The Last Hero_ A Life Of Henry Aaron Part 19

Billye described Henry as kind and sweet but, in their early meetings, not terribly romantic. Billye recalled one of their first dates. "He asked me to meet him at this little soul-food restaurant across the street from the stadium. He wanted to go there because it was comfortable for him and because it was close, because he had a game that night. Let's just say I was used to better. So I said to him, 'Mr. Aaron, the next time you call on me, make sure it's an off day so we could go someplace, well, a little nicer.'"

He did not write letters or send flowers spontaneously, but he was grounded, and that was important. During those years, she did not need to be swept off her feet as much as she needed comfort and stability. "He always appeared to be a family man, and that was important," she recalled. "I had heard stories about what ballplayers were like, having a woman in every port. And he could have been, but he didn't impress me as a womanizer or whatever. When he approached me, I thought he was sincere."

She carried herself with confidence and elegance. She was disarming, but that did not mean Billye Aaron was any more forgiving of the racial climate than Barbara. Her demeanor may have seemed more polished, less confrontational, but she was, friends believed, far fiercer than Henry on most racial subjects. During the home-run chase, she was particularly sensitive when it came to the pressures Henry faced and how much of it was directly attributable to his being black.

"I used to think being an athlete was the same as being an actor, but they are different. As an actor, you are playing a role. You are purposely playing someone else. As an athlete, Henry was simply expressing his talent, and the actor doesn't have to get booed, every day, in living color. I think some people can't wait for the spotlight. Either you have it or you don't. Henry does not need one iota of it."

Though Billye appeared more comfortable at public functions and was able to mingle with a natural ease, she appreciated Henry's reticence. Together, they had come to a conclusion: They would use Henry's fame for something more than wealth. For years, Henry had talked about foundation work and trying to find the proper vehicle to set his philanthropic visions in motion.

"You don't grow up in poverty and want to see other people in poverty. You know what it feels like. You know what it looks like, and you see exactly what it does to people's ambitions," she said.

WHEN IT CAME to the Hall of Fame, Henry played the waiting game on a different plane, in a reserved, exclusive strata. As they approach induction, even the best players wait and wonder about admittance. Joe DiMaggio was not inducted into the Hall of Fame on the first ballot. Others worry about securing the 75 percent of the voters needed for induction. Jackie Robinson received 78 percent. Aaron's old teammate, Eddie Mathews, corralled 79 percent. to the Hall of Fame, Henry played the waiting game on a different plane, in a reserved, exclusive strata. As they approach induction, even the best players wait and wonder about admittance. Joe DiMaggio was not inducted into the Hall of Fame on the first ballot. Others worry about securing the 75 percent of the voters needed for induction. Jackie Robinson received 78 percent. Aaron's old teammate, Eddie Mathews, corralled 79 percent.

In 1982, when it came Henry's turn, he was not worried about induction on the first ballot, but he was worried about the percentage of votes: He wanted to be the first unanimous inductee in history. In a sense, it was a cheeky thing to want, for n.o.body had been a unanimous choice. Ty Cobb, during the first induction in 1936, received the highest vote percentage, 98.2 percent. That was more than Ruth and Walter Johnson would get; Ruth received 95 percent, Johnson 84 percent. Mays had received 95 percent of the vote when he was inducted into the Hall of Fame in 1979.

The day arrived, January 13, 1982. Juan Marichal was on the ballot. So were Henry's old teammates Lew Burdette and Orlando Cepeda, and another Mobile legend, Billy Williams. None of them would make it this day. Four hundred and fifteen ballots were cast. Henry received 406. He missed unanimity by nine votes. The 406 votes made him second only to Mays, who had received 409. Henry's 97.8 percent of the votes was second only to Cobb's.

"I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to be unanimous,289 but I realize n.o.body has been," Henry said. "I'm happy with the number of votes I received." He would be inducted with Happy Chandler, the commissioner who succeeded Landis and integrated the game, the old Giants shortstop Travis Jackson, and Frank Robinson. but I realize n.o.body has been," Henry said. "I'm happy with the number of votes I received." He would be inducted with Happy Chandler, the commissioner who succeeded Landis and integrated the game, the old Giants shortstop Travis Jackson, and Frank Robinson.

ON F FRIDAY, JULY 30, Henry, Billye, Stella, and Herbert, as well as Gaile, Lary, Hank, Dorinda, and Ceci, arrived in Cooperstown and toured the Hall of Fame Museum. Stoic Henry Aaron was emotional. He slowly lowered his guard as he walked into the old museum and saw his Braves locker, which had been donated seven years earlier by Bill Bartholomay, and the symbols of his life's accomplishments. He had long been used to being famous, but that did not diminish the feeling of seeing his life on display. He had his picture taken with his parents, with Billye, and with each of the kids. He joked with Dorinda, saying that she had always wanted to go into the locker room and now was her chance. He softened at the sight of his first pro contract, which called for two hundred dollars per month, and stared at a picture of himself when he was first called to the big leagues. Embarra.s.sed by his youthful awkwardness, or pained by the years that had pa.s.sed, he asked a Cooperstown official if the photo could be replaced by one "more recent." 30, Henry, Billye, Stella, and Herbert, as well as Gaile, Lary, Hank, Dorinda, and Ceci, arrived in Cooperstown and toured the Hall of Fame Museum. Stoic Henry Aaron was emotional. He slowly lowered his guard as he walked into the old museum and saw his Braves locker, which had been donated seven years earlier by Bill Bartholomay, and the symbols of his life's accomplishments. He had long been used to being famous, but that did not diminish the feeling of seeing his life on display. He had his picture taken with his parents, with Billye, and with each of the kids. He joked with Dorinda, saying that she had always wanted to go into the locker room and now was her chance. He softened at the sight of his first pro contract, which called for two hundred dollars per month, and stared at a picture of himself when he was first called to the big leagues. Embarra.s.sed by his youthful awkwardness, or pained by the years that had pa.s.sed, he asked a Cooperstown official if the photo could be replaced by one "more recent."

Induction weekend called for the lowering of swords. At the Hotel Otesaga, Henry met Bowie Kuhn for breakfast. The history between the two had been bad for years, dating back to when Kuhn failed to send Henry a telegram congratulating him on his seven hundredth home run. "Only a sick man carries grudges," Henry said. "And I'm not a sick man." After a peace meeting, they played tennis and Henry destroyed Kuhn, with a smile. The day of his induction, he awoke at 7:00 a.m. and played tennis with Frank Torre, then prepared for his speech at the Hall of Fame Library.

HAPPY C CHANDLER, 84 years old, spoke first. The official transcript of his Hall of Fame speech filled three full pages. Frank Robinson's was just as long.

And then there was Henry. His speech lasted just eight minutes. Gaile, wearing a white dress dotted by a light floral pattern, wept as she mouthed parts of Henry's speech: I also feel especially proud to be standing here where some years ago Jackie Robinson, Roy Campanella proved the way and made it possible for Frank and me and for other blacks, hopeful in baseball. They proved to the world that a man's ability is limited only by his lack of opportunity.The sheer majesty of this occasion and its significance overwhelms me. For truly I reflect on my life and particularly on my 23 years in baseball. I am reminded of a statement I once read, and I quote, "The way to fame is like the way to heaven. Through much tribulation." It had been for me, to quote a very popular song, the long and winding road. Nevertheless, I have been extremely blessed.I stand here today because G.o.d gave me a healthy body, a sound mind and talent. For 23 years I took the talent that G.o.d gave me and developed it to the best of my ability.Twenty-three years ago, I never dreamed of this high honor would come to me. For it was not fame I sought, but rather the best baseball player that I could possibly be.I grew up in a home where there was little in the way of material goods. But there was an abundance of love and discipline. We, therefore, had much to share. And so too is this occasion an occasion for sharing, an occasion for thanksgiving. For I did not make this journey alone.

Henry said he did not speak longer because he was on the verge of tears. If nothing else, he was generally overcome by the weekend, for he and the Hall of Fame had not enjoyed an easy relations.h.i.+p. Grievances rested on both sides. Henry felt the officials at Cooperstown had not treated him as they had the other greats. He believed he had donated graciously, but his items were not treated as carefully or respectfully as the donations from other great players. It started back in 1973, when the Hall of Fame published a flyer on its new exhibits. No mention was made of Henry's donations, which included the ball and bat from his three thousandth hit, and the b.a.l.l.s for his five hundredth and six hundredth home runs. "With all the things I've done,"290 Henry told the Henry told the New York Times New York Times, "you'd think they could mention my name in the magazine."

And there was that eternal slight that pierced his pride the minute he walked into the building: the two statues-one of Ruth, the other of Ted Williams-that greeted each and every visitor.

Meanwhile, the collective att.i.tude of those at Cooperstown toward Henry over the years had been that he had no tolerance for honest, simple mistakes. Henry went public with problems that could have been solved with a phone call. He read malice into the relations.h.i.+p, and that made him difficult.

But now he was officially a Hall of Famer. No player in the integrated era, not Mays, not Gibson, not Jackie Robinson, had received a higher percentage of votes. But Henry could not escape the nagging annoyance in his own mind that baseball had relegated him to a one-event player, and even that moment-breaking the home-run record-always came with a qualification. In a final interview in Cooperstown, Henry voiced an opinion that explained his unresolved turmoil.

I've never been able to live down291 breaking Babe Ruth's home run record. They say, "If Babe had played in this park ... if Babe had not been a pitcher all those years." But I personally had nothing to do with those things.... breaking Babe Ruth's home run record. They say, "If Babe had played in this park ... if Babe had not been a pitcher all those years." But I personally had nothing to do with those things....I'm a little too busy and a little too old to have any bitterness about anything. I would like to remain in baseball the rest of my life. I would like to see the Braves, my club, win a champions.h.i.+p, and then another champions.h.i.+p. That's the last thing I want out of baseball.

Then he flew home to Atlanta, he said, unburdened, all hard feelings dissolved by his induction, or so he claimed. His actions told a different story, and actions were the defining trait of Henry Aaron. Over the next seventeen years-when living members of the Hall of Fame were invited to welcome in the new cla.s.s of inductees-Henry would return to Cooperstown exactly once.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

CARS.

OUT OF THE wasteland of the players' strike of 1994-a strike that undermined baseball's credibility and lasted 232 days-came an industry-wide gospel, one with which the sport had been unfamiliar since the dawn of the Dead Ball Era: Baseball would go into the nostalgia business. It would sell its moments, its heroes, its history, and itself. The strike served as a reminder that the resilience of the game, the fact that people wasteland of the players' strike of 1994-a strike that undermined baseball's credibility and lasted 232 days-came an industry-wide gospel, one with which the sport had been unfamiliar since the dawn of the Dead Ball Era: Baseball would go into the nostalgia business. It would sell its moments, its heroes, its history, and itself. The strike served as a reminder that the resilience of the game, the fact that people cared cared so much no matter how dysfunctional its leaders.h.i.+p, was precisely what had saved it. Gone (at least publicly) was the standard orthodoxy of tolerating the players as an unfortunate by-product of the owners' moneymaking enterprise. Refusing to recognize the wattage of the players might have watered down salaries, but it also made for lifelong enemies, and enemies got in the way of business. so much no matter how dysfunctional its leaders.h.i.+p, was precisely what had saved it. Gone (at least publicly) was the standard orthodoxy of tolerating the players as an unfortunate by-product of the owners' moneymaking enterprise. Refusing to recognize the wattage of the players might have watered down salaries, but it also made for lifelong enemies, and enemies got in the way of business.

The fact was, 150 years of infighting had obscured what baseball was supposed to be all about: making people feel good. A labor war had prevented baseball from making money off memories at a time when everybody else-card-show hawks, home-shopping and cla.s.sic sports channels, book publishers, individual collectors-was making a killing in the memorabilia business. This was the 1990s, the information age, where promotion was not only a virtue but, in a stratified world of two hundred TV channels and the untamed Internet, an absolute necessity. The sport had already mastered warfare, its history built on grinding, century-long animosities, but now baseball had found its new religion. From now on, moments would be cherished. Players would be celebrated by the sport as the G.o.ds they were to the public. Records, milestones, champions.h.i.+ps-the history of baseball-were valuable commodities being squandered by three decades of infighting about labor.

The Yankees, of course, had always known the value of hyperbole, of feeding the hero machine. They knew it better than anyone. It was history that separated your team from the rest, history that gave baseball its special currency, made you call it the "national pastime" even though football had long dusted the national game in television ratings and popularity since before men landed on the moon. It was history that gave you pride and pedigree and protected you from the lean times, kept you from being average. It served as the reminder that you stood for something permanent, something important important, that you weren't part of the latest popular fad, but the standard of a continuing tradition. Even the name Yankee Stadium had withstood that latest sign of the sports apocalypse-corporate naming rights for stadiums-which produced so much money that teams across all sports were willing to sell off their ident.i.ty, their roots for the short-term gain. The great stadium names, the ones that gave the eye a picture of a city and a team-Comiskey, Candlestick, Tiger, Oakland, Veterans, Three Rivers-all got swallowed whole for the money. But not Yankee Stadium, even with all the money that the Yankees could have fetched by giving that piece of itself away. History was the reason the Yankees were the only team in the game never to change its home uniforms once the pinstripes and the interlocked NY became standard. It was the reason the great glories of Ruth and Gehrig, DiMaggio and Mantle, Reggie and Munson were pa.s.sed down through generations of ticket buyers who wanted to identify with this New York family heirloom, fans who wanted to belong belong. Regardless of the team's current record, a trip to Yankee Stadium meant being force-fed two heaping tablespoons of the dynasty, and that made everyone feel good and close. Pregame, postgame, and in between innings, the Yankees reminded everyone in the stadium that there might be no time like the present, but yesterday, if marketed properly, was even more salable a commodity than the fleeting lilt of today's pennant race. History only increased in value. The Yankees knew that they weren't just in the business of selling hot dogs and home runs. They were in the business of selling memories.

And as it turned out, nostalgia was big business. Baseball was about the generations, father to son, son to grandfather. But for all the sugary rhetoric of how baseball linked the generations as no rival sport could, the game had no mechanism to sell its most marketable quality. The plan been for baseball to partner with the corporate world to sell its history to the public, but even before the 1994 strike exposed baseball, insiders knew it was the marketing equivalent of the t.i.tanic t.i.tanic. After the strike, the depths of the disaster became frighteningly clear.

To make it all work, baseball had to rebuild its marketing and promotions departments from within, no easy task when the talent and direction had been torpedoed by two unnatural disasters-a calamitous television deal with CBS and the mahatma of boondoggles, a failure called the Baseball Network. Both cost baseball a fortune, leaving the promotional end of the business in shambles.

And it had to undo all the old rules. Baseball didn't just play nasty with the players, but because its economy had been local for a century, it was every owner for himself. Publicity was not run from above, by the umbrella of major-league baseball. Rather, it was a mom-and-pop operation. The two leagues had been, aside from meeting in the World Series, separate ent.i.ties. The American League marketed itself, as did the National. Publicity and promotions were handled at the local level, meaning the Red Sox and Yankees and Royals and Padres promoted their teams, but a coordinated national marketing for common projects-say the game itself-did not exist. Whatever national marketing did exist was left in the hands of the television-rights holders, who could choose to market selectively, or not.

It was, in short, a complete and total mess. When veteran marketing and promotions man Bill Henneberry signed on as a consultant to major-league baseball, he used an old Yiddish word, ferc.o.c.kt ferc.o.c.kt, and when p.r.o.nouncing it, he would say it meant just what it sounded like: f.u.c.ked f.u.c.ked.

Henneberry had started out in the business292 in the early 1970s, as a vice president of marketing for Hertz. One of his first accounts was the campaign that featured O. J. Simpson running through airports. He had worked for Colgate-Palmolive for eleven years before working with MNBA, striking upon an idea he believed was a winner: team logos on credit cards. A credit card with the San Francisco 49ers helmet on it? Here was a way for the fan to feel connected to his favorite team, Henneberry argued. The team could offer small discounts or points to be acc.u.mulated like frequent flier miles each time the card was used, double points if used at Candlestick Park or when purchasing tickets. Henneberry was twenty years ahead of his time. It was a moment of genius-the kind that can make a career-but the idea barely got off the ground. MNBA soon folded. Henneberry was out, smoldering mad that life wasn't fair (you can't copyright ideas, after all), when a bigger credit-card company, Visa, resurrected his idea and made a fortune. in the early 1970s, as a vice president of marketing for Hertz. One of his first accounts was the campaign that featured O. J. Simpson running through airports. He had worked for Colgate-Palmolive for eleven years before working with MNBA, striking upon an idea he believed was a winner: team logos on credit cards. A credit card with the San Francisco 49ers helmet on it? Here was a way for the fan to feel connected to his favorite team, Henneberry argued. The team could offer small discounts or points to be acc.u.mulated like frequent flier miles each time the card was used, double points if used at Candlestick Park or when purchasing tickets. Henneberry was twenty years ahead of his time. It was a moment of genius-the kind that can make a career-but the idea barely got off the ground. MNBA soon folded. Henneberry was out, smoldering mad that life wasn't fair (you can't copyright ideas, after all), when a bigger credit-card company, Visa, resurrected his idea and made a fortune.

When Henneberry joined baseball as a consultant, he found a sport that was "virtually leaderless." For its promotional budget, baseball produced less than four million dollars in revenue. By comparison, the promotional budget of a pro sports league tended to be nearly three times that amount. Sports advertising was all about beer and cars (Baseball, hot dogs, apple pie, Chevrolet!) (Baseball, hot dogs, apple pie, Chevrolet!), but when Henneberry arrived, baseball's biggest sponsors were Scotts lawn fertilizer and Kingsford charcoal briquettes.

"We had no car, no beer.293 We had nothing much above one million dollars," Henneberry recalled. "We were walking into an empty room, a completely empty room. No one was running advertising that supported the theme of baseball and using baseball to build their brand. Licensing got hit like you wouldn't believe. Trading-card revenues were cut in half. And on top of that you had the CBS and Baseball Network fiascos, and then the strike. Baseball left it to whatever television network gave it the most money to market the game. It was an absolute f.u.c.king disaster." We had nothing much above one million dollars," Henneberry recalled. "We were walking into an empty room, a completely empty room. No one was running advertising that supported the theme of baseball and using baseball to build their brand. Licensing got hit like you wouldn't believe. Trading-card revenues were cut in half. And on top of that you had the CBS and Baseball Network fiascos, and then the strike. Baseball left it to whatever television network gave it the most money to market the game. It was an absolute f.u.c.king disaster."

Two accounts-Pepsi at $1.2 million and MasterCard at a contentious $1 million-accounted for more than half of the total revenues at MLB Properties. There was no money, but worse, baseball had let its most marketable quality-its history-atrophy to a fatal point.

In the years immediately following the strike, baseball got lucky, and as ballplayers always said, sometimes it was better to be lucky than good. Two strokes of good fortune hit almost simultaneously. First, the Yankees were good again, which always meant more money and more exposure for the game. As fas.h.i.+onable as it was to complain about the dreaded pinstripes, the facts were immutable: Good Yankee teams meant higher attendance throughout the American League, higher ratings, and increased interest. The Yankees were the rising tide that raised all boats.

On top of that came another lucky bounce: Henneberry met with representatives from MasterCard, which had an uneasy relations.h.i.+p with baseball. It could, then, only be described as providence that it was the credit-card company that sought out baseball and presented a golden opportunity.

The MasterCard reps unveiled a campaign they believed would work perfectly with baseball. They had even made a demo tape as part of their presentation. The video began with a young boy and his father attending a baseball game, a soft voice-over following each frame.

Hot dog ... $3.50Program ... $1Pennant ... $5Watching a game with your ten-year-old son ... priceless MasterCard called it their "Priceless" campaign and wanted baseball, the American game, to be its centerpiece. MasterCard was eager, and there was no reason to shop for a better deal-neither football nor basketball could pull as powerfully on the emotional father-son heartstrings as baseball. Baseball, for its part, was already angry at Visa because, as part of its campaign to create exclusivity (and box out its rival, American Express), the company did not want vendors to accept American Express at its signature event, the World Series ("... and they don't take American Express" went the ad campaign). So baseball had lucked out again; the sweetheart deal came to them. When the deal was finalized, MasterCard was in for $29 million $29 million.

HAVING RECOGNIZED ITS good fortune (instead of noticing the suspiciously increased size of its players and their subsequently ballooning offensive numbers), baseball was now hugs and kisses and Kodak moments. When Lou Gehrig played in his 2,130th consecutive game, a ceremony did not mark the occasion. A later event, which included easily the most memorable speech in baseball history, was held July 4, 1939, because everyone knew "the Iron Horse" was dying. But in the new world, there were balloons and pageantry, game stoppages and handshakes good fortune (instead of noticing the suspiciously increased size of its players and their subsequently ballooning offensive numbers), baseball was now hugs and kisses and Kodak moments. When Lou Gehrig played in his 2,130th consecutive game, a ceremony did not mark the occasion. A later event, which included easily the most memorable speech in baseball history, was held July 4, 1939, because everyone knew "the Iron Horse" was dying. But in the new world, there were balloons and pageantry, game stoppages and handshakes (even from opposing players, in the middle of a game) (even from opposing players, in the middle of a game) that night in Baltimore when Cal Ripken broke Gehrig's streak. that night in Baltimore when Cal Ripken broke Gehrig's streak.

During the apex of the resurrection-the home-run chase of 1998-two opposing opposing players, Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire, held players, Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire, held joint joint press conferences. When McGwire pa.s.sed Roger Maris's record, Sosa sped from his position in right field to give McGwire a hug. McGwire, nodding to history, reached back and embraced the Maris family. Roger Maris had been dead for more than a dozen years, but the family was able to enjoy a moment of closure and recognition. press conferences. When McGwire pa.s.sed Roger Maris's record, Sosa sped from his position in right field to give McGwire a hug. McGwire, nodding to history, reached back and embraced the Maris family. Roger Maris had been dead for more than a dozen years, but the family was able to enjoy a moment of closure and recognition.

It was all so mushy-Sosa and McGwire even said they loved each other. Judge Landis may have rolled over in his grave, clutching his "no fraternization" rule to his breast. Bob Gibson may have looked at the sport he once dominated and thought it unrecognizable with all this lovey-dovey c.r.a.p, but the cameras, the fans, and the country ate it up.

Baseball had become the king of schmaltz. But to complete the circle, the contemporaries would not be enough. The legends had to be brought back, dusted off, and restored to their their rightful place as the game's living elders, as a link to the past, the conscience of the future. rightful place as the game's living elders, as a link to the past, the conscience of the future.

In preliminary meetings, one man seemed unanimously perfect to be the centerpiece of the initiative, especially because 1999 marked the twenty-fifth anniversary of the all-time home-run record falling. Henry Aaron was the one the public relations and promotions departments wanted. He was, went the thought, perfect.

Yet the marketing executives in the room generally viewed the prospect of approaching Henry with a certain amount of dread, because the word had been out for years, and, unchallenged, it became fact: Hank Aaron was too bitter, too angry about baseball to be the face of any kind of promotion. The word was that he was too difficult to work with. He had already soured on baseball because of the Al Campanis affair in 1987. Besides, he probably wouldn't want to be part of it anyway.

IN THE MONTHS following Tommie Aaron's death, two major events occurred in Henry's life, one by happenstance, the other by perseverance. In 1985, Henry attended a function in New York City where he met Frank Belatti, a native New Yorker who was an emerging power player in the Atlanta business community. Belatti stood in the lobby and the receptionist, not a baseball fan of any sort, asked Belatti if he was Hank Aaron, providing Belatti a natural icebreaker when they eventually met later that night. "Henry," he said, "I've just been mistaken for you." following Tommie Aaron's death, two major events occurred in Henry's life, one by happenstance, the other by perseverance. In 1985, Henry attended a function in New York City where he met Frank Belatti, a native New Yorker who was an emerging power player in the Atlanta business community. Belatti stood in the lobby and the receptionist, not a baseball fan of any sort, asked Belatti if he was Hank Aaron, providing Belatti a natural icebreaker when they eventually met later that night. "Henry," he said, "I've just been mistaken for you."

Bronx-born, and a lifelong baseball fan, Belatti had been chief operating officer and president of Arby's, the fast-food chain. He worked with MLB properties on the RBI/Arby's award, which had been given to each league's leader in runs batted in. The two talked about business opportunities, specifically whether Henry was interested in becoming a franchise partner with Arby's. Belatti recalled Henry demurring. The restaurant and real-estate failures of the past still carried a fresh scar, and Henry had decided he did not have the business ac.u.men to try again.

"He told me he hadn't had much success in business," Belatti recalled. "I asked him to think about it and also I remember asking him if there were any organizations that he felt strongly about. He said the United Negro College Fund. That started the business side of things."

Henry moved with trepidation, but over time Belatti learned how important it was for Henry to have success away from the ballfield. In many ways, being a baseball player was perhaps the only area in his life where he could a.s.sume success. He had always been self-conscious about his level of formal education, and his past business ventures were not fruitful. Even inside of the baseball world, he did not feel particularly comfortable off the field, he did not feel well-regarded for his abilities in teaching, talent evaluation, or motivating players, the elements that would have made him a good executive or field manager. Thus, it became clear to Frank Belatti that Henry did not view another foray into the business community cavalierly.

Henry entered the world of fast food, obtaining his first franchise, an Arby's restaurant in Atlanta. That was followed by a Church's, the compet.i.tion to Kentucky Fried Chicken.

"It was clear that success away from baseball was very important to Henry," Belatti said. "He wanted to raise money for children. I think in order for him to fill that gap in his life he needed to be, always wanted to be, more than just a former baseball player. I was very proud that Henry Aaron told me he had only done two handshake deals in his life," Belatti said. "One was with Ted Turner, the other with Frank Belatti."

Belatti felt Henry's distance, as had so many others. They came from two different worlds, Henry from the Deep South, Belatti from Arthur Avenue and 187th Street in the Bronx. Belatti recalled that the relations.h.i.+p warmed over time, mostly because of their conversation about ethics. Belatti impressed upon Henry that he was sympathetic to the notion of creating business opportunities for African-Americans.

Trust was something Henry did not extend easily, and in his recollections Belatti does not remember a breakthrough moment between the two men. Rather, he recalls their relations.h.i.+p growing from business to friends.h.i.+p. "Why did he trust me? Hank is a very honorable man and while he is somewhat suspicious and rightfully so, he believes in people's good nature," Belatti said. "He accepted my gesture in good faith. He realized I was only determined to make him successful."

Belatti had been a Yankees fan all his life. He remembers respecting Henry and rooting against him in the 1957 and 1958 World Series. He had worked with baseball as an adult and thus was not necessarily awed by the size and aura of professional ballplayers.

Then, on Opening Day 1986, Belatti asked Henry if he wanted to join him for a ballgame. Henry agreed and the two went to the game at Yankee Stadium.

"We got out of the car, and of course, the ma.s.ses started to circle. You could hear people screaming that Hank Aaron was here," Belatti recalled. "That was when it occurred to me that this was no ordinary man. I saw how upset he got when these things happened. He just couldn't go places. People wanted things from him. They weren't there to give him respect. They wanted to get something from him. They wanted to touch him or get an autograph and he resented that. He would say to me, and he was serious, how dangerous people were, and how he did not feel safe. We realized that watching the game from our seats wasn't going to work. I sat in my seat and George Steinbrenner wound up getting Henry a seat up in a luxury box, away from everyone."

The second event that began to change Henry's outlook occurred without his knowledge. Over the course of the late 1980s and early 1990s, a chorus of people from far-flung areas of Mobile began unrelated campaigns to celebrate Henry. Kearney Windham, a diehard baseball fan and self-made sports historian, concocted the idea of a Hall of Fame for Mobile athletes. Henry would become a charter member of the Mobile Sports Hall of Fame. It was a significant start, for Henry and for Mobile, and endured a p.r.i.c.kly relations.h.i.+p.

During the same period, the city of Mobile, led by a new wave of younger, diverse politicians, began a drive to improve relations with Henry. In 1977, the city named a stretch of downtown after him, the Hank Aaron Business Loop. In 1991, Mobile mayor Mike Dow was pushed by city councilor Irmadean Watson to rename Carver Park, his boyhood playground, to Hank Aaron Park. After years of frost, the city's political leaders.h.i.+p had begun to reach out to Henry.

Where Major League baseball was concerned, however, Henry had adopted the position that given the opportunity to do the right thing, baseball would disappoint him every time. It had been that way since Bowie Kuhn chose the Yahoo Club over him. The succeeding years hadn't been much better, and the likelihood that baseball would approach him with good intentions and then do him dirt in the end became something of an expectation in his camp. His relations.h.i.+p with individuals inside of the game had always been solid. Ted Turner made sure he had a job for life, and Bill Bartholomay now spoke of Henry as one of his dear, dear friends. But whenever the commissioner's office got involved, whenever he had hopes that the game would finally place him in his proper context, finally give him what he believed to be his due, his first reflex was to antic.i.p.ate the very worst.

For example, there was the time Henry met with Greg Murphy, the new head of MLB Properties, ostensibly baseball's marketing and promotions wing. Murphy was considered by some coworkers to be a p.r.i.c.kly, unpopular man, but he was pa.s.sionate about the necessity to cultivate Henry. Murphy told Henry that he was a baseball treasure, a true living legend. He told Henry about baseball's new initiative to revive the game's heroes with a major public campaign. The two shook hands. Months pa.s.sed. Nothing happened.

Times, though, were different. After Fay Vincent's successful owners.h.i.+p coup, Bud Selig, who still owned the Milwaukee Brewers, was now the commissioner of baseball. There was something else about the new baseball: The sport would no longer foster the charade that the commissioner was the objective protector of the game's interest. Still, Selig at the helm meant Henry294 had a man in the top chair whom he absolutely trusted. Selig never missed an opportunity to elevate Henry, and the praise was genuine. It wasn't lost on the major-league executives throughout the years that the commissioner's office was supposed to give the impression of being impartial, yet Selig would routinely state publicly that Henry was the greatest player of all time. "If you noticed, he never even said 'one of the greatest,'" Henneberry said. "It was always unequivocal." had a man in the top chair whom he absolutely trusted. Selig never missed an opportunity to elevate Henry, and the praise was genuine. It wasn't lost on the major-league executives throughout the years that the commissioner's office was supposed to give the impression of being impartial, yet Selig would routinely state publicly that Henry was the greatest player of all time. "If you noticed, he never even said 'one of the greatest,'" Henneberry said. "It was always unequivocal."

That meant that anybody at MLB who wasn't completely sold on Henry (and there were more than a few unconvinced that Henry was charismatic enough to be a leading man) now had to deal with the wrath of Bud. Mess with Henry, mess with the commissioner. Even worse for the unconvinced was the lurking notion that should things not progress to his liking, should someone at MLB treat Henry poorly, there was the probability that a phone call was being made from Atlanta to Milwaukee and that the offending parties would be swiftly punished. Selig made it a point to note that he and Henry spoke constantly, "almost daily," the commissioner would say. That kept whatever hostile elements in New York on their best behavior.

Henry also had some true believers at MLB in Henneberry, Bob Gamgort, and Kathy Francis, the lead marketing team that made the decisions on which players would become the official face of the game. The trio did not consider another legend, not Williams, not DiMaggio, not even Mays. To the group, Henry was the obvious choice, partly because it felt the need to honor Greg Murphy's agreement with Henry, and also because there wasn't a time Henneberry would look at the record book and not be absolutely blown away by Henry's career numbers.

"Hank was the only choice.295 I think because the promise that was made to him by Greg Murphy. I always thought there was a little bit of guilt that they had never done right by this guy," Henneberry recalled. "I mean, okay, he had the home-run record. Everybody knew that, but there was the stuff only a real aficionado would know. Thirty-seven hundred hits? First in RBI, first in home runs, first in total bases? Third in hits? I mean, come on. What else did this guy have to do?" I think because the promise that was made to him by Greg Murphy. I always thought there was a little bit of guilt that they had never done right by this guy," Henneberry recalled. "I mean, okay, he had the home-run record. Everybody knew that, but there was the stuff only a real aficionado would know. Thirty-seven hundred hits? First in RBI, first in home runs, first in total bases? Third in hits? I mean, come on. What else did this guy have to do?"

One the other hand, the whispering campaign that Henry had turned crotchety was just prominent enough to give the marketing people pause. There had been talk that Henry had a reputation for being impossible to please. Baseball would accommodate him, make good-faith attempts to placate him, to close the wounds of 1974, but it was never enough, or so went the thought.

The first meeting was in Philadelphia in mid-1998. Henneberry, Gamgort, and Francis met Henry and Allan Tanenbaum at the Four Seasons in Logan Square. The meeting did not exactly get off to a rousing start. Henneberry, like Frank Belatti, was Bronx-born, a diehard Yankee fan, tried to break the ice with Henry and was met with the sound of crickets.

"I walked in, and I remember him being standoffish," Henneberry recalled. "I made a comment about him breaking my heart in '57."

More crickets.

"I was fifty years old, and I was starstruck," Henneberry said. "He didn't give a s.h.i.+t about that story. He'd heard it a thousand times. What he wanted to know was if he could trust me. I think he was rea.s.sured that I wasn't a kid, that we came to him and put serious, experienced marketing guys in charge of this. Baseball had not been doing much for him and he was a bit dubious about whether we could pull this off. He just didn't trust baseball to do the right thing by his image. And you know what? He was right. Baseball never before had a plan."

Over the course of the meeting, Francis, Gamgort, and Henneberry laid out the ambitious multip.r.o.nged strategy to market and promote the twenty-fifth anniversary of the record. A commemorative coffee-table book, Home Run Home Run, written by the respected d.i.c.k Schaap, was already in the works. Ted Williams had already agreed to put his name on the foreword. The trio told Henry the league would back a tour to a dozen parks, where, at each, Henry would throw out the first ball. There would be sponsors.h.i.+p and licensing opportunities, a radio and television tour. This time, they were going to do it right. He was going to be treated respectfully and regally, in the mold of DiMaggio.

And then MLB unveiled the big one to Henry and his people: The Hank Aaron Award, a new award named after Henry, honoring the best hitter in each league. He already had peripheral involvement with the Arby's RBI award, hardware given out annually to the league leader in runs driven in. Henry was, after all, the career leader in runs batted in, but his real affiliation with the award stemmed mostly from the fact that the acronym corresponded with his owners.h.i.+p of numerous Arby's fast-food restaurants.

The RBI award was a lesser award, a trinket few paid much attention to. The Hank Aaron Award, Henry was told at the meeting, would be different. It would be big. Henneberry's original blueprint was wide in scope. In his vision, the Hank Aaron Award would represent the player leading or near the top in each of the chief offensive categories, which made sense, because for his career, Henry had finished in the top three in each of the categories: home runs, RBIs, and hits. Henneberry also thought the award should be interactive, meaning that players and fans would be able to track the major contenders for the award during the season.

"My recommendation was a quant.i.tative award. Most hits, HR and RBI together. We could track it throughout the year. I wanted to make a big deal out of it," Henneberry recalled. "We had the greatest living iconic player. He was first in home runs, and RBI, third in hits, first in total bases? I mean, come on. It was so obvious."

The meeting ended in success. Henneberry recalled that Henry was "ecstatic." By the end of the meeting, Henry had thawed. Where he had once been cool to the marketing group, he now told jokes, spinning yarns about the time he pa.s.sed up a chance to go on The Ed The Ed Sullivan Show Sullivan Show because Lew Burdette had begged him to be in the lineup so he could snare his twentieth win of the year. Cost him five hundred dollars, Henry said, and the biggest laughs came in the context of 1999, when a player's because Lew Burdette had begged him to be in the lineup so he could snare his twentieth win of the year. Cost him five hundred dollars, Henry said, and the biggest laughs came in the context of 1999, when a player's average average annual salary was well over one million dollars. Henry delivered the line perfectly. "Five hundred was annual salary was well over one million dollars. Henry delivered the line perfectly. "Five hundred was big big money back then," he said. money back then," he said.

OVER THE NEXT five months came the hard part: selling Henry. The group first had to find a major sponsor that could back a major campaign, lest Henry get slighted again. Henneberry placed his target figure for the campaign between $800,000 and $1 million, but no one was biting at that figure. Over the years it would gall Henry that he was perceived as simply not charismatic enough to carry a promotion, or, worse, that he was a grumpy old man with little to offer. Henneberry accepted the talk because it was out there and the first thing a marketer does is deal with the situation instead of complain. What bothered him was how shortsighted the presumptions could be. five months came the hard part: selling Henry. The group first had to find a major sponsor that could back a major campaign, lest Henry get slighted again. Henneberry placed his target figure for the campaign between $800,000 and $1 million, but no one was biting at that figure. Over the years it would gall Henry that he was perceived as simply not charismatic enough to carry a promotion, or, worse, that he was a grumpy old man with little to offer. Henneberry accepted the talk because it was out there and the first thing a marketer does is deal with the situation instead of complain. What bothered him was how shortsighted the presumptions could be.

"Part of it was because of the perception that Hank was difficult to work with. No one knew the value of what Hank would bring to the party," he recalled. "But the big thing was this: Everything in baseball at the time was about labor and making money. MLB Properties was gutted and the baseball Network failed. No one was promoting the players that were gone. No one had touched them for fifteen years.

"We were asking for a million bucks. A few years earlier, we were selling the whole league whole league for a million. No one was tying the players of yesteryear to the current game. n.o.body touched anybody. It wasn't Willie, Duke, Stan, Hank, n.o.body. So, Hank was forgotten along with everyone else. It wasn't that he was unpopular or cast aside. for a million. No one was tying the players of yesteryear to the current game. n.o.body touched anybody. It wasn't Willie, Duke, Stan, Hank, n.o.body. So, Hank was forgotten along with everyone else. It wasn't that he was unpopular or cast aside. n.o.body n.o.body was getting any support. It had nothing to do with Hank." was getting any support. It had nothing to do with Hank."

So it came to pa.s.s that the year 1999 revitalized Henry Aaron. The promotions coalesced and, in the end, baseball did not betray him as he had feared. The book, Home Run: My Life in Pictures Home Run: My Life in Pictures, was handsome and cla.s.sy, first-rate all the way. The sponsor, Country Time Lemonade, came through. The numbers were not astronomical-the $450,000 it took to get the deal done was far below Henneberry's seven-figure target-but Country Time treated Henry with the respect he believed had been nonexistent, and the executives at Country Time were delighted by his affability on the promotion trail, even if they winced each time Henry mangled the product's name.

"Hank could never say 'Country Time.' He would always say 'Country Times,'" Henneberry recalled. "It was the southern way of saying it. I told him a hundred times to say it right, and he said it wrong ninety-nine times. It drove them nuts."

Henry turned sixty-five that February and was feted with a gala event that he would never forget. The Hyatt Regency Atlanta was packed, lined with limousines, luxury cars ... and the Secret Service. President Clinton made a surprise appearance.

That night, the Hank Aaron Award was unveiled (Manny Ramirez and Sammy Sosa would be the inaugural recipients), announced to a rousing ovation. Bill Henneberry wasn't pleased, though, for his original concept never got off the ground. Baseball stepped in and took a scalpel to the idea. Rich Levin, baseball's top public-relations man, thought Henneberry's vision encroached upon sacred turf, which was the Most Valuable Player awards, given out to each league by the Baseball Writers' a.s.sociation of America, the most prestigious awards, which went back to the 1930s. The MVP was the award of Williams and Mays and Mantle. Nothing could be introduced to reduce its impact. During that time, the players union tried to compete with the BBWAA by creating the Players Choice Awards, but it didn't work. Players wanted to be a.s.sociated with the hardware Hall of Famers held.

Levin was also concerned296 that a quant.i.tative award based on the top offensive categories was too close to the Triple Crown, which marked the leader in batting average, home runs, and RBI. that a quant.i.tative award based on the top offensive categories was too close to the Triple Crown, which marked the leader in batting average, home runs, and RBI.

"What we ended up with was different than what I had envisioned," Henneberry said. "I have nothing but respect for Rich Levin, but I thought it got totally screwed up. I thought we could have done more. The Triple Crown? The Triple Crown is a total anachronism. I mean, who was the last guy to win it? Yastrzemski forty years ago? The award never became as important as it should have been."

Throughout the years, Henry had met presidents. It never failed to tickle Billye that she could say without exaggeration that she and Henry had slept at the White House more than once. They had traveled the world and dined with kings and queens and prime ministers. Usually, however, he went to them, the Home Run King as invited guest. But seeing Bill Clinton, a sitting president at the Hyatt, in town just for him just for him, well, it touched a nerve in Henry Aaron that softened and humbled him.

Bill Clinton traced the roots297 of his relations.h.i.+p with Henry to March 1, 1992, when the Democratic party was slugging it out in a primary with no clear front-runner. One day it was Tom Harkin, the next day Paul Tsongas. For a time, even Jerry Brown was leading in the polls. Not that who won would matter anyway, because the winner, the pundits said, would only get demolished by the invincible sitting president, George H. W. Bush, fresh and muscular after winning the Gulf War, his approval ratings making him, if numbers were to be believed, the most popular president in history. of his relations.h.i.+p with Henry to March 1, 1992, when the Democratic party was slugging it out in a primary with no clear front-runner. One day it was Tom Harkin, the next day Paul Tsongas. For a time, even Jerry Brown was leading in the polls. Not that who won would matter anyway, because the winner, the pundits said, would only get demolished by the invincible sitting president, George H. W. Bush, fresh and muscular after winning the Gulf War, his approval ratings making him, if numbers were to be believed, the most popular president in history.

Still, in desperation, the phone call was made the way all important calls are made, through a maze of high-rent channels: a campaign operative called Sam Nunn, the powerful Georgia senator, who located the civil rights giant and former U.N. amba.s.sador Andy Young, who found Henry. When he picked up the telephone, Bill Clinton, the Arkansas governor, still trying to gain a foothold in the presidential race, was on the other end, asking for Henry's help.

Clinton was holding a rally at Georgia Tech,298 he told Henry, and he was desperate to pump some life into his campaign. He had not yet won a single primary. Would the Home Run King allow the Clintons to use his name to raise the turnout, especially among the black voters, who, when properly motivated, could swing an election in Georgia? And one other thing, Clinton asked: Would he be willing to appear himself? he told Henry, and he was desperate to pump some life into his campaign. He had not yet won a single primary. Would the Home Run King allow the Clintons to use his name to raise the turnout, especially among the black voters, who, when properly motivated, could swing an election in Georgia? And one other thing, Clinton asked: Would he be willing to appear himself?

Henry told the governor he would be honored to do whatever he could to help the Clinton campaign.

On October 29, 1999, after he had won a second term, President Clinton regaled the audience at a Democratic National Committee function in Atlanta with his reminiscence of his 1993 comeback. According to the official White House transcript of the president's remarks, Clinton was consistent in his praise for Henry: "Georgia was good to me.299 I remember when I ran in the Georgia primary, all the Was.h.i.+ngton experts said that Governor Clinton heads south to Georgia in deep trouble. If he doesn't get at least 40 percent in the Georgia primary, he's toast. By then, I'd already been clear dead three times. Now it's happened so often, I'm going to open a tombstone business when I leave office. (Laughter.) I remember when I ran in the Georgia primary, all the Was.h.i.+ngton experts said that Governor Clinton heads south to Georgia in deep trouble. If he doesn't get at least 40 percent in the Georgia primary, he's toast. By then, I'd already been clear dead three times. Now it's happened so often, I'm going to open a tombstone business when I leave office. (Laughter.) "But anyway, and the people of Georgia in the primary gave me 57 percent of the vote in 1992, and sent me on my way. And I'm very grateful for that. (Applause.) And then I remember, we had a rally in a football stadium outside Atlanta, in the weekend before the election of '92. You remember that, Max [Cleland]? And we filled it. And I think Buddy Darden was there. We filled the rally. And I remember Hank Aaron was there, and there were over 25,000 people there. And we won the state by 13,000 votes. So everyone who spoke at that rally can fairly claim to have made me President of the United States, since there were twice as many people there as we won the state by. But we made it, and the rest is history."

Over the years, President Clinton would use his oratorical masterstrokes to ma.s.sage his message to fit the contours of his audience, but Henry always found his way into every anecdote, and in return, Henry and Billye would give the Clintons their loyalty.

"We were in a tough, tough campaign,"300 Bill Clinton recalled. "Hank Aaron had always been a hero of mine, and at the last minute he and Sam Nunn organized a rally. It turns out that we get twenty-five thousand people to fill a football stadium, mostly, I believe, because Hank Aaron was there. We held a tremendous rally and went on to win fifty-seven percent of the vote, and later I became the first Democrat to win the state of Georgia since 1976. And no Democrat has won it since. So, when I tell everyone that Hank Aaron is a big reason I became president of the United States, it's not just hyperbole because I love the man. I say it because it's true." Bill Clinton recalled. "Hank Aaron had always been a hero of mine, and at the last minute he and Sam Nunn organized a rally. It turns out that we get twenty-five thousand people to fill a football stadium, mostly, I believe, because Hank Aaron was there. We held a tremendous rally and went on to win fifty-seven percent of the vote, and later I became the first Democrat to win the state of Georgia since 1976. And no Democrat has won it since. So, when I tell everyone that Hank Aaron is a big reason I became president of the United States, it's not just hyperbole because I love the man. I say it because it's true."

At his birthday party, Henry was tearful when the president spoke, and so many emotions over the past year seemed to rush for s.p.a.ce behind his eyes at exactly the same time. There was, always, the simple triumph of his life, but this time combined with the losses, losses he dealt with quietly and stoically. There was the photo of Henry in black suit, wearing dark sungla.s.ses at the funeral of his father, Herbert, who had died quietly May 21, 1998. Herbert was eighty-nine years old and through his son had lived the triumph of the American story. As times changed, Herbert had been a legend in Mobile, the father of Mobile's most famous man. He had been visible around town, always known as "Mr. Herbert" or "Mr. Aaron." He had been fastidious and proud of his son. At the Episcopal Church of the Good Shepherd, Henry eulogized Herbert. "He was poor and unlearned,"301 Henry said. "Yet he was rich and wise. You might say he had a Ph.D in common sense ... we should all be so blessed to live a long and successful life. He did his share of bragging about me. Now, I'm bragging about him. Farewell, Dad." Henry said. "Yet he was rich and wise. You might say he had a Ph.D in common sense ... we should all be so blessed to live a long and successful life. He did his share of bragging about me. Now, I'm bragging about him. Farewell, Dad."

A little more than two months later, on August 1, Henry held a family reunion in Atlanta. Three hundred relatives attended. Two days later, Henry's youngest brother, James, and eldest sister, Sarah, drove back to Mobile, while Henry and Billye flew to Tokyo to attend the World Children's Baseball Fair.

The next day, Sarah complained that she had trouble lifting her leg. She was admitted to the hospital, where she suffered two heart attacks. Following the second attack, Sarah slipped into a diabetic coma and never regained consciousness. She was seventy-one when she died.

Henry's brother Alfred never survived past birth. Tommie had died fourteen years earlier. Over a sixty-day span in 1998, his father and eldest sister were also gone.

The president of the United States however, had held the microphone at his birthday party, and the big man began to crack, puffy with tears. Periodically, he would talk about how fortunate he had been to be born with ability and the desire to hone his talent, but at the birthday party the words were distilled into something tangible, something real. The party would be the highlight of his life, providing him a certain energy, from which he would often draw. The emotions of the evening reinforced his desire to build a foundation that would have impact. And that wasn't all. Before President Clinton left, his presence had generated more than a million dollars for Henry's foundation.

"You never know what it means to me302 to have the president say those things about me," Henry recalled. "I think he was exaggerating, because he didn't need me, but it gives you a warm feeling that the president of the United States would take the time. It told me that what we were trying to do for young people was the right thing to do." to have the president say those things about me," Henry recalled. "I think he was exaggerating, because he didn't need me, but it gives you a warm feeling that the president of the United States would take the time. It told me that what we were trying to do for young people was the right thing to do."

Henry sought to capitalize on his momentum by strengthening his philanthropic mission. All professional athletes touted their charitable foundations, but few of them did more than host an annual golf tournament and fly their friends around the country, tax-free. Henry felt an opportunity existed to create a model that would be truly lasting. It was, thought Frank Belatti, an opportunity for him to fuse together his two pa.s.sions: separating himself from being just another ballplayer and taking an interest in the future of children, particularly children of color, who often lacked the parental guidance and educational opportunities to have a real chance in the world.

"Henry would always say, 'If you're going to influence a child, you have to do it early. Even high school is too late,'" said Allan Tanenbaum. Four years earlier, Ted Turner had provided the seed money, $100,000, for Henry's original foundation idea, but having raised another million dollars when Bill Clinton crashed his birthday party, Henry and Billye wanted to sharpen their vision. They met with Allan Tanenbaum and Frank Belatti and began to form a plan to help children. At the All-Star game in Boston-Ted Williams's last triumphant public appearance-Tanenbaum, Henry, and Billye met on behalf of the newly named Chasing the Dream Foundation. Bud Selig and his deputies, Bob Dupuy, Tim Brosnan, and John Brody, were presented with a one-page proposal that contained six bullet points. The foundation was created to help 755 children-symbolically, one for each of Henry's home runs-with educational and financial support from grade school through graduation.