My Hero

TV is absolutely scuzzola today but only because it's Thanksgiving Thursday. I've changed channels more often than my two year old granddaughter has changed diapers. I started out watching The Closer, the very best of the best. It's marathon day but I'd seen all the episodes; five times minimum. Football and basketball seem to be on a continuous loop and watching them is akin to watching reruns of Gilligan. Seen one basket and one touchdown you've seen them all. There has to be a Charley Brown Special on tonight.

Then, for reasons known only to Freud, I thought of my boyhood hero. He was(is) Henry Aaron. I was a baseball fanatic when I was a youngster and he played for the Milwaukee Braves. This adulation began in 1956 and I'll always remember the thrill of watching him take his position in right field. He loped when he ran. Critics sometimes accused him of loafing while chasing after a ball. Not my guy! No way! And, oh, how he could hit that ball. For me his home runs were more majestic, more beautiful and longer than anyone before or after. He wasn't big; 5'11" and 170 pounds soaking wet but with a flick of his wrists the ball would rocket out of the stadium. It was so wonderful to watch him perform.
I shook his hand once, sort of. I was at County Stadium in Milwaukee and it was 1957. This eleven year old was as excited as one could be. Prior to a game with the St. Louis Cardinals the fans were allowed to go onto the field and take pictures of the players from both teams. A rope separated us as we strolled down the line. I was shaking hands and snapping photos of baseball legends; Warren Spahn, Lou Burdette and Stan "The Man" Musial but all the while, out of the corner of my eye, I kept looking at my hero as I edged closer to him. Finally, the big moment, and as I took his picture the bulb fell from my camera. As I reached to the ground to pick it up and while fumbling for the flashbulb I put my hand up and out and gave Henry Aaron a "dead fish". The words I wanted to say got caught in my throat, my heart was pounding and tears welled. I couldn't have been more embarrassed if my pants had fallen to the ground and caught on fire. I don't remember much about the ballgame. In my mind, until I was forty, I figured Mr. Aaron when thinking of that day would say, "Man, what a stupid kid". But I got over it. I even, with my fiance's permission, invited him to our 1969 wedding. He didn't come and he didn't send a gift but that's okay. Everyone should have a magical hero. The good memories they leave transcend time.