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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

From that day I had a new hero. Wherever I could, I soaked in his story: about how, as a teenager in Mobile, he delivered 100-pound blocks of ice, hauling them with tongs up many flights of stairs, forging those powerful wrists; about how he trained his batting eye with the modest tools available -- he'd hit bottlecaps with a broomstick; about how he learned to bat with the Mobile Black Bears by facing the pitchers cross-handed; about the day he left home to play ball, riding the train with two dollars, two pairs of pants and two sandwiches; and most of all, about his heroics in the 1957 season. That year, Hank hit a home run to win the pennant, starred as the Braves beat the Yankees in seven games in the World Series, and captured the MVP of the National League. The Braves' pennant years were treasured oral history, passed down by the family elders.

Dad would tell the story of Nippy Jones, the obscure infielder who pinch hit for Warren Spahn in the tenth inning of Game Four of the '57 Series. Nippy insisted he was hit in the foot by a pitch. To prove it, he showed the disbelieving umpire the ball. And there, between the seams, was Nippy's shoe polish. The ump reversed himself, and Nippy trotted to first base. That proved to be the tying run, and the Braves, down two games to one, went on to win the game, and the Series. "That's why we love Nippy Jones," Dad would say for years.

Mom remembered the elegant New Yorker who sat next to her during Game Three at County Stadium. The woman declared, haughtily, that of course the Yankees would prevail. "You could just hear it in her voice -- they all thought we were so bush league," Mom said. Vindication came when the Braves won it all with a 5-0 shutout in Game Seven at Yankee Stadium.

Tom recalled the hundreds of thousands of Milwaukeeans that filled the downtown streets that night, the love frenzy that brought Milwaukee, once and for all, into the major leagues -- in its own eyes, and, it seemed, in the eyes of the nation.

My times with the Braves were more modest. By 1964, Mathews, the veteran third baseman, was starting to lose his power. Spahn, the once-great lefty, was old and fading. And the team was mediocre. As they declined, the fans stayed away. The home attendance had dropped off so sharply -- barely 750,000 for all of 1963 -- that there was even talk of the Braves leaving town. That, I refused to believe.

Most games I listened to on my late grandpa Tom's portable transistor radio, the old black Zenith, with Earl Gillespie and Blaine Walsh calling the action. From the press box, they caught foul balls with a fishnet -- or tried to. A batter would foul one back and Gillespie would yell, "Get the fishnet, Blainer!" You'd hear great clunking and scrambling, but never, as I recall, "I got it!" Which was okay; I never caught a foul ball either.

A few times, we made it out to County Stadium. Before the games and afterward I'd wait for Hank and the other Braves at a chain link fence, along the walkway between the Braves dugout and their clubhouse. I'd stick a program through the links of the fence, calling out with the other kids: Hey Frank! Hey Eddie! Hey Joe! Hey Mr. Aaron! By this time, there was more talk of the Braves leaving. Nobody seemed very happy and I didn't get many autographs. Hank didn't stop to sign, not when I was there.

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