The Last Hero: A Life of Henry Aaron (43 page)

He would like very much to talk with you for one minute in the next couple of days in connection with the following: He had lunch yesterday with Jackie Robinson. He stressed, of course, he did not need to tell you how important Jackie was as far as the Negro vote was concerned. He feels that with the slightest persuasion Robinson could be swung around and would come on the Nixon bandwagon. To use his terms, “Robinson is more or less considered a God up here.”

I asked him specifically what Robinson said and Lowey said the story is he is first of all interested in Humphrey but he feels Humphrey doesn’t have a chance and his second choice would be you. Fred Lowey thinks it is very important that you get together with Robinson so that he can get to know you better. I told him that you had talked with him and that you have had correspondence with him in the past
.

Ten days later, Nixon wrote that Robinson could be an asset to his presidential campaign. The letter also underscored Nixon’s inherent suspicion, a characteristic that would define—and in time ultimately destroy—his political life.

April 10, 1960

To: RHF

From: RN

I think Fred Lowey
¹⁶³
has a point with regard to seeing Jackie Robinson. I would suggest the next time we are in New York that we arrange to have him drop in for a visit. Of course, we must remember that he is now employed as a columnist for the New York Post and that he will be under great pressure from his editor Wechler to take whatever nominee the Democrats select. As a matter of fact, I think a letter from me to him at this point might be in order
.

To the Kennedys, friends could be more important than money. Friends, in certain cases,
were
like money, and, like any important form of currency, they existed to mitigate the effect of unexpected eventualities. That Robinson posed a powerful, unpredictable threat in what was expected to be an extremely close race was obvious, both to Kennedy and his staff, to Humphrey, and certainly to Robinson. Not so obvious was exactly what to do about him.

And it wasn’t just that Robinson was a living legend; he was a legend with a platform. In 1959, Robinson agreed to write a thrice-weekly column for the
New York Post
. The column appeared on the sports page, but Robinson was given leeway to write about any subject that interested him. To the dismay of Kennedy, Robinson, by the end of 1959, wrote of politics almost exclusively.

That was when the old man
¹⁶⁴
—Joseph P. Kennedy, patriarch of the family, whose financial wealth was rivaled only by the wealth of his connections, former ambassador to the Court of St. James—stepped in. It was the resourceful Joe who knew whom to talk to in Wisconsin. Kennedy contacted Joe Timilty, one of his flamboyant and loyal (if not completely scrupulous) Boston associates and directed Timilty to get in touch with Duffy Lewis, the Braves traveling secretary. The connection with Lewis came, naturally, from Boston, when Lewis was (with Harry Hooper and Tris Speaker) part of Boston’s Million-Dollar Outfield, winning championships with the Red Sox back in the teens, and when Joe Kennedy was what he always would be: the power behind the power. It was Joe who understood at once that the best way to neutralize the famous Jackie Robinson was to enlist the most famous black man in the state of Wisconsin, Henry Aaron. Understanding the power of advantage, Joe also asked Lewis to recruit the
second
most popular black man in the state, as well. And that was how both Henry Aaron and Billy Bruton enthusiastically agreed to campaign on behalf of John F. Kennedy for the 1960 Wisconsin primary.

For the first time, Henry was in the act, beyond the batter’s box. Bruton and Henry traveled throughout the state on behalf of Kennedy. In the heavily black areas of Milwaukee, where the city’s black population comprised virtually that of the entire state, Henry stood firmly for Kennedy while his hero, Robinson, went on the attack, both in his
Post
column and on the campaign trail.

When the primary ended, Kennedy had scored a decisive victory over Humphrey, beginning the end of Humphrey’s campaign. Henry would always talk about his campaigning for Kennedy as one of the significant moments in his life. Two years later, with Kennedy in office, Timilty wrote to Larry O’Brien, Kennedy’s top aide, about obtaining a token of appreciation that Henry would treasure.

March 3, 1962

My Dear Larry
,
¹⁶⁵

You will recall that during the Wisconsin Primary Campaign we needed the services of some Colored ball players to offset Jackie Robinson who appeared for Humphries [sic]
.

At the suggestion of the Ambassador I consulted Duffy Lewis and he obtained the services of the following players, who made personal appearances and speeches for us:

Lou Burdette

Hank Aaron

Bill Bruton

[…]

I would greatly appreciate it, Larry, if you would honor this request
.

Sincerely yours,
Joe
                  

A month later, on April 3, Timilty received the signed glossies (did they
really
think Burdette, of all people, was a “Colored ball player”?) of President Kennedy and passed them on to Duffy Lewis, but Henry would never know the backstory—that his usefulness to the campaign was not simply to help Kennedy win but to parry Robinson. Had Henry known that Robinson had chosen Humphrey, he might well have joined Robinson in supporting Humphrey against Kennedy. But he had no way of knowing he was being cultivated to neutralize the most iconic black athlete in the country’s history. Henry would call his association in the 1960 campaign an “honor,” and for the next half century, he would support Democratic candidates at every political level.

Although Henry had always considered Jackie Robinson his standard of courage and commitment, the perfect blend of athletic achievement and social conscience, he would not approach his activism in the often isolated, crusading Robinson manner. Following Humphrey’s withdrawal from the presidential race, Robinson campaigned vigorously for Nixon against Kennedy.

Robinson seemed particularly wounded by the Nixon defeat, and even as Nixon reached his first political nadir, Robinson continued to believe in him. On Chock Full o’ Nuts stationery, Robinson wrote to Nixon on November 12, 1962:

Mr. Richard Nixon

c/o Republican Headquarters

Los Angeles, California

Dear Dick:
¹⁶⁶

It is difficult to write a letter such as this, but I shall do the best I can
.

The only regret I have in supporting you twice is that I was unfortunate not to have been able to help more than I did. I am sorry also that most Negroes were unwilling to believe the promises you made. I personally was, and still am, convinced that you were the best candidate for the presidency in 1960 and a man we need very much in Government Service
.

I am concerned because you have said that you have had your last press conference. I hope that you will reconsider, Dick, because it is the great men people attack. You are good for politics; good for America. As one who has great confidence in you and who sincerely appreciates the opportunity of having known and worked for you, I urge you to remain active. There is so much to be done and there are too few qualified people to do the job now. Your loss would be an added blow to our efforts. Do not let your critics cause you to give up your career. Each of us came into this world for a purpose. I believe that yours is service to our country
.

Cordially,         
Jackie Robinson

Robinson would always pay the heavy price of loneliness for his activism and his headfirst approach. Passion is often uncomplicated, and in complex political waters, Robinson flailed admirably and desperately, seeking a similar commitment for civil rights.

Yet in the end, before history would completely recognize Robinson’s passion triumphing over his strategy, he lived as the single-minded outsider, loyal to the cause, at the cost of his allies ignoring him. Once it became clear that whatever Robinson saw in him as a man, Nixon’s loyalties were with a Republican party that regarded civil rights with hostility, Robinson would eventually even break with Nixon on a political level, while maintaining a personal fondness for him.

On July 25, two days after being elected to the Hall of Fame, Robinson seemed melancholy, his fire submitting to his heart. In a sentimental moment, he wrote a letter to Walter O’Malley, an attempt at reconciliation, or at least closure.

Dear Mr. O’Malley
,
¹⁶⁷

Sunday night, as I had dinner with my family at the Otesago Hotel in Cooperstown, I had the opportunity of chatting with Mrs. O’Malley briefly. We talked about things I am sure she does not remember, but I really wanted to talk with her about you and I
.

I couldn’t help but feel sad by the fact that the next day I was entering the hall of Fame and I did not have any real ties with the game. I thought back to my days at Ebbetts Field, and kept wondering how our relationship had deteriorated. Being stubborn, and believing that it all stemmed from my relationship with Mr. Rickey, I made no attempt to find the cause. I assure you, Rae has on many occasions discussed this, and she too feels we should at least talk over our problems. Of course, there is the possibility that we are at an impasse, and nothing can be done. I feel, however, I must make this attempt to let you know how I sincerely regret we have not tried to find the cause for this breach
.

I will be in Los Angeles on Friday. If you feel you have about fifteen minutes, I’ll drop by. I shall call your office when I arrive
.

Sincerely yours,
Jackie Robinson

After writing the letter, Robinson lived ten more years, O’Malley for another seventeen. Robinson grew as an unquestionable American icon, while O’Malley would live as one of the venerable family names in baseball. For the sake of scrubbing history, Peter O’Malley, who succeeded his father in running the Dodgers for nearly another two decades, would say that Walter never held Robinson in anything less than admiration. Of course, as Robinson grew beyond baseball to the top shelf of American legend, O’Malley criticizing him was about as smart as trading Frank Robinson for Milt Pappas. Regardless of the reason, one fact remained throughout the lives of the particulars involved: The reconciliation Robinson sought between himself and Walter O’Malley in the summer of 1962 never took place.

Henry learned a valuable lesson. Beginning in the early years of the 1960s it would be Henry who often articulated the cost of Robinson’s passion, noting in interviews that Robinson was never offered a coaching, managerial, or front-office position at any level of the major-league baseball system. Nor was he asked to manage in the minor leagues or to scout. Even Branch Rickey, who had been part of two organizations, the Pirates and Cardinals, following Jackie’s retirement, did not offer him a job. Where baseball was concerned, he was the loneliest immortal in history, his isolation comparable only to Babe Ruth’s, who was discarded by the game as casually as a hot-dog wrapper.

I
NSIDE THE GAME
, Henry was famous and respected and comfortable, and time and success had distanced him from the way things once were, from his old place in line. Segregation had ensured that he would never feel complete in Mobile, even though it was home, and when he’d arrived in Milwaukee a decade earlier, the heart and soul and imagination of the team had begun with Mathews and Spahn. Now, he was ten years older, and so, too, were the fans who had come to the ballpark for all those years. The kids who used to line Wisconsin Avenue for the parades of the 1950s had now gone to college and built families and careers, the younger ones—now that Spahn had aged and Mathews was less dominant—having grown up with Henry as their unquestioned star. Even fans like Bud Selig, who were the same age as Henry (Henry was six months older than Selig), knew the Henry Aaron routines by heart and would be as tickled by him as when they were teenyboppers looking for a prom date: the two bats he swung in the on-deck-circle dress rehearsal, no batting gloves; the front-foot stomp and drive as the pitch approached, leading easily into that signature flash of violence; the lightning spark of his bat slashing through the strike zone. They emulated him in their slow-pitch softball games, copied his moves in the backyard with their kids while playing Wiffle ball, and recalled from their lush reservoir of memories Henry’s limp during his home-run trot. There was the way he stood impassively on deck, on one knee, watching the pitcher solemnly, awaiting his chance. These traits, the kids rattled off by heart. Even when he struck out, especially on a slider, Henry would pirouette, a futile corkscrew following a swing and miss, before walking, head down, toward the dugout, rarely giving the pitcher the satisfaction of that over-the-shoulder peek back at the mound. Fifty years later, Bud Selig still delighted in all of these unique stylistic traits, how Henry’s bat would lash so viciously across the plate, lacing home runs into the Perini pines that didn’t seem to lift more than ten feet off the ground, simple doubles in the alleys for other players. “Nobody,” Selig would say, “hit more home runs
¹⁶⁸
that everyone else thought
might
hit the wall. With Henry, you looked up, and the ball was
gone.”
Henry would lope stoically around the bases, stern as a lumberjack, only to break into smile once safely in the dugout.