It was the summer of 1964 when I walked into County Stadium for the first time, marveling at the greenest grass I’d ever seen, choking on the pungent odor of cigar smoke and staring in wide-eyed wonder as my heroes, the Milwaukee Braves, spilled out of the dugout and onto the field.
My Little League teammates and I sat on the edge of our seats in the right-field lower deck and screamed our lungs out as Hank Aaron warmed up in the top of the first inning, languidly tossing a ball back and forth with the ball boy. For a few agonizing minutes, he ignored our cries of “Hank! Hank! Over here! Hey, Hank!”
Finally, he turned, smiled and waved at us.
More than five decades have passed since that moment, but the memory is as fresh, the detail as vivid, as if it happened this morning.
A couple years later, I was lying on the floor in our living room in St. Francis when Bart Starr plunged in from the 1-yard line to win the Ice Bowl. I turned to look at my father and was startled to see tears of joy streaming down his cheeks.
I tell these stories for a couple reasons.
As I embark on my new role as general sports columnist for the Journal Sentinel, I do so with the perspective of a kid who grew up in the Wisconsin sports culture.
Like a lot of you, I fell asleep to Eddie Doucette calling Bucks games on the transistor radio. I was in the airport the night Marquette University’s triumphant basketball team returned from Atlanta in 1977. I sat in the center-field bleachers, heartbroken, when Gorman Thomas came back to Milwaukee wearing a Cleveland Indians uniform in ’83.
I know what it feels like to live and die with a team. And though my job requires me to be a neutral observer, I’m not so out of touch that I don’t know how you feel when the Packers win or lose, when the Brewers make a trade, when the Badgers come up short at the Final Four.
And so, writing a sports column for Wisconsin’s largest news-gathering organization is not something I take lightly. I know what sports mean to you, and I’m honored to have the privilege to tell stories about the state’s teams, coaches and athletes.
Sometimes, my column will be an argument. You won’t always agree with my point of view; if you did, I wouldn’t be doing my job very well.
Occasionally, I’ll have to take a team or player to task, though I won’t rip for the sake of ripping. And I’ll try never to hurt anyone who doesn’t deserve to get hurt.
Mostly, though, I’ll look for the story behind the story, something you won’t see on SportsCenter or find in an app on your iPhone. I’ll be writing often about the Packers, Bucks, Brewers and Badgers and Golden Eagles. But once in a while, I’ll throw a curveball at you.
By all means, let me know what you think, good or bad.
Oh, and one more thing. On Saturday morning, I waited in line for 21/2 hours at Waukesha Sportscards to get my Mitchell & Ness No. 44 Braves jersey signed by Aaron. I got to stand in front of my childhood hero for 20 seconds.
He signed his name, neatly, under the tomahawk. Then he looked up at me and smiled. For a moment we were young again — Hammerin’ Hank, patrolling right field in County Stadium in the best-looking uniform any team ever wore, and me, an 8-year-old kid with Coke-bottle glasses, pounding his Little League glove and yelling, “Hank! Over here! Hey Hank!”
Thank you, Mr. Aaron. For that day 51 years ago. And for all the days since.
Send email to gdamato@journalsentinel.com
