By Any Measure

In mid-June of 1970 I received one of the most pleasant surprises of my young life, a financial windfall I never saw coming. The previous October, my 4th grade class at Miller Elementary School in Evanston, Ill. had been informed we would participate throughout the coming year in a “banking” exercise, designed to teach us both the benefits of thrift and the procedures it entailed. Ms. Omaye, our teacher, would once a week become a bank teller and register whatever deposit our parents deemed appropriate to bring from home. When I indifferently told my mother about the program, she was enthusiastic and quickly deemed fifty cents the right amount for me to bring each week.

Being a child, with a child’s very limited attention span, the entire practice simply became part of a routine I gave little thought to. Each week we would line up and present Ms. Omaye with our deposit, for which she would issue us a “receipt” we would keep in an envelope, while adding to our cumulative total in each of our “savings” books. And so it went throughout the year, a seemingly meaningless task I digested as nothing more than yet another laborious obligation of my formal education.

Well, imagine my shock and glee when, on the last day of school, an event already worth celebrating, Ms. Omaye had us line up and present her with our final savings data, to which she rewarded us with more money than most had ever held as our own. Lesson learned! I was speechless gaping at the near $20 already burning a hole in my palm. My friends and I giggled fiendishly, each of us with his own plan on how to spend this gift from heaven. There was not the slightest doubt in my mind where the cash was going; it certainly was never going to make it home in one piece, and what my mom didn’t know would not hurt her.

The dismissal bell was still ringing as I darted out the double doors at full speed, sprinting the two blocks necessary to reach my destination…Whitman’s Drug Store. I burst inside, a boy on a mission, heading directly to the Topp’s baseball card display. It was a quarter a pack, each with five cards and a dry stick of bubble gum. I meant to buy as many as necessary to achieve the goal that had eluded me for months, the one card I would trade most others to have, the holy grail my collection still did not include – Ernie Banks!

Roughly fifteen minutes later, I stood disheartened, barely able to chew a mouthful of bubble gum. I had bought out the store’s supply of cards with nary an Ernie to be found. The crisp sawbuck I had come in with was history, all that remained of my windfall was a scattering of ones. For my fortune I now owned mostly worthless crap, guys I had, not just doubles of, but even triples and quadruples. For example, there was this bothersome rookie from the Mets I kept finding, some bum named Nolan Ryan! As I dejectedly cleaned up the wrappers before heading home, I took stock in my folly, desperately looking for something to rebrand the event as more than the abject fiasco it seemed. Leafing through the near 200 new cards I stopped on one that I could take heart in, a genuine jewel to add to my collection. He wasn’t Ernie, but to my eyes was the best of all the league’s others… Hank Aaron.

In professional sports true greatness is, above all, a transcendent quality. When a good player or coach passes on, they are mourned as individuals, who impacted their teams, teammates and communities to varying degrees. However, when a “great one” leaves the scene, their obituary employs far loftier modifiers that measure, not just teams and cities, seasons and championships, but how they affected an entire enterprise, perhaps even the nation.

But then, even above that, there are the one-of-a-kinds, the GOATs, those who so embody everything their sport is supposed to instill, so meticulously and without ulterior purpose, that when they die, it’s hard to imagine the game, or everyday life for that matter, without them. Such a ranking is earned on and off the field, unable to withstand even a single blemish. In fact, the criteria for this recognition is so rigorous that many sports simply don’t have a representative to offer. Luckily, Baseball, America’s game, has been blessed with, not just one, but two such extraordinary individuals. One was tragically taken before his time, leaving the scene well before the other arrived. Now both are gone.

Lou Gehrig and Henry Aaron were similar in their stoic professionalism. Neither was much interested in talking, preferring to simply play ball and leave it there. Both men played in the shadow of larger-than-life superstars they couldn’t escape being compared to. Gehrig as a teammate of Babe Ruth, Aaron as a contemporary of Willie Mays and Micky Mantle. Each would end up providing the most inspiring example of humanity by simply responding to circumstances beyond their control with only splendid character.

Gehrig embodied pure heroism and became a legend accepting the devastating hand life dealt him, a terrible illness that now carries his name. Aaron shouldered a torrent of incomprehensible hate that flowed his way for no other reason than his steadfast excellence, as unfair as what Gehrig endured. Aaron handled the hate his successful chase of Ruth’s home run record brought out of the woodwork with such calm, courage and dignity, few even realized the trial he went through until long after it was over. Two of the greatest America ever produced… who happened to play ball.

Yet and still, regardless of all else, first and foremost a baseball player’s legacy is measured by the numbers he generated. Stats are the keepsake values above all else. Anybody who wishes to argue this point merely has to google Billy Hamilton or Wee Willie Keeler, legends who played before the automobile but whose every strikeout and stolen base are fully accounted for. Winning may be everything, but in baseball career stats determine who goes to Cooperstown. In the Major Leagues a World Series is such an elusive grail – and even the greatest player is only one of nine on a team, easily diluted if his teammates don’t stack up – that using pennants or even winning seasons as a primary metric for accomplishment doesn’t work. Ernie Banks, my undisputed childhood hero, spent his entire career with the hapless Chicago Cubs, only once even sniffing the post-season, yet is considered an all-time great. More than 500 dingers will do that.

In fact, the beloved Banks provides the perfect foil for confirming Aaron’s preeminence. A two-time MVP and perennial all-star, Banks hit more home runs than any shortstop before him. He sailed into the Hall of Fame first asking without a problem. But as good as he was, the chasm between his stats and Aaron’s reflect clearly the distinction between great and the greatest.

Consider that Banks, who ended his career with 512 home runs, hit at least 25 in ten different seasons; Aaron did it an incredible 18 times. Mr. Cub was a prolific run generator, and drove in at least 90 runs ten separate seasons; Aaron did it 16. Lou Brock of the St. Louis Cardinals was another Hall-of-Fame contemporary of Aaron’s. Brock is considered perhaps the best lead off man ever, noted for scoring runs he manufactured with his speed on the base paths. Brock scored at least 100 runs ten different times in his career; Aaron did it 15 times. Al Kaline was another all-star peer, who retired with 3000 hits, a Hall-of-Fame no brainer. Kaline had an impressive eight 150-hit seasons; Aaron doubled that with 16.

Many believe had Gehrig not been cut down at 35 he would have broken the Babe’s record. Maybe so, but he would have had to average 30 homers a year for another seven seasons to do it. Gehrig was “the Iron Horse,” but Aaron suited up 3298 times. Even if Gehrig had played every single game for another seven full seasons, he wouldn’t have reached that number! As Aaron was fond of saying: “you can’t help your club in the tub.”

Last year was a devastating year of loss for America, and baseball in particular. Whitey Ford, Bob Gibson, Tom Seaver, Juan Marichal, Lou Brock, Joe Morgan, Al Kaline, and too many others passed on, making those of us who adored them as kids and revered them as adults feel older and emptier. But losing Henry Aaron last week topped them all. We have become an argument culture with many many questions unsettled, many grey areas we can’t seem to figure out, but the greatest baseball player of the modern era died last week… by any measure. BC