In the big inning, God created baseball

     Congratulations to Coach Tim Corbin and the Vanderbilt University baseball team for winning the 2014 College World Series out in Omaha. 
     I was fortunate enough to cover that event three times during my sportswriting career: 1975 with South Carolina and 1995 and 1996 with Clemson (where Corbin was an assistant coach). On one of those trips, the Omaha World Herald produced a special edition that included the following piece by George Sisler—not the Hall of Fame first baseman but a war correspondent for the Memphis Commercial Appeal who became an preacher in the 1960s. 
     It's a game story cut and pasted from the King James Version of the Bible. It's quaint in its cliches, apocalyptic in its description of a double play, and prophetic in the reference to pitching around Aaron. (Hank Aaron, who recently turned 80, would have been a 16-year-old kid in Mobile when this was written in 1950.) This is old-school, old-testament baseball—there is no mention of a savior at the end. Of course, it was 1-1 in the ninth, so it wasn't a "save situation," either. 
     If you read closely, you'll find some irregularities. Israel got four outs in the first inning, including a two-out sacrifice. That can happen when you take scripture out of context. Philistines can go ask St. Peter for a review. On the other hand, this would not have been the first time Israel got an extra out—see Joshua 10:13! 
     I could not find this anywhere else on the Web, so I posted it here just for you: 

      The people gathered ^{Ex 32:1} to see the battle, ^{1 Sam 17:28} and the people sat down to eat and drink ^{Ex 32:6} sweet water ^{James 3:11}  and parched corn. ^{Josh 5:11}

     Eli sat upon a seat by the wayside, ^{1 Sam 4:13}  and he stretched himself ^{1 Ki 17:21} that he may see good. ^{Ps 34:12}

       So the people shouted: ^{Josh 6:20} Where are the nine? ^{Luke 17:17} Let the young men now arise and play before us. ^{2 Sam 2:14}.

     The first came out ^{Gen 25:25} and went into the field ^{Num 22:23} and they stood every man in his place. ^{Judg 7:21}

     And Peter called ^{Mark 14:72} whether it be good or bad, ^{Lev 27:12} as one mocketh another ^{Job 13:9} with loud voices: ^{Luke 23:23} His watchmen are blind. ^{Isa 56:10} And he stooped to ^{1 Sam 24:8} make clean the platter. ^{Luke 11:39}

     And the trumpeters sounded: ^{2 Chr 29:28} Kohath shall pitch. ^{Num 3:29} And Samson went and caught. ^{Judg 15:4}

     David was up ^{2 Sam 24:11} on the left side ^{Ez 1:10} and he struck it into the pan ^{1 Sam 2:14} foul.  ^{Matt 16:3} The second was offered. ^{Judg 6:28} He striketh.^{. Job 34:26} On the third ^{Gen 22:4} he struck ^{1 Sam 2:14} him out. ^{Gen 22:11}

     So the Levite went in. ^{Judg 17:10} He stood, and measured the earth; he beheld and drove ^{Hab 3:6} for an homer. ^{Hos 3:2} And all the people shouted with a great shout. ^{Josh 6:20}

     And Noah went in ^{Gen 7:7} and did fly ^{2 Sam 22:11} into the field. ^{Num 22:23} And Jothan ran away ^{Judg 9:21} and looking back ^{Luke 9:62} gathered it. ^{Isa 62:9}.

     And Aaron went in ^{Ex 5:1} and worketh it ^{Isa 44:12} two and two. ^{Gen 7:9} And Samson said: ^{Judg 15:3} Strike it! ^{Ex 12:7} And Aaron spake: ^{Ex 4:30} Be not one of them that strike. ^{Prov 22:26} And the man refused to smite. ^{1 Ki 20:35} And Aaron took ^{NUM 16:47} and he walked. ^{1 KI 15:3}

     Amon sacrificed ^{2 CHR 33:22} and Aaron ran ^{Num 16:47} into the second ^{Heb 9:7} and overran, ^{2 Sam 18:23} and with the bag ^{Mic 6:11} afar off, ^{Gen 22:4} a good man out. ^{Matt 12:35.}

     Now Jeremiah came in and went out ^{Jer 37:4} being caused to fly. ^{Dan 9:21} And the men of Israel retired. ^{Judg 20:39}

     Then the Philistines went up. ^{Judg 15:9} And Joseph was captain ^{Gen 39:1} of the Philistines. ^{Judg 3:31} And Absalom pitched. ^{2 Sam 17:26}

     Then Joseph commanded to fill their sacks. ^{Gen 42:25} Shimei came forth, ^{2 Sam 16:5} stood, and walked. ^{Acts 3:8} The pitcher ^{Ecc 12:6} looked this way and that way. ^{Ex 2:12} He stretched out ^{Hos 7:5} and threw. ^{Acts 22:23} And Archers hit. ^{1 Sam 31:3} And it came to pass on the second, ^{Luke 6:1} Joab caught ^{1 Ki 2:28} the line ^{Job 38:5} and threw ^{2 Sam 16:13} at the first. ^{Gen 13:4} Therefore, David ran and stood upon ^{1 Sam 17:51} the first, ^{Gen 13:4} put forth his hand and caught ^{Ex 4:4} the toss. ^{Jer 5:22}  This is the second death. ^{Rev 20:14}

     Then Joseph could not restrain himself, and he cried: ^{Gen 45:1} Goodness, if thou continue in ^{Rom 11:22} going down, ^{Gen 15:12}, our bones are dried, and our hope is lost ^{Ez 37:11} and my garments ^{Isa 63:3} and job. ^{Ex 14:20.}

     And Abram went up. ^{Gen 13:1} And Abram drove ^{Gen 15:11} into the air. ^{Acts 22:23} Judah came in ^{Gen 38:8} under it. ^{Dan 4:14} And through the idleness of hands ^{Ecc 10:18} the fly ^{Is 7:18} droppeth through, ^{Ecc 10:18} giving him a double. ^{Deut 21:17}

     Abraham took the wood and ^{Gen 22:6} caught hold of ^{2 Sam 18:9} an hard ^{Matt 25:24} and high ^{Rev 21:12}  delivery ^{Is 26:17} and smote it ^{Judg 7:13}  that thou mayest go home. ^{Judg 19:9}

     Thus and thus ^{Judg 18:4} Israel fought ^{Josh 10:42} and the Philistines fought ^{1 Sam 4:10} until the ninth. ^{Lev 25:22} For each, one ^{Num 7:3} in the first, ^{Gen 8:13} and seven times ^{Lev 25:8} after that they ^{Ecc 9:3} gathereth eggs. ^{Is 10:14}

     In the ninth ^{Lev 23:32} Israel went out ^{1 Ki 20:21} in a row, ^{1 Ki 7:3} and none came in. ^{Josh 6:1} He sent divers sorts of flies among them, ^{Ps 78:45} and they caught every one. ^{2 Sam 2:16}

     The first man ^{1 Cor 15:45} for the Philistines ^{1 Sam 28:15} drew the third, ^{Rev 12:4} and the fourth ^{Ex 28:20} came unto the outside. ^{Judg 7:19} He walketh. ^{Job 22:14} The pitcher ^{Ecc 12:6} climbed up ^{1 Sam 14:13} and pitched. ^{Gen 12:8} And Moses put it upon a pole ^{Num 21:9} for an homer. ^{Hos 3:2}

     And there was a very sore battle that day; and Abner was beaten, and the men of Israel. ^{2 Sam 2:17}

     And behold, the man clothed with linen, which had the inkhorn by his side, reported the matter, ^{Ez 9:11} and wrote it in a book. ^{1 Sam 10:25}

Dwight and the golden Mustang

     Thursday, April 17, marked two milestone birthdays. My father Dwight turned 86, and the Ford Mustang hit 50.
     One of them is officially an antique.
     In my life, their paths crossed in the late 1960s, when Daddy promised me a Mustang … IF I made it through high school without smoking or drinking.
     Well, I made it—not because of great self-discipline or incentive but more likely because the Lord spared me from temptation. After all, I didn't get my driver's license until I was 18. The fact that I spent almost half my life as a sportswriter tells you I was in no hurry to grow up. 
     Honestly, I wasn't even thinking of a Mustang the day I graduated from T.L. Hanna High School. No reward is greater than hearing your Daddy say he's proud of you. 

Who could resist? 

     Soon afterwards, we visited White Motors, a used-car lot on South Main Street that had a Bible on the office table and two gold sports cars out front: a 1967 Camaro for $1500 and a 1968 Mustang for $1600. I paid the difference and never regretted it. 
     As far as I'm concerned, the 1967 and 1968 models were the best-looking Mustangs ever. Those were the years Ford rounded and sculpted the original slab-sided bodies but before they really bulked up into muscle cars. Mine was a twin with the one in this Ford promotional photo, featuring a classy white vinyl roof, chrome rocker panels, and amber turn-signal indicators mounted in little scoops out on the hood. Cool!
      Underneath, the Mustang was really just a dressed-up Ford Falcon—hardly a high-performance car. But I didn't know any better. Late one night on Canterbury Road, I decided to see how fast I could drive around a corner. I wound up in somebody's front yard with the passenger door crinkled against the trunk of an oak. I was able to drive it home, dreading what my daddy would say the next morning when he discovered what I had done. He must have sensed that I had already learned my lesson, because he let me off easy. Once I came up with $360 for Shirley Huitt's body shop, my Mustang was almost as good as new. 
     That Mustang carried me through five years of college and eight trips between South Carolina and Missouri. When Daddy turned 50, I hardly noticed, since I was just a couple of weeks from graduation at Mizzou.
     On the way home from college, my faithful Mustang broke down in Newport, Tennessee. I soon handed it down to my brothers and bought another Mustang, a big 1971 coupe, from my uncle. It lost its charm after I bent a fender in a collision that could have been much worse. 
     Meanwhile, Daddy was driving a station wagon and working long shifts in the metallurgy shop at Owens-Corning Fiberglas to put five kids through college. At 51, he had two heart attacks and had to retire.
     That was also when he quit smoking—which gave me a newfound appreciation for the deal he made with me years before. As usual, Daddy was doing whatever he could to take care of his family. 
     The day he got out of the hospital following his second heart attack, I bought a green 1979 Triumph Spitfire convertible that rivaled my first Mustang in style if not dependability. That night, Mary and I went for a ride up to Whitewater Falls. Right there in front of God and everybody, I asked her to marry me. 
     As we've raised our family, my cars have gotten more practical, of course. Today I'm driving a fine 16-year-old Accord that carried my daughter Katy through college and has nearly a quarter million miles. 

When we asked my Daddy what kind of cake he wanted, he answered with
characteristic whimsy: "Green!" So my sisters made it his way, and brother
John drove all the way up from Orlando to share the occasion with us.

     Daddy also has gone way past his warranty, living 35 years after his heart attacks. We celebrated his 86th birthday in a rehab hospital, where he is recovering from a stroke. 
     Macular degeneration and arthritis have slowed him down, but his mind is still sharp. He remains a student of the news, the Braves, and audio books. When his insatiable curiosity gets the best of him, he will ask my sister, "Look it up on your Google machine."
     In the rehab gym, he laps the field. He's always worked hard, and he is still determined to take care of Mama and our family. Undaunted by his years, father Dwight is doing the right thing, the best that he can, preparing for whatever comes next.
     If he could still drive, I'd get him a Mustang. Happy birthday, Daddy. 

Calling a Dead Man ... Collect

     I just read the news that a 78-year-old Mississippi farmer named Walter Williams has died for the second time in two weeks. The first time, he miraculously woke up in a body bag as he was about to be embalmed. The second time, his nephew said, "I think he's gone this time." 

Our immortal Walter Williams:
Founder of the Missouri
 School of Journalism

     He's not the first Walter Williams to flirt with immortality. When I was in college, I regularly made long-distance calls to another Walter Williams who died 20 years before I was born. He was the founder of the Missouri School of Journalism, and his academic heirs taught us not only AP style and press law but also how to use the good name of our patriarch to scam the phone company.

     My senior-year assignment was to cover the Mizzou basketball team for the Missourian, the morning newspaper produced by the journalism school for the town of Columbia. This was before cell phones and portable computers, so I would type out my game stories and send them by dictation or telecopier—a crude fax that took six minutes per page. Either way, I had to make half-hour long-distance calls from places like Lawrence, Kansas; and Stillwater, Oklahoma.

     Long distance was prohibitively expensive back then, especially when you had to go through the operator to make a third-party billing. So we improvised. In our dorm, for example, it was possible to pick the lock into the utility closet and jump wires so that your call would be billed to a vacant room. (Not that any aspiring journalist in the Woodward-Bernstein era would ever pull such a stunt!) Long-distance charges were such a deterrent that instead of calling home, we actually wrote letters. 
     When reporters needed to call the Missourian from the road, we were instructed to make a person-to-person collect call to Walter Williams. If Walter answered, he could choose whether to accept the long-distance charges. 
     Of course, Walter died back in 1935.
     So the phone would ring at the Missourian, and the operator would announce that she had a collect call for Walter Williams. "Mr. Williams is not in the office," someone in the newsroom would reply. "May I have the number so he can return the call?"

     The operator never wised up to that fib, and she would obligingly recite the number I was calling from. Then we would hang up, and the Missourian would promptly call me back on the university's outbound WATS line, avoiding the cost of the collect call.

     We were so clever, or so we thought. None of us could have imagined that within 30 years, our careers would be undone by our readers using their phones to get the news for free.

———

     So where is old Walter Williams now that journalists really need him? Not only is our patron saint out of the office, but his beloved newspapers are going out of business. Even the venerable Missourian may be vulnerable—bleeding thousands of university dollars every week as it struggles to compete in one of America's last two-paper towns. 
     At The Greenville News, where I worked for nearly 20 years, the iconic Main Street office is for sale, and they will soon stop the presses forever. (See Ron Barnett's video: Oh, the stories this machine has told.) For the dying generation of devoted readers, they can print the paper in Gastonia (which might as well be Estonia) and fold it into USA TODAY. Developers plan to tear down the newspaper building and replace it with an "entertainment district" that will include high-rise condos, high-end shops, and a dine-in movie theater. 
     I understand, but I grieve. Even Walter Williams can't live forever. And this time, I'm afraid that he's really gone. 

 ———

FOOTNOTE: I've encountered yet another Walter Williams who found fame in death. Walter Washington Green Williams's death 1959 was an occasion for national mourning, acccording to none other than Ulysses S. Grant III, grandson of the 18th President. Williams claimed to be the last survivor of the Civil War and said he was born in 1842, which would have made him 119, but census records indicate he was actually born in 1855 and was far too young to have served in the war. 

In more optimistic times, the Peace family who owned The Greenville News designed this building with reinforced foundations to support a 25-story skyscraper (below). They envisioned Greenville becoming a boomtown, and their investment in the Peace Center across the street was the first step in transforming South Main into a swank destination. But times and owners changed, and the newspaper building turned out to be expendable rather than expandable.

Columbia's unforgettable brick mimes

     Watching that blockbuster LEGO movie reminded me of just how much silly fun you can have riffing on bricks.
     You thought bricks were just a bland facade of suburban affluence? Bricks never made you laugh? Then you must not have driven across South Carolina toward Myrtle Brick, back in the days when you might play a golf course designed by Jack Bricklaus, sing along with Brickney Spears, or go deep-sea fishing for Moby Brick.
     Those were the kind of visual puns portrayed by cartoon bricks we used to enjoy on one perpetually clever billboard along I-20 near Columbia. On the long drive from Greenville to Myrtle, it was a welcome sign of comic relief that could keep our family entertained for miles.
     Bricks can't talk, but they sure can mime. On that billboard in Columbia, a brickture could be worth a thousand words.
     Like this one from the 1980s:

     Once you take time to study the details, it's not hard to figure out that this is brick-dancing. But try to decode it with a quick glance at 70 mph.
     The billboard advertised the Richtex Brick factory near the Broad River Road exit. The signs were never sales pitches, and the Richtex logo was the only wording I ever saw. Yet that solitary billboard did its job so well that the Richtex brand remains engrained in my mind long after Brits bought the brickyard.
      That campaign must have been a marketing challenge. How do you advertise bricks—a once-in-a-lifetime purchase that involves no customer loyalty, no price breaks, no free installation, no sentimental values, and no distinctive qualities? Has anybody ever built or bought a house based on the brand name of the brick?
     What's an ad agency to do?
     "Exit here for bricks"? I don't think so.  
     "Lifetime warranty"? That goes without saying. 
     When all else fails, drop back and pun.
     Hey, we're all groan-ups here.
     Stop, you're kiln me. 

     Here comes another one: 

     When I searched for these masterpieces on the Internet, I hit a brick wall. All Google could find were a few old chats and a 1987 newspaper clipping.* That's not surprising, since the brick ads date way back to the 20th century, long before Picasa and camera phones became so ubriquitous. 
     It's a rare treat when you get to discover something that Google didn't know and couldn't find—something a newspaperman could declare "Scoop!" The last time this happened, I was searching for Alfred Adams' long-lost biblical proof that Boone is the second Garden of Eden. That one I eventually found offline through the Boone Chamber of Commerce.
     This time, I found a clue on LinkedIn that led me to Cynthia Gilliam, the advertising artist with Columbia's Semaphore agency who developed the campaign for Richtex. She directed me to an old Facebook wall where a few of the billboard images survive. I am reposting these here with all due credit and gratitude.
     Gilliam obviously took delight in that campaign, and she shared how it "went viral" way before social media, sparking discussion on morning radio shows and hometown newspapers across South Carolina. I wonder if all that spontaneous buzz/free advertising might be one of the reasons why brick houses are so popular in the heart of Brixie. 

"Tunnelvision" on brick. Marion Street, Columbia

     Personally, I think the brick ads might be the best thing to come out of Columbia since my dear wife. In fact, bricks and billboards may represent the pinnacle of Columbia's creativity, considering Blue Sky's "Tunnelvision" mural, along with the recent tourism billboards with the self-depbrickating slogan, "Famously Hot, Surprisingly Cool."
     Mary and I were headline writers when we met, so you can understand why we still enjoy twisting phrases and playing with words. Our kids ought to be thankful we didn't name them Ben Joe and Amanda Lynn. They might cringe at our hee-haw humor, but they can't deny that they are ...

     I think this one is more idiom than pun. However, you get bonus points if you bricognized a bricket fence or brickberry cobbler. Shame on you if you guessed son of a brick.
     By the way, did you know that the holes in bricks are called frogs? (Google knew.) I think this goes back to the Bible. The endless demand for bricks was the last straw for the Israelites enslaved in Egypt, so to leverage their freedom, Moses called down a series of plagues, including a plague of frogs. And the Lord said to Pharaoh, "No more mason with My peeps." 

     And that, dear children, is where holy bricks come from. Behold!

     Speaking of peeps, puns sometimes hit you out of the blue. This one is from the Reagan era, when some of us were convinced the sky was falling:

     I assume that's Henny Penny with the pink purse, aka Mrs. Cocky Locky. (That reminds me of another Columbia icon, the Troll Ball Coach, who once was a pun-ter as well as a quarterback and has now mastered the faked pun and the brick-handed compliment. Lots of orange-clad folks around Clemson and Knoxville have other sobriquets for him, some that rhyme with brick.)
     When budgets are tight, an agency may be able to squeeze multiple messages out of the same scene. These two holiday billboards feature the same silhouetted house, presumably made of brick, as well as the same moon, presumably made of bricotta cheese. I see five or six more briquettes, depending on whether those fluttering hallowingers are really brickbats. How about you? 

 

      Puns have an undeservedly bad reputation. Some snobs say they are the lowest form of humor. Yet Shakespeare and Jesus dabbled in puns, and Hitchcock called them the highest form of literature. 
     I will admit that too many puns may spoil the blog. And if you haven't had too many already, you soon will. Before you censor me, just remember: If puns are outlawed, only outlaws will have puns. 
     As far as I'm concerned, the only thing wrong with a pun is when the author writes, "No pun intended." If you didn't intend it, then backspace and change it. More often, "No pun intended" means exactly the opposite—I not only intended it, but I want to call it to your attention because you might be too brick-headed to get it on your own.
     No such intent here on my blog. 
     Nope, unintended.

_______________________

THE BRICKS START HERE
*The Richtex billboards begin in 1979, according to a clipping of a 1987 AP story that Google found in the archives of the Tuscaloosa (Ala.) News. (Gilliam's Semaphore Agency took the account in 1982, and all the examples I posted are from Semaphore.) The AP story included a wirephoto of Chip off the Old Brick, so we can confidently date that one to 1987. Other first-generation illustrations mentioned in that story were Brick Dancing, Bricken Little, Aerobricks, Brick of the Litter, and Brickfast of Champions.

Olympic peakbagging? Why not?

    Should the Olympics give medals for a competition set to music, performed in sequins, and often decided by geopolitics or whim? Commentator Frank Deford mulled on his weekly NPR broadcast whether events like ice dancing are really sports: 

See, it's not easy to qualify what makes a sport a sport. My broad, more inclusive definition would simply be that any time you compete in a physical activity, you have a sport. The key words to me are physical and compete. I think, for example, that perhaps the greatest athletic feat of the 20th century was Sir Edmund Hilary and Tenzing Norkay conquering Mount Everest. But however rigorous, is mountain climbing competitive?

    Well, now that you raise the question ... yes, it can be. And not just at the level of Everest. For quite a few of us, mountain climbing is obsessively competitive.
    We call it "peakbagging." Peakbaggers appreciate the mountainside journeys and mountaintop views as much as anybody, but what motivates us are the races to complete the computerized to-do lists. We keep score.
     Like other sports, peakbaggers have rules, records, and rankings—including global, national, state, and county categories. For example, the Highpointers Club keeps a running list of people who have reached the highest point in all 50 states (at last count, 241 ranging in age from 12 to 77). Among my friends, Charlie Zerphey has stood atop 49 states since turning 65, Rick Shortt has climbed all 106 Virginia peaks over 4,000 feet, and Peter Barr has bagged all 200 mountains in the Southeast over 5,000 feet. The lists are as endless as the horizon.
    I'm no great mountaineer, but I take pride in being one of the few people on record to climb all 13 mountains in Virginia over 4,500 feet. Maybe I could be the first to bag all 43 ranked mountains in Watauga County or reach the highest points in all 146 counties in the Carolinas.
     That brings us to the subculture of "county high-pointers"—peakbaggers who can make mountains out of molehills. We have to find the precise highest point in places like Tyrrell County, N.C., which lies so low and flat that it could disappear in a 17-foot tidal surge. I doubt that Deford would call that a sport. It's more like a cross between trivial pursuit and trespassing.
     But on the top end, I'm willing to bet there are more world-class peakbaggers than Olympic curlers.
     So why not mountain-climbing as an Olympic sport? We have downhill skiing—why not the opposite? Why not an Olympic version of king-of-the-hill, with climbers wearing Go-Pro cameras for the rest of us to glimpse the cliff-hanging danger? Why not a true cross-country race—a bushwhacking marathon? 
     Why not race up the highest mountain in the host country? In the case of Sochi, it is just 150 miles to Mount Elbrus, the highest point not only in Russia but in all of Europe. Even better from a peakbagging perspective, Elbrus has twin summits, so climb them both. And don't come back until you find the benchmark.
     On the other hand, Olympic peakbagging doesn't have to be a race. Judges could give bonus points if you attempt a particularly difficult couloir, crawl through a bear cave, or just rock your gaiters. 
     Or would that make it too much like halfpipe or figure skating? 

Happy 80th, Hank Aaron

When this 1958 Topps card came out,

Aaron was just 24 and the reigning MVP.

I was just 3 and not yet a card-bagger.

     I listened to hundreds of Henry Aaron's home runs on the radio when I was growing up but never really got to know him until I read a friend's book.
     Lonnie Wheeler was among a crop of Missouri journalism graduates hired by my hometown newspaper in 1974, the same year that the 40-year-old Aaron broke Babe Ruth's 39-year-old home-run record.
     Wheeler was to the Anderson Independent what Aaron once was to the Eau Claire Bears—paying his dues in a minor-league town but destined for big-league headlines. 
     Working with Lonnie when I was fresh out of high school was the kind of opportunity that you enjoy in the moment and appreciate in hindsight. He wrote sports like nobody I had ever read. 
     Once we took a spring-break trip up to New England, where Lonnie interviewed for a job or two along the way. We broke down the road atlas to figure out the most common town name in America (Springfield or Franklin, as I recall) and stopped at the Blue Ball Bowl near Intercourse, Pennsylvania, to watch Willie Smith and Missouri play an NCAA basketball playoff. Meanwhile, I embarrassed myself by trying to order sweet ice tea in frost-heaven New Hampshire. I was just along for the ride. 
     Lonnie and Mickey Spagnola were the main reasons I went from Anderson to Mizzou, sight unseen.
     Anderson being two hours from Atlanta, we considered ourselves Braves Country. Lonnie went down to Atlanta one weekend and came back with a three-part series on Hank Aaron that was way above the reading level of most of us in Anderson. Soon after that, Lonnie was on his way to becoming a star columnist in Cincinnati and an acclaimed author. 

Is this the best Christmas present ever?!?!?!?! Thanks, Mama.

     I was reminded of Lonnie this week when I heard that Hank Aaron, my boyhood hero, has turned 80.
     In 1991, fifteen years after Lonnie left Anderson, he collaborated with Aaron to write "I Had A Hammer." One of my prized possessions is a copy that my mom gave me for Christmas, signed by Lonnie and Hank. 
     Gifted writer that he is, Lonnie taps into Hank's eloquence even as he lets him tell his own story. Here is a passage from Wheeler's introduction as Aaron, then 57, pondered his legacy:

He commented that he envied musicians because musicians never die--their music is preserved and played for eternity. Aaron is immortal in the baseball sense, but none of his 755 home runs will ever happen again, and the question of his legacy is one that he has not subdued. He has no self-doubts about his enduring qualifications as a ballplayer, but wonders where ballplaying fits in the greater scheme--in effect, where he fits in the greater scheme.

      The greater scheme was the American civil-rights era that harmonized with Aaron's baseball career. For a southerner who admired Aaron but blithely tolerated too much of the sweet-tea status quo, the book was eye-opening and soul-wrenching. Here's Lonnie:

It's a delicate book, because it attempts to deal with a man's complaint without complaining. Aaron is compelled to file his grievances against baseball but has no urge to lash out at the game he loves and owes. He wishes to get his message across without the graceless effect of a soapbox or sandwich board. What he wishes, really, is to speak his piece and think out loud about where he's been that others haven't, what he's seen that others couldn't, and how it all adds up. 

     It's interesting how the "N" word has become an issue today, just as it was 40 years ago when Aaron was closing in on Ruth. Back then, it was associated with death threats. Today, it's a 15-yard penalty or a technical foul. 
     "Hammer" helps me to appreciate how far America has come—and see how far we still have to go. Thanks, Lonnie.