A long while back, when I thought it mattered, I decided to make my forearms strong.
I did a number of exercises to do so, most of which involved squeezing something that was pretty challenging: a rubber ball or one of those gripper things that talked back to you after 20 or 25.
I squeezed until it hurt, then waited about an hour and did it again. It became obsessive and painful, but I could see and feel the results. I never was much for pounding iron, but squeezing things worked fine. To this day, that has caused me to be sure to hold back when shaking hands, because for a long time, I didn't notice how strong my grip had become.
It helped me play quarterback in football, catcher and of course hitting in baseball, gave me range on my jump shot in basketball, and didn't hurt in golf, either. Later, when I would go out to play golf with some of my friends, they would occasionally remark about them, sticking out of short sleeves. And occasionally, I would re-strengthen them because it felt good and I had never heard of anyone else going out of his way to do so. I thought it made me unique.
It was all because of Hank Aaron, my favorite baseball player of all time. He played at Milwaukee County Stadium during my developmental years. I read once that he recommended building up your wrists, which he demonstrably utilized in his unique, quick, powerful swing that relied on them. It produced what still is the most non-juiced-up number of home runs in baseball history--755, don't get me started on Barry Bonds--and the most runs batted in.
That was it. If he said to do it, I was all in. I owe some of my modest athletic success to him, unquestionably.
He passed away yesterday at 86. When I think of being at games in Milwaukee I think of two things: watching him hit from the upper deck above home plate, lashing line drives up the middle like a bullet as only he seemingly could do; and the absolute smoothness with which he patrolled right field. He said he worked incredibly hard to figure out the angles along the right field wall, but he made it all look so easy. He ran down his share of balls hit in the gap, and if you tried to take an extra base on him, he more often than not made you pay the price. He won three Gold Gloves.
There are three all-time greats associated with the Braves' remarkable success during the 1950s and 1960s: Aaron, Eddie Mathews, and Warren Spahn. Dad used to take us to games every so often, as did Ed Schumacher, the next door neighbor, along with his sons. Usually, Ed did so when Spahn pitched, because he was a left-hander, too. Those were great, memorable nights.
I personally saw one of Hammerin' Hank's last home runs, hit during his farewell tour in Milwaukee while with the Brewers in 1976. My girlfriend, later wife, was with me, during one of those afternoon, mid-week, getaway games. He hit it--I'm writing this from memory--off Frank Tanana, a pretty good left-hander from the then California Angels. He hit a curve that, as Tanana was quoted in the paper the next day, "rolled instead of broke." It was still in July, too, so he tailed off in a hurry. He was 42 by then, and the quickness of those wrists was mostly gone.
But in his prime, he was one great hitter. He had poor averages in his two years with the Brewers, but still managed to stay above .300 for his career. Sandy Koufax, one of the all-time great left-handers, called him his toughest out. Getting a fastball past Bad Henry, said Koufax, was like "getting the sun past a rooster."
He was overshadowed by two greats in New York, who gobbled up much of the media attention: Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays. But he distinguished himself, eventually, by his incredible consistency, which outlasted those two. Through the early '60s (as we were reminded by ESPN's Tony Kornheiser), it was an accepted fact that the National League All-Star outfield would be comprised of three men who amassed 3,000 hits or more each: Aaron, Mays, and Roberto Clemente, whose exploits started all kinds of who's-best arguments.
He accomplished so much--an MVP award; two battling titles; four home run titles; four times leading in RBI; four times in slugging percentage; four times in doubles; twice in hits--and did it while in the shadows of racism. Born in Mobile, Alabama in 1934, he knew very well the nasty reach of the Ku Klux Klan. He started in the Negro Leagues with the Indianapolis Clowns, a ridiculous team name. He always said he was treated well in Milwaukee, but it's still one of the, if not the, most segregated cities in America. The Braves moved to Atlanta in 1966, though, and the home runs kept piling up: between 1957 and 1973, he hit between 30 and 47 each year.
He broke Babe Ruth's home run record on an April night in 1974; I was in my first year of teaching, and was the advisor to that year's junior prom, so I wasn't in front of the TV at the moment but it was on at school while we worked. But on the way, even though he had the overwhelming majority of the country rooting for him, he also had to endure death threats and hate mail (which, remarkably, he kept) from people who, much like today, can't stand people of color outdoing anything a great white man did. Aaron said it more than once: As he rounded the bases, he believed someone was going to shoot him.
On NPR yesterday, the announcement of his passing was accompanied by an interview in which he said, in retrospect, that he wasn't sure he would have done the same thing again--probably meaning that he would have retired first, or maybe that he wouldn't have gone for home runs as often (as he did later in his career; early on, he sprayed the ball to all fields). What a shame that it had to be stained like that.
But at the time, all the hate and jealousy just made him bear down. "I had to do it for Jackie [Robinson], for myself, for all those who called me [the n-word]," he said in an autobiography. He lived to see the first black man be president and the first black woman be vice-president, though. I bet he was proud. George W. Bush awarded him with the Medal of Freedom, as apolitical as you can get it.
I met him during my NEA days, and he was still the same, unassuming, dignified gentleman. I sat with him for five minutes. Five minutes with my hero! Whoa! Not everybody gets to do that. I'd met a lot of famous people and felt comfortable in their presence. I was kind of awed by Aaron, not sure what to say.
He was the consummate professional. He didn't brag; he didn't flip his bat after home runs. He let his performances do the talking. I followed that example, too, though I wasn't nearly as good. It still traveled well.
He died in his sleep, a fitting end for a class act. So long, Hank. Thanks for the memories. And the forearms.
Be well. Be careful. Wear a mask. One day closer to a vaccine. With some help, I'll see you down the road.
Mister Mark
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