The Last Hero_ A Life Of Henry Aaron Part 7

On January 31, Robinson's thirty-eighth birthday, Maglie came out swinging. "Jackie Robinson is a pop-off who hurts people and 'then writes them a letter of apology,' Brooklyn's clutch pitcher Sal Maglie said today," a United Press wire story reported. Robinson may have been retired, and it may have been January, but the Barber was still trying to dust Robinson. Robinson was out of shape, Maglie said. He played when he wanted to. His reflexes were shot.

"I admire his playing, but it's a shame that a great ballplayer like he was does that," Maglie was quoted as saying.

Maybe Robinson was cracking under the burden of responsibilities and symbolisms that had weighed him down for too long. His physical appearance would always be the best giveaway-gray hair at thirty-eight would turn porcelain white by forty-five. Only sitting presidents would age on the job as severely as Robinson. His physical appearance was proof of the anecdotal rhetoric: His journey was killing him.

The thing of it was that Robinson understood his special place, his burden, his mission mission more clearly than anyone else. Though Robinson was always described, quite clumsily, in fact, as "breaking the color barrier," the mission itself was by no means the removal of a singular obstacle. First there was the goal of getting onto the field, of making being the first a reality. Then it was necessary to make sure that when he finally did play, he did not do so only as a novelty, but as someone who would be remembered as one of the very few transformative figures equal to the moment. That was the only way integration could gain its proper weight, provide the appropriate momentum for the larger movement that was to follow. Robinson's 1947 roommate, Dan Bankhead, for example, was the first black pitcher in the major leagues, but no one remembered him, because he couldn't play. Baseball's first dominant black pitcher would come a few years later, when Don Newcombe arrived, but it would be nearly twenty years after Robinson before a black pitcher-in this case, Bob Gibson of St. Louis-began a Hall of Fame path and in fact wound up in Cooperstown. more clearly than anyone else. Though Robinson was always described, quite clumsily, in fact, as "breaking the color barrier," the mission itself was by no means the removal of a singular obstacle. First there was the goal of getting onto the field, of making being the first a reality. Then it was necessary to make sure that when he finally did play, he did not do so only as a novelty, but as someone who would be remembered as one of the very few transformative figures equal to the moment. That was the only way integration could gain its proper weight, provide the appropriate momentum for the larger movement that was to follow. Robinson's 1947 roommate, Dan Bankhead, for example, was the first black pitcher in the major leagues, but no one remembered him, because he couldn't play. Baseball's first dominant black pitcher would come a few years later, when Don Newcombe arrived, but it would be nearly twenty years after Robinson before a black pitcher-in this case, Bob Gibson of St. Louis-began a Hall of Fame path and in fact wound up in Cooperstown.

The third stage was full membership in the club, at a level of every white person born in the United States of America-not only for Robinson but for the twelve million Negroes in the country at the time. Well, that one would be a bit more complicated. That was why his contemporaries understood and applauded the early Robinson, the one who took the spikes to exposed shins, the mitts to the face, and the knockdowns, and yet would be so offended and threatened by the a.s.sertive, bolder Robinson of later years, the one who realized full equality did not mean staying in your place, but not having having a place at all. The early Robinson accepted his road by facing down his adversaries with that dangerously double-sided word- a place at all. The early Robinson accepted his road by facing down his adversaries with that dangerously double-sided word-dignity-which could be at once reverential and patronizing (as Henry would one day discover), and that fit the narrative the kingmakers with the typewriters wanted to tell.

The Robinson who turned the other cheek fit the rules, the perception of how blacks were expected to deal with white aggression, as well as the perception of what the n.o.ble experiment was supposed to be all about, the nonviolent protest of being above aggression and thus better than his oppressors. The writers could bask in his forbearance, as long as they had control over and approved the narrative. In truth, Robinson waited for the day to drop a knuckle sandwich on some clown who put him in the dirt one time too many, and when he did-just ask Davey Williams, the Giant second baseman Robinson buried back in the old days, when Maglie (the real target) ducked the responsibility of covering first base after throwing at Robinson-the results were messy and merciless. He once told Roger Kahn that he had no intention of being turned into "some pacifist black freak."90 The hard truth was that even as the mid-1950s were producing an unprecedented generation of Hall of Fame black ballplayers who surpa.s.sed him in statistics, if not overall raw baseball talent-Willie Mays, Roberto Clemente, Elston Howard, Roy Campanella, Ernie Banks, Frank Robinson, Larry Doby, and Henry Aaron all made their debuts between 1951 and 1955-Robinson was still alone in front.

The 1950s were not a time when Negro ballplayers voiced confrontation in the press, except for Robinson. Happy to be there Happy to be there wasn't full membership; neither was wasn't full membership; neither was stay in your place stay in your place. It was also true that it did not matter what was being said to the umpire or to the press, but, rather, that it was Robinson doing the talking. During Robinson's first five seasons in the big leagues, from 1947 to 1951, he was ejected a total of sixteen times. A loudmouth like Eddie Stanky, the hard-charging adopted southerner, got tossed seventeen times, but it was Robinson who earned the nickname "Pop-off." On August 3, in a death grip for the pennant with Milwaukee, Robinson would go four for six with three RBIs in a twelve-inning loss at St. Louis. That same morning, an item appeared in the Los Angeles Times: Los Angeles Times: SOUTHERN SCRIBE BLAMES91.

JACKIE FOR RACE LAWNEW ORLEANS, AUG. 2 (AP)-Bill Keefe, sports editor of the Times-Picayune, said the new law received a push from the "insolence" of Robinson...."He has been the most harmful influence the Negro race has suffered ... and the surprising part of it is that he wasn't muzzled long ago."

Unbowed, Robinson responded, "You call me 'insolent.' I'll admit I haven't been subservient, but would you use the same adjective to describe a white ballplayer-say Ted Williams, who is, more often than I, involved in controversial matters?"

It would take another generation of players, the Jim Brown, Bill Russell, Muhammad Ali generation, to embrace Robinson's role of the political figure as athlete, confident in his standing, willing to take a sledgehammer to the old order. And perhaps more importantly, the writers who most pa.s.sionately championed Robinson's right to exist as a player in 1947 did not appear to appreciate this final leg of the Robinson quest.

Men like Arthur Daley of the New York Times New York Times and Shirley Povich of the and Shirley Povich of the Washington Post Washington Post were not of the appropriate generation to recognize this next challenge as a first a.s.sault on a paternalistic order. Instead, they saw Robinson as oversensitive, hot-tempered, irrational, and in many ways betraying the n.o.bility of the experiment. In a sense, their att.i.tudes were no different from the att.i.tude expressed one day in Bradenton, when Spahn would shake his head after reading the latest headline about the Montgomery Bus boycott and ask Henry uncomprehendingly, "Henry, just what is it you people want?" were not of the appropriate generation to recognize this next challenge as a first a.s.sault on a paternalistic order. Instead, they saw Robinson as oversensitive, hot-tempered, irrational, and in many ways betraying the n.o.bility of the experiment. In a sense, their att.i.tudes were no different from the att.i.tude expressed one day in Bradenton, when Spahn would shake his head after reading the latest headline about the Montgomery Bus boycott and ask Henry uncomprehendingly, "Henry, just what is it you people want?"

The writers did not understand their own inherent paternalism. When Robinson formally pet.i.tioned for his retirement, Daley recalled in print an early exchange with Robinson.

"If you'll forgive a personal experience,92 it will be offered as an ill.u.s.tration of Robinson's shrewdness," Daley wrote. "Midway in Jackie's second season ... this reporter suddenly realized that Robbie had never once addressed him by name.... He did not want to set himself apart ... by using the clumsy 'mister' and he wasn't certain ... whether the first-name approach would be too familiar. it will be offered as an ill.u.s.tration of Robinson's shrewdness," Daley wrote. "Midway in Jackie's second season ... this reporter suddenly realized that Robbie had never once addressed him by name.... He did not want to set himself apart ... by using the clumsy 'mister' and he wasn't certain ... whether the first-name approach would be too familiar.

"... in his second season, I asked him an inconsequential question. 'You know the answer as well as I do, Arthur.' ... He'd smuggled in the first name.... He was never troubled thereafter."

Daley was so sure of his position, convinced of his birthright to be addressed in a certain formal fashion by a black person, for the reinforcement of his cla.s.s superiority to Robinson's surely occurred daily. Yet Daley seemed so secure within that order that in his report he did not offer to break the caste system himself by simply inviting Robinson to call him by his first name.

And it made sense that so many began to hate Robinson, because the shift toward a new society did not just come suddenly and without warning; Robinson did not ask for permission to change these unspoken rules. He did not ask to speak in turn. He did not issue a press release announcing he was upgrading his membership, appointing himself one of the first leaders of the movement, years before it was given a proper name.

And the ones who remembered the n.o.ble Robinson turned on him because he saw faster than they that his audacity in showing he was unsatisfied was part of that movement. What the Art Daleys and Shirley Poviches of the world did not understand was the difference between perceived and actual equality. Robinson knew the critical difference lay in who sat at the controls. Through Robinson, a meteoric shift was taking place right in front of their eyes, and men like d.i.c.k Young and Daley and Povich were of the wrong generation to see it.

He would not play for the Giants, and inside the game he did not have many friends in that insular, exclusive club called baseball. DiMaggio eventually went back to the game, to coach in Oakland after a long disillusionment. Robinson never would. There would be no offers to coach, work in the front office, or manage, few reconciliations, and plenty of calamity, but that was the thing about Jackie: No matter how unsure he looked in his endeavors off the field (sparring with Malcolm X and JFK, supporting Nixon before recognizing the enormity of his error), compared to his grace and fire on it, baseball in a sense would always seem too limiting for him.

That is also the tricky thing about history: You never know which way it will turn. Induction into the Hall of Fame requires one's name appear on 75 percent of the ballots. When Robinson was elected in 1962, the first year he was eligible, he was safe, by a hair, receiving a mere 77.5 percent of the vote. His Hall of Fame plaque served as proof that baseball at the time did not comprehend its own larger significance: Nowhere did his inscription note that he was the first black player in the major leagues.*

THEY CAME AND went in baseball, but face it, how many actually changed the rules of the game, how it was played, who was allowed to play, and how they were allowed to act? There were really just five-Ruth, Landis, Rickey, Robinson, and Marvin Miller-while the rest served at the pleasure of the ruling cla.s.s, some doing their part but most maintaining the status quo. And of that five, only one could say he was just as influential on the political front, in protests and events outside of the ballpark, as he was dancing off third base. Following the second game of the 1956 World Series, Robinson received letters on White House stationery from both Vice President Nixon and Frederic Morrow, the first black White House aide, congratulating him and the Dodgers. n.o.body else in baseball was getting letters from the Oval Office, and they hated him for that, too. "What? Is he running for president, too?" asked a bitter Allie Reynolds when Robinson once criticized the Yankees for not signing black players. It went back to what the writer Leonard Koppett used to say about Robinson, that before him, black people did not really exist in the eyes of white America. Certainly they were there, in the streets, on the sidewalks, in the kitchen, as the objects of jokes but invisible to the touch, never anything more than stage props. went in baseball, but face it, how many actually changed the rules of the game, how it was played, who was allowed to play, and how they were allowed to act? There were really just five-Ruth, Landis, Rickey, Robinson, and Marvin Miller-while the rest served at the pleasure of the ruling cla.s.s, some doing their part but most maintaining the status quo. And of that five, only one could say he was just as influential on the political front, in protests and events outside of the ballpark, as he was dancing off third base. Following the second game of the 1956 World Series, Robinson received letters on White House stationery from both Vice President Nixon and Frederic Morrow, the first black White House aide, congratulating him and the Dodgers. n.o.body else in baseball was getting letters from the Oval Office, and they hated him for that, too. "What? Is he running for president, too?" asked a bitter Allie Reynolds when Robinson once criticized the Yankees for not signing black players. It went back to what the writer Leonard Koppett used to say about Robinson, that before him, black people did not really exist in the eyes of white America. Certainly they were there, in the streets, on the sidewalks, in the kitchen, as the objects of jokes but invisible to the touch, never anything more than stage props.

Robinson was the first black American to play his piano in the foreground, with no intention of ever being anything else but the leader. Joe Louis came first, but boxers didn't fight every day, and while the fights were big, the racket itself lacked the social legitimacy of baseball. While Maglie was throwing heat his way, Robinson soared beyond, his legacy secured by progress, redrawing the canvas of society, giving the discussion an entirely different starting point. His enemies chafed at the unfairness of it all, but virtually all would stand on the wrong side of history. It was history that would vindicate him, and the men who sparred with Jackie, the ones who were sick of him, who could least see those transformative qualities, stood alone, sounding little more than bitter. As Robinson's influence as the single most important political figure in baseball history grew all the more obvious as the lifetimes piled up, his enemies began looking horribly small, insignificant signposts disappearing in the rearview mirror.

AT THE TIME, there would be no publicity marking the moment, and it would take years before he articulated his position publicly, but Henry Aaron had carefully watched Robinson, and he did not admire him as much as revere him. Where others saw audacity, Henry saw a road map. For years, Henry would be paired with many players. For if no other reasons than their outsized production and contrasting playing personalities, Henry would always be connected to Willie Mays. For their annual rivalry for the Gold Glove and the starting spot in the All-Star Game, Henry would face comparisons to Roberto Clemente. Naturally, as he reached the pinnacle of his baseball achievements, Henry would always live with Babe Ruth.

For the rest of his playing career, Henry Aaron would be paired with Willie Mays instead of the one player who truly mattered, the one who provided the template not for him as a player but for the man he sought to become. When Robinson retired, to the business world and the somewhat foreign but important arenas of politics and philanthropy, Henry saw the value, the necessity of not being limited by baseball. Only in following in the footsteps of Robinson could Henry realize his true path: to use whatever influences his baseball life afforded him to have some effect on society at large.

* In 2008, the Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum in Cooperstown, New York, took the unprecedented step of replacing Robinson's original plaque with an updated version, one that notes his batting average and awards, but also his place as the first African-American to play in the Major Leagues in the twentieth century. In 2008, the Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum in Cooperstown, New York, took the unprecedented step of replacing Robinson's original plaque with an updated version, one that notes his batting average and awards, but also his place as the first African-American to play in the Major Leagues in the twentieth century.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

SCRIPTURE.

IT WOULD TAKE one of those years when it all came together-when he could not only hear the notes in his head but play each and every one of them beautifully-before the legend could officially commence. It needed to be the kind of season where all you had to do was say the year and the heart of every fan would spontaneously flutter, carrying that person easily back into the warm currents of memory, and when, even decades later, the faces of his peers would firm with professional respect. Sometimes, the faces would betray envy, other times admiration, but in all of them would be the recognition that he was one of the very special ones, that millionth percentile, someone who may have stood on the same field with them but, because of his enormous talent, was playing a game completely different from all the rest. one of those years when it all came together-when he could not only hear the notes in his head but play each and every one of them beautifully-before the legend could officially commence. It needed to be the kind of season where all you had to do was say the year and the heart of every fan would spontaneously flutter, carrying that person easily back into the warm currents of memory, and when, even decades later, the faces of his peers would firm with professional respect. Sometimes, the faces would betray envy, other times admiration, but in all of them would be the recognition that he was one of the very special ones, that millionth percentile, someone who may have stood on the same field with them but, because of his enormous talent, was playing a game completely different from all the rest.

HENRY RANG IN the year 1957 with the same ritual he would begin every year of his first decade in the big leagues-by sending his contract back to the Braves unsigned. He'd earned $17,500 in 1956 and had no illusions about his value to the team. First for Charlie Grimm and then for Fred Haney, Henry had chopped the wood. Adc.o.c.k had his best year in home runs, drove in more than a hundred runs, and most importantly, it seemed as if all of those home runs were against the Dodgers late in games. But as the season reached its devastating conclusion, with every at bat critical, Adc.o.c.k's batting average dropped nearly twenty points in September, highlighted by a disastrous zero for seventeen in four games against bottom-feeders Philadelphia, New York, and Pittsburgh. Mathews was second in the league in home runs, but he was stuck in low gear for the whole season, hitting .229 at the all-star break before grinding his way to a .272 average. the year 1957 with the same ritual he would begin every year of his first decade in the big leagues-by sending his contract back to the Braves unsigned. He'd earned $17,500 in 1956 and had no illusions about his value to the team. First for Charlie Grimm and then for Fred Haney, Henry had chopped the wood. Adc.o.c.k had his best year in home runs, drove in more than a hundred runs, and most importantly, it seemed as if all of those home runs were against the Dodgers late in games. But as the season reached its devastating conclusion, with every at bat critical, Adc.o.c.k's batting average dropped nearly twenty points in September, highlighted by a disastrous zero for seventeen in four games against bottom-feeders Philadelphia, New York, and Pittsburgh. Mathews was second in the league in home runs, but he was stuck in low gear for the whole season, hitting .229 at the all-star break before grinding his way to a .272 average.

Henry hit thirty-seven points higher than Adc.o.c.k, fifty-six points higher than Mathews, and was more consistent than both. Adc.o.c.k was certainly the signature clutch player on the team in 1956, but Henry had shown, as he did in the Philadelphia doubleheader, that he was not frightened of the moment. Mickey Mantle won the American League Triple Crown in 1956, but Henry was the only player in the majors with two hundred hits, a twenty-five-game hit streak, and 340 total bases.

Thus, he sent the contract back to Milwaukee blank. Two hundred hits had to count for something, and on January 26th, a two-paragraph a.s.sociated Press brief hit the wire, filling a corner of the next day's Chicago Tribune Chicago Tribune. Henry was home in Mobile and spoke by telephone to John Quinn, who by the end of the conversation understood Henry's idea of his own market value. He didn't just ask Quinn for a pay raise; he wanted his salary doubled doubled.

BRAVES' AARON ASKS PAY BOOST93 OF 100 PER CENT OF 100 PER CENTMILWAUKEE, JAN. 26 (AP)-A report tonight said that Henry Aaron of the Milwaukee Braves, the National League batting champion for 1956, is asking for a 100 per cent salary boost-or $35,000."I think I deserve it, after the year I had last season," Aaron said in a telephone interview from his home in Mobile, Ala.

The Braves had the reigning batting champion, but little sentimentality existed in dealing with John Quinn during contract time. The salary figures offered to players were hard, for lesser players usually final, and for the more gifted, a higher number was merely far below what a player was actually worth. In those days, there were no agents and no lawyers negotiating deals, no salary arbitration, and no ability to attract interest from another team. And what if you didn't like the numbers that were being offered? Well, there was always bartending. The big leagues-or O.B., which stood for Organized Baseball, as the clubs liked to be called collectively-even negotiated a lockout deal with the independent leagues in Mexico and the Pacific Coast League, blocking a player who did not sign his contract from playing ball anywhere else.

The Players a.s.sociation was still two decades away from power. Players walked into the front office, virtually always undereducated and, lacking the leverage to play for another team, always overmatched. Quinn understood management's inherent advantages and did not hesitate to flaunt his power. The front office turned making players sweat for a few extra pennies into a s.a.d.i.s.tic little sport.

"I was making ten grand one year94 and Mathews was holding out. Logan was, too. Quinn was a good baseball man but tough with the negotiations," Gene Conley recalled. "One day, he calls me over to his office right as my kids are having a birthday party," Conley said. "He's got a couple of cups on the table and a bottle of whiskey. He says to me, 'I'm not giving you what you want.' I tell him I'm not signing, that if this is the offer, then I have no choice but to go back and play basketball. He pours a couple more cups, and says, 'You're going to get it, but you're not worth it.' And then he starts asking me about the family again. He knew the highest number I was asking for was low, but he wanted to make me fight for that. The next day, I saw him and he was all smiles, and asked me about my family and the birthday party, like nothing ever happened. Still, he knew baseball." and Mathews was holding out. Logan was, too. Quinn was a good baseball man but tough with the negotiations," Gene Conley recalled. "One day, he calls me over to his office right as my kids are having a birthday party," Conley said. "He's got a couple of cups on the table and a bottle of whiskey. He says to me, 'I'm not giving you what you want.' I tell him I'm not signing, that if this is the offer, then I have no choice but to go back and play basketball. He pours a couple more cups, and says, 'You're going to get it, but you're not worth it.' And then he starts asking me about the family again. He knew the highest number I was asking for was low, but he wanted to make me fight for that. The next day, I saw him and he was all smiles, and asked me about my family and the birthday party, like nothing ever happened. Still, he knew baseball."

Three days after his twenty-third birthday, on February 8, Henry signed his contract for 1957. The papers said he would be making between $25,000 and $30,000, and that Henry's tough stance with Quinn had gotten him close to the seventeen-thousand-dollar raise he sought. Throughout the season, the papers would refer to Henry as earning $28,000. The actual figure was $22,500. Henry had won the batting t.i.tle, and a measly raise of five thousand dollars was his reward.

"I think back then we all realized95 just how powerless we were," Henry said. "I didn't have any great strategy. n.o.body taught me anything about how to negotiate a salary. A lot of times, you had to take what they gave you. But I figured I would ask. They never gave any of us what we were worth." just how powerless we were," Henry said. "I didn't have any great strategy. n.o.body taught me anything about how to negotiate a salary. A lot of times, you had to take what they gave you. But I figured I would ask. They never gave any of us what we were worth."

THE R ROBINSON sentiment that the Braves were underachieving echoed in a Milwaukee press corps that began to reflect the subtle changes in coverage that would be a harbinger for the contentious years ahead. Traditionally, the writers allowed the explanations for winning and losing to remain within the field of play, but the evidence that the Braves were simply not focused enough, not driven enough, simply not tough enough to be champions was an angle too obvious to ignore. sentiment that the Braves were underachieving echoed in a Milwaukee press corps that began to reflect the subtle changes in coverage that would be a harbinger for the contentious years ahead. Traditionally, the writers allowed the explanations for winning and losing to remain within the field of play, but the evidence that the Braves were simply not focused enough, not driven enough, simply not tough enough to be champions was an angle too obvious to ignore.

The Braves were leaving the pennant in the bar, and Milwaukee fans began sending anonymous letters to the local papers in Milwaukee and Chicago, listing the favorite haunts of the players.

The att.i.tudes of the players were one part of the discontentment, and the national writers followed. "The National League pennant has been a mirage96 for the Milwaukee Braves the last three seasons following their second-place finish in 1953, the year they left Boston," Edward Prell wrote in the for the Milwaukee Braves the last three seasons following their second-place finish in 1953, the year they left Boston," Edward Prell wrote in the Chicago Tribune Chicago Tribune. "Haney realized he had a discipline problem when he succeeded Charlie Grimm as manager last June." What was jarring to the players was the speed with which the Milwaukee writers-and, to a lesser extent, the fans-had be come so jaded.

Chuck Tanner recalled the difference in the coverage of the Journal Journal and the and the Sentinel Sentinel. "Bob Wolf always kept it to the game,97 whether we won or lost," Tanner said. "But that Lou Chapman at the whether we won or lost," Tanner said. "But that Lou Chapman at the Sentinel Sentinel, he wanted the story story. He wanted to know who was getting along with whom. He wanted a spark. I remember when they traded me to Chicago, Lou used the old trick to get me to say something bad when I walked out the door. He came over to me and said, 'Chuck, got a pretty raw deal, didn't you?' The fact was, I was grateful to the Braves because they gave me the chance. But you could see the change starting then. Talking about the game on the field wasn't enough. Now look at it."

The transformation had begun the previous year, when the Braves had been embarra.s.sed by the Dodgers during a June home stand, but in 1957, the press had begun intensified scrutiny of the franchise. Since Perini's arrival in Milwaukee, his leadership had not been in question. With attendance soaring and compet.i.tive teams close to a pennant, the Braves were the model for franchise relocation, but now the scrutiny was as much about whether Quinn and Perini had chosen the right players as it was about when the players were going to perform.

O'Connell and Logan were to form the top double-play combination and more: Together they would give the Braves the toughness and fire the team had always lacked. "Danny was to be the holler guy who would make the club seem less placid on the field," wrote the Tribune Tribune. "The Braves have no quarrel with Danny's vocal enthusiasm, but the chunky Irishman has fallen short of their expectations as a player."

Bobby Thomson suffered similar wrath. He had been acquired from the Giants for Johnny Antonelli and hit but .235 as an everyday left fielder. The Thomson injury had expedited Henry's path to the big leagues, but now another key and expensive deal was starting to look like a failure.

In turn, the manager tightened the screws. This was a championship team, he said. The team didn't make any moves in the offseason, Haney said, because the Braves were already good enough to win. What they needed was more discipline. Wanting to win wasn't enough. Relying on fundamentals to b.u.t.tress talent was what Haney believed separated a championship team like the Dodgers from his own team.

There could be no greater difference between Haney and Charlie Grimm than in spring training. A half century later, Gene Conley recalled Grimm with a reminiscent lilt in his voice. "Jolly Cholly,"98 he said. "Charlie ran us out there and let us play." Grimm drank with his players, and gave them plenty of free time in the spring, relying on their professionalism instead of using a hammer. Players brought their golf clubs to Bradenton. Charlie brought the banjo. Chuck Tanner recalled a spring training when Grimm cut workouts short because he had a special surprise for his team. "We were working out and Charlie Grimm called us over because he had invited one of the most famous banjo players in the country over. Here it was, spring training, and we were sitting there listening to this guy play the banjo." he said. "Charlie ran us out there and let us play." Grimm drank with his players, and gave them plenty of free time in the spring, relying on their professionalism instead of using a hammer. Players brought their golf clubs to Bradenton. Charlie brought the banjo. Chuck Tanner recalled a spring training when Grimm cut workouts short because he had a special surprise for his team. "We were working out and Charlie Grimm called us over because he had invited one of the most famous banjo players in the country over. Here it was, spring training, and we were sitting there listening to this guy play the banjo."

Haney was different.

Haney inst.i.tuted two practices per day, plus meetings, and the golf clubs disappeared. Spring training was not to limber up the muscles and get ready for the season, but more a clinic, with repet.i.tion of the most mundane baseball drills. Haney used spring training to redraw the rules. Under Grimm, Bruton had been free to steal bases. Grimm had told him to follow his instincts and ignite the ball club, as a leadoff hitter should. Haney announced that no player would steal without his command, or any who did could expect a heavy fine.

Grimm had given Charlie Root, the pitching coach, the authority to make pitching changes. Haney stripped Root of that responsibility. Haney, however, followed the growing trend of the 1950s by managing from the dugout, allowing his third-base coach to wave or hold runners on the base paths. Grimm had managed in the Durocher style, from third base. By 1957, a manager positioned on the coaching lines neared extinction. Only Bobby Bragan, the Pittsburgh manager, managed away from the dugout.

If Grimm had enjoyed being one of the boys, Haney forged a clear line of authority: The Braves were his team. While Charlie Grimm had not criticized his players in public or exposed them to management, Haney, it seemed, used every spring-training interview to expose a player he believed had not performed for him in 1956.

When Arthur Daley of the New York Times New York Times came to see him in Bradenton, Haney offered the came to see him in Bradenton, Haney offered the Times Times columnist strike one: "We came close to winning the pennant without anyone having an outstanding year. I'm discounting Henry Aaron, who won the batting t.i.tle, because he's a kid just starting to develop as a great hitter." Then came strike two: "Joe Adc.o.c.k, Bill Bruton and Johnny Logan all had average years. And you can't tell me Eddie Mathews isn't better than a .272 hitter." And finally, in talking to the a.s.sociated Press about Thomson, came strike three: "I can't play a .235 hitter in left field." columnist strike one: "We came close to winning the pennant without anyone having an outstanding year. I'm discounting Henry Aaron, who won the batting t.i.tle, because he's a kid just starting to develop as a great hitter." Then came strike two: "Joe Adc.o.c.k, Bill Bruton and Johnny Logan all had average years. And you can't tell me Eddie Mathews isn't better than a .272 hitter." And finally, in talking to the a.s.sociated Press about Thomson, came strike three: "I can't play a .235 hitter in left field."

When the Chicago Defender Chicago Defender showed up, Haney took a few more hacks at his club, this time taking aim at Danny O'Connell: "He hurt us a lot." There was one player, though, who made the craggy, five-foot-five-inch Haney's lips curl into a smile. showed up, Haney took a few more hacks at his club, this time taking aim at Danny O'Connell: "He hurt us a lot." There was one player, though, who made the craggy, five-foot-five-inch Haney's lips curl into a smile.

"No one on our team had a really big year. Not even Hank Aaron, though he led the league in hitting," Haney told the Defender Defender. "Aaron's the best hitter in our league. Yes, better than Willie Mays. He's easily capable of bettering his 1956 figures."

IN LATER YEARS, when the power of the player (and in the 1990s the general manager) would eclipse that of the manager, what Fred Haney had done with Henry Aaron on the first day of spring workouts would be the kind of move that got managers fired. Aaron had won the batting t.i.tle hitting cleanup. Henry had been the cleanup hitter since midway through his rookie season, but Haney told him he would be the subject of a radical experiment: Henry would be batting second.

His reasoning was simple: The top of the order was not producing, and no one in baseball hit more than Henry. O'Connell couldn't be trusted in the second spot in the order, yet Haney decided to bat him first. Bruton, normally the leadoff hitter, had been demoted by Haney during the previous year. That left Henry as the most versatile hitter on the team. Haney believed that having Henry hit second would give O'Connell better pitches to hit. The move would also give him more at bats, as he was guaranteed to hit in the first inning of every game. Mathews would remain in the third spot and Adc.o.c.k would move up to cleanup.

The second spot was usually reserved for crafty batsmen, the ones who weren't expected to hit the ball over the fence. Henry may not have been in Mathews's category as a slugger, but he was a run producer. Hitting second would limit his opportunities: In the first inning, he could hit only a two-run homer at best, and later in the game, he would be hitting behind a leadoff hitter, the pitcher and eighth hitter.

But the real reason Henry did not want to hit second was because he knew that being in the two-hole, where you hit behind the runner, wasn't where the money was.

"h.e.l.l, I'll never drive in one hundred runs. .h.i.tting second," he said one day.

Henry set the Braves camp afire. March 11, against the Dodgers in Miami, Aaron yanked a fastball over the left-field fence off Sal Maglie. The next day, against the Cardinals, he hit another. Two days later in Bradenton, against Cincinnati, he hit his third home run of the spring. Against the Dodgers again the next day, Aaron took a fastball from Don Elston and blasted it over the four-hundred-foot sign in dead center, over the center-field fence, with seventy-five feet to spare. The Times Times called it the "king-sized wallop of the day." March 16, against the Phillies in Clearwater, Aaron pounded another home run. called it the "king-sized wallop of the day." March 16, against the Phillies in Clearwater, Aaron pounded another home run.

It was, thought Gene Conley, as if Henry had decided to focus on another element of his game-power hitting-just for fun.

And that was just the thing about being in the one-millionth-percentile club: It wasn't hyperbole, for the great ones could could do just that. In baseball, you could separate the good ones from the great with your eyes closed-literally, to the veteran baseball ear, it was often that easy. Contact with the ball just do just that. In baseball, you could separate the good ones from the great with your eyes closed-literally, to the veteran baseball ear, it was often that easy. Contact with the ball just sounded sounded different-clearer, cleaner, sharper. When a hitter like Musial or Williams stepped into the cage, there was simply the sound of perfection. The bat didn't graze the pitch, but caught it flush, not just once every four or five swings, but a dozen times in a row if they found their groove. Teammates would tell stories about Henry different-clearer, cleaner, sharper. When a hitter like Musial or Williams stepped into the cage, there was simply the sound of perfection. The bat didn't graze the pitch, but caught it flush, not just once every four or five swings, but a dozen times in a row if they found their groove. Teammates would tell stories about Henry choosing choosing which field-left, center, right-he would drive the ball into. Against the fastball, Henry could fire his hands and wrists and hips through the strike zone without hesitation, level and deadly, unleashing the perfect power swing against the sport's ultimate power pitch. which field-left, center, right-he would drive the ball into. Against the fastball, Henry could fire his hands and wrists and hips through the strike zone without hesitation, level and deadly, unleashing the perfect power swing against the sport's ultimate power pitch.

On breaking b.a.l.l.s, the best ones did not shift their bodies too quickly, antic.i.p.ating a fastball, only to be struggling woefully out of hitting position. They were different. Henry was one of them. He could defy physics and not be caught unbalanced. They could rattle off that mental checklist before the ball reached the plate. They could do what sounded so easy-see his release point ... look fastball, adjust to the curve ... don't pull your head off of the ball ... stay tight ... shoulder in ... wait on the ball ... be quick!-and make it look like cake. Everybody else in baseball told themselves the same thing before the pitch, and yet they were the ones walking back to the dugout.

And when all else failed, when the pitcher made a great pitch in a great location-and with a different pitch than expected-a fooled, beaten hitter like Henry could simply summon the G.o.ds, weight heavy on the wrong foot, looking for the wrong pitch, and still still tag it. With Henry, the wrists were already becoming legendary, but unlike the great power hitters, Henry had still not taken to pulling the ball. His power still remained in the right-center-field alley, which meant he could still swing a fraction of a second late and generate tremendous power. tag it. With Henry, the wrists were already becoming legendary, but unlike the great power hitters, Henry had still not taken to pulling the ball. His power still remained in the right-center-field alley, which meant he could still swing a fraction of a second late and generate tremendous power.

It was true that at times he could look funny, for, unlike Musial or Williams, he did not possess cla.s.sic mechanics. His teammates and coaches wondered how he could generate such power when finishing on his front foot, instead of his back leg or at his waist, yet they immediately found themselves in awe of just how technically sound he truly was at the actual moment of impact. One day, he tried to explain it to The Sporting News The Sporting News. "Whether I'm hitting good or not99 depends on my timing," he said. "I never have any trouble seeing the ball. I can't even say I see it better when I'm hitting good than when I'm not. When my timing is off, I have trouble, and when it ain't, I don't." To veteran hitting experts, it was something of a remarkable admission. Normally, slumping hitters would decide they were picking up the ball leaving the pitcher's hand just a fraction too late. depends on my timing," he said. "I never have any trouble seeing the ball. I can't even say I see it better when I'm hitting good than when I'm not. When my timing is off, I have trouble, and when it ain't, I don't." To veteran hitting experts, it was something of a remarkable admission. Normally, slumping hitters would decide they were picking up the ball leaving the pitcher's hand just a fraction too late.

Upon contact, everything was in perfect place, as if Henry were a model: His head was down, his eyes focused on the ball. His hands were back, clearing through the strike zone at the same time his hips whipped through, steady and then lethal. On contact, the ball jumped, spring-loaded.

When Henry stepped into the cage for batting practice, players marveled at his bat control, how he could lash line drives to any part of the ballpark. "I remember it probably better than anybody,"100 recalled Frank Torre. "I am left-handed, and many times I had to throw batting practice to Henry. He d.a.m.ned near killed me. He was the scariest guy." During the six weeks of spring, Henry seemed intent on tearing through the league, retribution for stalling in 1956, payback for Herm Wehmeier. He slid into second base against Washington, sprained his ankle, and missed a week, but by the end of March, he was still leading the Braves in runs driven in. When he returned, and the Braves began making their way back north, the rampage continued. He hit a home run in Tampa against Cincinnati, and again April 5 against the Dodgers in San Antonio. When he was finished, and the Braves completed the exhibition season against Cleveland at County Stadium, the Braves were playing with the kind of furious purpose that Haney had long craved. recalled Frank Torre. "I am left-handed, and many times I had to throw batting practice to Henry. He d.a.m.ned near killed me. He was the scariest guy." During the six weeks of spring, Henry seemed intent on tearing through the league, retribution for stalling in 1956, payback for Herm Wehmeier. He slid into second base against Washington, sprained his ankle, and missed a week, but by the end of March, he was still leading the Braves in runs driven in. When he returned, and the Braves began making their way back north, the rampage continued. He hit a home run in Tampa against Cincinnati, and again April 5 against the Dodgers in San Antonio. When he was finished, and the Braves completed the exhibition season against Cleveland at County Stadium, the Braves were playing with the kind of furious purpose that Haney had long craved.

HANEY, BRAVES SURE 1957 WILL.

BE THEIR PENNANT YEAR.

The headlines followed along similarly, all dwarfed by one that appeared in The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post, quoting Mr. Warren Spahn, who declared three days before the season started that the Braves would not only win the pennant but would play the Yankees in the World Series, and beat them.

At no point during the 1957 season did Henry's average drop below .308. He homered in every park, against every team, home and away. If he hit when the Braves were ahead, he gave them insurance. He hit when the game was close. He did not steal bases in large numbers, but he stretched singles into doubles, doubles into triples. While Haney had credited him for being a consistent player in 1956, from the beginning of the season in 1957, Henry exuded a special star power that at once elevated him into the elite cla.s.s of the league.

Take the second game of the season, the home opener in front of 41,506 at County Stadium April 18 against Cincinnati: Burdette and the left-hander Hal Jeffcoat pitched briskly, as if they had a plane to catch, trading fastb.a.l.l.s and sliders and double-play b.a.l.l.s for five innings. In the bottom of the sixth, Aaron caught a Jeffcoat fastball and golfed it into the Perini pines, the high row of trees that stood between the outfield fences and the miles of parking lot, for the only score of the game. Burdette closed his own deal, forcing the mighty Ted Kluszewski to ground into a double play in the eighth, sealing the 10 win. The Braves mashed the Redlegs three straight, and won their first five games.

On April 24, at home against St. Louis, the Braves faced their old nemesis Herm Wehmeier, the man who in 1956 first s.n.a.t.c.hed away Henry's twenty-five-game hitting streak (after dropping him with cheek-high fastb.a.l.l.s during his rookie season), then beat Spahn and ripped the pennant away that fateful final Sat.u.r.day. Wehmeier lasted just four innings, giving up home runs to Adc.o.c.k, Aaron, and Mathews before departing. Yet Wehmeier escaped with a no-decision. Crandall bombed the winning home run in the bottom of the ninth.

The Braves played three straight extra-inning games to start May, once at the Polo Grounds over the Giants and twice in Pittsburgh, and won them all. Tied at 11 in the tenth against the Giants, Henry drove in the game winner that gave Spahn a ten-inning, complete-game win. The next night, Henry went five for six against Pittsburgh. Burdette was up 52 in the bottom of the ninth, only to give up a pinch-hit, three-run homer to John Powers (.195 average, six homers for his career). The Braves scored three unearned runs in the tenth, the second coming when the Pittsburgh right fielder, Roberto Clemente, allowed Henry's single to skip past him to win, 85. The next night, Henry doubled in the fourth to score Gene Conley, smoked a two-out, three-run homer off Bob Friend in a six-run sixth, and scored the winning run after tripling to lead off the eleventh. Henry was muscling his way onto the big stage, armed with a sudden and complete command of his game. His teammates thought of him as a gifted hitter, if not a bit aloof, but during the first weeks of 1957, he took on the look of a superstar. The surge of confidence went back to the first days of spring training, when Henry arrived in Bradenton convinced not only of his own ability but that 1957 would be the year when his talent and self-confidence would intersect. Moreover, he had begun to force the writers and his teammates to view him as a leader.

DURING HIS FIRST three seasons, Henry had escaped the criticism leveled at the rest of the Braves. He was portrayed mostly as a comet, a player too talented to miss as a prospect but too green to be part of the Braves cultural problem. He was just reaching his potential as a player and was asked only to let his play provide his leadership. The press had not yet collectively come to a conclusive opinion of Henry. He was twenty-three, entering his fourth season, and while the Braves did not appear to have the experience of the Dodgers, they were a veteran team, whose leaders were all in their thirties. Spahn was thirty-six, Logan and Burdette were thirty, and Bobby Thomson was thirty-three. three seasons, Henry had escaped the criticism leveled at the rest of the Braves. He was portrayed mostly as a comet, a player too talented to miss as a prospect but too green to be part of the Braves cultural problem. He was just reaching his potential as a player and was asked only to let his play provide his leadership. The press had not yet collectively come to a conclusive opinion of Henry. He was twenty-three, entering his fourth season, and while the Braves did not appear to have the experience of the Dodgers, they were a veteran team, whose leaders were all in their thirties. Spahn was thirty-six, Logan and Burdette were thirty, and Bobby Thomson was thirty-three.

Henry was not quoted often, and when the paper previewed the Braves, it talked about the psyches of Spahn, Mathews, and Burdette as keys to the Milwaukee season. In later years, Henry would see these characterizations as subtle forms of the racism he had dealt with his entire life. He would take the writers' underestimation of his influence as proof of their cultural reluctance to position a black player ahead of established white stars-even in the late 1950s, when Robinson had already retired and proved that a black player could lead a club without the visible on-field fissures baseball people had long feared.

More than simple racism, the uncertainty of the press with regard to Aaron seemed to prove another vexing phenomenon: the inability of the writers close to Henry to read him properly. Had one, whether it was Bob Wolf of the Journal Journal or Lou Chapman of the or Lou Chapman of the Sentinel Sentinel, been able to connect with him, he would have seen Henry's confidence upon his arrival in Bradenton as obvious. Henry told the Defender Defender he saw the National League Triple Crown as a goal, and that Willie Mays was one player who could keep him from leading the league in average, home runs, and RBIs. If he could stay ahead of Stan Musial for the batting t.i.tle, he figured, he would have a chance. The story may have been one of many light spring-training features, that time of pastel optimism. Henry's comments could have even been considered reckless for a young player, and quickly dismissed. Expecting to have a good year was one thing; talking about surpa.s.sing Mays and Musial was quite another, even for a defending batting champion. But in Henry's case, it was indicative of his emergence as a star player, emblematic of his circuitous method of revealing just how sure he was of his ability. Just a year earlier, it was Henry who had barnstormed with Mays, outperformed other star players, only to be enveloped, swallowed whole, by Willie's aura. he saw the National League Triple Crown as a goal, and that Willie Mays was one player who could keep him from leading the league in average, home runs, and RBIs. If he could stay ahead of Stan Musial for the batting t.i.tle, he figured, he would have a chance. The story may have been one of many light spring-training features, that time of pastel optimism. Henry's comments could have even been considered reckless for a young player, and quickly dismissed. Expecting to have a good year was one thing; talking about surpa.s.sing Mays and Musial was quite another, even for a defending batting champion. But in Henry's case, it was indicative of his emergence as a star player, emblematic of his circuitous method of revealing just how sure he was of his ability. Just a year earlier, it was Henry who had barnstormed with Mays, outperformed other star players, only to be enveloped, swallowed whole, by Willie's aura.

In just a year, he no longer considered his abilities with deference toward other players, even Mays or Musial, who had won his first batting t.i.tle when Henry was nine years old and had won six batting t.i.tles before Henry turned eighteen. They were great players. Musial had been his idol, true enough ... but now they were his peers peers.

SUNDAY, MAY 5, with the Braves playing the Dodgers at Ebbets Field up a game in the standings, Haney gave the ball to Bob Buhl, the same Buhl who had beaten Brooklyn eight times in 1956. This night, a heavy bag would have taken less punishment than the shots leveled at Buhl. He recorded just two outs, gave up five runs in the first, and was gone. Before he left the shower, Brooklyn led 73. 5, with the Braves playing the Dodgers at Ebbets Field up a game in the standings, Haney gave the ball to Bob Buhl, the same Buhl who had beaten Brooklyn eight times in 1956. This night, a heavy bag would have taken less punishment than the shots leveled at Buhl. He recorded just two outs, gave up five runs in the first, and was gone. Before he left the shower, Brooklyn led 73.

But it didn't matter, not with Henry flying. With one on in the top of the first, Henry singled up the middle off Sal Maglie, but the ball got past Duke Snider and rolled 410 feet to the wall. O'Connell scored easily and Henry raced around the bases and scored all the way from first. In the third, Henry doubled to right and scored again. In the fourth, he lashed a two-out, three-run homer over the fence in right to cut the lead down to a manageable 76. By the end of the fifth, the Braves led 97.

Henry capped the evening by singling off Sandy Koufax in the eighth. He had rattled Snider in the first and then strolled home from third when Koufax chucked a wild pitch. The Braves had won, 107, and when the smoke finally cleared, Aaron had gone four for five, with a home run, a double, two singles, four runs scored and three batted in. His average was now .417.

Then there was the frigid forty-degree afternoon of May 18 at County Stadium, when Henry pounded two homers against Pittsburgh, first off Vern Law in the third and then, in the next inning, a two-out, three-run backbreaker that did in Bob Smith, fueling a three-for-four, four-RBI day and a 65 win. Henry was now leading the league in home runs and RBIs, and close to the top in everything else. During the first week of June, Haney realized that a hitter of Henry's gifts couldn't be a two guy, a power hitter in a Punch-and-Judy role. On June 7, Haney finally came to his senses. He made the switch and restored Henry to cleanup.

The machine was coming together. A year earlier, Eddie Mathews had been dying at the plate, hitting .250 on a good day, under .230 when things went sour. But now he battled Henry for the home-run lead and was. .h.i.tting over .300. Spahn, Burdette, and Buhl were all winning, and then there was the Kid, twenty-year-old Juan Ramon Cordova Pizarro, the lefty phenom from Puerto Rico, who made the team out of spring training and already was being called the next Warren Spahn.

The Braves played like a team still smarting at having given away a golden opportunity the previous year. There was, thought Johnny Logan, no joy in the chase, as there had been in the years before, that spark of t.i.tillation when the writers would put the Braves in the same cla.s.s as the Dodgers, the Giants, and the Yankees. Instead, Logan recalled, there could be only one outcome that would satisfy the players. "You have to remember.101 We had been close for probably five years. We felt it was our time. We had earned the right to think that way." We had been close for probably five years. We felt it was our time. We had earned the right to think that way."

The beauty of winning is that it always provides a soft landing during the rough spots. The problem with losing is that no one lets you forget it, ever. When the Braves surged, The Sporting News The Sporting News reminded them of their old nemesis, running a forty-eight-point headline above the fold that read reminded them of their old nemesis, running a forty-eight-point headline above the fold that read JACKIE'S RAP NO SPUR TO BRAVES' SPURT JACKIE'S RAP NO SPUR TO BRAVES' SPURT, in reference to Robinson's contention that the Braves drank themselves into second place in 1956. "Did Jackie Robinson's blast at the Milwaukee Braves last winter fire them up and send them away flying in the National League Pennant race?" read the lead paragraph of the story. It was a charge that more than fifty years later still burrowed into Johnny Logan.

"Ah, that was complete bulls.h.i.t.102 When we went to the bar, it was to talk baseball. When we won, it was to enjoy getting the job done. When we lost, it was getting the guys together to see how we could win the next day. Total BULL When we went to the bar, it was to talk baseball. When we won, it was to enjoy getting the job done. When we lost, it was getting the guys together to see how we could win the next day. Total BULL-s.h.i.t!"

If they had been criticized in the past for not playing their best against the league's best, the Braves now sent the message to their National League rivals that they weren't gorging themselves only on the cupcakes. Against Cincinnati, they mashed the Reds the first six times they met and seven of eight, and even started a row with Reds manager Birdie Tebbetts, who railed against Burdette and his spitb.a.l.l.s. Haney responded that he was "tired of this spitball wrangle," and said that maybe the Braves routine coldc.o.c.king of the Reds was the real reason Birdie had a beef with the Braves. But there was something special about Cincinnati. The two second bas.e.m.e.n, Johnny Logan and Johnny Temple, waged their own little private war, jawing and spiking. Adc.o.c.k had no love for the Reds, the team that gave up on him. Milwaukee beat St. Louis and the Dodgers both five of eight. The Braves played with the kind of angry drive that vindicated the common belief that Milwaukee was the best team in the National League. These ingredients were supposed to fuel the engine for the whole 154 games.

And yet ... and yet ... yet ... Milwaukee was just as close to the pennant as they were to fifth place. During the first week of June, five teams were separated by only a game and a half. The Dodgers were supposed to be fossils. Newcombe was down, but Koufax, Drysdale, and Johnny Podres entered June a combined 146. The writers said the Cardinals would compete, maybe the toughest out in the league, but in the end didn't have the horses, or so went the conventional wisdom. But the Cardinals were trading afternoons in first place with the Braves. The same was true for the big-hit, no-pitch Reds. Even the Phillies, who could pitch with Brooklyn and Milwaukee but couldn't hit off a tee, were in the race. Milwaukee was just as close to the pennant as they were to fifth place. During the first week of June, five teams were separated by only a game and a half. The Dodgers were supposed to be fossils. Newcombe was down, but Koufax, Drysdale, and Johnny Podres entered June a combined 146. The writers said the Cardinals would compete, maybe the toughest out in the league, but in the end didn't have the horses, or so went the conventional wisdom. But the Cardinals were trading afternoons in first place with the Braves. The same was true for the big-hit, no-pitch Reds. Even the Phillies, who could pitch with Brooklyn and Milwaukee but couldn't hit off a tee, were in the race.

The Braves were hungry and angry and focused, playing each day with a singular intensity, but it just wasn't possible for a club to get mad and thrive off that rage for the entire season. Baseball is a game of stoic concentration, requiring a maestro's sense of timing for knowing when to get mad, when to clown, when to floor the accelerator or to forget an especially tough loss and just let the tide pa.s.s.

Beyond the star players were real problems. Covington (.143), Pafko (.143), and Thomson (.156) weren't hitting. Chuck Tanner was swinging-and missing-at .192. Haney had already benched Thomson in May after starting the season three for his first thirty-four. Conley was 04. On May 15, Haney shipped Covington back to the bushes, to Wichita, of Cla.s.s AA ball. Haney had already been victimized by the left-field situation in 1956, vowed it wouldn't happen again, and yet his left fielders combined to hit .163.

The writers knew Haney wanted to make a deal, and they sniffed around to find out what the Braves next move would be. Haney did his best to play coy, but the little general wasn't so good at this. Despite the fact that Milwaukee had paid a quarter million for O'Connell, who was still hitting .230, it was rumored that the old hand Red Schoendienst would be traded to Milwaukee to stabilize a position that, in truth, had been an expensive disaster.

"Now there's a funny one," Haney told The Sporting News The Sporting News the day Covington was sent out. "I have been asked about Schoendienst for months." Haney added, "In short, there has been a lot of player trading-in the newspapers. I am not beefing. It doubtless makes interesting reading, and it's no hair off my thinning noggin. I think we have a fine ballclub, and if you get the impression that I think it's good enough to win as it stands, you have caught my sentiments." the day Covington was sent out. "I have been asked about Schoendienst for months." Haney added, "In short, there has been a lot of player trading-in the newspapers. I am not beefing. It doubtless makes interesting reading, and it's no hair off my thinning noggin. I think we have a fine ballclub, and if you get the impression that I think it's good enough to win as it stands, you have caught my sentiments."

Haney had had two targets for his anger since the spring: they were Bobby Thomson ("I can't play a guy hitting .235") and Danny O'Connell ("He hurt us a lot"). Haney had told just about anyone with a press card that second base and left field would either cost the Braves the pennant or win it. Exactly one month after Haney laughed off the Schoendienst deal, O'Connell and Thomson were shipped to the Giants for Schoendienst, the hard-driving nine-time all-star who at twenty-three had won a World Series t.i.tle with Musial in St. Louis.

The baseball life would be a bittersweet one for O'Connell. After placing third for Rookie of the Year with Pittsburgh in 1952, O'Connell would never hit better than .266 after being traded from Milwaukee. He hated playing for San Francisco manager Bill Rigney, who, he said, destroyed his confidence. After the Giants moved west to San Francisco, O'Connell played two more years, ceasing to be an everyday player. He played two uninspired years in the cellar with Washington and was finished in baseball after the 1962 season. He caught on as a coach with the Senators. On the night of October 2, 1969, O'Connell's car skidded off a rain-slicked street near Clifton, New Jersey, and hit a telephone pole, the crash killing him. He was forty-two years old.

For Bobby Thomson, the trade from Milwaukee would be an especially bitter one. For the next fifty years, he would be an American hero, but words like hero hero and and icon icon could be savored only when the playing stopped. Thomson would have one good season with the Giants, but the broken ankle he suffered his first year with Milwaukee effectively ended his career as an impact player. could be savored only when the playing stopped. Thomson would have one good season with the Giants, but the broken ankle he suffered his first year with Milwaukee effectively ended his career as an impact player.

AT THE N NATIONAL L LEAGUE All-Star Game played in St. Louis July 9, 1957, three future immortals were unanimously voted to start the game: Stan Musial, Willie Mays-and Henry Aaron. Normally, the fans did the voting for the eight starting lineup spots, while the manager voted for the reserves and the pitching staff. The All-Star Game was, after all, the fans' game. But Commissioner Ford Frick stepped in and took over th