When I was a kid growing up in Jacksonville I had several heroes. Evel Knievel was one, as was Dusty Rhodes, the American Dream wrestler (the only athlete I have ever wept over). I admired OJ Simpson’s prowess on the football field (even had a No. 32 jersey and Buffalo Bills beanie I wore) as well as a guy named Mercury Morris, a running back for the Miami Dolphins who had more moves than a bowl of Jello. 

And heck, how cool of a name is “Mercury Morris”?

Above them all, though, stood Hank Aaron. There was something about his quiet, Southern demeanor that always appealed to me, even though I knew he was a man who would make a stand for what he believed. 

One of my first memories of him revolves around the story of a fight he had on an in-flight plane with teammate Rico Carty, who apparently was speaking loudly about him with some of the other Latino Braves players. They spoke Spanish, laughing intermittently. 

A few feet away, Hank Aaron overheard the conversation and told the players to speak English if they were going to continue to talk about him. Carty proceeded to curse at Aaron in Spanish, and then called him a “black son of a b _ _ _ h” in English, to which Aaron coolly replied ‘you’re not exactly pink yourself.’

The ensuing fight forced the plane to make an emergency landing, and made national news. 

But it was his performance on the field that always bedazzled. He was just so good, so consistent, and so humble with all of it. You never, ever heard him even remotely sound like he was bragging. He was the best player in the league, but to hear him talk you’d never know it. 

As he started marching toward Babe Ruth’s immortal home run record, my less-than-10-year-old-brain was absolutely sure that there were more people who surely loved Hammerin’ Hank as much as I did (remember now, this was way, way before social media existed, and there really wasn’t any way for people to real-time communication with each other about such things). 

So that same brain concocted a plan: it was time for Jacksonville to have a Hank Aaron Fan Club — and who better to head this group up than Jacksonville’s biggest Hank Aaron fan. 

Me. 

Forget that I was probably 9 years old at the time. This needed to happen, and I was just the man — ehh, kid — to make it happen. 

So, I grabbed my phone book (remember those?) and went straight to the listing for the Florida Times Union newspaper. Heck, my grandfather read it regularly, and I had seen that newspaper around our neighborhood, so I was sure at least a few people looked at it. I dialed the number and asked to speak to the sports department. 

I don’t remember the name of the reporter I spoke with, but I told him my name and the reason I was calling. He never once asked my age, but he took my info and asked a question I had not anticipated: “How do you want people to contact you?”

Hmm. Good question. The best way to get me was to call the phone (home phone, remember…there were no other phones), so I gave him the number, he said thanks, we hung up and went about our business. 

See, while I knew it was a big city, 9-year-old me didn’t know that Jacksonville at that time had a population of well over a half-million people or that the newspaper had a distribution of near 200,000 copies. 

But I would learn as much soon enough. 

Two days after I called, at about 6:45 a.m., the phone started ringing. I heard my grandmother say “you must have the wrong number” and hang up. No sooner had the phone gone back onto the wall (remember those?) it rang again, and she said the same thing again. 

“Wrong numbers are so aggravating,” I thought. 

Before lunch the phone rang at least 50 times, dialed by at least 50 different people, and each one of them were the wrong number according to my confused grandmother. It was only when she asked me “do you know anything about a Hank Aaron fan club?” did the reality of the situation become clear.

With the phone ringing in the background, I innocently explained. My grandmother, bless her heart, laughed out loud, and simply took the phone off the hook (remember when you could do that?). She did instruct me to call back and ask the reporter to make sure the information didn’t run again, which I did, and he obliged. 

After a week or so, the calls stopped. But even as a kid, I was stunned at how many people, like me, loved Hammerin’ Hank. 

I followed him through his entire career, and cheered along with the rest of the nation when he finally caught and passed “The Babe.” Given what all I as a kid didn’t know he went through to get that record, I admire him even more today than I did way back then. In my mind, he is still and will remain the home run king. 

I never did get the chance to meet him, but I always knew how I’d introduce myself if I did:

“I’m the past president of the Jacksonville Hank Aaron Fan Club.”