62, page 1
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For Connie, Penny, and Maddie.
My All-Star team.
Never stop swinging for the fences.
FOREWORD
ROGER MARIS JR.
This record has been a big part of my life. I was almost three years old in 1961 when my father and his teammate Mickey Mantle chased an iconic record held at the time by Babe Ruth, who hit 60 home runs thirty-four years earlier. My dad hit his 61st home run on the season’s final day, setting a new single-season home run record that would stand for nearly four decades.
Many resented my father for breaking a mark set by one of the early legends of the game, but my father always maintained that records were made to be broken and that Babe Ruth was still going to be the hero he had always been. He was right.
The record stood largely unchallenged for thirty-seven years, as no one hit more than 52 home runs until the late 1990s. In 1998, Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa electrified fans with their assault on the record my dad set in 1961. I was in attendance at Busch Stadium in St. Louis to see McGwire tie and break my dad’s record. It was the same familiar baseball park where I had spent the summers of 1967 and ’68 as a nine- and ten-year-old, watching my father play in two consecutive World Series with the Cardinals before he retired.
McGwire finished the 1998 season with 70 homers, and Sosa with 66. The next year, McGwire hit 65 home runs and Sosa 63. Then in 2001, Barry Bonds hit 73, and Sosa hit 64. While these were undoubtedly great performances, many suspected that these records were not legitimate. As we learned more about baseball’s steroid era, I came to believe that 61 should still be considered the record.
As such, there was a lot of excitement when Giancarlo Stanton of the Miami Marlins hit 59 home runs in 2017; just two short. I’ve been a big fan of Stanton since he entered the league. That same year, Aaron Judge played his first full season for the Yankees, hitting 52 home runs. When the Yankees traded for Stanton that winter, I had two of my favorite players on the same team. I was looking forward to Giancarlo and Aaron teaming up together, just like Dad and Mick did in the early 1960s.
At the beginning of the 2022 season, I thought that both Judge and Stanton had the ability to break my father’s American League single-season home run record, which had stood for sixty-one years. Stanton was injured shortly after being named the All-Star Game MVP, but with Judge off to a great start, I thought he just had to stay healthy and finish strong.
The Yankees invited me to New York on September 20, where I watched Judge hit his 60th home run. The anticipation of Judge tying my father’s record created quite a stir, and I followed him for the next eight games, waiting to see if he could match my father’s mark. In Toronto, I sat with Aaron’s mom, Patty, behind the Yankees dugout, watching her son play for three games. In the seventh inning of the last game in Toronto, Judge hit his 61st home run. The moment the ball left his bat, I knew it was gone. I turned and gave Patty a big congratulatory hug.
I met with Aaron right after the game. We shook hands, hugged, and were immediately surrounded by photographers and media. I told Aaron how my father would have admired him, not just for the way he played but for the way he conducts himself off the field as well. I told him to hit No. 62 in New York at Yankee Stadium, because it would be crazy if he hit it there. Aaron thanked me for the support, and for coming to all these games.
In a press conference that night, I was asked if I’d consider Judge to hold not just the American League record but the real single-season home run record. I said I did and that most people would. It happened on October 4 in Texas, in the second-to-last game of the 2022 season. After Aaron hit No. 62, I tweeted the following:
Congratulations to Aaron Judge and his family on Aaron’s historic home run number 62! It has definitely been a baseball season to remember. You are all class and someone who should be revered. For the MAJORITY of the fans, we can now celebrate a new CLEAN HOME RUN KING!!
This book will give you a sensational look through Aaron’s historic season as he pursued and ultimately broke my dad’s record. The serious baseball fan will find interest in the detailed way the book delves into baseball’s history of the single-season home run record, held at separate times by Ruth, Maris, and now Judge.
62 in ’22—what an exciting season it was!
Roger Maris Jr.
PREFACE
AARON BOONE
I can’t imagine the New York Yankees without Aaron Judge.
From my first day as manager, I’ve felt that Aaron belongs in pinstripes, and what we saw him do in 2022 certainly shoots to the top of the list of special things I have experienced in this game. You probably know how special Aaron is, not only to me but to this organization. We’re talking about a great player between the lines, and one of the great two-way players in our game.
As much as any home run or great defensive play, I’ve come to love and appreciate who Aaron is as a person. At his core, he just wants to be a great teammate and win. I think that really does simplify things for him. Being with Aaron for five years and counting now, he’s lived that every day that I’ve known him. It’s so awesome getting to manage a player of his caliber, one who cares about his team as much as he does.
When you rewatch the highlights of Aaron’s historically incredible season, try to pay attention to how everyone reacted, especially his teammates. Every step of the way, I think they all got more enjoyment out of it than even Aaron did, and that’s because of the consistency of who he is. No matter who walked through our clubhouse, whether it was a rookie getting called up for the first time or a superstar player, Aaron was the same great individual.
But don’t be fooled by that. His personality is all very real, but like many of the great ones, he’s coming to rip your heart out. He plays this game with an edge and a swagger, which is another thing I love about Aaron Judge. Every now and then, he’ll give me a look or say something like, “I’ve got you today.” When he says that, we all know something special is going to happen.
One of the things that I love about this game, and I know Aaron does, too, is that we work really hard to shake hands at the end of the day. A lot goes into that, from the long-term off-season preparation to the short-term decisions on the day of the game. You should never take winning a ball game for granted, because it’s not easy. We try to appreciate that every night.
When we look back in twenty, thirty, or forty years, I truly believe that we will be having great conversations about this player, one who will hopefully be in Monument Park and go into the Hall of Fame as a Yankee. I am thrilled that Aaron is continuing his career in New York, where he belongs, leading us to hoist that championship one day.
We really are lucky to have him. I can’t think of a better person to be the face of our team moving forward.
Aaron Boone
INTRODUCTION
It was the penultimate day of the regular season, and the sporting world had just witnessed the most incredible individual single-season performance imaginable. With a towering drive to be recalled for all time, the magnificent New York Yankees right fielder stamped his exclamation point upon a monthslong assault of American League pitching, altering the record books while pushing the limits of what seemed achievable by man.
An adoring crowd of all ages cheered wildly as he trotted off the playing field, their crush of humanity surging toward the front row of the seating area. They called the slugger’s name, prompting a grin and an appreciative wave. Cries for autographs faded into echoes as the game’s most recognizable star bounded from the dugout to the clubhouse, his metal spikes clacking against the concrete runway. He approached a phalanx of news reporters and photographers, each hungrily waiting to document each syllable offered for history.
This was not the scene of Aaron Judge’s 62nd home run. That splendid afternoon in September of 1927 belonged to George Herman “Babe” Ruth, a larger-than-life figure who carried more nicknames than most of his fans owned pairs of socks.
He was the Babe, the Bambino, the Sultan of Swat, the Colossus of Clout, and the King of Crash. If you visited McSorley’s Old Ale House on East 7th Street in New York City and mentioned the Titan of Terror, the King of Swing, the Big Bam, or Herman the Great, fellow patrons would have nodded. Heck, on the correct night, you had a decent chance of toasting the man in the flesh. Some teammates even referred to Ruth as “Jidge,” a distortion of his birth name, just one vowel difference from the superstar who’d patrol his position in the Bronx nearly a century later.
“Sixty! Count ’em, sixty!” Ruth announced that day, having just belted his 60th home run of the season, a two-run shot off Tom Zachary of the Washington Senators. “Let’s see some other sonofabitch try to match that!”
Thirty-four years would pass before Roger Maris and Mickey Mantle captivated a generation of baby boomers with their dual pursuit of one of baseball’s most hallowed records. It would be sixty-five years before schoolteachers Patty and Wayne Judge filed paperwork with the state of California to adopt a baby boy, one they named Aaron and referred to as their “miracle.” In his day, every day, Ruth indisputably commanded the nation’s attention with a n iron grip. In 1921, Ruth marked his second season in a Yankees uniform by slugging 59 home runs, establishing a record that fans and experts agreed might stand forever. Not so.
No one crushed homers like Ruth, who began his career as a starting pitcher for the Boston Red Sox, then began regularly showcasing his uppercut swing as an outfielder in 1919. The game would never be the same, and Ruth towered over most of his competition in every sense of the phrase. At six foot two and a listed weight of 215 pounds, Ruth’s 1927 physique would hardly stand out on a current modern-day roster—in 2022, when the six-foot-seven, 282-pound Judge pounded on the record books, the Yankees’ closest body double for Ruth was rookie reliever Greg Weissert (also six foot two and 215 pounds). Yet in Ruth’s time, the average major leaguer stood about five foot two and weighed 165 to 175 pounds. Try squeezing into one of the box seats at Boston’s Fenway Park or Chicago’s Wrigley Field, historic venues that have seen more than a hundred years of ball games apiece, and you’ll sense that the world was a smaller place when Ruth was living large.
In January 1920, Ruth’s contract was sold to the Yankees in what would be recalled as one of history’s great swindles, right up there with Peter Minuit purchasing Manhattan from the Lenape for sixty guilders (about $1,000 in 2023 dollars). New York paid the then-staggering sum of $100,000 for Ruth, plus a later $300,000 loan that utilized the deed of Fenway Park as collateral. The popular myth is that Harry Frazee, Boston’s cash-strapped owner, used the proceeds of the Ruth sale to finance a failed Broadway musical, No, No, Nanette. That is inaccurate: Nanette did not debut on the Great White Way until 1925, long after Ruth was a Yankee, and the show had been a commercial success. However, Frazee struggled to make ends meet after his 1916 purchase of the ball club and less-than-stellar attendance in 1919, when Boston finished sixth in the eight-team American League.
Much like the Lenape initially believed they were getting the best of their trade, Ruth’s sale had not initially seemed ill-advised, at least in Boston circles. Ruth’s reckless drinking, womanizing, and gambling were already legendary, and a war of words took place in the newspapers. Ruth had signed a three-year, $30,000 deal before the 1919 season; now that he’d hit 29 homers for Boston, he called it “a bad move” and threatened not to play unless the Red Sox renegotiated. On the day the deal was announced to the press, Frazee said, “While Ruth is undoubtedly the greatest hitter the game has ever seen, he is likewise one of the most selfish and inconsiderate men to ever put on a baseball uniform.” Yankees pitcher Bob Shawkey had a different take, gushing: “Gee, I’m glad that guy’s not going to hit against me anymore. You take your life in your hands every time you step up against him.”
Interestingly, the “Curse of the Bambino” did not enter the lexicon until 1990, when Boston Globe columnist Dan Shaughnessy published a book by that title. Shaughnessy’s work came a dozen years after the Red Sox blew a 14 ½ game division lead to the Yankees, prompting a one-game playoff that featured a late three-run homer from light-hitting shortstop Bucky Dent. It reached shelves four years after Mookie Wilson’s ground ball trickled through Boston first baseman Bill Buckner’s legs, helping the New York Mets pull off a stunning World Series upset. Buckner died in 2019, having spent far too long being tortured by the miscue, an unfortunate blemish on a stellar twenty-two-year career in the majors. Organizational mismanagement by the Red Sox, mainly institutional racism on the part of owner Tom Yawkey in passing on talented Black players like Jackie Robinson and a teenage Willie Mays did far more damage over the decades than Ruth’s sale, the deep drive to left field that sealed Dent’s new middle name in New England circles, or the creaky Buckner’s inability to block Wilson’s little roller up along first.
* * *
Let’s reset the scene now to Yankee Stadium, the afternoon of September 30, 1927. It was a Friday in an already-memorable year that had seen Charles Lindbergh complete his solo flight across the Atlantic Ocean, piloting the Spirit of St. Louis from New York’s Roosevelt Field to Le Bourget Aerodrome in Paris, France. Lindbergh had been feted in a ticker-tape parade within the month, and now it was Ruth’s turn to command the city’s attention. His mighty Yanks would be playing in the World Series the following Monday, putting the finishing touches on a dominant 110-win season that earned their lineup the nickname of “Murderers’ Row.” The visiting Washington Senators would finish in third place with eighty-five wins; long before anyone had considered the concept of a Wild Card, they had effectively bowed out of the pennant race in June. Yankee Stadium was the final stop on the Senators’ railroad journey, playing out their last innings before a winter of fishing, golfing, and pheasant hunting.
As Ruth stepped to home plate in the eighth inning, he’d been held to two singles and a walk by Zachary, a fine but not overpowering pitcher from North Carolina farm country who depended upon his changeup and curveball. The score was tied as Mark Koenig danced off third base; the right-handed Zachary offered what Ruth would describe as “a slow screwball,” breaking down and in toward the Babe. Ruth swung mightily and produced a drive that did not soar high, traveling on a clothesline toward the right-field seats. Bill Dinneen, that day’s home plate umpire, crouched on the foul line and peered carefully in the distance. An eyewitness reported that Ruth’s drive rattled in the bleachers about fifteen rows from the top, not fair by more than six inches. Ruth rounded the bases, a joyous smirk spilling across his famous visage as Zachary fired his leather glove to the infield grass, punctuating the moment as Ruth’s teammates gleefully rushed from their dugout.
Attendance had been marked at only eight thousand that day; given the Yanks’ season-long dominance, a chance to see Ruth swat his 60th wasn’t enough to fill the house. Some sixty thousand–plus would pack the four-year-old Bronx ballpark a week later for the World Series, witnessing the completion of New York’s four-game sweep of Paul Waner, Pie Traynor, and the Pittsburgh Pirates. The few on hand in the grandstands for Ruth’s blast were fervent; in the bleachers and box seats, they stood and cheered, tossing hats and waving handkerchiefs. The ball was retrieved by a man named Joe Forner, whose home address (1937 First Avenue in Manhattan, now a depot for the city’s sanitation department) would be published in the next day’s newspapers, as was the custom of the time. As Ruth crossed home plate, he lifted his cap high and waved in salute, holding his hand in midair as if to say: “How about it, folks?”
* * *
How about it, indeed. Ruth remains the gold standard for baseball royalty, one of the untouchables, nearly a century after swatting his 714th and final home run. In almost every other sport, the greatest athletes played recently enough that we may have watched them in action—Michael Jordan in basketball, Wayne Gretzky in hockey, Tiger Woods in golf. Ruth is an exception. The game has changed markedly since 1927, when balls that bounced into the stands were counted as home runs, but Ruth is believed to have reached the seats on the fly with all 60 clouts in 1927. Some of the typewriter warriors who covered Ruth that summer wondered if he would hit 61 or 62 the following year, but 60 became the nice number that stood for decades—even if it hadn’t initially drawn the attention history would have us expect. Fred Lieb, a celebrated sportswriter who covered the 1927 Yankees, said that the scribes hadn’t suspected a new record was in the making until “well past Labor Day.” Most of the talk around the press box that season concerned Lou Gehrig, who had been on pace to drive in 200 or more runs; Gehrig would finish with 173, a tally that still led the majors.
A member of the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum’s inaugural 1936 class, Ruth was a figure so grand that his open casket lay in state for two days inside Yankee Stadium’s rotunda after he succumbed to cancer in August 1948. Ruth’s plump, grinning visage haunted Maris and Mantle throughout their incredible summer of 1961, when newspapers printed day-by-day tallies of how the Yankees sluggers were faring against Ruth’s 1927 pace.
It’s time to correct another urban legend: despite the widespread notion of an asterisk dotting the record books, perpetuated by the title of Billy Crystal’s 2001 meticulously researched film 61*, there is not, and never was, an asterisk placed next to Maris’s achievement. However, the concept of one was floated by Commissioner Ford C. Frick in July of that season, when Maris had 35 home runs and stood three weeks ahead of Ruth’s clip. Expansion had swelled the regular season schedule from 154 games to 162, and Frick read from a prepared statement to announce that if a player reached 60 homers after his club’s 154th game that “there would have to be some distinctive mark in the record books to show that Babe Ruth’s record was set under a 154-game schedule and the total of more than 60 was compiled while a 162-game schedule was in effect.” Dick Young, an influential columnist for the New York Daily News, piped up to suggest that Frick’s “distinctive mark” could be an asterisk.
