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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

Our trips to The Stand were daily -- for candy necklaces, candy Lucky Strikes, Pez, gumballs, jawbreakers, SweetTarts, Sugar Daddys, Sugar Mamas, Sugar Babies, and popcorn: small buttered, ten cents; with coconut oil only, a nickel. Sometimes, laden with our haul, we'd walk the block to T's house, before setting down for a rest. If T's father was back from the university, he'd puff his cigar and tell us, "I just talked to Vince" -- Lombardi, the Packers' coach -- "and he's got a secret play for Sunday. I promised him I wouldn't reveal it." Or, "Hammering Hank and I chatted the other night. He's requested my assistance in adjusting his batting stance." We'd bask in this for a while -- did Dr. Topetzes teach sports at Marquette? -- then go upstairs to the shoe boxes full of olive green army men, which were off limits at my house. "I don't want you kids playing war," my mom would say.

The consumables from The Stand quickly took a seat way in the back starting that May morning in 1964. For as Kath was about to show me, at The Popcorn Stand there was another prized item: Topps baseball cards, ten per pack, with the long slabs of pink bubble gum that made the cards smell sweet.

"Two packs, please," Kathy told Mrs. M that afternoon. (She didn't know about "tree.") She gave one pack to me and we went and sat on the grass. "What we want," Kath told me, "is guys from our team." I knew this much about the Braves: they were strong men in white wool uniforms who sometimes didn't shave. "If we're really lucky, we'll get Eddie Mathews or Hank Aaron." I remembered that Hank hit a lot of home runs, and that he was the star of the team, even better than Kath's hero. For me, Hank was the guy to get.

I tore open the pack, shoved the gum in my mouth, and scanned the cards: TWINS...ANGELS...PHILLIES...CARDINALS...no BRAVES in my pack. But Kath was smiling. She had Hank.

She showed me the card. Henry Aaron stood in uniform, blue cap with the red bill, and a white "M" sewn on the front, for Milwaukee. No scowling out at the pitcher's mound with bat in hand, like some of the cards; no posed leap for a fly ball, like others. He was just standing there, on the field, smiling -- warm, unassuming, real. Like I could talk to the man.

"Here," Kath said, holding out a gift. "You got Hank Aaron in your first pack of baseball cards."

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