My Brush With Greatness

Living the dream

Ike was in the White House, the Milwaukee Braves were on a roll, and I was parked in my favorite spot, the left-field bleachers in the Milwaukee County Stadium.

The sun in an azure sky beat down on my Irish red hair and freckles, as I pounded the pocket in my old fielder’s mitt, and fixed my gaze across the green field toward home plate.

It was the bottom of the ninth, and the dreaded St. Louis Cardinals had battled back from a two-run deficit to go ahead on a three-run homer by the immortal Stan Musial. Now, the Braves had one chance, with Johnny Logan hugging second on a double, and two out.

I set my Cracker Jacks on the bench next to me and focused my eyes on the man wearing number 44.

Hammerin’ Hank Aaron was stepping up to the plate. The 21-year-old was playing in his second year in the Majors and was still an unknown quantity. Later, he would break Babe Ruth’s home run record by hitting 715 and finish his career in 1976 with 755 round-trippers, more than any other batter in history.

But on this summer Saturday, I was hoping number 44 would connect for the long ball, and I was longing to bring home a trophy.

The crowd went silent as the Cardinal’s pitcher got the sign from his catcher, wound up, and hurled his 90-mile-an-hour fastball.

I heard the sound of the wooden bat striking the ball, and the 44,000 hometown fans rose to their feet as one with a crescendo that filled my world.

The ball climbed toward the dome of blue, then fell like a missile towards the bleachers, clearing the left field fence by five feet.

Right into my glove.

“There’s a lucky red-headed boy who just got himself a home run ball from Hammerin’ Hank Aaron,” the Milwaukee Braves sportscaster Earl Gillespie told the fans sitting at home. My Mom and Dad, who were listening, told me later they knew immediately that the red-headed kid was their Tommy.

After the game, I waited with the group of kids outside the players’ door for the team to emerge.

Henry Aaron signed my ball with a smile and a black pen.

What does a kid do with a new baseball? He plays baseball with it, which was my trophy’s fate. I was in a Sand Lot League and good baseballs were treasured, autographed or not.

The ball is long gone, but the memory of that sunny day and the thrill of catching a walk-off home run by Hank Aaron will be with me until I run out of tomorrows.

Saturday afternoons just don’t get any better.

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