1966 Braves Bring Back Childhood Memories

Has it really been 40 years since 1966? Lyndon Johnson was president. A first class stamp cost five cents. Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass won a Grammy for their record, A Taste of Honey. The first Star Trek episode aired. Walt Disney died.

For this third grader living in Southwest Atlanta, 1966 was a year marked by two major events. The Braves moved to Atlanta, and the Chanceys moved to Milledgeville.

We were having Sunday dinner after church, and out of the blue, my mom asked, “How would you boys like to move?” Atlanta was all I knew.

I said, “Move? Where?”

Mom said, “To Milledgeville.”

I said, “Milledgeville? Where's Milledgeville?”

Mom replied, “Do you remember that crazy house I said you boys would drive me to one day?” I didn't realize there really was such a thing as a crazy house.

She went on to explain that my dad had taken a job at the state hospital near Milledgeville and that we'd be moving there in August. She explained that it was a nice little town with a college, nice people, and lots of history.

My parents took loads of ribbing about leaving Atlanta and moving to Milledgeville. My dad always replied, “My job comes with a key. I can come and go like I want.”

Before that adventure unfolded in late summer, Atlanta and the Southeast had a thrill in late Spring. The Milwaukee Braves moved to Atlanta and began the 1966 season at old Atlanta Stadium. April 12 was opening night against the Pittsburg Pirates before 50,671 fans. The Braves lost 3-2 in 13 innings, but major league baseball made its mark in the deep South.

That 1966 team had great bats, but mediocre pitching. Hank Aaron, Joe Torre, Eddie Matthews, Felipe Alou, Rico Carty. And pitcher Tony Cloninger. I still remember his two grand slams and nine RBI against the Giants that Sunday afternoon.

That's what's so neat about anniversaries. They make you reflect. My love affair with the national pastime time began when the Braves moved to Atlanta. I suddenly had a team that I could follow and even occasionally go to see.

The first time we went as a family. Someone spilled beer down my mom's back, and she vowed she'd never return. But my Dad and I went at least once a summer. Those early seasons run together, but I remember seeing Willie Mays and Willie McCovey, Bob Gibson and Lou Brock, Pete Rose, Willie Stargel and Roberto Clemente, along with my favorite Braves.

I remember Morgana the stripper climbing over the stands, running to third base and giving Clete Boyer a big smack on the lips. I remember the Chief Nok-a-homa sitting in his teepee behind the left field wall and doing his dance when a Brave hit one out. I remember being ticked off when the Braves telecast was interrupted so we could watch Neil Armstrong walk on the moon. Good grief! Couldn't they schedule that around the Braves game? I remember attending the 1972 All Star game and seeing Hank Aaron hitting one out.

I had grown attached enough that first season that I couldn't believe the headline in the Atlanta paper that late December Sunday. Eddie Matthews traded to Houston? What were they thinking? For Dave Nicholson and Bob Bruce? Who were they?

I always wanted to take home a foul ball. The closest I came was when Sonny Jackson chipped one our way. It went right over my dad's outstretched hand, bounced out of the hands of the man behind us, and landed right in the lap of the man sitting next to me.

There I was holding my transistor radio in one hand and my scorecard and pen in the other, and didn't have a free hand to grab for the ball. In all these years, there's never been another chance.

Atlanta finished fifth (85-77) in that inaugural season. But they always finished first in the heart of a little boy in the beginning stages of a romance with baseball.