The Last Hero_ A Life Of Henry Aaron Part 10

When the 1958 season commenced, the Braves danced around the quicksand that sinks most t.i.tle teams, but only barely. In his own way, each player found himself let down by the painfully temporary nature of winning. Whether it was Spahn or Adc.o.c.k or Aaron, each discovered that winning was not so unlike a good ma.s.sage: It felt otherworldly, but too briefly. The feeling never lasted long enough.

As spring camp opened, the stars did not report there fat and they did not squabble among themselves over money or credit for their part in finally winning the t.i.tle. Many of the players arrived in Bradenton as if they still had something to prove. For a time, they even continued to listen to Fred Haney.

That wasn't to say that money was irrelevant. In baseball, money was still the best way to measure value, especially when it flowed at a trickle from the penurious wallet of John Quinn. And when it came time for the reward of finally being the best, the money spring was drier than Fred Haney's scalp. During the first week of January, the week before the deadline when teams were required to mail out offers to the players, the a.s.sociated Press and the New York Times New York Times ran dueling stories about the two pennant winners, the ran dueling stories about the two pennant winners, the Times Times placing the Yankee payroll unofficially at $500,000, led by Mantle at $65,000 per year and Berra at $58,000. "So far as is known, only the Braves and possibly the Dodgers can be regarded as being anywhere near the Bombers' salary bracket," the placing the Yankee payroll unofficially at $500,000, led by Mantle at $65,000 per year and Berra at $58,000. "So far as is known, only the Braves and possibly the Dodgers can be regarded as being anywhere near the Bombers' salary bracket," the Times Times wrote on January 5, 1958. "The world champion Milwaukeeans have a few high-salaried performers such as Warren Spahn, Red Schoendienst and Eddie Mathews. Hank Aaron is moving up rapidly, but they haven't quite the array of high financiers the Yankees have to satisfy." The AP did not place a payroll figure on what the Braves would spend on player salaries in 1958, but it was a.s.sumed that after a world champions.h.i.+p, the players would expect more. wrote on January 5, 1958. "The world champion Milwaukeeans have a few high-salaried performers such as Warren Spahn, Red Schoendienst and Eddie Mathews. Hank Aaron is moving up rapidly, but they haven't quite the array of high financiers the Yankees have to satisfy." The AP did not place a payroll figure on what the Braves would spend on player salaries in 1958, but it was a.s.sumed that after a world champions.h.i.+p, the players would expect more.

In fact, everybody wanted more.

If winning the champions.h.i.+p was a team effort and the greatest moment in Milwaukee baseball history, the city was more appreciative of the victory than management. Nineteen of the players, including Aaron, Burdette and Mathews, did not sign their original contracts. Billy Bruton, who missed the Series after the violent collision with Mantilla during the pennant run, made $14,500 in 1957 and exactly that the following year. When camp broke in Bradenton the first week of March, Burdette stayed home. Haney said the holdout had nothing to do with the money (Burdette was really earning $25,000 instead of $28,000, but in an age when player salaries were as well guarded a secret as any at the Pentagon, the press could hardly be faulted for guessing). Instead, it was because Burdette didn't like Haney's strict camp style, which required the pitchers to run for miles. In later years, the smothering degree of control owners.h.i.+p exerted over the players made them sympathetic figures; it paved the way for ma.s.sive change. How management treated its champions in 1958 served as an undisputed example. Spahn, the twenty-game winner and defending Cy Young recipient, received a raise of three thousand dollars, bringing his salary to sixty thousand dollars. Mathews, who had hit the big home run in game four that saved Spahn and left the city delirious, received a five-thousand-dollar raise, for a salary of $55,000, and Burdette eventually received more money, if not fewer calisthenics. After the second spring-training exhibition, Quinn gave Burdette a $10,000 raise, for a total of $35,000.

Burdette got his money, but only one other player came close to receiving his salary demand, and that was Henry. He indeed had asked for forty thousand dollars, the second straight year he'd asked that Quinn virtually double his salary. In 1957, he'd asked for a $17,500 raise and received just a $5,000 increase, bringing his salary to $22,500. In 1958, he'd asked for another $17,500 and received $12,500, for a total of $35,000.

The Braves began the defense of their t.i.tle on April 15, a breezy day at County Stadium, Spahn versus Pittsburgh's Bob Friend. Vernon Thomson, the Wisconsin governor, threw out the first pitch, but not before Perini beamed his gap-toothed smile as the Braves fifteen-by-thirty-seven-foot pennant was raised before the game. Mathews. .h.i.t a home run in the first, a towering drive into the center-field bull pen, and then another in the third. Spahn labored but persevered-except in facing a hungry Pirate outfielder named Roberto Clemente, who in four appearances against Spahn rapped three hits, including a double. Friend was better than Spahn on this day-Henry could attest, going hitless against him and one for six on the day-but the pennant magic still held a flicker. Trailing 32 in the bottom of the ninth, the Braves tied the score before Conley lost it with two out in the fourteenth. At three hours and forty minutes, the game was the longest opener in the National League in twenty-three years and was the first time Spahn or the Braves had lost a home opener since moving to Milwaukee.

There was first the money and then the business of defending the pennant, and the tough, militaristic Haney knew only one way: keeping his foot on the necks of his players. One result was inevitable clashes-both with the club's free spirits, who always needed a short leash, and the st.u.r.dy veterans, who believed their performance the previous year had earned them the right not to have Haney turning another training camp into boot camp.

Another result was a certain loss of the innocence that surrounded the entire Milwaukee affair, and each player lamented the sober reality that chasing a goal is far more romantic than achieving it, and while the 1958 season would be a highly successful and efficient one, it felt to Henry, and especially to Mathews, a little less sparkly, a little less fun.

Take the case of Bob Hazle and the cool afternoon of May 7, 1958, a Wednesday afternoon, in St. Louis, when Herman Wehmeier took the mound against the Braves. This time, Burdette was on the mound and Wehmeier, for once against the Braves, looked exactly like the ham-and-egg pitcher he was to the rest of the league.

Schoendienst led off the game, Logan to follow. Both singled. Mathews flied to right. Henry doubled in both runs, and Frank Torre doubled him in. Then Covington stepped up and took a Wehmeier offering and sent it clear into Kansas. Wehmeier faced six batters, five of whom got hits, three of whom nailed extra base hits, all five of whom scored. Fred Hutchinson, the Cardinals manager, called for Larry Jackson out of the bull pen. Hazle stepped up, and Jackson chucked a fastball, hard and straight and deadly, slightly behind Hazle, who instinctively backed into the ball. Hazle was knocked unconscious.

Exactly seventeen days later, Quinn had two things to say to Hazle. The first was to ask him how he was doing. The second was to tell him he'd been sold to Detroit.

This was the way management always made sure to remind players that yesterday's news was today's liability, and the reminders could be as icy as the wind off Lake Michigan. As much as Spahn or Burdette or Henry Aaron, Hurricane Hazle had won the 1957 pennant. Sure, he had stopped hitting (he had actually stopped against the Yankees during the Series), but no matter how many years a player played in the big leagues, few could ever get used to the callousness of management. Mathews recalled the moment in Eddie Mathews and the National Pastime: Eddie Mathews and the National Pastime: The other ballplayers were completely stunned130 and upset about it. We thought it sucked. Here was a guy who came out of nowhere and led us, not single-handedly, but led us to our first World Series. He was in a slump the first month of 1958, but he'd had some ankle trouble in the spring. We figured the ballclub owed him more than that. He was 27 years old and a super-nice kid. After he came up in 1957, he was just a part of us. Whenever we'd go out, he'd come with us, just a nice guy, what I would call a good old Southern boy, fun laughs, the whole bit. Of course, I never understood a lot of the stuff that went on in baseball, but we were pretty disappointed when Hazle was dumped. We all said, "What the h.e.l.l did he do wrong, have an affair with the general manager's wife?" and upset about it. We thought it sucked. Here was a guy who came out of nowhere and led us, not single-handedly, but led us to our first World Series. He was in a slump the first month of 1958, but he'd had some ankle trouble in the spring. We figured the ballclub owed him more than that. He was 27 years old and a super-nice kid. After he came up in 1957, he was just a part of us. Whenever we'd go out, he'd come with us, just a nice guy, what I would call a good old Southern boy, fun laughs, the whole bit. Of course, I never understood a lot of the stuff that went on in baseball, but we were pretty disappointed when Hazle was dumped. We all said, "What the h.e.l.l did he do wrong, have an affair with the general manager's wife?"

Gene Conley was next. Never a Haney favorite, Conley found himself banished to the bull pen. Then his arm started to hurt, and he spiraled; he would never be as promising as he once was. Conley would not look back on 1958 fondly, for it represented one of those curious phenomena in sport when the team did well, while the individual player struggled. For years, the two stalwarts of the pitching staff, Spahn and Burdette, would tease Conley about his mechanics. Neither had to deal with Conley's height, but both men knew potentially dangerous mechanics when they saw them, and Conley's motion tended to place a great deal of strain on his elbow and shoulder.

And in those days, there was no pitch count, no video, and no wet nurse catering to every need of the pitcher, as would be the case in the future, when teams poured so much money into pitchers that they actually took an interest in their investment. With the exception of the great former Brave Johnny Sain, the pitching coaches in 1958 were not much more than cronies.

"Those guys, all they did was carry the b.a.l.l.s to BP,"131 Gene Conley recalled. "That was it. Whitlow Wyatt and all, come on. Their job was to drink with the manager, keep him company. I took the ball and threw. No one helped me with mechanics. I threw the ball until it hurt, and then I threw some more." Gene Conley recalled. "That was it. Whitlow Wyatt and all, come on. Their job was to drink with the manager, keep him company. I took the ball and threw. No one helped me with mechanics. I threw the ball until it hurt, and then I threw some more."

Yet, the Braves were a better team than in 1957. Spahn won his first six decisions. Bob Rush, picked up from the Cubs in the off-season, won six of his first nine. The Braves didn't mash the ball as they had in earlier years, but they pitched as never before. Nevertheless, the season hadn't been a wire-to-wire finish, and in the early months there were small surprises, such as the sudden ascension of the Giants-the San Francisco San Francisco Giants-as well as that of the emerging Pittsburgh Pirates and the resilient Cardinals. An equal surprise was that the Giants-as well as that of the emerging Pittsburgh Pirates and the resilient Cardinals. An equal surprise was that the Los Angeles Los Angeles Dodgers were nowhere to be seen. They would finish twenty-one games out of first and, for the first time since 1945, cease to be a threat during the season. (But finis.h.i.+ng even more than twenty games out of the money didn't stop the Dodgers from being h.e.l.l on the Braves: Los Angeles beat the Braves fourteen out of twenty-two times.) Dodgers were nowhere to be seen. They would finish twenty-one games out of first and, for the first time since 1945, cease to be a threat during the season. (But finis.h.i.+ng even more than twenty games out of the money didn't stop the Dodgers from being h.e.l.l on the Braves: Los Angeles beat the Braves fourteen out of twenty-two times.) On June 5, the wind cutting hard and nasty across Seals Stadium in San Francisco, Willie Mays singled off Conley in the bottom of the twelfth inning of a 44 game. The next batter, Jim Finigan, drilled a double into the right-center gap. Mays took off, a determined low-flying missile on the base paths. In later years, even Henry, who rarely ceded advantage to another player, would marvel at how Willie ran, surgically slicing the bases, his arms pumping furiously through the air. As Mays. .h.i.t third base, Bob Stevens, the veteran baseball writer for the San Francisco Chronicle San Francisco Chronicle, yelled "No!" from the press box. Mays had blown through the sign and rushed home to win the game. Henry dug the ball out from the wall, turned, and fired a low-flying missile of his own toward the plate. The ball skidded once in the dirt cutout and bounced directly into the glove of the catcher, Del Crandall. In one motion, Crandall caught Henry's relay, wheeled to his left, and waited to tag Mays. When the home-plate umpire, Frank Secory, raised his right hand to call Mays out at home, Stevens let out a loud yell for all the scribes to hear. "Stupid!"

The next batter, Orlando Cepeda, singled home Finigan with the winning run. The loss left Conley at 04, and the Giants and Braves were tied for first place, with Cincinnati, St. Louis, Pittsburgh, and even the Cubs within six games. They would lose the next four, fall out of first, while leaving all eight teams of the National League separated by only seven and a half games.

The Braves had finally reached the top levels of the sport and spent much of the year learning how to stay there, but their cleanup hitter, Henry Aaron, had already begun charting an entirely different course for himself.

It was in 1958 when the dual tracks of his personal life and his athletic life would begin to intersect.

IN THE WEEKS that Lary Aaron held on to life at St. Anthony's, Henry grew friendly with Michael Sablica, a Catholic priest who introduced himself to Henry following little Gary's death. Barbara's nurse was a member of Sablica's parish in Milwaukee, and when told of the Aarons' ordeal, the young priest sought out Henry to express his condolences. Sablica was just thirty-three, ten years older than Henry, and was newly ordained. He, too, had been an athlete, a linebacker on the football team at Marquette during the war years. that Lary Aaron held on to life at St. Anthony's, Henry grew friendly with Michael Sablica, a Catholic priest who introduced himself to Henry following little Gary's death. Barbara's nurse was a member of Sablica's parish in Milwaukee, and when told of the Aarons' ordeal, the young priest sought out Henry to express his condolences. Sablica was just thirty-three, ten years older than Henry, and was newly ordained. He, too, had been an athlete, a linebacker on the football team at Marquette during the war years.

In the months that followed, Father Sablica and Henry strengthened their bond, playing handball at Marquette University and occasional rounds of golf. With his considerable hand-eye coordination, Henry was drawn to handball and was a formidable player, but Sablica had been an accomplished player himself, and the two engaged in spirited matches. They talked about family and baseball and Milwaukee, for Henry had now been in the city for nearly four years and had begun to feel a fondness for Milwaukee he hadn't antic.i.p.ated. Henry's affection for the city grew quickly, despite some uncomfortable moments, most obviously his sister Alfredia's difficult school experience in 1957 and the foreseeable unease that would come with his next ambition: to buy a house in what were the virtually all-white suburbs.

Even though Henry was now a member of the beloved Milwaukee Braves, he understood that such a decision would test the limits of Milwaukee's tolerance and would determine how he a.s.sessed the people of Milwaukee as a group. He also understood, however, that regardless of the result, his would not be a typical experience. Henry would often say that how he was treated in Milwaukee would always be enhanced by his own special status as a famous athlete, that he knew the daily life of the average black person in the city was not nearly as welcoming.

Henry and Father Mike, as he had come to be known, talked about many issues, but mostly, they talked about faith. More accurately, they talked about the intersection between faith and the growing question of civil rights. Henry told Sablica that while he had been raised in the traditions of the southern black church, he had been intrigued about other religions and denominations. Whether this interest was a direct by-product of Gary's death or Lary's struggle to survive-or merely because he saw an opportunity to increase his own religious knowledge-Henry seemed open to the teachings of Catholicism, certainly willing to expand his worldview beyond baseball and the safety and comforts of his own situation. One day, after a round of golf, Father Mike noticed a small book Henry kept in his glove compartment; it was t.i.tled The Life of Christ The Life of Christ.

That the booklet surprised Father Mike said as much about his own presuppositions as it did about Henry's religious curiosity. Sablica was, like most Milwaukeeans, a Braves fan, and he didn't want to run afoul of management by approaching Henry without first going through the proper channels. At the time they met at St. Anthony's, Father Mike didn't know much more about Henry than what he'd read in the newspapers and sports periodicals. He later admitted he had been influenced by the depictions of Henry as something of a simpleton, the characterization of Furman Bisher in The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post, uninterested in the larger questions of the world, lacking the articulateness to express whatever feelings he did have. It was an att.i.tude confirmed by John Quinn, who told Sablica he believed Henry would have little interest in speaking to him. Quinn told Sablica that Henry was "uncomplicated" but that there was no harm in the priest approaching him.

More accurately, Quinn likely preferred that Henry be uncomplicated, for Sablica hadn't approached Henry that day at St. Anthony's only for friends.h.i.+p. For years, even before he had entered the seminary, Michael James Sablica had possessed a pa.s.sion for activism. He would be one of the early members of that small and often courageous group of Catholic priests who would take a pa.s.sionate interest in the fight for equal rights.

What particularly aroused Father Mike was the condition of Milwaukee's black poor. The Sablicas had grown up in Milwaukee, and from an early age, Michael Sablica maintained an integrated lifestyle, one that revealed the disparities, both clear and subtle, existing between blacks and whites. There would be other American cities with more notorious reputations for segregation and the racial unrest that ensued-Birmingham, Boston, and later Detroit and Los Angeles, for example. But Milwaukee residents-despite the lack of national attention their city received-knew just how p.r.o.nounced the lines of segregation truly were. They knew how staunchly the city's banks and real estate agents protected those boundaries with sinister selling and mortgage practices that not only served to keep the races separate but made it increasingly difficult for blacks to purchase property even within their own circ.u.mscribed boundaries.

The south side of Milwaukee, where Johnny Logan lived, was overwhelmingly white. The neighborhood was made up of predominately Italian and Irish working-cla.s.s families. Clergymen of the Catholic Church who felt pa.s.sionate about civil rights understood that change could come only with an a.s.sault on the northern preference for de facto segregation, meaning no laws barring blacks from equal opportunity existed on the books, but because of the social conditions and business practices in Milwaukee, the end result was the same.

In a short time, the more activist members of the clergy would find themselves in the center of the civil rights movement. Sablica was a forerunner of James Groppi, the most famous of Milwaukee's civil rights leaders. Groppi, born the eleventh of twelve children to Italian immigrants who settled on the south side of town, would be ordained in 1959, the year after Sablica. Like Sablica, Groppi was appalled by the living conditions in the black section of Milwaukee, and in the late 1950s he began a slow and relentless campaign against the city's segregationist practices.

As Henry rose to prominence as a player, one of Groppi's prime targets was Judge Robert Cannon, the same Judge Cannon who rode the team bus with Casey Stengel before game three of the 1957 World Series, the same Judge Cannon who preceded Marvin Miller as head of a toothless organization called the Major League Baseball Players a.s.sociation. Cannon was a Milwaukee insider and was a prominent member of the Fraternal Order of Eagles, a Milwaukee club that did not admit blacks. Cannon denounced the members.h.i.+p practices of the Eagles but did not resign his members.h.i.+p. In turn, Groppi organized demonstrations in front of the good judge's house.

For the priests committed to improving the conditions in the black slums, finding an appropriate place of entry into the social struggle represented a perilous journey, for convincing their blue-collar paris.h.i.+oners of the worthiness of the cause was often a difficult task. Sablica and Groppi faced resistance from clergy peers and elders, and clearly they did not advance as swiftly or as highly within the Church's ranks as they might have had they not been so controversial. But the clergymen also understood that times were changing, and social forces were moving at a speed that required action from the Church.

Whites who had become more affluent in the postwar years sought the appeal of the suburbs, which, in turn, reduced the numbers of children who attended Catholic schools within the city. With enrollments potentially affected and the racial composition of the city changing, the Church began looking for potential converts. Sablica held to a singular conviction: The Catholic Church could be a powerful instrument in the advancement of the black cause. It was only through Catholicism, he told Henry, that blacks could achieve the dignity and rights that had long been outside of their collective reach. It was a point he stressed to Henry during the spring of 1958.

Henry was not unaware of the racial transitions taking place in Milwaukee. He and Barbara lived in Bronzeville, as did Felix Mantilla and Wes Covington. They represented the very demographic the Milwaukee Commission feared; affluent people who could afford the neighborhood of their choice but, because they were black, were forced to live in subpar conditions. Nor were the racial contradictions that came with being a famous baseball player lost on Henry. By being Hank Aaron, the rules could be bent and exceptions could always be made. Life could be easier, and it would be. Being awarded dispensation not afforded other blacks was an element of being famous that made Henry uncomfortable, especially given the dynamics of professional sports.

Given the perspective of time, Sablica's approach with regard to Henry now appears paternalistic, and more than a bit naive. In fact, Sablica would later refer to this early view as naive, a reversal of opinion that stemmed from the deep resistance toward social activism he experienced from his paris.h.i.+oners and fellow clergymen. Sablica also learned the complexities of the race and religion nexus from Henry. Once, before Henry headed for Bradenton and spring training, Sablica wished him good luck and reminded him to "attend ma.s.s every Sunday." According to the 1972 book Bad Henry Bad Henry, Henry "looked his friend in the eye132 and answered softly, 'Down there, they won't let me go to ma.s.s.'" and answered softly, 'Down there, they won't let me go to ma.s.s.'"

In the book, Sablica recalled the exchange. "I wouldn't blame him personally if he never went to ma.s.s again for the rest of his life," Sablica was quoted as saying.

JOHN Q QUINN believed drawing Henry into the nascent civil rights movement of Milwaukee would only be a distraction, and within a short time, he attempted to discourage Henry's contact with Sablica. What Quinn underestimated was Henry's att.i.tude toward racial and social inequalities, which was shaped long before he had ever met Father Mike. Mobile had often provided the bitterest reminders of his place in the social order, and the fearlessness of Jackie Robinson had inspired him. The att.i.tude Sablica projected reflected Henry's own belief system, and perhaps for the first time in Aaron's life, it was being amplified and articulated by a white man. Father Mike had been voicing a message in Milwaukee that was slowly being formulated across the country, led not by the Catholic Church but the black Baptist churches in the South: It would be the clergy who would fuse the dual purposes of religion and social justice. It was a message that immediately appealed to Henry. He had long been awaiting its arrival. believed drawing Henry into the nascent civil rights movement of Milwaukee would only be a distraction, and within a short time, he attempted to discourage Henry's contact with Sablica. What Quinn underestimated was Henry's att.i.tude toward racial and social inequalities, which was shaped long before he had ever met Father Mike. Mobile had often provided the bitterest reminders of his place in the social order, and the fearlessness of Jackie Robinson had inspired him. The att.i.tude Sablica projected reflected Henry's own belief system, and perhaps for the first time in Aaron's life, it was being amplified and articulated by a white man. Father Mike had been voicing a message in Milwaukee that was slowly being formulated across the country, led not by the Catholic Church but the black Baptist churches in the South: It would be the clergy who would fuse the dual purposes of religion and social justice. It was a message that immediately appealed to Henry. He had long been awaiting its arrival.

BILLY B BRUTON'S knee did not heal as quickly or as well as the doctors had forecast in the off-season, turning those optimistic pieces that ran in knee did not heal as quickly or as well as the doctors had forecast in the off-season, turning those optimistic pieces that ran in The Sporting News The Sporting News ("Bruton to Report on Time: Knee Healing Satisfactorily") into more kindling for the winter fire. That meant the team's best defensive outfielder would not be available when spring 1958 began and could not be counted on for the regular season. The truth was that Bruton would never again be the same player he was before the injury. When Danny O'Connell suffered at second base, Haney asked John Quinn to make a trade. When Bobby Thomson struggled in left, Haney and Quinn used a platoon of players-Pafko and Covington, mostly-for production. ("Bruton to Report on Time: Knee Healing Satisfactorily") into more kindling for the winter fire. That meant the team's best defensive outfielder would not be available when spring 1958 began and could not be counted on for the regular season. The truth was that Bruton would never again be the same player he was before the injury. When Danny O'Connell suffered at second base, Haney asked John Quinn to make a trade. When Bobby Thomson struggled in left, Haney and Quinn used a platoon of players-Pafko and Covington, mostly-for production.

But when Haney was told that Bruton would not be back until mid-May at the earliest, and even then it was unclear what kind of player he would be, Haney's solution was simple, and it wasn't to look to the trade market for help: Put Henry Aaron in center, permanently.

At the major-league level, there would not be a manager who Henry Aaron ever believed helped him become a better player. He would credit only two men in the minor leagues with improving him as a player and as a hitter. The first was Ben Geraghty in Jacksonville and the second was Mickey Owen, his manager with the Caguas team in Puerto Rico. Geraghty was quite likely the first white man who took an interest in his success, an invaluable dynamic for a young player, especially given the task of integrating the notorious South Atlantic League that faced Henry, Felix Mantilla, and Horace Garner. Watching him play with Caguas, Owen saw that Henry possessed an uncommon ability as a hitter, and he took it upon himself to help refine that ability.

In the major leagues, Charlie Grimm was more a drinking buddy than a skipper, and Henry hardly drank. Henry didn't wish any man to lose his job, but he wasn't exactly distraught when Grimm got the guillotine in June 1956. Gregory Spahn recalled that as an adolescent roaming the Braves clubhouse, he never saw Henry drink anything heavier than a soda. "If he ever had one beer,133 I don't ever remember him having two," Spahn said. But at least Grimm left him alone. Once Henry became a fixture in the lineup, Charlie let him play, batting fourth, playing right field. I don't ever remember him having two," Spahn said. But at least Grimm left him alone. Once Henry became a fixture in the lineup, Charlie let him play, batting fourth, playing right field.

But Fred Haney just couldn't leave Henry alone. He had put him in center in 1957, after Bruton was hurt. Henry could understand that at least. The team had been in a pennant race and was faced with an emergency situation. In the heat of July, Henry had been his only option.

But now, in the dead of winter, with a full six weeks of spring training before the season began, this was no emergency. The team had known for months that Bruton would not be available, and yet playing Henry out of position was the choice Haney decided was appropriate.

Henry was insulted by Fred Haney. In addition to being convinced that Haney was uninspiring as a leader, Henry believed that his manager was stunting his development as a player both at the plate and, quite obviously, in the field. It was Haney, after all, who had come up with the grand idea of batting Henry second. Haney had even stuck Henry at second base a few times.

Henry saw something else, and when he thought about it, the smoke would billow from his ears: Why was he always the lucky one who got screwed? He may have been quiet, but no player ever possessed a greater sense of his own ability than Henry Aaron. And it wasn't just that Henry had an overly inflated opinion of himself. Willie Mays was the biggest attraction in the game and had won an MVP and a world t.i.tle. Mantle had four t.i.tles, an MVP, and a triple crown to boot. But Henry was now an MVP, a world champion, a batting champion. He'd had one two-hundred-hit season, and on August 15, 1957, in the seventh inning of an 81 rout over the Reds at Crosley Field, Henry had bombed a two-run homer off Don Gross. The home run was the one hundredth of Henry's career. Before his twenty-first birthday, Henry was averaging 180 hits a season.

Back in those days, before guaranteed contracts and performance incentives and a union that made the players more than hired hands, it was more common for managers to tinker with players and their positions, but in general, the great ones didn't get messed with-at least not as easily as Haney seemed to be doing with Henry. Mays played center field and batted third. You could write his name in the lineup in pen pen. Duke Snider? Center field. Mantle? Ditto. Ted Williams? Left field. DiMaggio? Exactly. (Though, it was also true that Haney told Eddie Mathews, who would one day be elected to the Hall of Fame and be considered perhaps the greatest third baseman of all time, that he was thinking of playing him in left if Covington didn't get it together.) Haney was mucking with another subsection of the ballplayer code: Don't send me out there to look foolish. Playing defense was hard. It required repet.i.tion, and time, and study. Henry didn't want to stand in center field in the Polo Grounds, with its 485-feet straightaway to center, only to be embarra.s.sed by b.a.l.l.s coming at him from angles from which he'd never grown accustomed. By putting him in different positions each year, there was no way he would be recognized for his defensive ability.

In his previous four seasons, Henry might have voiced his displeasure with Haney's moves, but only to intimates, a Mantilla or a Bruton, for example. In the spring of 1958, Haney would not tell Henry what position he would play, waiting to find out if a couple of kids, the former Duke star Al Spangler or Harry Hanebrink, would work out. Henry believed it should have been the other way around. Haney should have told Aaron what position he'd play, then filled in the gaps around him.

"That position in center134 is like no other in the outfield," Henry told the is like no other in the outfield," Henry told the New York Times New York Times before a spring game with the Dodgers. "You're in on all the plays, either backing up the guys on your right and left or running in to back up throws to second, keeping your eyes out for the pickoff throw to second that might go wild and having to run all over the outfield, covering more than I'm used to." before a spring game with the Dodgers. "You're in on all the plays, either backing up the guys on your right and left or running in to back up throws to second, keeping your eyes out for the pickoff throw to second that might go wild and having to run all over the outfield, covering more than I'm used to."

And there was something else: "I'll be cut short in some things like the All-Star game if I play center. With guys like Willie Mays playing there what chance have I of making the team?"

Maybe it was a question of acc.u.mulation, of too much of everything: the tragedy of losing one child and praying for the survival of the second, combined with the whirlwind of publicity and demand for public time that came with being in the spotlight. During the offseason, Henry had appeared on The Steve Allen Show The Steve Allen Show. He traveled to New York to be honored for "high principle and achievement" from the Sports Lodge of B'nai B'rith. Fred Miller gave him a job in the Miller publicity department, traveling the country to say nice things about beer, Milwaukee, and baseball. He went from Boston to Manchester, New Hamps.h.i.+re, to New York, Denver, and Salt Lake City. Before the tour, Henry joined Logan, Conley, Mathews, Torre, Covington, and a few other teammates in Chicago to play a benefit basketball game against the Harlem Globetrotters. In that game, the Trotters featured a new showman named Meadowlark Lemon.

When the 1958 season began, Henry couldn't hit. There were a couple of flashes-a two-homer game April 24 in Cincinnati that capped a three-for-three day-but after going one for five in the first game of a doubleheader May 30 in Pittsburgh, Henry was. .h.i.tting .232. Between the two-homer game against the Reds and a two-run shot off Ron Kline in Pittsburgh, Henry homered just once-a two-out shot off Robin Roberts in a 52 loss-for his only home run in a span of 121 at bats.

Henry slogged through the first half of the season. For the first time in his career, he would spend the entire first half of the baseball season unable to enjoy consecutive days with his batting average over .300.

THE B BRAVES TOOK over first place two weeks before the all-star break and held on to it for a month. During that time, Henry began to experience that phenomenon special to baseball: of water somehow reaching its natural level. He had not hit for power for the first month and a half of the season, could not find the rhythm that made him the most dangerous man of the summer, and, like every ballplayer, did not offer much insight as to why he was not hitting. Nor did he explain how and why he came out of it so forcefully-thirteen hits in twenty-one at bats in one five-day stretch against the Dodgers and Reds, and all of them rockets. In a week, his average shot up thirty points. over first place two weeks before the all-star break and held on to it for a month. During that time, Henry began to experience that phenomenon special to baseball: of water somehow reaching its natural level. He had not hit for power for the first month and a half of the season, could not find the rhythm that made him the most dangerous man of the summer, and, like every ballplayer, did not offer much insight as to why he was not hitting. Nor did he explain how and why he came out of it so forcefully-thirteen hits in twenty-one at bats in one five-day stretch against the Dodgers and Reds, and all of them rockets. In a week, his average shot up thirty points.

Then the thunder came. July 2122, against the Cardinals at County Stadium: Henry came to bat ten times, raked seven hits-three for six the first day, followed up with a four-for-four afternoon-but the Braves gained little daylight in the standings. The day before, at Forbes Field, Bob Friend recorded but one out, and the Giants bombed the Pirates, 73. San Francisco had caught and pa.s.sed the Braves in the standings, taking a half-game lead. Nine days later, the two met for a critical four-game series at County Stadium, a game in Milwaukee's favor separating the two.

Raw numbers never tell the complete story. Maybe the sense of ambivalence that seemed to wash over Milwaukee was nothing more than a natural leveling of things, what the economists call a "market correction." The civic enthusiasm that welcomed the Braves when they arrived from Boston was so overwhelming, the pa.s.sion so complete, that it was impossible to sustain. Perhaps, even, the growing att.i.tude among the players, fans, and owners.h.i.+p that baseball had lost some of its magic was not quite accurate in the first place. The Braves were still leading the league in attendance. They had been in first place or near the top for the previous three years. What pa.s.sed for concern in Milwaukee would have been welcome in cities that couldn't pay their fans to come watch a ball game. And yet there was concern: concern that the magic of Milwaukee baseball was fading away, that perhaps the arrival of baseball after decades of being strictly minor-league had amounted to nothing more than temporary euphoria. Maybe Perini hadn't discovered oil in the form of baseball prosperity and Milwaukee was not, after all, a lasting model of sport and community. Maybe the town was nothing but a boomtown in disguise.

What made them all nervous-Lou Perini especially-was the sudden feel feel of the place, especially in comparison to the time before the champions.h.i.+p. If you weren't careful, the numbers could be very deceiving, even the sellouts, for there was a big difference between a crowd of forty thousand, with twenty thousand more fans unable to get into the ballpark, and a sellout of forty thousand, with some fans at the park because they were unable to get rid of their tickets. The concern was real, and too many people-from Henry to Eddie Mathews to Perini-sensed an ominous, intangible difference for all of them to be wrong. of the place, especially in comparison to the time before the champions.h.i.+p. If you weren't careful, the numbers could be very deceiving, even the sellouts, for there was a big difference between a crowd of forty thousand, with twenty thousand more fans unable to get into the ballpark, and a sellout of forty thousand, with some fans at the park because they were unable to get rid of their tickets. The concern was real, and too many people-from Henry to Eddie Mathews to Perini-sensed an ominous, intangible difference for all of them to be wrong.

Still, on a warm Friday night, August 1, with Willie Mays in town, having designs on taking the pennant from the home team, more than 39,000 packed County Stadium for the first-place showdown between the Braves and Giants, Burdette versus McCormick. The game was thrilling, tense, the Giants playing desperately and inefficiently, a wheezing team clawing to save itself. Burdette was. .h.i.t hard, eleven hits in eight and two-thirds innings, but he managed to escape each problem, striking out eight, forcing double plays, giving up harmless two-out hits. The game was 11 until both teams tallied in the late innings. In the top of the ninth, Burdette labored to hold a 42 lead. With one on and two out, Willie Kirkland ripped a double to put the tying runs at the corners and the go-ahead run-Mr. Mays himself-at the plate. Burdette wouldn't get the chance to face him. Haney called on Don McMahon.

McMahon threw a fastball, and then another. And then he threw another. And then he threw four more fastb.a.l.l.s. Mays wouldn't budge, fouling off one, taking another close for a ball, pus.h.i.+ng the count full. Del Crandall was behind the dish, playing sign language with McMahon. Now, this was war. Willie took McMahon's best, one heater after another. And that was the way to pitch to Mays, because you didn't throw him breaking b.a.l.l.s.

But then Crandall called for a curve and McMahon agreed reluctantly. He wound and tossed a little spinner at Mays, who lunged and chipped it foul.

Now Crandall was calling for another another curve ... and that was like trying to pet an alligator. You could double up fastb.a.l.l.s on Mays, but not curveb.a.l.l.s, not if you were fond of living. But that's what Crandall called, and that's what McMahon threw, a little teardrop of a pitch that kissed the sky and spun easily into Crandall's glove, just perfect enough for home-plate umpire Dusty Boggess to raise his right hand and call strike three and the game over, leaving Mays frozen as the Braves celebrated. curve ... and that was like trying to pet an alligator. You could double up fastb.a.l.l.s on Mays, but not curveb.a.l.l.s, not if you were fond of living. But that's what Crandall called, and that's what McMahon threw, a little teardrop of a pitch that kissed the sky and spun easily into Crandall's glove, just perfect enough for home-plate umpire Dusty Boggess to raise his right hand and call strike three and the game over, leaving Mays frozen as the Braves celebrated.

That night, in his suite at the Knickerbocker, Fred Haney poured himself a drink and chatted with one of his California chums, Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times columnist Braven Dyer. "I have an idea," the skipper said, "that that was the big one tonight." columnist Braven Dyer. "I have an idea," the skipper said, "that that was the big one tonight."

The next afternoon, Henry enjoyed the kind of day power hitters craved-four for four, with a home run, two doubles, and three driven in. The sun-drenched crowd of 34,770 watched the rout, prompting John Drebinger of the Times Times to remark, "Anyone of the opinion that baseball is waning in this sector had better recheck his figures. When a town produces a capacity crowd on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon it can scarcely be said to be disinterested." to remark, "Anyone of the opinion that baseball is waning in this sector had better recheck his figures. When a town produces a capacity crowd on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon it can scarcely be said to be disinterested."

The end of the Giants as pennant contenders came the next day, when Spahn completed the doubleheader sweep, 60. San Francisco had come in having lost three in a row and now had been bounced four straight by the division leaders. The Braves lead was now six. By the time the losing stopped, the Giants skid had reached ten out of eleven. They would not contend again, finis.h.i.+ng twelve games out. Chiefly responsible for the San Francisco demise were the Braves-who beat them sixteen out of twenty-two times during the season-especially Henry, whose fire glowed with the sight of Mays in the other dugout. Henry hit .333 against the Giants, with nineteen runs driven in, his most against any team.

That left the Pirates, and the rising Roberto Clemente, who were now a half game out of second place, five games back.

If the Giants pennant hopes had been undone by their head-to-head meetings with the Braves, the Pirates knew the Braves couldn't keep them from winning the pennant, for Pittsburgh gave Milwaukee trouble, on the mound and at the plate. That the Dodgers, Giants, and Pirates would come to County Stadium in succession was a gift from the schedulers to the fans, who enjoyed watching the most driven players play with added pa.s.sion.

For years, Henry would downplay his rivalry with Mays. There was no advantage in it for him, he would say. Henry wanted to be a great player, regardless of the compet.i.tion. Mays was cool and confident, the older brother to the young lions who were dominating the game. He was the first transcendent black superstar. Jackie was the first black player, admired, respected, but Willie was beloved, a player whose talents were undeniable and whose disposition, unlike Jackie's, didn't threaten whites. Mays would never betray any rivalry with Henry, or any player, for that matter. Willie even used his confidence to influence the debate. Whenever he was asked who was the greatest player he ever saw, Willie would reply, "I thought I was." Still, despite each man's protestations, there was never a great deal of warmth between the two. Henry wanted to be the best. Willie played as if he was always in the lead-and he was.

And then there was this new kid Clemente, who saved his fury for the Dodgers. Games with Los Angeles would always mean more to Clemente, for the Dodgers were his first team, and they had traded him. That was not to say that the Braves didn't hold special value to Clemente. Henry was the all-star in right field-Clemente's position-and the two staged a quiet but furious rivalry each year for the t.i.tle of best right fielder in the National League. Only one could be the leading man, especially when it came time to start the All-Star Game.

In the opener, Juan Pizarro pitched brilliantly. Perhaps more than any other pitcher on the staff, Pizarro was weighted by expectations. All of twenty-one years old, he couldn't go to the watercooler without hearing how he would one day be the next Spahn.

Through six innings, the score was tied at three-the big kids playing t.i.t for tat. Clemente singled and scored in the first. Aaron drove in the Braves first run on an RBI grounder. For a moment, it appeared Pizarro would escape the ninth, after pinch hitter Roman Mejias led off the inning with a single to center and was called out for not touching first base. But after Bill Virdon flied to left, there was Clemente (three for four, three runs scored), who lofted a two-out, game-winning home run to center field.

Burdette beat the Pirates the next night, and Henry's two-out home run in the first stood up in the third game. Spahn finished the Pirates in the finale, and the lead over Pittsburgh was eight. A week later, the Pirates went on a final tear, winning seven in a row, cutting the lead to four and a half on August 20 after thumping Milwaukee twice at Forbes Field, 64 and 10zip. They would beat the Braves four more times down the stretch but couldn't get closer than five games for that most quintessential of baseball reasons: They couldn't beat last-place teams. The Phillies and Dodgers beat the Pirates seven times in the final thirty games of the season.

Meanwhile, an inch away from defending their pennant, it was Henry who made short work of Cincinnati Sunday afternoon, September 21, at Crosley Field.

Fifth inning, scoreless game: Henry hits a three-run double. Later, he hit a two-run homer, his thirtieth, to take away the suspense. The score was 60. Then in the seventh, Frank Robinson boomed a homer off Spahn, who later admitted he let up because he was "feeling c.o.c.ky." Then the lead shrank to 65 in that same inning. Only when McMahon got Ed Bailey to fly out to Bruton did the sweat ease. The final score was 65. Fourteen thousand fans awaited the team at the airport. The race was over, the pennant secured, and, once more, the Yankees were waiting.

AND NOW, game four over, Spahn had beaten Ford. The Braves were a game from repeating as champions. Burdette took the ball for game five of the World Series. Outside the Milwaukee clubhouse, two cases of champagne stacked on top of each other sat on a handcart in antic.i.p.ation of the fact that by the end of the afternoon, the baseball season would end as it had a year before, with Burdette beating the Yankees at Yankee Stadium.

As metaphors went, this catastrophe was no hurricane. With a hurricane, you can see it coming a hundred miles away, days before it hits, swirling in its menacing formation. You can antic.i.p.ate its angry acceleration. Nor was it an earthquake, for though earthquakes strike without warning, their damage is quick and immediate. The fall of the Milwaukee Braves was more like buying the newest, nicest house on the block, the envy of all the neighbors, only to discover upon closer, belated inspection, the bas.e.m.e.nt is damp with moisture, the pretty wood frame has rotted from underneath, the trusses bow, and the roof probably won't survive the winter. Yet on the outside, everything looked fine.

October 6, 1958. Bob Turley was on the mound for the Yanks. Turley was no pushover. He was, in fact, a hard-throwing right-hander, a strikeout pitcher who had pitched well against the Braves in the previous World Series. But in game two, in the same pitching matchup at County Stadium, the Braves had clubbed Turley for seven runs in the first inning, when he retired exactly one batter. Bruton had led off the game with a home run and Burdette had poured bourbon in the open wound, ending the scoring that inning by ripping a three-run homer that not only made the score 71 but knocked Elston Howard-who careened into the chain-link fence in left while trying to keep the ball in the park-right out of the game.

Even before the legendary shadows could descend on the Yankee Stadium gra.s.s, Lou Perini, sitting in the box seats with his wife and Joe Cairnes, knew to send the champagne back to the icebox.

The final score was 70. Turley had struck out ten, fanning Henry twice. There would be no celebration, only a long flight to Milwaukee and two chances to win one game at County Stadium.

But you wouldn't have known the Braves had blown a chance to win the World Series by the scene in the Milwaukee clubhouse. Haney was gray, Burdette embittered, but the rest of the Braves were as light as a Fourth of July barbecue.

BRAVES FROLIC IN CLUBHOUSE135 AFTER LOSS AFTER LOSS.

BUT HANEY AND BURDETTE ARE GLOOMYAaron imitates Covington lapseFred Haney ... wasn't happy after yesterday's loss to the Yankees....But there was no evidence of unhappiness among the other Braves....Wes Covington, smiling as always, said "no comment" when asked whether he had lost McDougald's long drive in the sun in the sixth inning.At that moment, his team-mate, Henry Aaron, who had just emerged from his shower, put on a clowning act that he intended as an imitation of Covington staggering aimlessly as the ball dropped. Covington only grinned some more.

Haney decided to start Spahn on two days' rest, and if need be for a deciding game seven, Burdette on two days' rest.

Overconfidence comes in many forms. With the Braves, it revealed itself in a total lack of concentration, which undermined Spahn. Bauer hit a two-out homer in the first to make it 10 before the Braves chased the great Whitey Ford in just an inning and a third, taking a 21 lead. Spahn held the lead until the sixth, when Mantle and Howard singled to lead off the inning. Berra hit a game-tying sacrifice fly that scored Mantle, who had advanced on an error by Bruton in center. It was the second error of the afternoon and it cost Spahn the lead.

Haney, of whose managerial abilities Henry would always be critical, allowed Spahn to pitch into the tenth in a 22 game. McDougald led off the inning with a home run. Spahn responded by retiring Bauer and Mantle. One strike away from going into the bottom of the tenth down a run, Howard and Berra singled. Then Haney got the message and brought in Don McMahon, who gave up a run-scoring single to big Moose Skowron.

And so it was 42 in the bottom of the tenth, the Braves facing Ryne Duren, who had breezed fastball after fastball by them. Duren had entered the game in the sixth inning, had struck out the side twice, in the sixth and ninth innings. With two out and Logan on second, Henry rifled a run-scoring single to center to make it 43. Then Adc.o.c.k singled to put the tying run on third, and the Series-winning run on first. Stengel replaced Duren with "Bullet Bob" Turley, who threw three pitches to Frank Torre. The third was a soft liner to second that floated over McDougald's head. Henry raced toward home and the game-tying run, only to see McDougald's legs churning, his arms outstretched, before he leaped and snared the ball into his glove to end the game.

New York won the World Series in Milwaukee, 62. And it was there Henry's doubts about Fred Haney exposed themselves.

Nearly four months earlier, the Yankees and Braves had met for an exhibition game at Yankee Stadium to support the Jimmy Fund, the Boston charity created by Perini to fund cancer research. Before the game, Stengel and Haney shared a jocular moment, with Haney relis.h.i.+ng the license to crow, since he had beaten Stengel in the World Series. Both had spent their lives in baseball. Stengel was seven years older than Haney, and at their ages, in other occupations, both would have been retired instead of standing at the center of the sports world.

But that was where similarities ended. Stengel's ability to butcher the English language beyond recognition made him colorful to the newsmen. But like most theater, it was an act, and the true face behind the Stengel mask was that of a shark. The kindly old clown who picked up his knowledge not from books but the streets was nothing more than a routine. Stengel did not spare feelings for victory. There was no sentimentality for the moment. Take the Yankee starter for game seven, Don La.r.s.en, who held a 21 lead. Billy Bruton led off the inning with a single. Frank Torre popped up, and Henry singled to put two on and one out. And what happened next? The old man tramped up the dugout steps, grim and crotchety. He wasn't coming out for a pep talk. He took the ball from La.r.s.en, in the third inning in the third inning.

The game was 22 in the eighth. Burdette retired Bauer and struck out Mantle. Judging a pitcher by his pitch count, especially on two days' rest, was still four decades away, but back in 1958, common sense was still available. Burdette had pitched forty-eight hours earlier, had given up just two runs. The entire Braves bull pen would not pitch again in a game that mattered for another six months. Blame it on the times, when men were men and pitchers were not removed from games, or blame it on Fred Haney, his five-foot-four-inch frame a motionless little package as Berra doubled to right.

Haney didn't move. Then Howard singled Berra in to break the tie. Andy Carey hit a smash to third, which Mathews kept in the infield but couldn't make a play on to put out runners at the corners, while Henry fumed in the outfield and the bull pen waited for the skipper to lead them into action and save the season. Haney let Burdette face the next batter, Skowron, who had already driven in the go-ahead run off Burdette way back in the second that put the Yankees ahead, 21. Skowron, naturally, homered, a big majestic drive that sent an entire city into grieving. Four runs with two out and the manager reduced to being a spectator: The score was now 62.

Just as he had been on the mound in game five, when the Braves were cavalier about losing, Turley was on the mound at the end, when Schoendienst lined to Mantle, thereby giving the Yankees the World Series. "Going into the eighth,136 when Burdette still had his tie game, the scent of victory was still strong among Milwaukee's burghers," wrote s.h.i.+rley Povich in the when Burdette still had his tie game, the scent of victory was still strong among Milwaukee's burghers," wrote s.h.i.+rley Povich in the Was.h.i.+ngton Post Was.h.i.+ngton Post. "Coming out of the eighth, after those four Yankee runs, a sickly quiet reigned in the stands, and wooden men went to bat against Turley in the last two innings."

Over the final three games, Turley had beaten Burdette twice and saved the game in between. The Braves committed six errors over the final two games and struck out twenty-five times over the final three. Henry was brilliant, with nine hits and a .333 average, while Eddie Mathews set a World Series record with eleven strikeouts and a .160 average for the Series.

There was bitterness to spare, and the Braves knew they had cost themselves greatly. They had become the one thing they detested the most. They had become a chapter in the Yankee legend, and Henry would lament often that instead of being a team that won consecutive champions.h.i.+ps and dominated an era, they had been reduced to, in his words, "just another team that won the World Series."

Of course, they'd become more than that. They had also become one of the rare teams that gave away a champions.h.i.+p with a 31 lead in games. You had to go back thirty-three years, to 1925, when the Pirates beat Was.h.i.+ngton and Walter Johnson lost game seven, to find another team that had a 31 lead in games and came away with nothing but dust. There were no pantomimes in the clubhouse after this one. The 1958 season was over, and n.o.body was laughing.

PERHAPS MORE THAN any other sport, baseball is a game of self-sufficiency, a team game that lives in the individual's domain. n.o.body can hit for you. By virtue of the strikeout, a pitcher can barely include his fielders in the flow of the game. Even defensively, where a team must work together on cutoffs and relays and backups, only one person can catch the ball. On certain days, an outfielder can play the entire game and not even have an opportunity to touch the ball. Sink or swim. If the shortstop is the best player on the field but a ball is. .h.i.t to deep center, there is no defensive scheme that can be concocted to s.h.i.+eld his team from the center fielder's defensive weaknesses, no way to showcase the better players and hide the mediocre as in football and basketball. In basketball, the player who can't shoot can always pa.s.s the ball to a more gifted offensive player. In baseball, you can't give an at bat to a teammate. You catch the ball and hit it, or you fail. any other sport, baseball is a game of self-sufficiency, a team game that lives in the individual's domain. n.o.body can hit for you. By virtue of the strikeout, a pitcher can barely include his fielders in the flow of the game. Even defensively, where a team must work together on cutoffs and relays and backups, only one person can catch the ball. On certain days, an outfielder can play the entire game and not even have an opportunity to touch the ball. Sink or swim. If the shortstop is the best player on the field but a ball is. .h.i.t to deep center, there is no defensive scheme that can be concocted to s.h.i.+eld his team from the center fielder's defensive weaknesses, no way to showcase the better players and hide the mediocre as in football and basketball. In basketball, the player who can't shoot can always pa.s.s the ball to a more gifted offensive player. In baseball, you can't give an at bat to a teammate. You catch the ball and hit it, or you fail.

Conversely, because of baseball's individualist nature, it is also virtually impossible for a position player to dominate every moment of every game. A few basketball players can account for the majority of their team's shot totals. In extreme cases, one player can score nearly half of his team's points. In baseball, both halves of the batting order-the first five and the bottom four-each receive approximately the same number of at bats over a single game, regardless of a player's abilities.

And that was the reason why the National League season of 1959 was so special. It combined the individual and the collective. It featured a supernova eclipsing the established star. And it spotlighted a three-team pennant chase deep into September-the Dodgers, the Giants, and the Braves vying for the prize-a chase that would have lasting consequences for each franchise, and the players involved.

The supernova was Henry Aaron, and for the first month of the season he began to chart his course toward a place more rarefied, more exclusive. He began the season with fury-extra base hits in each of the first seven games of the season, including three in an opening-day destruction of Bob Friend and Pittsburgh at Forbes Field, then three more for the home opener, including singling and scoring the winning run in beating Philly in front of 42,081 at County Stadium. At the end of April, Henry was. .h.i.tting .508.

Henry did not necessarily need a reason to tear into the league at a more vigorous pace, but two spring-training incidents clearly would have motivated him. The sting of the World Series loss would never go away, and during the spring, Haney did not intend to let any of the players forget, especially the ones who didn't produce. One day in Bradenton, Mathews, who had died at the plate during the Series, wanted to stay in the batting cage for a few extra swings. "You didn't want to swing it last October,"137 Haney bellowed for all to hear. Throughout the length of spring training, Haney's jabs contained just a bit more acid. Haney bellowed for all to hear. Throughout the length of spring training, Haney's jabs contained just a bit more acid.

Of course, Haney did not seem to blame himself for nodding off at the wheel in game seven, but he gave the players the works. "We could use some more speed," Haney told s.h.i.+rley Povich of the Was.h.i.+ngton Post Was.h.i.+ngton Post. "Pitching and hitting sound pretty good, but you can't overlook other ways to win ball games. In a close game, the big play can beat you. Willie Mays can beat you four ways. He can beat you with a hit or a throw or a steal or a big catch in the outfield. We don't have one like that on our club."

For three years, Henry had listened to Fred Haney take his whacks at various players on the team, and now he had taken a shot at him, too. We don't have one like that on our club We don't have one like that on our club. It was true that Henry did not have big stolen-base totals. It was bad enough that Haney had sat in the dugout while the World Series turned to ashes, and now the players had to wake up to the morning paper, with him cutting them off at the knees. And now there was this, Haney waxing nostalgic for Mays.