The End of Lou Gehrig's Consecutive Games Streak

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Lou Gehrig, baseball's "Iron Horse," played in his final baseball game 75 years ago today.

Appropriately, the game was played in Yankee Stadium, and more than 23,000 people were on hand to see it. It was a Sunday afternoon — no one was playing hookey from work or school — and the Yankees were facing the Washington Senators.

Gehrig was hitless in four at–bats, and his batting average fell to .143. He wasn't the only Yankee who struggled that day. New York had only four hits — all singles.

It wasn't as if the Senators had a future Hall of Famer on the mound that day, either. The starting pitcher for Washington was Joe Krakauskas, a 24–year–old southpaw whose major–league career would be over only a few years later.

But no one knew it was Gehrig's final game. He was such a fixture in the lineup that my guess is no one could imagine a Yankee game without him.

I suppose everyone knew he had been playing poorly in spring training and through the first week of major–league play. It was probably the worst–kept secret of all time, and it was perplexing. But few, if any, thought his career would soon be over. They probably figured he would shake it off at some point.

"I have seen ballplayers 'go' overnight, as Gehrig seems to have done," wrote James Kahn in the New York Sun. "But they were simply washed up as ballplayers. It's something deeper than that in this case, though. I have watched him closely and this is what I have seen: I have seen him time a ball perfectly, swing on it as hard as he can, meet it squarely — and drive a soft, looping fly over the infield. ... He is meeting the ball, time after time, and it isn't going anywhere."

The next day, Monday, May 1, 1939, was an off day for the Yankees. On Tuesday, May 2, Gehrig came up to manager Joe McCarthy just before a game in Detroit and announced that he was benching himself — after playing in 2,130 consecutive games — "for the good of the team."

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McCarthy went along with Gehrig and inserted Babe Dahlgren in his place in the lineup but told Gehrig the job was still his whenever he was ready. When it was announced to the Detroit fans that Gehrig had removed himself from the lineup after playing in more than 2,100 games, they gave him a standing ovation.

(Dahlgren went two for five with a home run and a double as New York crushed Detroit, 22–2.)

Most folks probably thought Gehrig's absence would only be temporary. Friend and teammate Lefty Gomez said, "It took them 15 years to get [him] out of the game. Sometimes I'm out of there in 15 minutes."

Gehrig's wife, Eleanor, observed, "[The public] had marveled for 13 years at his sublime strength; now they were marveling at his stunning weakness."

A month and a half later, on his 36th birthday, Gehrig was diagnosed with the disease that would kill him two years later — amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, also known as Lou Gehrig's disease.

Bill Dickey, Gehrig's best friend and teammate, said, "I knew there was something seriously wrong with him. I didn't know what it was, but I knew it was serious."

On the Fourth of July, an appreciation day was held for Gehrig (who had retired after the diagnosis) at Yankee Stadium. It was on that occasion that he said he was the "luckiest man on the face of the earth."

It came out later that sometimes Gehrig kept the streak going because he made a pinch–hitting appearance or through sheer luck (when an off day happened to coincide with an illness or an injury); other times he played when he probably shouldn't have.

On one occasion, he was hit in the head by a pitch but remained in the game. He was hit in the head on another occasion and was knocked unconscious for five minutes. He left the game but played the next day.

Yet another time, Gehrig was having problems with his back. He singled and was replaced by a pinch runner so he could rest his back.

Moreover, X–rays revealed that he had suffered several fractures during his playing days, but, in his stoic way, he played through the pain.

It probably seemed to most that Gehrig's streak would never be equaled — but Cal Ripken Jr. finally matched Gehrig in September 1995. Ripken played 500 more games before retiring in 1998; his record of 2,632 consecutive games played really might never be matched.

Well, probably not in my lifetime.

Prince Fielder of the Texas Rangers has the closest active streak, and the 29–year–old would need to play every game for the next 13 years to pass Ripken.

A Ride on the Ryan Express

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Prior to the 1989 season, the Texas Rangers signed Nolan Ryan, and a new era of Rangers baseball began.

Until that time, the Rangers were a major–league joke. They were seldom competitive in the American League — in fact, in the previous two seasons, they had been last or next–to–last in their division. In my memory, baseball in north Texas in those days was nothing more than a place filler between football seasons.

Nolan Ryan changed that. He energized the team's fan base and attracted new fans. Turned out, north Texas was itching to support a baseball team that was committed to at least trying to win, and signing Ryan was the clearest signal to date that the Rangers management definitely wanted to win.

That really makes all the difference in whether a professional sports team succeeds. There have always been — and always will be — people who watch sporting events for other reasons (those who watch auto races just to see a crash or a hockey game just to see a fight). They exist in every city. In my experience, the larger that demographic is within a team's local fan base, the less seriously that team is taken elsewhere.

I went to a few Ranger games before Nolan Ryan came along, and most of the people I saw were there to see the Rangers' Keystone Kops–style baseball. A few were tourists in the Metroplex, taking in a baseball game because there was nothing better to do.

But, as I say, Ryan changed that. The Rangers of '89 leaped from the gate and took first place in their division on the fifth day of the season. They were 15–4 on April 28 when they began a weekend series at home against the defending AL East champion Boston Red Sox.

A friend of mine and I had been following the pitching results and rotations and we figured that, if there were no rainouts or injuries, Ryan and Boston ace Roger Clemens would be on track to face each other in Arlington on Sunday, April 30. In a remarkable display of confidence at which I can only marvel today, we purchased tickets roughly two weeks ahead of time.

We knew it was risky. We knew the old saying about April showers. We knew it was possible that either team could be rained out at any time. And we knew that either pitcher could get hurt (Ryan, we figured, was particularly vulnerable, being 42 when the season began). But none of those things happened, and Ryan and Clemens faced off as expected in Arlington 25 years ago today.

It was a beautiful, warm, sunny late April day in Arlington, Texas. A crowd of 40,429 came out to the ballpark to see the game — it was the closest thing to a playoff atmosphere I had ever experienced at a Rangers game.

The Red Sox took a 1–0 lead in the first inning, and that was the score until the bottom of the eighth when Rafael Palmeiro hit a home run off Clemens with Cecil Espy on base. The Rangers, leading 2–1, then relieved Ryan in the ninth. Jeff Russell retired the Red Sox in order to earn his fifth save of the season, and Ryan's record improved to 3–1. Clemens suffered his first loss of the season.

It wasn't until I was in the car driving home, listening to the postgame program on the radio, that I learned that Ryan had been pitching with back spasms from the second inning on — yet he only yielded three hits all day. (If he had been playing for a National League team, he would have had to take his turns at bat — and, as a result, might not have lasted as long as he did.)

The Rangers didn't make the playoffs in 1989, but they went from being 33½ games out of first place in 1988 to 16 games out in 1989. They didn't make the playoffs before Ryan retired in 1993, but, had it not been for the baseball strike in 1994, the Rangers might have been in the playoffs that year (they led their division by a single game when the strike began).

They did make the playoffs in 1997 and 1999 — and they were in the World Series a decade later.

And I will always believe they did all that because Nolan Ryan joined the team 25 years ago.

A Heart-Stopping Finish

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I seldom watch the NBA — until the playoffs begin. And, even then, I don't usually watch until it has been narrowed down to two teams.

But, yesterday, I sat down and watched most (not all) of Game 3 of the Dallas Mavericks–San Antonio Spurs series.

The Spurs are the top seed in the west; the Mavericks are the eighth seed. It is safe to say most regular NBA observers probably expected the Spurs to win the series fairly easily, especially after winning the first game at home.

But the Mavericks surprised them by winning the second game, and the series moved to Dallas.

You don't have to be an NBA fan to know that these two teams have a pretty intense in–state rivalry going on. I guess it helps to be a resident of Texas — but even that probably isn't necessary.

Anyway, I decided to watch most of yesterday's game.

At first, it appeared the Spurs would seize the series lead. They grabbed a seven–point advantage at the end of the first quarter, but the Mavericks pounded them in the second and led by five points at intermission.

I had my TV on throughout the first half, but I was busy doing things around the apartment so I didn't sit and watch — until the second half began.

That second half was incredible. The Spurs picked up a couple of points on the Mavericks in the third quarter and battled to a two–point lead with 1.7 seconds remaining. It appeared the Mavericks would lose.

But then they inbounded the ball to Vince Carter, who hit a jumper from the corner. Two questions had to be answered: Did he shoot before time expired? If so, did he shoot from three–point range?

There was no question about whether he made the shot. The question was whether he fired it before time ran out. If he did, then the question was whether it was worth two points (which would mean an overtime period) or three (which would mean the Mavericks won).

The referees, after consulting instant replay, confirmed that the ball left Carter's hands before time expired, then they ruled that he shot from three–point range.

Game over.

Tim Cowlishaw of the Dallas Morning News never seems to be at a loss for words, even if he has to make them up (as William Shakespeare did). That can be a hit–or–miss kind of thing for a journalist, but, as a veteran of sports desks, I know that sports may be the best place for someone who has a way with words to be.

It is part of the joy of sports, which was best described, I think, by Red Smith who, as I have observed on this blog before, wrote that he believed people watched sports events to have fun — and then they picked up the next day's paper to read about the event they had watched and have fun all over again.

Sportswriters (and I include headline writers in this) get into the spirit of whichever sport is in season, and they contribute a great deal to the mood.

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When people read accounts of yesterday's game, the memory that most will have is of the bedlam that followed the referees' ruling, and I have to concede that the word Cowlishaw used to describe the pandemonium — "Vinsanity" — was pretty good.

Actually, though, that isn't Cowlishaw's creation. Carter isn't a rookie. He is 37 years old. "Vinsanity" may go back to his college days, for all I know.

Judging from Gil LeBreton's column in the Fort Worth Star–Telegram, it is old enough to be Vinsanity 2.0.

"Or maybe," he wrote, "considering the many NBA lives of 37–year–old Vince Carter, it was Vinsanity 4, 5 or 6.0 that erupted as the final horn sounded."

Well, it still summarized the finish pretty well — although whoever wrote the headline for Cowlishaw may have been more on track with the reference to "Monta Madness."

Monta is Monta Ellis, who led all scorers with 29 points.

Game 4 will be here in Dallas tomorrow night at 8:30 (Central), and Game 5 will be played in San Antonio Wednesday. I'll be watching.

Thanks For the Memories, Earl

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I guess everyone knows about the 1972 Miami Dolphins — the only team in modern pro football history to go undefeated through the regular season and the postseason.

Fewer people remember that more than half of those wins were accomplished without the Dolphins' star quarterback, Bob Griese, who went down with a broken leg and dislocated ankle in the fifth game of the season. He was replaced by backup Earl Morrall, who had recently been picked up on the waiver wire after being released by the Baltimore Colts.

Miami's coach, Don Shula, had been Morrall's coach for a time in Baltimore. They had been in Super Bowl III, which the Colts lost to the New York Jets. Shula knew precisely what he was getting when he picked up Morrall. Possibly no backup quarterback has ever stepped in as the substitute for the starter better equipped to run his coach's offense and succeed.

In fact, Morrall wound up leading the AFC in passing, just as Griese had the year before — in spite of throwing only one pass in the first four games.

He started the last nine games of the 1972 regular season and the first two games of the playoffs while Griese recovered. It wasn't always as easy as it may seem today; they struggled at times, but the Dolphins won all those games.

They hung on to beat Buffalo by a single point the week after Griese went down. They beat the Jets by four points in the 10th game, and they barely got past a mediocre Cleveland Browns team in the playoffs. Griese returned to the lineup in the second half of the AFC championship game, then led the Dolphins to the Super Bowl title.

He was on a third Super Bowl team as well. He was still on Miami's roster the next year when the Dolphins defended their title in Super Bowl VIII.

I remember having Morrall's football card and not knowing who he was. There were some players who were like that. I only knew their names because I had their cards. It wasn't until years later that I learned Morrall had been the quarterback of the Colts team that lost to Broadway Joe Namath and the Jets. I knew who Namath was, of course. Who didn't?

That was a good Colts team, too. Before facing the Jets, the Colts lost only one game. In a year when most teams were equally balanced between the run and the pass, Morrall completed more than 57% of his passes for nearly 3,000 yards.

Anyway, Morrall died Thursday at the age of 79. The news was confirmed today. From what I have heard, he had been in poor health for awhile.

He played pro football in relative obscurity for more than two decades. In those two Super Bowl seasons, with the sports world watching his every move, he led his teams to a combined record of 24–2.

He died in relative obscurity, too. I'm sure there were many young people across the country who didn't know who he was when they heard of his death.

The historian in me would like to think that someday football fans will re–discover the rich history of their sport — and Morrall's contributions to it.

But the realist in me doubts that will ever happen.

Everything Old Is New Again

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One hundred years ago today, Wrigley Field (known then as Weeghman Park) hosted its first baseball game. It was the home of the Chicago Whales of the Federal League.

In the first half of the 1920s, it was known as Cubs Park, and it was the home of the National League's Chicago Cubs — as it still is today. In November 1926, it was renamed Wrigley Field after chewing gum bigwig William Wrigley Jr., who owned the Cubs at the time.

"Most of what we know of Wrigley Field came to be in 1937," writes Tim Newcomb for Sports Illustrated, "when then–owner P.K. Wrigley urged Cubs general manager Bill Veeck to spruce up the stadium, which had already been renovated in 1921 and 1926. ... The owner wanted a park–like setting, similar to what he'd seen in trips to ballparks in California. That vision gave us the park we know today, complete with ivy, a brick outfield wall and a scoreboard."

When a sports venue has existed for a century, it is to be expected that it has hosted its share of luminaries, but Wrigley may have had more than its share in that time. Many stadiums have doubled as homes for baseball and football. Wrigley has truly been an all–purpose facility.

"Wrigley has also hosted professional boxing, professional soccer, college football (Northwestern and DePaul have both called it home) and even a ski jump competition from the upper deck in 1943," Newcomb writes. "All those events, not to mention a visit from every National League team since 1916 (and Michael Jordan once during his baseball days, the only big–league stadium he played in), have brought a who's who of visitors through the locker room."

Only Fenway Park, which observed its centennial a couple of years ago, is older, but Fenway is home to an American League club. In the National League, no stadium is as old as Wrigley Field. Not even close.

In a season that has already saluted the 40th anniversary of Hank Aaron's record–setting home run, baseball has another milestone in Chicago today — and lots of folks will be on hand to celebrate.

The game will match the Cubs and the Arizona Diamondbacks. This may be the brightest the spotlight will shine on these teams all year. After last Sunday's games, both teams were already eight games behind their divisions' leaders.

The teams are unimportant. A game must be played, and Commissioner Bud Selig will be there to see it, as will several noteworthy Cubs, such as Ernie Banks, Billy Williams, Andre Dawson, Fergie Jenkins.

"The first 30,000 fans will receive a replica 1914 Chicago Federals jersey," reports MLB.com, "and the first 10,000 fans will get a birthday cupcake."

WGN will be on hand to provide coverage of the big event — which, appropriately, will take place during the day. Until 1988, all the games that were played in Wrigley Field were played in the day. But lights finally were installed in 1988, and the ballpark joined the rest of the baseball world and began scheduling night games.

Day games are still played at Wrigley Field, and today's game will be played in chilly but sunny conditions, according to the forecasters.

It's funny, but I never realized before that Wrigley Field and Harry Caray, the longtime announcer for Cubs games, were born less than two months apart. Caray was born in March 1914.

It does seem appropriate, though.

Baseball Cards on Easter

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Today is Easter Sunday. Like most holidays, it stirs up memories for me.

My memories are unique to the holidays themselves, of course, and where I spent them. Obviously, they aren't the same memories others have. They probably aren't even the same memories my brother has — and we spent every holiday together when we were growing up.

For example, Christmas brings back memories of cold nights spent in the enveloping warmth of my grandmother's beds. I guess others have similar memories — I hope they do, because Valentine's Day reminds me of heart–shaped cards no bigger than a child's fist and no more significant (when I was growing up, we had to give such cards to every person in the class), but, even absent much in the way of sincerity, it still kind of made me feel special to get them.

I always associate Labor Day with the start of the school year and the start of the football season. Oh, and the Jerry Lewis telethon, too. Summer weather never began to ease off in Arkansas until October so I have no mental link between Labor Day and cooler temperatures the way some people who grew up farther to the North probably do — but we knew cooler weather was coming. Labor Day was always a promissory note that milder temperatures were on the way.

Although I grew up in Arkansas, my grandparents lived in Texas, and we often spent Christmas with them. Easter was a different matter. My memory is that we didn't spend many Easters with my grandparents — but we did spend a few, and what I remember more than anything is that it always seemed to rain in Dallas on Easter.

(There is a 30% chance of rain in Dallas today, but it's been a sunny day so far.)

Wherever we spent Easter, my mother made a production out of it — as she did with everything, really. She planned elaborate treasure hunts for my brother and me on Easter — with cleverly written clues inside and out. We lived on a lake in Arkansas, and treasure hunts there were astonishing. My brother and I raced in and out of the house in search of the next treasure.

Things were more confined in my grandmother's city house with its postage stamp–sized back yard, but the hunts were just as elaborate.

Easter candy could always be found on the treasure hunts (which sometimes had to be moved indoors at virtually the last minute because of the unpredictable spring weather), but I have been reminded today of one Easter when I must have been 10 or 11 years old. I say that because I was in the grip of my baseball and football card addiction.

Mom was an enabler that Easter. Many of Mom's treasure hunt clues led us to packages of baseball cards, and my memory is that I added some stars to my collection who would have been great as a fantasy baseball lineup if such a thing had existed at the time.

(It's a good thing for me that fantasy sports didn't exist in those days.)

That particular Easter was warm and sunny, a beautiful day for a treasure hunt — and finding a bounty of baseball cards. I've been remembering that day with considerable fondness on this Easter.

Other Easters in Dallas weren't quite so pleasant. There were times, as I say, when Mom's treasure hunts had to be moved indoors. My grandmother's house had a screened–in front porch, and I have a vivid memory of sitting on that porch with my brother and my grandmother while it rained on Easter. One or two of the treasures were hidden on that porch. It's as close to being outdoors as we were allowed to get.

It's a good thing Mom never opened the packages of baseball cards when she left them as treasures. That front porch got wet even with the screen, and baseball cards didn't mix well with water.

I'm Disappointed in You, Hank

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"We have moved in the right direction, and there have been improvements, but we still have a long ways to go in the country. The bigger difference is that back then they had hoods. Now they have neckties and starched shirts."

Hank Aaron

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Yesterday, I wrote about Hank Aaron's achievement, 40 years ago, when he passed Babe Ruth and became baseball's all–time home run king.

He remained the all–time home run king for the rest of the 20th century.

I watched, transfixed (thanks to my family's television), as he slugged home run #715. I was just a boy, of course, and there were many things I did not know or understand — but I did know about prejudice and racism. I knew there were racists who objected to a black man breaking a record that had been held for decades by not just a white man but perhaps the biggest idol the sport of baseball has ever had, and I regretted that. Still do.

It really wasn't a difficult conclusion to reach in 1974 — that nearly all of those who opposed Aaron were motivated by racism — but it was a different time. It wasn't far removed from the protests and riots in the streets or brutal attacks on blacks in the 1960s.

Even though I was quite young, I knew that there were people — most but not all (I have learned in my life that nothing is absolute) — who were opposed to Aaron because he was black. And I can understand why he would be bitter about that, even 40 years later. I've seen some of the letters that were sent to him — vile, disgusting.

I also know that we are all the products of our experiences, and his experience during the 1973–74 offseason was the kind of thing that no one should have to face. Again, I understand why he is bitter. I was glad then, and I am glad now, that the threats against his life were never carried out. He had my respect for the way he carried himself in the face of all that.

But he was wrong to assert, in an interview with USA Today, that little has changed. A lot has changed, particularly here in the South. Aaron is right. We do have work to do, but I hear kids talk of racism today in a way that tells me they really don't know what racism is.

That is one area where we need to do some hard work — educating our young people so they will be able to tell the difference between someone who is racist and someone who disagrees.

(I teach writing at the community college here, and I had a student last semester who accused me of racism when his final exam brought his grade down. He was expecting an A. He got a B. Why? Well, my final exam in this class — which is called developmental writing and is designed to make up for deficiencies in students' written language education — is to write what I call an essay — on a topic that I choose — so I can see if the students are applying what they have learned in the class to their writing. I mark off three points for every element that was covered in class but the student in question does not use in the essay, and I mark off one point for each word that is misspelled or should be there but isn't.

(This particular student left out three things that we discussed in class during the semester, and he had a grand total of 19 words that were either misspelled or left out completely. That made his grade on the exam 72.

(Without even seeing the marked–up essay, he accused me of making 10–point deductions — which I have never done — and, when I denied doing that, he accused me of racism.)

Aaron was wrong to suggest that Barack Obama's problems were due to racism. It's much more complicated than that.

Before anyone goes ballistic on me, yes, I know there are some people who are opposed to Obama because he is black. But I can't go along with blanket assertions of any kind. It is precisely that kind of mindset that is behind injustice of any kind — racial, sexual, religious, you name it.

I disagree with Obama on many things, but my dissension is not based on his skin color. It is based on the fact that I disagree with him. If Obama was white, I would still disagree with him on many things. (I agree with him on some things, but I disagree with him on far more.)

There are others who feel that way, too. Every president, even the popular ones, has had his detractors.

I am an American citizen, and I am entitled to disagree with Obama or anyone else — and that does not give anyone the right to dismiss my deeply held beliefs as invalid nor does it give anyone the right to falsely accuse me of anything.

My beliefs matter to me. Others are free to agree with me or disagree with me, but they have no right to belittle me if I don't agree with them.

Now if I cross that line and commit a violent act, that is a crime and should be dealt with as such, but it is not a crime for me to disagree.

At the time that Aaron was chasing the Babe, law enforcement in the South still often looked the other way when violent acts were committed against blacks. But that really has changed in the last 40 years.

Other things will change, too, as time passes.

Leapfrogging the Babe

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"A black man is getting a standing ovation in the Deep South for breaking a record of an all–time baseball idol. ... And for the first time in a long time, that poker face in Aaron shows the tremendous strain and relief of what it must have been like to live with for the past several months."

Vin Scully
Dodgers broadcaster

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Jackie Robinson was long before my time.

I've heard stories about him. I've read books about him. I admire his accomplishments, and I would have to say that my generation's Jackie Robinson was Hank Aaron. They both broke barriers.

I guess few people realized it at first. When I was a child, it seemed that most people assumed Willie Mays would be the one to break Babe Ruth's career home run record. That was to be expected, I guess. Mays' major–league career began a couple of years before Aaron's, so Mays got off to an early statistical lead, but Aaron kept plodding along.

At some point, Aaron passed Mays. I don't know precisely when. But I do know that 40 years ago today, he passed the Babe, too.

Compared to some contemporary sports heroes, Aaron must seem hopelessly quaint. He never took steroids. He never resorted to bluster or bragging. In fact, my memory is that Aaron was very soft spoken. He let his accomplishments speak for themselves.

(Speaking of which, Aaron had a somewhat meager postseason record. He appeared in the World Series twice, winning it once, before he was 25. He also appeared in the National League Championship Series the first year that major league baseball was broken up into divisions. That was it.

(But he made the most of his opportunities, batting .362 and clubbing six home runs in 69 official postseason at–bats.)

I can only imagine the stress he must have been under in the offseason between the 1973 season and the 1974 season. You see, he came within one home run of tying the Babe's all–time mark in 1973, and he had to go through an entire offseason knowing that he only needed two more home runs to become the all–time home run king.

During those months, he was subjected to the most vile and hateful treatment imaginable. Threats were made against his life. Unsupported, slanderous rumors were spread about him and his family. At times, he must have wondered if it was worth it.

Jon Friedman writes in TIME that Aaron "got off easy" because he didn't have to contend with social media.

That's a debatable point, I think. It may not have been an as technologically advanced time, but, as Ben Nightengale writes in USA Today, "it was an often joyless and lonely pursuit" for Aaron.

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Still, he persevered — in spite of the threats and the glare of the public spotlight.

And on April 4, in the first game of the season, Aaron hit a three–run homer off Jack Billingham at Cincinnati's Riverfront Stadium, tying Ruth. In hindsight, it is easy to presume that he was impatient to get the record chase behind him, but he did nothing in his other three at–bats that day.

The Braves were forced by the commissioner to play Aaron once more in Cincinnati; he went three for four but didn't break Ruth's record so the home run chase returned to Atlanta.

In 1974, NBC ordinarily did not broadcast a baseball game on Monday nights until summer, when the rest of the networks' schedules were in reruns, but NBC made special arrangements to televise Aaron's first home game of the season — and, hopefully, history as well.

Everything played out perfectly.

It might not have. Aaron hit only 20 home runs all year — his lowest output since his rookie season 20 years earlier — and he could have gone a couple of weeks before he hit another one. But NBC was fortunate.

Al Downing was on the mound for the Dodgers. The Braves trailed, 3–1, when Aaron came to bat in the bottom of the fourth. Third baseman Darrell Evans was on first following an error by Dodgers shortstop Bill Russell. Aaron drilled his record–setting home run and ignited a four–run inning that gave the Braves the lead — and, eventually, the win.

Aaron's parents came out to greet him at home plate as he rounded the bases. His mother held tightly to her son and refused, for the longest time, to let go. I heard later that she was afraid he would be shot; there had been threats made that he would be shot at home plate if he broke Ruth's record.

He wasn't shot, of course, but I don't think he got off easy.

It should be a much more relaxed atmosphere for Aaron at Turner Field tonight, though. A ceremony commemorating the 40th anniversary of his record–setting home run is planned before the start of the game. The first 45,000 fans will receive commemorative posters, and "[e]very 40th person to check–in will receive a $40 Racetrac giftcard."

And Aaron will be applauded and cheered by all tonight.

His Finest Hour

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"The only way it could have been better would have been for Henry to hit the very first pitch, the one thrown by Gerald Ford."

Red Smith
April 5, 1974

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On a sun–drenched Thursday afternoon in April 1974, Hank Aaron hit the home run that everyone had been waiting for since the last regular–season game of 1973.

It was the 714th home run of his career, pulling him even with Babe Ruth on the all–time list.

He had been one home run behind the Babe since Saturday, Sept. 29, 1973, when he hit a homer off Jerry Reuss. He went three for four the next day, the last of the '73 season, but he didn't hit the tying home run.

What is remembered the most about the next six months is that Aaron was subjected to the most bigoted series of attacks since Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier a quarter of a century earlier. That is certainly true. By the time Hank Aaron and the Atlanta Braves opened the 1974 season, the hype had reached a level that was unheard–of in my then–young life but has been exceeded several times since.

What is less remembered is another controversy that surrounded the Braves' season opener. Atlanta's first three games were in Cincinnati. The Braves' front office wanted him to tie and then break the record — as everyone, even those who still hoped he would not, believed he would do — and also wanted him to sit out that three–game road series.

When the Braves left Cincinnati, they would open an 11–game home stand in Atlanta. Aaron was 40 years old, but, surely, the Braves' management reasoned, he could hit two home runs at home.

Baseball's commissioner, Bowie Kuhn, ruled that he had to play in two of the three games in Cincinnati.

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"When they said, 'Suppose the commissioner orders the Braves to play you,' he said that in that event he guessed the commissioner would have to make out Cincinnati's batting order, too. This smart–aleck line must have been fed to him for Henry isn't a smart aleck."

Red Smith

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And he did. He played on Thursday, April 4, with Vice President Gerald Ford on hand to throw out the ceremonial first pitch, and he played on Sunday.

He quickly pulled even with the Babe, hitting a home run on his first swing of the season. He went hitless when he played in the Sunday game, but he had eliminated half of the Braves' marketing ploy with his home run.

The next day, as the Braves and Reds took the day off before resuming the series on Saturday, sportswriter Red Smith wrote, "What really counts is that when Henry laid the wood on Jack Billingham's fastball, he struck a blow for the integrity of the game and for public faith in the game."

Smith observed that "there was nothing contrived about the locale or the timing of the event. ... It was witnessed by a standing–room–only crowd of 52,154 who weren't lured in by Aaron but rather by the local tradition that dictates that every ambulatory citizen of Cincinnati must attend the opening game even if he doesn't show up again all summer."

It was a great opening–day story, all right.

"The way Henry did it removed all taint of commercialism," wrote Smith. "For this day, at least, the business of baseball made way for sport."

Hog Heaven

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Today is a special day in the history of my alma mater.

Today is the 20th anniversary of Arkansas' victory over Duke in the national championship game.

Two days earlier, the Razorbacks had beaten Arizona in the national semifinals. As I wrote the other day, I was on a trip to Denver with some journalism students, and I missed that game — but I had set my video recorder to tape it, and I did watch it after I got home on Sunday, April 3.

Twenty years ago tonight, I was in my apartment in Norman, Okla., watching the title game. I'd been waiting all my life for the Razorbacks to win a national championship. I always hoped it would be in football, but I wasn't going to quibble on this day.

Most of my friends were living in Arkansas, and, to this day, I can still only imagine how excited they must have been — more excited, probably, than they were when Gov. Bill Clinton was elected president less than two years before.

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In hindsight, I suppose it is easy to conclude that Corliss Williamson's presence on the team ensured its success, but I don't really think that is true. My friends who lived in Arkansas at the time — and got to see more Arkansas games than I did — might disagree with me, but I felt that it truly was a team effort.

Corliss was a special talent, of course. He was the Most Outstanding Player in the 1994 tournament — and might have been named the MOP again in 1995 if the Razorbacks had beaten UCLA in the national championship game that year.

But even in a sport like basketball. in which a team can put only five players on the court at a time, one person does not, cannot carry the whole load. Corliss had a great game 20 years ago tonight. He led all scorers with 23 points, but Corey Beck and Scotty Thurman contributed 15 points apiece.

That matched Antonio Lang's team–leading point production for Duke, which did a better job of spreading things around, I suppose. All five of Duke's starters were in double figures.

Williamson probably enjoyed more professional success than any of his collegiate teammates. After all, he did win an NBA title with the Detroit Pistons. But on this night in 1994, the Razorbacks prevailed not because of the depth of their bench but because of the depth of their hunger.

The Razorbacks of 1993–94 were the fruit of Richardson's system, the one he began installing in the lean years of the mid–1980s, when the team struggled on the court and Richardson's attention was divided between his job and his terminally ill daughter. The centerpiece was Williamson — he was clearly the go–to guy, hitting more than 62% of his shots from the field — but everyone played a role.

They called it "Forty Minutes of Hell." It was what happened when a team was relentless, always pressing, always probing for some weakness to exploit. And when it came to big shots, it seemed nearly everyone, not just Williamson, could be the hero.

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Like Thurman, for example.

The Razorbacks led Duke by a single point at halftime, then fell behind quickly in the second half and had to claw their way back.

In the final minute, with the game on the line, Thurman fired the shot that, while it may not have been heard around the world, certainly was heard from one side of Arkansas to the other.

And Arkansas won, 76–72.

I recorded a brand–new greeting for my answering machine that night. I had a recording of the Arkansas fight song, and I played it in the background while I recorded some routine message. If someone wanted to leave a message for me, it was necessary to listen to the Arkansas fight song all the way through.

I remember that, as the announcers counted down the final seconds of the game, one observed that "Arkansas is in hog heaven."

That seemed a little trite, a little obvious to me at the time, but now I realize that it was appropriate.

It was like when I was in college, and the football Razorbacks hosted the top–ranked Texas Longhorns one October Saturday afternoon. No one gave the Hogs a chance, but they whipped the Longhorns that afternoon, and "hog heaven" described the euphoric atmosphere in Fayetteville that night.

Texas was always the greatest rival on Arkansas' schedule, and knocking the Longhorns from the #1 perch was like a dream come true for Razorback fans.

Few experiences in my life have matched the way I felt that day — or how I felt 20 years ago tonight when Arkansas won the national championship in basketball.

In Arkansas, they'll be re–living the experience tonight via Twitter. Fans can experience it virtually as it happened — albeit, essentially, by text.

But a digital re–creation can't possibly match the real thing.

Arkansas' Ascent to the Mountaintop

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Twenty years ago today, I was teaching journalism at the University of Oklahoma, and I was in Denver with a group of about 10 students for a Saturday journalism conference.

We had driven all night Thursday night to get from Norman to Denver in time for the students to do some skiing Friday afternoon (I just wanted to collapse in my hotel room).

Saturday was filled with workshops, which concluded around 4 or 5 p.m. We checked out of the hotel that morning and put all our bags in the van that had been provided by OU — and everyone knew we were planning to leave the minute the conference wrapped up.

I knew the Razorbacks — the basketball team from my alma mater — would be playing Arizona in the first game of the Final Four that day, and I knew I would miss it. I hoped the Hogs would win so I could watch them play for the national title two nights later — from the comfort of my living room.

As it turned out, I did get to watch them play for and win the national title, but I didn't get to see them play Arizona. Well, not live. I set my VCR to record the game, and, thankfully, there were no power interruptions while we were gone. I was able to watch the recording of the game after we got home on Sunday afternoon.

But I watched highlights from my motel room when we stopped for the night somewhere in western Kansas that Saturday night. The room had cable service that included CNN Headline News — and I remember staying up much later than I should have to watch the highlights from Arkansas' triumph over and over.

(ESPN existed in those days, but I don't think SportsCenter had evolved. Anyway, I don't remember considering it an option at the time.

(By the way, we lost an hour that night. It was the weekend that Daylight Saving Time began.)

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But I discovered — after I got home and watched the tape of the game — there was one thing I didn't see on the highlights.

There was a popular beer commercial in those days that showed a guy departing an airplane and essentially hijacking a driver who was there for someone else — all so he could drink beer in the back of a limo. His catchphrase was "Yes, I am" when he was asked if he was really the guy who was supposed to be picked up.

Anyway, in the 30 minutes between the Arkansas–Arizona game and the Duke–Florida game, a spoof of that commercial was shown.

The parody began without warning; it was so well done it took me a few seconds to realize it wasn't a genuine commercial.

It probably isn't as funny today as it was when it ran 20 years ago. You kind of had to be there, you know? And remember, I was still giddy about my alma mater advancing to the national championship game. I was in quite a receptive mood, if you know what I mean.

Even so, I still think it was clever.

Duke beat Florida while we were on the road. I wasn't able to pick up the game on the radio, but half of the students were girls and they weren't interested in the outcome, anyway. I found out about that game when I saw those highlights in my hotel room.

So the championship match was set — Arkansas against Duke.

At the time, the Blue Devils probably were regarded as college basketball's elite program. If the Hogs could beat Duke for the national title, that could only add to the national respect they would earn.

Twice before in my life, I had seen Arkansas advance to the Final Four. They lost both times. But 20 years ago tonight, the Razorbacks and their fans had been to college basketball's mountaintop, and they had seen the Promised Land.

They would claim it for their own in two days.