I had never written a letter to a famous person in my life, until just before Christmas of 1992.
Sure, I've written a lot of letters to friends and relatives. And over the course of my professional life I have probably written more reports and memoranda than some small companies. Add in Christmas and birthday cards, love notes to my wife and assorted former girlfriends when they were of the current variety.
Fold in the hundreds of thousands of words committed to paper in the name of higher education. And all the stories, jokes and essays that have sprung forth from the fallow field of my imagination. With a pinch of the occasional boot in the butt to a politician or two, and you can see that I truly enjoy writing. But, somehow, I had never actually written a letter to anyone famous.
Now, although I don't want to, it is important to shift our focus for just a moment. Let us discuss the importance of history, for it deeply relates to my story.
History is important. It is all we as humanity are. It is the sum total of our experience and knowledge. Yet, just last week a survey held forth that Americans care less about history now than ever before. The pundit who was commenting held that the "sound bite" length of our common span of attention was the root of all evil. So even though we got a little off track, it is important to know that we are going to talk a little bit of history here.
When my copy of Sports Illustrated came in that Friday's mail, I expected to find the usual wintertime articles about football, basketball and hockey. With, of course, some type of a flush feature article about somebody I may or may not have heard of. So imagine, if you will, my shock when I got to the feature article and found one of the heroes of my childhood. My childhood was a while back, and so the time period rightly qualifies as history.
Anyone who has read even a sample of my work, or who knows me personally, understands that I have had a life long passion for baseball. I cherish the game. I have been fortunate enough to see many of the true greats of the post war years, either in person or on the tube. I can't compare the exploits of the heroes of my age to those who came and went before I was even a twinkle in my pop's eyes. Nor would I want to try.
As a native of the city by the bay, I am by birth a Giants fan. I came to town the same year they did, 1958. I also choose to support the upstarts across the water in Oakland and have for many years. But before the A's came to town, the Giants were the only thing for me. I lived and died with them; Mays, Marichal and Willie McCovey. I couldn't grasp or understand why they would trade Orlando Cepeda. There were the three Alou brothers, Dick Dietz and Tito Fuentes. Twenty five years and more later I can still remember them and the thrills they gave me and a lot of other little boys.
And as a Giants fan, I followed the rest of the National League by rote. There were the hated Dodgers, and the Pirates of Stargell and Clemente. The Cardinals and the Reds, even the truly awful New York Mets. But there was one player who caught my attention early and often. His name was Henry Aaron.
He was known as "Hammerin' Hank" because of his prodigious slugging ability. He was also a defensive player of superior hustle and ability. He played for the Milwaukee Braves, who later moved to Atlanta where the team remains today. I used to enjoy talking baseball with my pop, and he mentioned Aaron's name on more than one occassion when I was young.
As time went on and season followed season the talk of the baseball press began to drift towards the idea that the long standing career home run mark of Babe Ruth was reachable. Ruth was the game's prototypical power hitter and knocked 714 balls over the fence in the course of his long career. Many felt the record would never be broken. Some felt is simply shouldn't't be.
Aaron and the great Giants center fielder, Willie Mays, both stood a chance at breaking the record. As the years went on Mays began to slow, but Aaron kept banging the ball. The last few years of Mays' career saw a drastic drop in his power numbers and he retired in 1973 with 660 homers. But Aaron kept swinging. As he got closer to Ruth's record the press and the public began to close in around him. At the time, I was not aware of the darker side of the record chase which was probably just as well. At that age I would not have been able to fully comprehend the idiocy that makes one man hate another.
The piece in SI told of those pressures. It told of the hate mail and death threats Aaron received, by the basketful. But he kept going and he kept slugging. Aaron kept going out every day and doing what he loved. The night it happened, the night the record fell, NBC carried the game live even though it was a weeknight and games were only televised nationally on Saturday afternoons back then. My pop let me set aside my homework that night. He felt that it was more important to see history happen rather than read about it after the fact.
As the world watched Hank Aaron, wearing number 44 for the Braves, came to the plate at Atlanta's Fulton County Stadium. Al Downing, wearing the same number for the Dodgers, was pitching. And almost before it began, the moment happened. Aaron smoothly stroked what looked to me like a slider that hung over the left field fence and into the glove of one of his teammates in the bullpen. Bedlam erupted on our television. Fans came out of the stands to congratulate him. In theSI piece Aaron explained that the police officer guarding him has thought for a moment that he might have has to run out and escort Aaron around the bases with a drawn gun. Fortunately no one there on that spring night in the deep south meant the man any harm. They wanted only to join in the moment of history they had witnessed.
Hank Aaron closed out a 23 year major league career with 755 home runs. He is enshrined, along with Ruth and Mays and so many others, in the the baseball Hall of Fame. He went on to hold several positions with the Braves management team and he is now a vice president with Turner Broadcasting Systems. But to this day he still receives hate mail. People write him and tell him that Babe Ruth hit his 714 in hundreds less at bats. Idiots who don't give a hoot in hell about history, or even the game of baseball, send crap like that to one of the best there ever was in the game.
By the time I finished reading the SI piece I wanted to throw up. And for reasons I can't yet explain, I sat down at the computer and wrote a letter to a famous person.
In about a page and a half I thanked Hank Aaron, the best way I knew how. I thanked him for being the best ball player he could be. I thanked him for giving his heart, soul and 23 years of his adult life to the game that I know both he and I dearly love. I thanked him for the thrill of the chase and the minutes of time that I'll always remember. And I told him that all the idiots in the world could never take away what he gave to baseball, the fans and history.
It was not one of my better efforts, but when it was done I was satisfied that I had conveyed the message I intended. I signed with my usual flourish and sealed it into an envelope. I felt different somehow after I had finished. I felt better about myself as a human being, although I could not put my finger on why. The letter went out a few days later along with some bills and I never thought about the letter again. Until one day last week that is.
The letter carrier delivered an envelope addressed to me from the offices of the Turner Broadcasting System in Atlanta. It did not register with me at first why I would be getting a letter from that company, and I tore the envelope open so quickly and carelessly I nearly damaged the contents. Inside the now destroyed envelope was a short, typed letter, thanking me for taking the time to write in regards to the article in Sports Illustrated. The letter also said that the positive response from the article had been "overwhelming".
It was signed by hand, "Hank Aaron".
As I write this piece I am looking at the letter, which I have since framed, as it hangs on the wall of my office at home. It is something I will always cherish, and not just for the autograph on the bottom.
It is a proof positive; a testament to what my parents taught me when I was young... that kindness is it's own reward. Because I took the time to write a letter as an unabashed fan of a game, one of the best who ever played that game took the time to send a letter back thanking me. He didn't have to do it, just as I didn't have to do what I did.
The fact remains that all I did was write a letter out of kindness and genuine respect for a man, and the achievements of his life. A simple act that had pleasant and wholly unexpected results. I felt better about myself after I wrote that letter, just as I feel better about myself having written this piece. And if by a stroke of luck I can get this book published, and Hank Aaron happens to read this chapter there is only one thing further that need be said.
Thanks for everything you gave to all of us Hank. |
