Every Kid’s Dream: ‘I Am Hank Aaron’
A Halloween and baseball twofer
I sometimes tell people that the Kannapolis Boll Weevils are my favorite baseball team, just because it’s fun to say. But the truth is that the Atlanta Braves were always my favorite team when I was growing up.
I had the shirt and the cap and the baseball cards. My dad would even brag about how he was a Milwaukee Braves fan back in the day.
In fact, when I was a kid, I thought that the national anthem ended with the line: “The land of the free, and the home of the Braves.”
The summer that I was nine years old, Hank Aaron was chasing Babe Ruth’s home run record. I later learned that he preferred to be called by his given name, Henry Aaron, but in my child’s mind he was Hank.
The entire country was worked up over the homerun chase — for good and bad. Many people happily cheered on Aaron’s efforts. Others were not so thrilled to have a black man getting so close to a white man’s revered record.
Whatever excitement or animosity other people may have felt about the whole thing did not matter to me at all. I was nine years old, the perfect age to fall in love with a baseball hero.
And Hank Aaron was a perfect baseball hero. Tall, powerful, handsome, with a graceful, fluid, powerful swing. And he always had a huge smile on his face. You could tell he loved the game.
As if scripted for a movie, Aaron’s chase for the home run record went right up to the very end of that season. He finished that season just one home run short of Babe Ruth’s record.
Over the course of his career, Babe Ruth had hit 714 home runs. By the end of that season when I was nine years old, Hank Aaron had hit 713 home runs.
Oh, the drama of it all. And the thrill of being a kid at that time. And the anticipation of having to wait all winter for the new season to begin so that my hero could break the record.
The Braves did not make the playoffs that year. They were not the powerhouse that they are today. The World Series came and went without them. But by the end of October, I was still pretty worked up over it all.
Which brings us to Halloween. Of course, I dressed up as Hank Aaron. Of course I did. I put on my little baseball uniform, with my Hank Aaron jersey, number 44. I still get red cheeked at the thought of it, but yes, I put on a little wig to make my hair look like his.
Now brace yourself. It was one of my chores as a child to polish my father’s shoes. I had a little kit in a special box with brushes and cloths and shoe polish. I pulled that little box out of the closet, took out a can of brown polish, and twisted the tin lid open. You’ll have to forgive me. But in my little kid’s heart, I was not making fun of anyone.
I simply wanted to be Hank Aaron.
Fortunately, my beloved Aunt Carolyn was watching me.
“What are you doing, sweetheart?” she said.
I held up the can and pointed to my face.
“No, baby,” she said in her gentle voice. “You’re not going to do that.”
I put away the kit, and I went out trick-or-treating. I trusted that my huge smile would be enough to convey that, in that moment, I was my hero. Despite the troubled home I grew up in, I was always an enormously happy kid. In every photo of me as a child, I am smiling like someone in love with life.
M y sister, who was twelve, also went out trick-or-treating with me. And that tells you something about those times, when a twelve-year-old would go trick-or-treating with her little brother, just the two of us wandering the neighborhood. I was carrying a baseball bat.
My sister went dressed as Laurie Partridge — a character from the 70s TV show, The Partridge Family. It would be like a girl these days dressing up as Olivia Rodrigo from the High School Musical shows.
I just checked with my niece, who is thirteen, to see if this is a good comparison. She shrugged and said, “Close enough,” without looking up from her phone. And, in fact, my sister did look a lot like the actress who played this character Laurie Partridge. But it just wasn’t a very distinctive costume.
So, you can imagine the scene. We went to the first door, one of our neighbors. Ding dong. A woman opened the door holding a big popcorn bowl full of candy.
“Trick or treeeat.”
She looked at us, pointed to my sister, and said, “Hi there. Who are you supposed to be?”
“Laurie Partridge.”
“Oh,” the woman said, “Who’s Laurie Partridge?”
My sister said, “You know — from that TV show?”
The woman said “Hm.” Then she turned to me and said, “And who are you?”
And I said, “I’m Hank Aaron.”
“Ooh, Hank Aaron, that’s wonderful.”
My sister wrinkled up her forehead. I could tell she was unhappy. She was thinking, “What’s this?”
And this went on all evening. Ding dong. Trick or treat. Who are you? I’m Laurie Partridge. Who’s Laurie Partridge? Arrh! And who are you, little boy? I’M HANK AARON! Ohh, that’s wonderful!
Over and over this happened, every door we went to. My sister just got more and more frustrated — and I just kept getting bigger and bigger. I’m Hank Aaron!
Long after Halloween was over, this was my catch phrase. I’m Hank Aaron! I’m Hank Aaron!
I’m Hank Aaron!
Thanksgiving: I’m Hank Aaron. My tenth birthday: I’m Hank Aaron! Christmas: I’m Hank Aaron! All winter long and into the spring, at every possible opportunity, I would say to people: I’m Hank Aaron!
My anticipation grew as the Opening Day of baseball drew near. Better than Christmas. Until finally, one day in April, I was playing in our backyard when my father called out to me, “The game’s about to begin!”
I came running in and saw my father reaching for the radio dial. I skidded to a halt beside him, and said quietly, “I am Hank Aaron.”
He said, “I know.”
Now let me freeze myself and my father right there for a moment, my dad with his hand on the radio. Let me go ahead and tell you, Hank Aaron, that very night, did indeed tie Babe Ruth’s record, and a few days later he broke it.
And over the next couple of years, before he retired, he hit quite a few more home runs, ending up with 755. A record that stood for 30 years.
And over the course of those years, my life has had an occasional homerun — and quite a few strike outs. But all during those years, and even up to today, when things have been tough, I’ll look in the mirror, look myself in the eye, and remind myself:
I am Hank Aaron.
So. My father turns on the radio, and the national anthem is already playing before the game. He and I stand straight as soldiers with our hands over our hearts. Dad leans toward me and says, “On the other end of this radio is a stadium full of people singing along with us.”
And at that moment, I knew that I lived in a wonderful world. I lived in a world where I was connected over the airwaves with all those thousands of people singing, “The land of the free, and the home of the Braves.”
Tens of thousands in the stadium and millions more listening or watching — all there to witness the miracle of my hero, my other self, Hank Aaron.
I am the author of the memoir-ish book Walker Percy Loves You and Has a Wonderful Plan for Your Life. It’s surprisingly funny for a book about grief.
