I’ve Had Enough

He is the senior vice president and assistant to the president of the Atlanta Braves.

Yet this summer, he has attended only two games.

He was the sports world’s most successful African American pioneer since Jackie Robinson.

Yet this summer, when baseball honored the 50th anniversary of Robinson’s debut, he did not show.

He is the all-time leading producer of baseball’s most exciting play--the home run.

Yet these days, he says he doesn’t even play catch with his grandchildren.

Hank Aaron is a busy man, traveling the country, shaking hands, working for the growth and prosperity of . . . CNN’s Airport Network?

“I just don’t pay baseball no mind,” he says plainly.

Before this season ends, and with it the celebration of Robinson’s achievements, understand that this is a party with missing guests and long memories.

Both can be found in a new office overlooking a new baseball field built for the sport’s best team.

A room vacant every night at game time because its occupant doesn’t care to be there.

It’s Hank Aaron’s office, overlooking a field named after boss Ted Turner.

It is, perhaps, important to listen to Aaron, remember that voice.

And wonder, goodness, would these be the words of Jackie Robinson if he were still alive?

“I have no intention of being involved with baseball again,” Aaron says, again with no emotion, as if he were describing a trip to the dry cleaner. “I’ve had enough of it.”

*

The phone call was not about this.

The phone call was about baseball, the Braves and Dodgers, Ken Griffey Jr. and Roger Maris, a phone call to a 63-year-old man who created memories that still chill, c’mon Hammer, whaddya think, whaddya think?

Turns out, not much.

Turns out, he has a baseball title, but zero baseball responsibilities.

He works for Turner, but on businesses like that channel you see on airport TVs, stuff that has nothing to do with the sport that made him great--and vice versa.

“I don’t have time to be worried about baseball,” he says.

This becomes further evident when Aaron is asked about last July, when 36 baseball writers picked an all-time, all-star team.

In right field, collecting 31 first-place votes, was Babe Ruth.

Next, with five first-place votes, was Aaron.

After being harassed and threatened while catching and passing Ruth on his way to a lifetime total of 755 home runs, he had just finished second in the court of public opinion. Again.

“Good,” Aaron says when asked about the snub. “I don’t mean to be sarcastic, but, good.”

It is this sort of attitude that may explain why, since being elected to baseball’s Hall of Fame in 1982, he has refused to return to Cooperstown with the other living legends.

Why he has been associated with baseball’s best team this decade, yet you never see his face in October.

Why he has not spent this summer at microphones with Rachel Robinson, or touring the minor leagues, as Tom Lasorda has done, or making trades, as Bob Watson has done.

“Baseball needs Hank Aaron, but obviously far more than he needs baseball,” says Bud Selig, acting commissioner and Aaron’s close friend from their Milwaukee days. “And that’s too bad.”

Aaron’s reasons for this separation are delivered offhandedly.

“I just don’t have time,” he says. “I’ve spent a lot of years in the game, and that’s enough.”

Friends know better.

Arguably baseball’s most prolific hitter--did you know that he also had more runs batted in and hits than the Babe?--is apparently staying away for all the times when his accomplishments weren’t enough.

For the hate mail he has saved in his attic. For those Hall of Fame voters who, unbelievably, did not put him on their ballot.

For all the times baseball owners had a chance to give him a meaningful position in the hierarchy, and did not.

Even though he works closely with Turner, Aaron acknowledged that he would have been honored if the new stadium had been named after a man who helped build the franchise--rather than one who simply bought it.

Despite pressure from the media and state legislature, the place was named after Turner.

Aaron? Turner put his name on a street sign and his statue out front.

“Back in the days when Hank played, he did not get the proper recognition because he was black,” says Willie Stargell, another Hall of Famer. “Now that everyone has a chance to look at that, talk about it, why doesn’t somebody do something about it?”

Stargell pauses.

“It would be great if somebody would ask him to be an ambassador for baseball, wouldn’t it?” he says. “That would be just great.”

And as unlikely as Aaron’s agreeing to do it.

“I like tennis now,” the Hammer says.

Selig says he has asked, and will continue to ask, but he understands.

“The way I feel about Henry, anywhere I go, he can go with me,” he says. “But I know that when he broke Ruth’s record, there was so much hatred around him, it was so sickening. That scarred Hank badly.”

Aaron admits as much, saying of his record, “It will never be recognized. The impact has never been fully realized. The biggest obstacle is because of [Ruth].”

Before he explains further, he stops. He has gone through this before. Too often, probably.

He has written a book, helped record a TV documentary. His voice is tired. He is finished explaining.

Each day that moves him farther from the game, it seems, is a good one.

“I don’t have time to worry about that,” he says when asked about a lack of respect. “You get tired of guessing. You just go on about your business.”

At the start of the season, part of that business was to help carry home plate from the old Atlanta Fulton-County Stadium to new Turner Field.

In a ceremony that rocked the new park with applause and tears, Aaron, in a surprise appearance, carried the plate in from center field.

The cheering grew with each of his steps and the ultimate standing ovation probably was heard in Macon.

“It was very emotional, very nice,” Aaron says.

Nobody around there remembers seeing him since.