God Is His Strength

By Hank Aaron, Mobile, Alabama

As appeared in

No matter where I go, someone is bound to ask me if I think I will break Babe Ruth's record of 714 home runs. The Babe is a legend now. He created more excitement than any player who ever lived.

What I find so hard to believe is that Hank Aaron, a nobody from Mobile, Alabama, is really the first player in 40 years to challenge that home-run record. Who am I to be in this position? How did it come about?

Well, I sure didn't make it on my own. There were a number of people who helped me at crucial times. And because of those people I've tried to live my life a certain way during my 21-year career in baseball.

My parents were strict with us kids. We had rules, we did chores and we all went to the Baptist church every Sunday.There were plenty of spankings too. When I was 15, I was once offered two dollars to play baseball on Sunday afternoon. I turned it down. I knew mama would never allow me to play ball on a Sunday.

My father, Herbert Aaron, was a boilermaker's helper in a ship-building company and worked long hours to feed and clothe his wife and six children. He didn't have much time to play ball or talk to us, but when he did, it meant something.

Like the time I skipped school to listen to the Brooklyn Dodger game at the local poolroom. For some reason he got off early that day and saw me there. He didn't get mad; he just crooked his finger at me to walk home with him.

I thought I was in for it, but my father didn't punish me. He just asked some questions. Like what I was doing out of school and in a poolroom.

"I was listening to the Dodger game," I said. "I want to be a baseball player. I'll learn more about how to play listening to the Dodgers than sitting in a classroom."

My daddy wasn't an educated man, but he and my mama had made up their minds that their children were going to get educated. "You don't think those fellows playing in the big leagues are dumb, do you?" he asked me.

"No, but they didn't learn to hit and throw in a classroom," I answered.

"You can be a baseball player and get an education too," he continued earnestly.

We had an old car that was parked in our yard, and we sat in that car and talked and talked. I told him I was going to drop out of school when I got a chance to play baseball. He turned around and put his hand on my shoulder.

"Son, I quit school because I had to go to work to make a living. You don't have to. I put fifty cents on that dresser each morning for you to take to school to buy your lunch and whatever else you need. I only take twenty-five cents to work with me. It's worth more to me that you get an education than it is for me to eat. So let's hear no more about dropping out of school."

You don't forget this kind of sacrifice by your father. Herbert Aaron was always ready to deny himself something if it would help his family.

When I was 17 I was offered $200 a month to play ball for the all-black Indianapolis Clowns. I could hardly believe it. That kind of money for a game you loved! Only when I promised to continue my education later (which I did) were my parents willing to let me accept the offer.

So one day in May, 1952, my mother, two of my sisters and a brother took me to the Mobile railroadstation for the trip to Charlotte, North Carolina, to join the Indianapolis team where they were having spring training. I left with two dollars, two sandwiches and two extra pairs of pants. It was while playing with the Clowns that I encountered this fellow by the name of Jenkins.

Jenkins was a pitcher and I roomed with him when we were traveling. He was tall and bony with big eyes and real short hair. One night I was about to drink a container of milk when a bug flew into it. Disgusted, I poured it out. Jenkins was watching me.