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 60th 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.
