Member-only story
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.
