty Town" on his left-handed banjo. While Grimm gushed about his excitement over the coming year, Henry reached the podium with characteristic deference. "We'll be striving," he said, "to bring all you fine Milwaukee people a pennant in 1956." Tanner, green as the outfield gra.s.s, did not veer off of the reservation: "I'm sure we have the men who can do it."

In only three years, Grimm had placed twice and showed, finishing third in 1954. In public, the Braves tipped their cap to the Dodgers, who rushed out of the blocks so quickly that n.o.body was going to catch them. There was no shame in losing the pennant to a team that had started the season 182 and went wire-to-wire. It was a boat race, Charlie said, just one of those fluky years when everything went right for a club; it just happened not to be his. The Dodgers were hungry-starving, in fact-for that first World Series and n.o.body, not even the Yankees this time, was going to stand in the way. Brooklyn had been schlepping for that first t.i.tle since 1884, and with that group-Robinson and Reese, Duke Snider, the hard-hat Furillo, all soon to be Roger Kahn's famed "Boys of Summer"-well, you had to figure they were going to make a last stand.

That was one way to look at it. Another way was to say that something was terribly wrong with a franchise that had Spahn, Burdette, Mathews, Adc.o.c.k, and a rising Aaron and yet could only look at the Dodgers backside for six months. Tipping the cap was for the public. Internally Perini and his brain trust believed that, the Dodgers aside, maybe the problem existed from within. The Braves lost the 1955 pennant by thirteen and a half games and the closest they got to the Dodgers for the whole year was a distant ten and a half. It was indeed a boat race, and the Braves, supposedly a powerhouse, were left drifting harmlessly in the East River wake.

Showdowns between the two clubs further convinced Perini. Twenty-two times Milwaukee took the field with Brooklyn in 1955, and fifteen times the Brooks came out on top. And it didn't matter if the games were held in narrow, boxy Ebbets Field or in the wide-open s.p.a.ces of County Stadium, because while the Braves dropped eight of eleven games in Flatbush, they did only one better at home, losing seven of eleven at County Stadium. If Milwaukee couldn't beat Brooklyn straight up, there would be no pennant. As the winter progressed, Perini began asking himself the question with a bit more frequency. Maybe the problem wasn't Don Newcombe and Jackie and Pee Wee, as the conventional wisdom suggested. Maybe the problem was Charlie Grimm.

AT THE END of 1955, Grimm realized that the question of his survival was a fire he had to contain. While the Dodgers were about to taste the champagne, the word was that Grimm was out in Milwaukee, heading back to his beloved Cubs for a front-office position. No matter how much sand he applied, it was a rumor he could not extinguish. "I shouldn't dignify either question of 1955, Grimm realized that the question of his survival was a fire he had to contain. While the Dodgers were about to taste the champagne, the word was that Grimm was out in Milwaukee, heading back to his beloved Cubs for a front-office position. No matter how much sand he applied, it was a rumor he could not extinguish. "I shouldn't dignify either question64 with an answer," he told the a.s.sociated Press. "I can't deny anything which has no basis to it. I have not been contacted by the Cubs. I have another year on my contract here, and as far as I know, I will be back. And I am definitely not throwing in the towel here." The Cubs rumor wasn't exactly hearsay; Grimm was at his baseball best on the North Side, both as a player and a manager, and he didn't hide just how much he loved that franchise. with an answer," he told the a.s.sociated Press. "I can't deny anything which has no basis to it. I have not been contacted by the Cubs. I have another year on my contract here, and as far as I know, I will be back. And I am definitely not throwing in the towel here." The Cubs rumor wasn't exactly hearsay; Grimm was at his baseball best on the North Side, both as a player and a manager, and he didn't hide just how much he loved that franchise.*

Perini was no coffee shop owner, oblivious to the day-to-day operation while Quinn made him money. He read the papers, kept his radar tuned, listened to what was being said around town. In 1956, Perini toured England to explore an expansion of a different type: He wanted baseball owners to consider buying financial stakes in English cricket and soccer teams, a foreign exchange of sorts, a cross-marketing endeavor that would be consummated in full nearly a half century later, when George Steinbrenner entered his New York Yankees into a partnership with the English soccer dynasty Manchester United.

Perini was aware of the knocks about his club: Milwaukee wasn't tough enough in the clutch. They liked chasing the girls as much as chasing the pennant, and maybe a whole lot more. Even Adc.o.c.k, their man-mountain first baseman, might have been a little more Jane than Tarzan. Adc.o.c.k was a beast. He could rip a phone book in half with his bare hands. But Joe would never charge the mound. Pitchers could throw at him. Newcombe had put him in the hospital not once, but twice. Mathews used to try to fire him up-"Kick his a.s.s, Joe.65 We're right behind you"-but it did no good. We're right behind you"-but it did no good.

They had good players, and the boys weren't afraid to mix it up, either. Henry used to say that Johnny Logan was the best at starting a fight, and Mathews the best at finishing it. But leadership, the kind that won pennants and not split decisions during a rhubarb, was another matter.

Perini knew his team's weakness because everybody else did, too. Put all the cliches in a hat and pick one-"Baseball is a funny game"; "Sometimes a team just has your number"; "Those guys in the other uniforms are getting paid, too"-but none of the old saws could beat the trump-card edict of all winning ball clubs: "Beat the teams you're supposed to beat."

The two bottom-feeders of the National League-eighty-four-loss St. Louis and ninety-four-loss Pittsburgh-beat Milwaukee a combined twenty-two times in 1955. Getting beaten by the patsies of the league, more than anything that was happening at Ebbets Field, was what cost the Braves the pennant. Within the organization, the Braves knew too many games were being lost to the previous night's hangover. Perini knew it, Quinn knew it, and the Braves coaches knew it. And if that wasn't bad enough, the Brooklyn Dodgers knew it, too. And it was, of all people, the furious Robinson, who would always tell his mates, and sometimes the press, too, that when the Braves were good enough to get to the table, Milwaukee just didn't have the fire to close the deal.

To make it official, The Sporting News The Sporting News put the Braves business in the street for all to see, summarizing with a simple, deadly sentence: "What the Braves need, more than anything else," read a paragraph on September 28, 1955, "is that intangible thing called spark." put the Braves business in the street for all to see, summarizing with a simple, deadly sentence: "What the Braves need, more than anything else," read a paragraph on September 28, 1955, "is that intangible thing called spark."

Grimm was was in the final year of his contract, but instead of providing security, not having a guaranteed future in Milwaukee beyond 1956 only made him look like a lame duck should the Braves struggle early. Add to that a little extra kindling: the persistent rumor that Perini and Quinn didn't just want to ax Cholly; they wanted to replace him with the ferocious, canny Leo Durocher, who had just been bounced by the Giants. Everybody knew "the Lip" could wear out his welcome in places faster than he could drop an in the final year of his contract, but instead of providing security, not having a guaranteed future in Milwaukee beyond 1956 only made him look like a lame duck should the Braves struggle early. Add to that a little extra kindling: the persistent rumor that Perini and Quinn didn't just want to ax Cholly; they wanted to replace him with the ferocious, canny Leo Durocher, who had just been bounced by the Giants. Everybody knew "the Lip" could wear out his welcome in places faster than he could drop an F F bomb on the home plate umpire, but the man could manage. Charlie never got to the Series as a player, and as a manager, he saw his Cubs lose to the Yankees in 1932 and to the Tigers in 1935 and 1945. Durocher, meanwhile, won it all as a player with Ruth and won it all again with Dizzy Dean, and he would go down as the guy who inspired the nickname "the Gashouse Gang" for the 1934 Cardinals. He was hated, especially by the umps and the commissioner's office, and maybe by some of his players, but in those days, Leo's teams didn't get worse when the leaves started to change. They didn't miss when they sniffed a pennant, like they did in 1941 with the Dodgers-also in 1947, though Durocher had been suspended for a year for a.s.sociating with gamblers-and in the miraculous 1951 season and the t.i.tle year of 1954 with the Giants. No Durocher team would get shut out by the Pirates three times in a season when there was money to be had. bomb on the home plate umpire, but the man could manage. Charlie never got to the Series as a player, and as a manager, he saw his Cubs lose to the Yankees in 1932 and to the Tigers in 1935 and 1945. Durocher, meanwhile, won it all as a player with Ruth and won it all again with Dizzy Dean, and he would go down as the guy who inspired the nickname "the Gashouse Gang" for the 1934 Cardinals. He was hated, especially by the umps and the commissioner's office, and maybe by some of his players, but in those days, Leo's teams didn't get worse when the leaves started to change. They didn't miss when they sniffed a pennant, like they did in 1941 with the Dodgers-also in 1947, though Durocher had been suspended for a year for a.s.sociating with gamblers-and in the miraculous 1951 season and the t.i.tle year of 1954 with the Giants. No Durocher team would get shut out by the Pirates three times in a season when there was money to be had.*

Durocher didn't just know how to manage; he lived the game, turned it inside out, studied the seams, felt baseball the way a pianist fingered his keys. "Baseball is a lot like church,"66 Durocher used to say. "Many attend, but few understand." Durocher used to say. "Many attend, but few understand."

Putting Durocher in charge of the Braves held special portent for a young Henry Aaron. It was Durocher who was Jackie Robinson's manager when Robinson reached the majors in 1947. It was Durocher who took Willie Mays under his wing when Mays was called up in 1951 and the Giants won the pennant. The day after Aaron was honored in Milwaukee, Mays was in Minneapolis, attending a banquet in honor of Bill Rigney, the Giants new manager for 1956. That "the Franchise" flew to Minneapolis in January to welcome his new manager was significant, especially because Mays still still walked on water for hitting .477 for the Minneapolis Millers before being called up to the big club for good in 1951. But instead of concentrating on Rigney, Willie talked nearly as much about how much he would miss Durocher. walked on water for hitting .477 for the Minneapolis Millers before being called up to the big club for good in 1951. But instead of concentrating on Rigney, Willie talked nearly as much about how much he would miss Durocher.

"He was more than just a manager to me.67 I can't explain it, but I know what Leo did for me," Mays said, adding, "but certainly I'll give Rigney 100 percent." I can't explain it, but I know what Leo did for me," Mays said, adding, "but certainly I'll give Rigney 100 percent."

Mays would be professional for Rigney, but he was no Durocher. Durocher knew how to talk to Willie, how to motivate him, coax the best performances out of him. Durocher was caustic, but knew how to chastise Willie without breaking his confidence. While Willie would have run through a brick wall for Durocher, Henry had Charlie Grimm calling him "Stepin Fetchit." It was Grimm who repeated the old stories about how Henry didn't know who Ford Frick was, even though the commissioner was seated next to him while Cholly sang like it was Sat.u.r.day night at the hofbrau hofbrau. And while it was Durocher who clashed with Robinson in the way that intense, driven men do, each stoking their similar, smoldering fires, Robinson would always respect Durocher for extracting from him the compet.i.tive elements that would make him great. But Durocher, who came from the bare-knuckle town of West Springfield, Ma.s.sachusetts, didn't care about skin color, not if you had the goods to be a ballplayer.

"I don't care if the guy is yellow68 or black or has stripes like a f.u.c.kin' zebra," Durocher said in early 1947 when white Dodgers resisted the idea of being Robinson's teammate. "I'm the manager and I say he plays." or black or has stripes like a f.u.c.kin' zebra," Durocher said in early 1947 when white Dodgers resisted the idea of being Robinson's teammate. "I'm the manager and I say he plays."

Durocher, Perini also knew, provided instant credibility, the big New York name that would trumpet to the baseball universe that Milwaukee wasn't the bushes. By drawing two million fans twice, Perini was already the financial envy of the baron cla.s.s, especially the owners who chafed at being second in those two-team cities-the Philadelphia A's and St. Louis Browns had skipped town to Kansas City and Baltimore, respectively, within a year after Perini left Boston-and he knew he was close to fielding a dominant team, as well.

All of which added up to one nagging, significant thing: expectations expectations, the kind that defined hungry baseball cities like New York and Boston, the kind that were just descending on Milwaukee and threatening to upset the idyllic equilibrium, free eggs and free cheese and free gas for a smile and an honest effort. Big-league baseball may have existed in Milwaukee for less than five years, but the att.i.tude shift from just "happy to have a team" to "We deserve a pennant" was happening faster than Henry's wrists whipped through the strike zone.

And there was the pressure of time. Financially, Perini recognized a window of opportunity when he saw one. There was already talk of more franchise moves. Philadelphia had left for Kansas City and St. Louis left for Baltimore in 1954, and it was only a matter of time before baseball expanded to the West Coast and the South. The night at the Wisconsin Club was good hot stove fun, but the truth of the matter was that in little una.s.suming Milwaukee, Perini was outdrawing the big boys of New York. On the field, with Spahn and Burdette on the hill, plus Mathews, Adc.o.c.k, and Aaron, the Braves owned a front line that was better than that of the Giants, and rivaled that of the Yankees and the Dodgers. Yet all three had t.i.tles, while Milwaukee had a manager who proved he could play the banjo and come in in second place. In the weeks leading up to spring training, before the Braves reported to Bradenton, Perini hit the Milwaukee dinner circuit, where he often said publicly, "We should win the pennant." The simmering message in Milwaukee for 1956 was an obvious one, and it was being sent to Charlie Grimm, by his own bosses, special delivery: Win it now. Win the pennant ... now ... now ... or else. or else.

HENRY DID NOT live in Milwaukee during the winter. He, Barbara, and their daughter, Gaile, now almost two years old, went back to Toulminville, living in the house on Edwards Street. Unlike the year before, when he'd hopped around on crutches and wondered how his ankle would respond, Henry had been healthy when preparing for 1956. At the end of the 1955 season, he had accepted an invitation to join an all-black barnstorming team a.s.sembled by Willie Mays and Don Newcombe. The touring team, originally formed by Jackie Robinson following the 1947 season, was inherited by Mays from Roy Campanella, and it might have been the best barnstorming team ever a.s.sembled, even rivaling the Satchel Paige teams in the 1930s. For Henry, the invitation served as another indication that if he was not yet being discussed as one of the game's elite players, his potential was obvious. He belonged. live in Milwaukee during the winter. He, Barbara, and their daughter, Gaile, now almost two years old, went back to Toulminville, living in the house on Edwards Street. Unlike the year before, when he'd hopped around on crutches and wondered how his ankle would respond, Henry had been healthy when preparing for 1956. At the end of the 1955 season, he had accepted an invitation to join an all-black barnstorming team a.s.sembled by Willie Mays and Don Newcombe. The touring team, originally formed by Jackie Robinson following the 1947 season, was inherited by Mays from Roy Campanella, and it might have been the best barnstorming team ever a.s.sembled, even rivaling the Satchel Paige teams in the 1930s. For Henry, the invitation served as another indication that if he was not yet being discussed as one of the game's elite players, his potential was obvious. He belonged.

The most telling element of the team wasn't who played-in addition to Mays, the club featured Henry and the whiz shortstop Ernie Banks, who banged forty-four homers in 1955-but who didn't play. Most specifically, it was how little of the American League was represented. Aside from the Cleveland Indians, American League team owners would fight being on the wrong side of history for decades, but the proof lay in their rosters: Integration was virtually nonexistent in the American League. Of the powerful men who ran the league-Boston's Yawkey and Cronin, George Weiss of the Yankees, Calvin Griffith of the Washington Senators, Campbell and Briggs of the Tigers-none could boast an even discussable record in regard to racial progressiveness. The great migration of black players to the major leagues was almost entirely a National League phenomenon.

Crowe and Charlie White joined Aaron from the Braves. Newcombe, fresh from beating out the Braves in the regular season, joined the team after the Dodgers finished the Yankees in the World Series. Banks and Gene Baker of the Cubs made up the double-play combination, while the great Negro League and White Sox pitcher Connie Johnson teamed with Joe Black and Brooks Lawrence of the Cardinals on the mound.

The first downside of the tour for Henry was that Sam Jones was also on the squad. Jones, he of the big curveball and famous temper and love of the bottle, was the rare black player who publicly fought with other blacks. Aaron would recall that Jones would even fight with Mays, who had invited him to join the squad in the first place. There really were two Sams: the one who was drunk and the one who had been drinking. Neither was pleasant to Aaron, who saw no advantage in an extended quarrel with Sam Jones. Since Robinson, the unwritten rule among black players was ironclad: Whatever grievances that existed, blacks did not fight other blacks on the field or throw at them. The reasoning was simple: When it came to integration, the real game being played was not taking place on the field. Everyone knew the stereotypes about blacks-how they were short-tempered, quick to fight. Each black knew what he had left before being promoted to the majors, and no one wanted to go back. The first wave of integration was too important to have progress halted by petty gripes between players.

Sam Jones would be his greatest antagonist. Each of Henry's first few seasons would contain at least one new chapter of his twelve-round battle with Jones. For one month in 1955, they were teammates.

The team played thirty-two games. It played against white teams and against Negro League all-star teams. And it was on that barnstorming trip that Henry witnessed the sheer incandescence of Mays. The dates were full, sellouts all. The big stars all had their homecomings: Banks in Dallas, Aaron in Mobile, Mays in Birmingham. The players earned, for the month, between three thousand and four thousand dollars, a big number, considering that in his rookie year of 1954, Henry earned just six thousand dollars for the whole season. Willie played at a thousand watts. In Longview, Texas, the game was delayed twenty-five minutes because even at game time, the line of fans still waiting to enter the ballpark snaked around the block. Mays treated the crowd to a single, a triple, and a home run, and, of course, a signature defensive play that would leave the crowd buzzing. The Defender Defender was there, and the main subhead of the story put Mays in lights: "Willie Puts on Power Show." was there, and the main subhead of the story put Mays in lights: "Willie Puts on Power Show."

"The Giants' outfielder also made a tremendous throw from the four-hundred-foot wall in deep center to third base to nail a runner attempting to stretch a double," the paper reported.

They would win every game, laughers mostly-133 in Longview, led by Willie; 92 in Austin; 122 in Waco, with Willie homering and doubling; 101 in Corpus Christi, when Willie homered twice; and a 201 rout in Hazelhurst, Mississippi, when Willie cleared the fences against an overmatched ragtag band of Negro American League All-Stars.

When the tour concluded with three games at Wrigley Field in Los Angeles, Willie was a supernova; all eyes were trained on him that noted day Americans tuned in to baseball, November 6 November 6. The barnstormers had won all thirty-one games, but in the finale against the Southern California All-Stars, the music was all but stopped when Willie stepped up to the plate to offer a proper demonstration of how to do the hero thing. Down 43, with two on and two out, Mays sliced a three-run job that curved the left-field foul pole, winning it, 64.

WILLIE'S WALLOP WINS WINDUP69 ON BARNSTORMING TRIPLOS ANGELES, CALIF.-The Willie MaysDon Newcombe All Stars concluded their 32-game tour in practically the same way they started the junket....The team won every game.... In the finale at Wrigley Field, 12,012 turned out to see Mays apply a spine-tingling finish to the contest.

HENRY WASN'T EXACTLY invisible, and in another time, under a different sun, maybe he would have been the headliner. As it was, he was difficult to miss. The invisible, and in another time, under a different sun, maybe he would have been the headliner. As it was, he was difficult to miss. The Defender Defender ran his photo with the story of the Longview game, and when it had finally finished tripping over itself in praise of Mays, the story did eventually note that, yes, Henry had gone four for four with two home runs. Henry homered in the 201 destruction at Hazelhurst, again in El Paso, and in the opener in Los Angeles. If Henry had already been convinced of his abilities, the barnstorming trip proved that he could hit with anyone, Willie Mays included. But in building a legend that would live in the mind as well as on the stat sheet, Mays emitted his own unique pheromones-the sweet aroma of stardom-which could not be duplicated. ran his photo with the story of the Longview game, and when it had finally finished tripping over itself in praise of Mays, the story did eventually note that, yes, Henry had gone four for four with two home runs. Henry homered in the 201 destruction at Hazelhurst, again in El Paso, and in the opener in Los Angeles. If Henry had already been convinced of his abilities, the barnstorming trip proved that he could hit with anyone, Willie Mays included. But in building a legend that would live in the mind as well as on the stat sheet, Mays emitted his own unique pheromones-the sweet aroma of stardom-which could not be duplicated.

In small ways, Mays could even transcend Jim Crow. Henry recalled that once, in Birmingham, he and Mays walked into a department store. Mays, eyeing a few suits, pulled out a healthy roll of hundred-dollar bills, more money than a black man was supposed to carry in the Deep South. The store clerk began dialing the telephone, when Mays told him he wasn't just any Negro, but the the Willie Mays. That changed everything. Willie Mays. That changed everything.

"It was okay to be black in the South,"70 Henry would say years later, "but only if you happened to be Willie Mays." Henry would say years later, "but only if you happened to be Willie Mays."