Thoughts about the Braves, the chop and the magic of late-season baseball

Baseball success, like in all sports, brings out bandwagon fans, media spotlights and a bunch of ill-informed analysts dressing up this Halloween season as experts. Just check out social media. (On second thought, don’t.)

My observations and opinions are just that — mine. But I come from a perspective as a devoted fan of the Atlanta Braves for 55 years and as a Christian who seeks justice in the ways the prophets of old and Christ himself advocated and exhibited.

 

FIRST: I’m good with dropping the “chop” and even changing the name of the team if those are determined, in consultation with Native American leaders, to be good moves. But the issues are more complex than those who express strong, immediate opinions on both sides tend to address.

 

The team name wasn’t created when Major League Baseball came to the South in 1966. The Braves’ name goes back through Milwaukee to Boston. It has a long, rich history.

 

Unlike clearly derogatory terms like “Redskins,” the Braves — by definition — reflect a positive characteristic. In fact, one possible name change would be the Atlanta Brave. That could be applied to heroes from the Civil Rights Movement to first responders.

 

Braves management has done a good job in recent years eliminating caricatures of Native Americans on team logos or as mascots. And they have established close ties with the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians in North Carolina.

 

It’s valid to ask if those arrangements are merely transactional or transformative. But seeing Native American history highlighted at the stadium and participation by tribal leaders has been intentional and positive.

 

Which leads to all the chopping that draws so much attention. In the marvelous last-to-first season of 1991, the “chop” became the way Braves fans — like Florida State football fans were already doing —cheered on their team loudly and in unison.

 

Admittedly, doing the chop cheer next to my Native American friend at a game last year had an uncomfortable feel. But it will change not by decree, but by choice. (And there has to be another way to do that cool cell phone lighting of the stadium when the opposing team changes pitchers.)

 

SECOND: With the high visibility of this World Series, there are those who purportedly oppose the racist stereotyping of Native Americans but do so by stereotyping Southerners in general, and Georgians in particular, as a bunch of inbred racists. They are doing exactly what they say they oppose.

 

Some are just fans of other teams who look for any way to try to rain on the Braves’ parade. But only the Astros have the chance of doing that.

 

Repeatedly, I see comments on social media like, “What do expect from those people?” As if, Atlanta is not a remarkably vibrant city made up of people from many backgrounds and places.

 

And it was Georgians who recently elected as U.S. Senators, both an African-American person and a Jewish person — and who (by a majority of votes counted and recounted and recounted…) played a key role in denying a second term to a president from New York City who stirs racial division.

 

So stop the nonsensical stereotypes of Southerners. Critics who use regional caricatures cannot be trusted voices for denouncing the caricatures of others.

 

And the last time I checked, the Cleveland Indians were somewhere north of here.

 

THIRD, AND FINALLY: The Braves’ fan base, like with most sports teams, is very diverse — in terms of race, socio-economics, religion and politics. That’s been an aspect I’ve enjoyed over the years — especially while a season ticket holder who attended dozens of games each season.

 

At the ballpark, and only there, I got to know many people — some still friends today — with whom I had little to nothing in common except for our love of this city’s baseball team. I didn’t get to know and then care about them in any (other) church.

 

And my longtime devotion is not tied to a team name or a particular cheer. It’s to the magic of baseball that is filled with disappointment and — on rare occasions — with moments like this that keep me up way past my usual bedtime. (And cost me quite a few bucks to share the experience in person with my daughters)

 

No one has a right to tell others what should or should not offend them — particularly if that “something” is tied more closely to them. So a lot more listening needs to take place — along with a willingness to change when it shows more respect and helps bring people together.

 

Ongoing discussions in Cherokee, N.C., must continue. And, in the spring, tribal leaders and Braves officials might even talk while attending a local high school game.

 

Together they can cheer on the Cherokee High Braves. Yep, that’s the team name.

 

In the meantime, I’m joining all kinds of fans — some old and some new; some rich enough to buy tickets for tonight’s game and the many more devoted fans who’ve already watched 170 games on TV this year; and the scores of cheering, pearl-draped people as ethnically diverse as the players themselves.

 

So, go Braves! Win this thing for all of us who are cheering you on.

 

But, regardless, I’ll see you at spring training. With a great assortment of friends.

Hank, hamburgers and the task before us

By John D. Pierce

 

Years ago I wrote an editorial titled, “Why Henry won’t eat hamburgers.” 

It addressed the scourge of racism — that keeps raising its ugly head in America.

 

I drew on a story from the autobiography of Hank Aaron, who died today at age 86. The book is titled I Had A Hammer (HarperCollins, 1991).

 

The baseball great (and arguably greatest) faced extreme racial discrimination and hatred during his record-setting baseball career.

 

One side note: If you took away all 755 of his major league home runs he’d still have more than 3,000 hits — a feat that typically qualifies someone for Hall of Fame induction. He was the complete player.

 

Back to the story: Hank recalled traveling with the team to towns where he and two other Black players weren’t allowed to stay in the hotel with their teammates. Black families or boarding houses would put them up.

 

And they couldn’t share in the post-game meals in restaurants. So Hank, Horace Garner and Felix Mantilla — due solely to skin pigmentation — would have to wait on the bus. One of their teammates would bring out a bag of hamburgers.

 

“We used to joke that the cows turned and ran when they saw us coming, we ate so many hamburgers,” said Hank.

 

But, as we all know, it wasn’t funny how they were treated. And, understandably, Hank swore he’d never eat another hamburger again.

 

I thought of that story one night, 26 years ago, when dining with my wife and an out-of-town guest at Atlanta's then-popular Pano’s and Paul’s restaurant. Shortly after we were seated, the large, linen-covered table next to us with a reserved sign began to fill.

 

Soon the guest of honor arrived: It was the 60^th birthday celebration for Mr. Henry Louis Aaron. Every lesson I’d been taught about staring was unlearned as I talked to my friend Steve Shore but kept my eyes on the slugger I’d long admired.

 

I don’t recall if Hank had the tempura-battered lobster tail, as I did, that night. But I’m damn sure he didn’t order a hamburger.

 

Hank Aaron’s life and his death simply reinforce within me a commitment to fight racial injustice at every point and in every way it survives — often using new language to convey old evils.

 

Rest in peace, Hank. But may we never rest until justice rolls down like a mighty stream.

MISSING BASEBALL # 8: Say Hey

Baseball players have resumed training but the planned shortened season is less than certain.

Some have weighed the risks and said: “No, thanks! Hope to see you next year!”

Others are not with their respective teams because they’ve tested positive for the corona virus. They are quarantined or, if ill, receiving medical treatment.

It was odd to hit Independence Day with still no baseball in 2020. Yet there is a lot of oddity on tap for this year.

Recently, however, a good dose of baseball nostalgia was offered when the 1968 All-Star Game was televised. These players were my first baseball heroes.

The fuzzy black-and-white images made the players' faces nearly indistinguishable. The team uniforms and numbers were needed to tell the players apart.

Yet some were identifiable, at least to me, simply by the way they moved: Aaron, Clemente, Rose, Koufax and, of course, Mays.

I was 12 when the game was televised originally. Around that time, while other kids were gluing together and painting ’57 Chevy model cars, I assembled and painted a model of Willie Mays making “the catch.”

The image came from the 1954 World Series (before I was born) when the Giants were still in New York. But I knew of him playing in the swirling winds of Candlestick Park in San Francisco. So I applied brown and orange tones to his Giants uniform.

Those blessed to watch “the Say Hey Kid” play centerfield, as well as hit and run, know the personification of an all-around player. The Alabama native, now 89,  was as complete of a player as anyone who ever played the game.

Play ball! As soon as it's safe to do so.

MISSING BASEBALL #7

 I cheated a little. My last "Missing Baseball" entry was the seventh. But I titled it simply "Missing (Minor League) Baseball."

Why? Because there is only one #7.

In high school, my younger daughter had a class with a teacher/coach. The emphasis was on the latter.

It was test day and he was winging it with an oral exam.

"Question number six," he called out. "Number six, ...like Mickey Mantle," he added in passing.

The hand of a tall blonde girl shot into the air.

"Yes, Abigail?"

"Coach _____, Mickey Mantle was number seven."

"Uh, um, that's right. But how did you know?

"My daddy raised me right."

I don't care what she scored on the exam. Parental pride was at a peak.

Mantle played in the first and defining chapter of my baseball fan life. I never saw him play in person.

His grainy image appeared on TV — thanks to the popularity of the Yankees on NBC Game of the Week (the only televised game during each week). I strained at the flickering black and white images to get a better view of his strength and grace.

I read about him in newspapers and magazines — and on the backs of baseball cards — more than I saw him on TV. I stood with my brothers and rare patience in a long line to meet him and get an autograph when he opened the short-lived Mickey Mantle Men's Store in Chattanooga.

And, as a teen, I stared in wonder when he made a pregame appearance near the pitcher's mound in old Atlanta Stadium with Mays and Aaron on each side.

It's an image I later found signed and framed. And placed it on the wall of my baseball-laden home study.

Eulogizing Mantle in 1995, Bob Costas noted the Oklahoma Kid had come to grips with the distinction between a role model and hero. "The first he often was not," said Costas. "The second he always will be."

It was Mantle's boyish quality that added to his appeal. Biographer Jane Leavy picked up on that by titling her 2010 book: The Last Boy: Mickey Mantle and the End of America's Childhood.

Although the baseball spotlight was inescapable for Mantle, he understood and appreciated that baseball is a team sport.

"Mantle didn't want to stick out, but he did; he didn't want to be treated as special, but he was," Leavy writes. "He didn't want to be the center of attention, but he was the center fielder for the most visible sports franchise in the world."

I miss Mick. And I sure miss baseball in 2020.

MISSING (MINOR LEAGUE) BASEBALL

My favorite of many minor league experiences happened on Memorial Day weekend some years ago when the stars and schedules aligned for my longtime baseball cohort Marshall Kerlin and me. We took in four games — one each at A, AA, AAA and MLB.

It started with the big Braves at Turner Field on Saturday night. We returned to my home at the time in Macon, Ga., for a Sunday morning obligation. Then to Chattanooga for a Sunday evening game.

Memorial Day was spent at a day game in Rome, Ga., and then an evening game at AAA Gwinnett.

One friend commented, "You'd have to really love baseball to do that." To which I profoundly responded, "Duh!"

Chattanooga is not only where I spent my childhood and youth but a favorite baseball destination. When living in Marietta, Ga., years ago, friends and I would drive up for games at historic Engel Stadium.

The downtown stadium on Hawk Hill has been a great place to visit whenever I'm in the Scenic City.

The team has a long and illustrious history. In this photo you can see some of it in Jackie Mitchell (the 17-year old lefty who mowed down Gehrig and Ruth) and HOF slugger Harmon Killebrew.

The 1910 card (right) of Sammy Strang is a nod to a Chattanooga native who helped the SF Giants win the 1905 World Series. Later he was baseball coach at West Point and Georgia Tech.

Sammy came from a wealthy family — his dad serving as mayor of Chattanooga in the late 19th century — that valued education over sports. So he took his athleticism to UNC and University of Tennessee.

There's a lot more to his story: an Army veteran and a newspaper humor columnist. Among the players he coached at the military academy were Omar Bradley and Robert Neyland.

One of my favorite memories from watching Lookouts baseball came on a rain-delayed night in 2007 when my brother-in-law Scott Folsom and I were among the few witnesses to Phillip Wellman's world-class meltdown.

Wellman (seen here as a Lookout bobblehead along with Adam Dunn) managed the Mississippi Braves at the time. Here's a link if you've not seen it.

Moving into June without baseball at any level is trying. Someday it will return. Someday...

MISSING BASEBALL #1
 
In the 1990s I found this copy of the 1926 AL Constitution in a Cape Cod bookstore. It had belonged to Joe Cronin who was league president for 14 years. 

In 1934, Cronin, a Hall of Fame shortstop, was sold by his uncle-in-law Clark Griffith, owner of the Senators, to Red Sox for $225k, a huge sum at the time. 

I like how the book has glued-in updates. Interesting info includes policies for teams catching trains and the minimum of 50¢ for a championship ticket. Cronin died in 1984.

MISSING BASEBALL #2

In baseball, order is important. So I placed these cards in proper order — left to right.

Reads like poetry. Because it is!