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Me And Hank A Boy And His Hero, Tweny-Five Years Later by Sandy Tolan Free Press, 2000 | Buy the book

As we watched the Brewers lose, I kept up on news from the South. Through the static of Nashville radio, and the fine print of the morning box scores, I knew something momentous was happening: Hank was piling up the homers, and slowly climbing up the list of all-time home run greats. By 1970 he'd already passed some of the greatest home run hitters ever: Stan Musial, Lou Gehrig, Mel Ott, Ted Williams, Jimmie Foxx and Mickey Mantle. In 1970 he hit 38, and 47 the next season, and 34 in 1972, eclipsing his longtime rival, Willie Mays. At the end of the 1972 season, Hank was alone in second place with 673 homers. He was thirty-eight years old, and it was clear he had a shot at the greatest record in sports: the all-time career home run record of 714, held by the immortal one, Babe Ruth. My hero, passing the Bambino. What a great thing that would be.

In the spring of 1973, I was seventeen, a junior in high school. The baseball season was new; Hank had hit a few homers already. One morning I came downstairs for breakfast, heading, as always, for the sports section first. It was early. My mom was in the poolroom, easing my father out of the pool and into his wheelchair. Every morning at six o'clock, she'd crank him down into the shallow waters in a small overhead lift. He'd swim for twenty-five minutes, then she'd crank him back up again. By now Dad couldn't walk at all. But in the water, he still looked strong. Sometimes I'd look out at him through the windows in the dining room, as he pulled himself through the water, back and forth with those powerful arms. The water on his biceps would glisten.

I sat at the table, by the bananas and the sugar bowl and the box of Wheat Chex. I opened the sports page to find the following headline: "Aaron Hit by Hate Mail."

The article didn't reveal what the letters said, but Hank gave some idea: "It's very offensive. They call me 'nigger' and every bad word you can come up with. You can't ignore them." The article was clear: the hate was being delivered to Hank because he was challenging Babe Ruth's record. The record of a white man.

Dad was out of the pool, half dressed, the back of his wheelchair poking out of the bathroom. His right hand sat in his lap, frozen in place. With his left hand, he fiddled with an electric razor, finally freeing the blades and blowing old whiskers into the sink. Mom was drying his hair with a towel.

I read slowly. "This is just the way things are for black people in America," my hero was saying. "It's something you battle all your life. If I was white, all America would be proud of me."

I looked over at Mom. She was struggling with Dad's top button, flipping up his collar, measuring the right length to tie his tie.

I looked again at the headline. I knew enough not to be shocked. It was 1973 and I lived in America. But I was shocked anyway. It seemed incredible that people could be this unfair.

Hank's chase, it was clear, had grown larger than baseball. I told my parents: I want to do something.

I went out and I bought a scrapbook: fake leather with string binding; red, with gold letters. On the first page I scrawled "HENRY'S HOMERS." Over the months the pages filled with clips from the Sentinel, the Journal and the Sporting News: a chronicle of the countdown to 715.

And then I wrote Hank a letter: Don't listen to them, Mr. Aaron. We're in your corner. You're my hero. I believe in you.

I sent the letter off, expecting perhaps a Braves team picture in return, or maybe a form letter: