Everybody liked Terry Cashman’s 1981 song, “Talkin' Baseball (Willie, Mickey and the Duke).” It was a catchy tune, jam-packed with references to some of the game’s greats—including Grover Cleveland Alexander, Jackie Robinson, Bob Feller, Stan Musial, Roy Campanella, Rod Carew, Phil Rizzuto, Yogi Berra and a couple dozen others. But the song’s refrain focused on the center fielders of New York’s three major league teams in the 1950s: Willie Mays (Giants), Mickey Mantle (Yankees) and Duke Snider (Dodgers).
Those were the days when baseball was still unquestionably the main American sport. Like many a boy (and perhaps a few girls), I bought baseball cards, chewed that pink slab of gum and dreamed of being in the major leagues myself. Didn’t happen, of course. So what about Mays, Mantle and Snider? Let’s begin with some brutal honesty. Duke Snider may have had a nice career and may fully deserve his spot in the Hall of Fame, but he was not close to the other two gentlemen. Sorry, Duke, but you are out of this discussion.
An untold number of newspaper and magazine articles debated the relative merits of Mays and Mantle, and for good reason. Their names started with the same letter, both were from the South (the former from Alabama, the latter from Oklahoma), they played the same position, they were enormously talented, and their big league careers started in 1951. They were not mirror images of each other, however, since Mays was black and Mantle was European-American.
Modern baseball historians seem to have given the nod to Mays. In fact, he is regarded by many as the best all-around player the game has ever seen. His skill with the glove, his arm, his speed, his work on the base paths, and his ability to apply bat to ball were an unmatched combination. He hit 660 home runs in comparison to Mantle’s 536. Mays also played four more years, although you can argue he hung around a bit too long at the end. Those two seasons with the Mets did nothing for his legacy.
Let’s look at Mantle. There has never been a better combination of speed and power in the history of baseball. But the word “if” pervades his career. IF he had not suffered a serious knee injury in the 1951 World Series, IF he had not been an alcoholic, IF he had not played half his games in Yankee Stadium with its 460-foot center field wall, IF he had applied himself with more focus to the game, his numbers—great as they were—would have been even better. Then again, Mays lost most of 1952 and all of 1953 to military service.
It is said that Mickey Mantle had an almost mystical effect on European-American males of his era. That was by no means complete since many of my friends in segregrated Dallas in the 1960s favored Mays over him. I wonder whether the same open-eyed approach obtained in the black community. One reason I did not come down solidly on either side of the issue is that I saw another player—a black one—who looked just as good as the two big boys. I refer to Henry Aaron.
What most distinguishes Aaron from Mays and Mantle is that he did not play in New York! NYC media bias was and is real. Aaron toiled in small-market Milwaukee and Atlanta after the Braves moved there in 1966. (Yes, I know Mays’ Giants moved to San Francisco in 1958. But it is my impression that the media continued to give him plenty of attention after the franchise went west.)
Aaron came on the big-league scene in 1954, three years after Mays and Mantle. Consider this early progression: 4th in rookie-of-the-year voting in ’54, 9th in most-valuable-player voting in ’55, 3rd in MVP voting in ’56, and MVP in 1957 when he lead the National League in home runs (44), runs scored (118), RBIs (132) and—oh, yes—carried the Braves to the World Series, beating Mantle’s Yanks in seven games.
Aaron played primarily in right field, so maybe that was held against him. If he was not quite the blazer Mantle and Mays were, he was plenty fast. He had nearly as much flair in the field and at bat as M & M. Now, about dingers. Aaron never hit more than 46 in a season (Mays topped out at 52 and Mantle at 54), and he did not hit them too far. We hear no stories from 50 years ago about Aaron blasting the 500-foot moon shots for which Mantle was known. But he was consistent over his 23-year career, eventually surpassing Mantle, Mays and Babe Ruth for the all-time record of 755.
Cashman found a way to squeeze Aaron’s name into his song, but I submit he should have replaced “the Duke” with “Hank.” And if it did not rhyme as well or had one fewer syllable, he could have handled that in his own way. Hammerin’ Hank, no less than Mays and Mantle, deserves to be regarded as one of the best who ever played the game.
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