How Hank Aaron was very important to me

Hank Aaron died today.

I was 7 years old when he broke Babe Ruth's record for hitting the most home runs in Major League Baseball history. The furor over that event seems silly in hindsight but it dominated the news during the winter of 1973-74. Of course, there were other stories going on like Vietnam and Watergate but a child's memories are attracted to some stories and not to others. To me, it was the only story that mattered. 

I grew up in a small town and small towns love to talk. My memories of that winter held discussions by relatives talking about Hank Aaron and how he was stealing Babe Ruth's record. That didn't make any sense to me. 

How was he stealing Babe's record? 

On the playground, we played a simple game called 'kickball'. The rules were simple. It was very similar to baseball only it substituted a rolled bouncy ball and a kicker for a pitched baseball and a batter. When you kicked the ball if someone caught it you were out. When you were running the bases if someone hit you with the ball and you weren't on a base you were out. If you kicked the ball hard enough and you were fast enough you could touch all four bases and get a home run. I was one of the lucky ones in my class because I could kick the ball well and run very fast. While there was some disagreement with a few of my classmates, most everyone agreed I was the best kickball player on the playground (a skill I was sad to find has few real-world applications).

During the runup of the 1974 Major League baseball season, I remember being happy I was able to have a discussion with adults. Of course, I took Hank Aaron's side in the discussions. We were a lot alike, Hank and me. He hit home runs. I kicked them. 

I think Hank Aaron was the first black man I ever noticed. It was either him or Morgan Freeman's characters on the TV show Electric Company. Hank seemed nice in interviews but I noticed he also looked tired. When he eventually broke the record I remember being proud as he made his slow saunter around the bases like a runner at the end of a very long race. I remember he also looked happy. 

We are not born racists. Racists are made and just like my classmates I was being groomed to be a racist at age 6 even if I didn't know it. 

Some people blame TV/movies and others blame stereotypical depictions in stories. These do play their part but the truth is much more insidious. It is passed down between generations on the schoolyard. When I started school I was innocent in the ways of racism. I'd never seen a black person in town and it was only later in life I realized I grew up in a sundown town. If you are unfamiliar with the term, it's a reference to signs that were put up just under a town's welcome sign that said something to the effect of 'No Blacks Allowed' though usually not stated that nice. Blacks could pass through but they couldn't stop and if they were caught in town after dark, it was an excuse for the town's male population to group up to teach a lesson.

In popular history these imagines are usually associated with people like Bull Connor and places in the deep south but it was just as prevalent in the North too and especially in the rural Midwest where I was born. If anything, southern towns were more honest in their racism. Midwestern towns usually didn't put up signs and most of these men weren't in the Klan but the beatings happened just the same. 

Blacks who had moved North in hopes of escaping the racism of the south were slowly herded into the cities, these areas eventually acquiring the name ghettos, the same name the Germans called the cities they forced Jews to live before the Nazis came up with a different, more Final Solution. 

I knew none of this when I first arrived on the playground. The playground at school was a broad new world. Before this time, our conversations had been limited to Mom, Dad, a couple of neighbors, and the occasional visit from relatives. Being from a small town we had a small class so we were eased into social interactions with an entire class totaling fifteen boys and fifteen girls. The bravest jumped headfirst into the chance to become individuals. We were free to talk and interact with anyone we chose. Anyone but the girls. That dividing line would not be broached until many years later. 

But I digress... 

It was on the playground I first heard the words of a rhyme. It was shouted any time two boys got into a disagreement, a common occurrence on the schoolyard that usually was nothing more than a wrestling match that ended with grass stains, not blood stains.

"Fight, Fight, A *Black and a White. If the White don't win we all jump in."

* - The word used wasn't Black. It started with an N and it's a word I refuse to say or type. I will be using *Black to denote it's use. 

Recess at school was done in shifts. Kindergarteners got three of them as I remember. 1st, 2nd, and 3rd graders got two. 4th graders and higher only got one. As there were more recesses than grades, there were times when separate classes had to be on the playground at the same time. As it was more dangerous for rowdy 4th graders to be on the playground at the same time as smaller Kindergartners,
the schedule matched up Kindergartens with 1st graders and 2nd graders with 3rd. 

Information flowed between grades almost always moving from older to younger. That's how we learned the rhyme I stated earlier. It's also how we boys learned a game called 'Smear the *Black'. 

This too was a simple game.  It is usually played with a ball and anyone who holds the ball was now the *Black.  It was the job of the rest of the boys to try to tackle him. Everyone took turns being the *Black and the one who stayed up the longest without being tackled was determined the schoolyard champion for the afternoon.

My breakthrough occurred when we were taught another stupid schoolyard taunt derived from another more common taunt. I wish I could remember the exact sequence but it has been almost 50 years. It is possible it only occurred on my playground, thought up by some nascent racist many years earlier. 

It started off when a boy offered to shake the hand of a loser after a game. The other, usually a poor loser, would say, "I'm not a *Black, I use toilet paper." The words sound stupid now but were seven and this was the most popular thing on my schoolyard in 1974. For a time, we didn't even need to play a game to say it. We'd just go up to someone and ask to shake their hand. I didn't get it. What did they mean? 

To this point, I hadn't considered the word *Black with anything negative. It had never been part of my vocabulary.  To me, the word *Black was the guy who carried the ball in a game where people wanted to tackle me.  

It was Hank Aaron who ended my confusion. 

The news reports were filled with stories of the constant hate he was receiving. The one I remember said, 'I'm going to kill you *Black'. I couldn't understand why this guy was so mad he wanted to kill Hank but I also couldn't understand why he'd used that word. 

As I was at an impasse and my friends were no help, I decided to ask my Mom. As I recall, she explained there were a lot of people in the world with hate in their hearts. She also told me I was never to use that word ever again (a promise I've kept for almost fifty years). 

A day later my best friend came to my house and we played a game. I don't remember who won but afterward, he told me I needed to offer him a handshake. When he gave the response "I'm not a *Black, I use toilet paper", I gave the response, "That's ok. I'm Hank Aaron." 

Now I know my words weren't Shakespeare but I remember being very happy with the response. 

After that, I used Hank's name as a sort of defense every time anyone used the word my Mom forbade me to say. As I was the best athlete in my class of fifteen, I'd run around taunting them with the words 'I'm Hank Aaron' at anyone that tried to tackle me, something none of them were able to do. 

I became a pre-pubescent social justice warrior of sorts, explaining to anyone that would listen how we weren't supposed to say the word *Black.  History has shown my efforts to reform my friends weren't successful but I did get them to change the name of the game we played from 'Smear the *Black' to 'Smear the Queer'.  I later realized this to be a hollow victory.

Hank Aaron was the first man outside of my family I idolized. I like that he never said much, he just did his job. Hank was near the end of his career when I started following him and he only hit another three dozen home runs after breaking Babe Ruth's record. It didn't matter to me. 

I've thought a lot about Hank and his record in the past few years. When we were kids I remember my grandmother telling me that her generation had screwed things up but ours would make the world a better place. She was no saint and probably as racist as most in town but I took her words to heart. 

I assumed everyone in my generation believes as I did that racism was bad and we would end it. It was a naive hope but one I hung on to much longer than I would have if I'd been paying attention. Racism doesn't happen to a generation overnight. It is little words and sayings. It is little beliefs and learnings that have crop up over decades. It doesn't have to be overt.  Watching another person commit the smallest of racist actions isn't racist per se but it's not-not-racist either. 

We all go through life believing ourselves to be the hero of the tale. We aren't the bad guy. Racists tendencies hid in the darkness for generations until they found a champion let them engage their anger. Words and sayings that had long lay dormant were back stunning elites but few others. The Midwest which had long hidden its racism under the veil of secrecy came out proud to join the hate of their southern brothers and sisters. 

I think a writer I like said it best - 'We're all in the South now.' 

Hank Aaron joined the Braves as an executive once his playing days were over. He was respected, one of the best in a field dominated by white men. He quietly toiled and did his job to help his team win a few championships. He never complained and he never spoke much. That was Hank. When the George Floyd riots happened last summer I wondered what Hank thought but as far as I know, he never made a comment. He did release a statement last year after the passing of the great civil rights leader, John Lewis.

The same could be said of Hank Aaron. I never met Hank Aaron but he was always important to me. 

He will be missed.

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