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."

Billy Buck's Boo-Boo

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At one time or another, I guess, most American boys play organized baseball.

And most probably fantasize about driving in the run that wins the World Series for their teams.

If that is the dream, then what happened to Bill Buckner on this night 25 years ago is the nightmare.

Buckner's Boston Red Sox were one out away from ending a World Series drought that had existed since 1918. In fact, the scoreboard in New York's Shea Stadium flashed a congratulatory message — briefly.

But that turned out to be premature.

The Mets, who had given up two runs in the top of the 10th, scored a run, then had the tying run on third and the winning run on first. Mookie Wilson was at the plate against a new pitcher, who threw a wild pitch, scoring the tying run and putting the winning run at second.

Wilson then hit a slow grounder in the direction of veteran first baseman Bill Buckner, who seemed sure to make the play. But the ball took a strange hop just before it got to Buckner and rolled into the outfield, allowing Ray Knight to score the winning run from second.

The cameras almost immediately zeroed in on home plate, where Knight was scoring the winning run, but they lingered for a few seconds on Buckner after the ball got away from him, providing the image I will always remember from that night — Buckner standing forlornly at first while his teammates scrambled to retrieve the ball in the outfield.

My instinct would have been to run after that ball, even if I knew deep in my heart that there was no way I could reach it before one of the other players did — and, even more importantly, before Knight could score that winning run. My mind wouldn't let me accept that the die had been cast, that it was over.

But it was as if Buckner realized, in that split second when the ball took its inexplicable jump, that it was over, and he was resigned to the abuse that he knew would come his way.

Actually, it wasn't the end of the Series. The Red Sox brought a 3–2 lead to New York and needed to win either Game 6 or Game 7. The game that was played 25 years ago tonight was only the sixth game. The Red Sox could have won the seventh game and been world champions, but the pitching staff fell apart, as it had been inclined to do against the Mets.

As it did in Game 6 when that wild pitch allowed the tying run to score.

It wasn't Buckner's fault that Boston lost that seventh game, either. He went two for four at the plate and committed no errors in the field. In fact, Buckner even scored a run in Boston's comeback attempt in the late innings, but it simply wasn't enough.

Besides, the Mets were favored to win that Series before it began — and they weren't slight favorites, either. The Mets were heavy favorites that year.

The fact that the Mets won it was no real surprise. What was surprising was the way that title was won.

I knew it was a bitter experience for Red Sox fans — to be so close and see it slip through their fingers — and I empathized with them. But that did not excuse how they treated Buckner when the Series was over.

One would have thought he was a latter–day Shoeless Joe Jackson — except Shoeless Joe at least got the gamblers' money. As far as I can see, Billy Buck got nothing but abuse.

Say it ain't so, Billy Buck. But it was so. It just wasn't intentional.

What happened 25 years ago tonight had to be one of the strangest finishes of any game in World Series history — and it was almost immediately taken to be the latest confirmation of the existence of the "Curse of the Bambino" — the superstitious belief that, when the Red Sox sold Babe Ruth to the New York Yankees, a "curse" was put on the franchise, preventing it from winning a championship.

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I always felt it was unfair for Buckner to be subjected to the abuse of the frustrated Boston baseball fans — just as I always thought it was unfair when the fans of another long–suffering baseball franchise blamed their team's 2003 postseason defeat on a fellow fan's innocent reach for a foul ball.

Team sports are precisely that — team sports. On extremely rare occasions, a team's loss is clearly the fault of a single player or an official's bad call; on even rarer occasions, a loss is the fault of an innocent bystander.

Most of the time, though, it is the result of a team effort. Teams win and lose as teams.

Whether such a thing as the "Curse of the Bambino" ever really existed, the Red Sox, who had won several titles before selling Ruth to the Yankees, went on to lose the 1986 World Series to the other New York team.

The Sox did not win another title until 2004. The Yankees, meanwhile, became the most successful franchise in major league baseball after acquiring the Babe.

I don't know if that was a curse, but 25 years ago tonight, Buckner probably would have told you that it sure wasn't a blessing.

Anyway, after the perceived "curse" was gone, the Red Sox were just another team again, and they were free to play ball without the weight of all those years on their shoulders.

A few years later, they won another title, and no one, as I recall, said anything about a "curse." As he watched the Series, Buckner (who, ironically, played for the Cubs before coming to Boston) may have thought about it and reflected that 21st century ball players don't know the meanings of the words pressure, expectations and superstition.

But the following spring, Buckner participated in the unfurling of the world championship banner at Boston's Fenway Park. The fans gave him a standing ovation, and Buckner later spoke of a sense of closure that came from being in the ballpark on that day.

"I really had to forgive, not the fans of Boston, per se, but I would have to say in my heart I had to forgive the media for what they put me and my family through," he said.

And now, Billy Buck's boo–boo is a part of baseball lore.

One For The Ages

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Gosh, you know, it seems like only yesterday that Jayson Stark of ESPN.com was saying that this year's World Series was going to be must–see television ...

Wait a minute. It was only yesterday. And Stark was writing in the context of the first two games, which were low–scoring nail–biters. Each was decided by a single run.

That really seems remarkable to me in hindsight, though, because Stark wrote that before Albert Pujols did something that no other non–New York Yankee had ever done.

He hit three home runs in a single World Series game.

Babe Ruth did it twice for the Yankees in the 1920s. And Reggie Jackson did it once for the Yankees in 1977.

Ruth, of course, achieved it in the days before television — so, other than the fans sitting in Sportsman's Park on Oct. 6, 1926 or the fans sitting in Sportsman's Park on Oct. 9, 1928, no one saw it.

I suppose the people of that time might have been able to witness either of those accomplishments on the newsreels at their local theaters — except they didn't really come along until a few years later.

Consequently, Ruth's achievements — which sandwiched his historic 1927 season, in which he hit 60 home runs and set a record that stood for more than 30 years — were seen by a comparatively tiny sample of America's population.

Any baseball fans who were not fortunate enough to be in Sportsman's Park (which, ironically, was in St. Louis) on either of those days had to wait nearly 50 years to see that accomplishment matched.

What viewers saw last night is something exceedingly rare, something that sports fans have witnessed en masse only once before — on Oct. 18, 1977, when Reggie Jackson hit three home runs and drove a huge stake through the hearts of Dodger fans (and I know because I am a Dodger fan).

Needless to say, I guess, Game 3 of this year's series wasn't as close as the first two games were.

Well, the experts were saying that the warmer temperatures and the hitter–friendly park would lead to more runs.

Maybe that is what it was.

But I'm more inclined to think it was Albert being Albert.

He's a difference maker.

An Unlikely Home Run King

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It was 50 years ago today that Roger Maris broke what may have been the most cherished record in baseball at that time — Babe Ruth's single–season home run record.

I found myself thinking about that a lot this summer — not because I remember the achievement (it happened before my time) but mostly, I guess, because the brutal heat brought back memories of the sweltering summer of 1998, when Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa waged an epic duel to see who would surpass Maris.

It was the first such duel since that summer of '61, when Maris and his much more popular teammate, Mickey Mantle, tried to be the one who would surpass the Babe. Injury sidelined Mantle for a time, giving Maris the opportunity to challenge the Sultan of Swat by himself.

Of the two, I guess, Mantle was the one who was always the most likely to challenge the Babe's status in the single–season record book. He was always more popular with Yankee fans than Maris, and his numbers always suggested that it was possible that he could challenge that record.

His numbers have held up, too. Even now, more than 40 years after he retired and more than 15 after he died, Mantle is 16th on the all–time home run list.

So perhaps that injury could be seen as something of a fluke, an intervention of some kind — except for the fact that Mantle was plagued with injuries most of his career. That's often the topic of speculation among baseball experts. How great could Mantle have been, they have wondered, if he hadn't been injured so often?

Maris' career numbers, on the other hand, have to be regarded as somewhat ordinary. If you exclude the 1961 season, Maris averaged about 20 home runs a year. I guess the 1960 season — when Maris hit a then–career best 39 home runs — that even greater things might be in store the next year ...

Except that Mantle hit 40 home runs to lead the American League in 1960. I guess the only thing one could conclude from that would be that Maris and Mantle might have been poised for some kind of spirited battle between the two of them in 1961 — but threats to the Babe? Come on.

Until this summer, the summer of 1998 was the second—hottest on record in many places — second only to the legendary summer of 1980 — but a lot of baseball fans may not have noticed unless they went to the games.

And there is no doubt that many did go to games that summer — certainly, they came out to watch the games in St. Louis and Chicago.

In the end, both McGwire and Sosa shattered Maris' mark that had stood for nearly 40 years. And, a few years later, Barry Bonds broke that record as well.

All available evidence suggests, however, that steroids played a key role in those achievements. If not for those performance–enhancing substances, what Maris did 50 years ago today might still be the record — but it wouldn't be carrying that asterisk with it.

Ah, yes, the asterisk.

When folks refer to it on a telephone's keypad, they often call it a "star" — because it kinda looks like one.

I don't usually correct people when they call it a "star" just as I don't correct people when they say "oh" when they really mean "zero" or if they call a hyphen a dash (although I do think it because, well, I spent many years working on newspaper copy desks, and I have been teaching developmental writing at the local community college for more than a year now so I suppose I am conditioned to think of these things even if I don't verbalize them).

But it isn't really a star — and the way it was planned to be used in 1961, it couldn't have made Maris feel like one, either.

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The asterisk concept was intended to permit the Babe's record to remain in the record books even though it had been broken.

I say "concept" because, apparently, it is something of an urban legend that an asterisk was used. What happened was this:

The sports establishment of the time was still very protective of Babe Ruth in 1961, and the commissioner announced midway through the season that, unless someone hit 61 home runs within 154 games, as Ruth had, his mark would remain in the record books for a 154–game season, and the new record would be designated as having been achieved since the 162–game seasons began.

Maris failed to match Ruth's record — let alone surpass it — in 154 games, but, on the last day of the season — 50 years ago today — he hit his 61st home run, igniting a debate that continues in some circles. No asterisk was used, but Ruth's mark remained in the record books as the record for a 154–game season.

Several years after Maris hit 61 homers, baseball's commissioner concluded that a season is a season, however many games are played, and Maris' mark was the only true record. That should have been the end of it.

When Ruth hit 60 home runs back in the Roaring '20s, as I say, major league baseball seasons were 154 games. When Maris played in the 1960s, a season was 162 games. The story was dramatized in a made–for–TV movie on HBO 10 years ago. Billy Crystal, a lifelong New York Yankees fan, directed it and was, by nearly all accounts, faithful to the facts.

But the asterisk was in the title — helping to perpetuate the myth.

I'm sure that wasn't Crystal's intention. But it was effective at reminding people of the mild controversy that was sparked by that pursuit of the record.

I guess it wasn't so mild from Maris' point of view. He received hate mail and death threats. I've heard that he was under so much stress in 1961 that his hair literally began to fall out of his head — and I've also heard that the stress hastened his death at the age of 51 (although I have considerable doubts about that).

He was an unlikely home run king who claimed his crown on this day.

An Era Truly Comes to an End

The phrase "the end of an era" frequently seems to be tossed around as casually as any.

But, with the passing yesterday of Billy Werber, one can truly say that an era has come to an end.

Werber was a major league baseball player. His wasn't a household name, but he was the last surviving teammate of the legendary Babe Ruth — who, until I was a teenager, was the undisputed king of home runs. And, even in the 35 years since Ruth's career mark was surpassed by Hank Aaron, only one other baseball player has hit more home runs. And that baseball player's mark will always be regarded with suspicion because of the widespread belief that steroids played a role in achieving it.

Werber was a third baseman who played with Ruth for the New York Yankees, although he wasn't a member of the famous Yankees team of 1927 that is known to history as "Murderers' Row." Werber broke into the majors in 1930, but he only played in four games before being sent back to the minors. He was called up to the majors again in 1933, but, by that time, Ruth had left New York.

Werber also played for the Boston Red Sox, the Philadelphia Athletics, the Cincinnati Reds, and the New York Giants before making his final major league appearance in September 1942.

His name might not be well known, but Werber enjoyed some success in his baseball career. Some of his career marks — his batting average, for example — are unremarkable, but he led the American League in stolen bases three times. As a member of the Reds, he was on two National League pennant winners and one World Series champion. As a result, he was inducted into the Cincinnati Reds Hall of Fame in 1961.

Also, during his time in Cincinnati, Werber became the first player to bat in a televised baseball game in 1939.

Ironically, in his last years, Werber apparently did not watch baseball on TV, at least in part because he didn't like the long hair and beard worn by Johnny Damon. "I don't like the appearance of a lot of the players," he told an interviewer for MSNBC last year. "The hair's too long. Their beards are too evident. They're a grubby-looking bunch of caterwaulers."

He was 100 years old when he died yesterday, acknowledged as the oldest living baseball player. Now, that title belongs to 99-year-old Tony Malinosky, who played in 35 games for the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1937.