Hank Aaron

 As a long suffering Philadelphia Phillies fan, starting back in the mid-1960s when we moved down from East Hartford, CT, to Bethlehem, PA, the one opposing player I feared the most was Milwaukee's Hank Aaron.

That's saying something in a league that featured hitters like Willie Mays, or Ernie Banks, or Stan Musial or Roberto Clemente.

But it seemed to me like Aaron virtually feasted on Phillies pitchers. To this day, I think at least 700 of his 755 career home runs came against the Phillies. It sure felt that way.

The thing is, even as a teenage Phillies fanatic (even though I was neither green, pop-eyed nor had a ribbon for a tongue), I remember having the utmost respect for Aaron. I don't know where that came from, but I can take a measured guess.

Richie Ashburn, a former Phillie great himself and later the calm, dulcet-voiced radio broadcaster for the team, had nothing but good to say about Aaron, whom he played against. Ashburn somehow was able to transfer his respect for Aaron through the airwaves and to his listeners. And I was listening.

As Aaron's remarkable career progressed, it was evident that Hammerin' Hank was closing in on Babe Ruth's long-standing career home run record of 714 dingers.

So, on that April night in 1974, I sat in front of the TV, waiting for the moment when Aaron – who just turned 40 – would eclipse Ruth. It came in the fourth inning when Los Angeles Dodger pitcher Al Downing tried to sneak a fastball past Aaron, only to have Aaron deposit it over the fence in left center field.

I leaped out of my chair. I'd seen baseball history. I also saw it as something like blessed vindication for a Black man who had to endure the slurs, threats and hate mail of racial bigots who thought Ruth's record would stand forever, much less be surpassed by an African American.

I think No. 715 was a transformative moment for the game. Only 27 years earlier, Jackie Robinson broke baseball's color barrier. And now this. I think Babe would have nodded in approval.

Aaron passed away Friday at the age of 86.

There is a somewhat curious – and perhaps humorous – sidebar to Aaron's career.

Baseball cards, especially for those of us who grew up in the 1950s and '60s, were a way for us to connect with the game and with the players.

You couldn't see the players on the radio, of course, and most televisions were still in black and white with lousy rabbit-ear reception. So baseball cards were a critical way for players to communicate with their fans.

Hank Aaron's 1956 Topps baseball card – two years after his rookie season and before he became The Hammer – is in an unusual horizontal format. It features a great profile of Aaron looking off to the side with a face full of promise and expectation. There is a purported autograph of his in the lower right-hand corner that is actually legible.

And then there's a really neat smaller action shot of a player sliding into home plate. It's supposed to be Aaron, because it is his baseball card, after all. But look closer. Why is there no team name on the uniform? And look at the player's face. Look at the bow legs. It's not Aaron. It's Willie Mays.

Beckett's, the baseball card price guide magazine, confirms this.

It makes me kinda wonder what was going on at the Topps' company. What were they thinking?  Did they not have a suitable action shot of Aaron they could use? Could any Black man stand in for him and nobody would notice?

Well, at least it was Willie Mays. The day Willie Mays was Hank Aaron.

And I found this, too. Aaron hit 76 home runs in 357 games against the Phillies. That's one homer in almost every fifth game. That's 10 percent of his career total against one team.

It takes your breath away. 

Well done, Hank. May you rest in peace.