Hank Aaron hit his 715th home run on April 8, 1974. Legendary announcer Vin Scully's real time call of Aaron's record breaking home run has itself become iconic, as Scully recognized the significance of "a Black man getting a standing ovation in the deep south." Millions of Americans wanted to believe that Aaron's achievement represented some kind of transformational moment for the United States. Just a few weeks later I personally experienced a transformational moment related to Hank Aaron, though it was not the kind of transformation Scully and others would have hoped for.
In mid-June of 1974 I was living in Brooklyn, NY and was just a few weeks short of my 13th birthday. Some of my friends discovered that the Atlanta Braves were coming into town to play the Mets, so we got on a train to Queens and went to Shea Stadium. There were probably 3 or 4 of us. As was typical, we purchased the cheapest nosebleed seats and then snuck down to better ones.
Old Shea was an "open air" stadium, meaning that you always felt a cool breeze. I remember that particular day the stadium being really cold even though it was later in June. Given that the Mets had made the World Series the year before, and given the fact that Hammerin' Hank was coming to town, the stadium seemed close to sold out. In fact it was so crowded that the seats we snuck down to were still kind of nosebleedish.
I don't remember if Hank Aaron came up in the first or the second inning, but I will never forget what did happen when he finally approached the batter's box. Remember, he had just broken Babe Ruth's record in April. Hank was celebrated in every city the Braves visited that year. When the public address announcer said Hank's name, almost everyone stood up and started yelling:
LET'S GO HANK!
LET'S GO HANK!
LET'S GO HANK!
As Hank got into the batter's box, the chanting started to subside, but about 30 yards from us there were three men sitting with very angry looks. They looked to be about 50-60 years old. One of them, with a tone of absolute rage and a look that would intimidate Satan, yelled, "Let's Go Hank. Fuck You N_ _ _ _R!"
Then the three of them all chimed in at once, as loud as they could: "Let's Go Hank. Fuck You N_ _ _ _R!"
Not one person confronted these characters. In fact most people seemed to treat it as a joke. There were a few African-American people in the vicinity, but they either treated it as if they could not hear it, or thought better of getting into a scuffle with a few angry, racist douchebags.
Over the years as a college teacher, some students have told me that they appreciate my approach to racial justice issues, and the fact that I try--as best as I can--to make sure that the examples I use in my classes represent the human family in its entirety. When I've reflected over the years on how I got to be that way as a teacher, that Shea Stadium experience in June of 1974 keeps coming back to me.
That experience taught me that racism and hate exist as they do in large part because they go unchallenged. As a 12-year-old on that cold day in June of 1974, I suppose I get a pass for not confronting the haters. There were people there much older than me who could have and should have intervened, but did not.
That day was my introduction to the maxim, "silence is consent."
Have I always confronted racism and hate as an adult? No. But I would like to think that I have tried to make choices in my life that help make my community, state, nation, and world live up to their promise of justice for all. Perhaps if we were all simply more mindful of the need to make those kinds of choices, we would be in a better place today as a species.
Hank Aaron is no longer with us, but on this 50th anniversary of his greatest sports achievement I would like to apologize to him for being silent all those years ago. None of us can go back and erase terrible moments from the past, but we CAN pledge to be better TODAY.
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