Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Somehow, I Dodged All The Bullets
I WAS ONLY 12 YEARS OLD THE FIRST TIME A GUN WAS FIRED in my presence.
It happened one afternoon in 1953 in the tiny kitchen of the two-bedroom, one-bath house in which I grew up on Causton Bluff Road in Savannah, Georgia.
It also was a culmination of the final confrontation my parents would ever have. At least in person, that is.
I am not ashamed to say that my mother, Jessie Harrelson, was the love of my life. She was a beautiful woman and I was a mama's boy, which I say proudly. She doted on me, her only son. In turn, I did anything I could to put a smile on her face or to make her life easier.
On this particular day, that required coming to her defense by punching the man she had married several years before I was born. Later, as I grew up and when I became an adult, I never referred to him as "my father" or "Dad," even though that's who he was biologically. I never respected him enough to honor him with those designations, ones that should mean so much to any kid.
Smith Franklin Harrelson was a cheater and a mean drunk.
When he drank, he and my mother argued. When he drank a lot, or was caught cheating, they fought.
On this particular day, he had done both.
Earlier that day, he said he had to visit the hospital for whatever reason and that is when Mama had caught him cheating on her again, this time with a nurse.
I knew that Mama always carried a pistol in her purse for protection. As their verbal squabble was about to escalate into a physical fight, I was reading a book in my bedroom. I was used to hearing them fight, but I knew this one was different. Mama screamed even louder than usual. I walked into the kitchen to see if I could break it up.
I immediately noticed her holding that gun — and I could tell by the look on her face that she meant to use it.
I guess she'd had just about enough of his bullcrap. Every woman has a tipping point with a bad husband and she had reached hers. I was afraid she would kill him right then and there. Or worse, I thought he might take that gun away from her and shoot her. He wasn't a big man, but he was very strong and he had big hands and arms.
He grabbed her by the wrist as I charged at him. Suddenly, the gun went off. Fortunately for all three of us, the only casualty was the living room ceiling, since he had stretched Mama's arms up over her head.
I reared back with my small right hand and caught him square in the jaw. I must admit it was a pretty good punch for a kid in the seventh grade. But no punch from a 12-yearold would do much damage to a grown man. He looked down at me, somewhat in disbelief, and let go of Mama's arm.
He then turned and walked out the door — and that was the last time I saw the man who was married to my mother for many, many years.
"Kenny, you and I are on our own now," she told me soon after that. "But I will always take care of you." That episode was just a prelude of what was to come for Kenneth Smith Harrelson.
Over my lifetime, I would get into more scrapes than I can remember and more bar-room brawls than most career bouncers. I had a temper, developed some fighting skills, and never backed down from anybody.
Unless they had me outgunned ...
Four years after that bullet pierced a hole through our ceiling, in the summer of 1957, I was walking down the street in a low-income area of Savannah with my friend Hennon Warren. Hennon was one heck of a shortstop on my American Legion team. I don't remember where we were headed that night when we came upon a bicycle lying straight across the sidewalk.
"Some kid must have left it here," I told Hennon. "I'll take care of it for him."
I picked up the bike and carried it to a narrow spot between two houses where I figured it would be secure. I gently set it down, thinking the kid who owned it would easily find it the following day. Suddenly, just as that bike left my fingertips, the front door of the house swung open and a man walked out. He saw me immediately.
"You trying to steal my kid's bike? I am going to shoot you!"
I didn't even get a chance to explain my good deed before that man bolted back inside.
In that part of town, I knew exactly what he was headed for. But I was pretty fast and I also knew it was time to put my speed to use. I looked at Hennon and neither of us needed to say a word.
We took off running across the street as if our lives depended on it.
As it turned out, they did. The man was not bluffing.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Where I grew up, I recognized the sounds of gunshots.
I dashed for a used-car lot across the street, spotting a chain across the entrance in the darkness just in time. I hurdled it as the bullets whizzed by me onto the pavement. I didn't have time to warn Hennon about that obstacle, turning just in time to see him trip over it, landing headfirst on the pavement.
Of course, a little asphalt-rash heals much better than a bullet hole. It was a good thing the man was shooting at me and not at Hennon. He was lying prone on the pavement and would have been an easy target.
It also was a good thing this guy was not a very good shot.
Or maybe the darkness of the night saved me.
I will never know.
I would have loved to go back there at some point to inform the trigger-happy father I was only securing his kid's bike, but I didn't want to risk it.
That was not the last time I'd be shot at. One time when I was in my twenties, I planned on doing a little duck-hunting in Savannah. I walked about a half mile down to this river and noticed a car, sitting on a beaten path, rocking up and down like a boat on the Atlantic. Curiosity got the better of me, so I walked up to the car. I got about five feet away before I could see, well, let's just say some carnal relations were occurring in the back seat.
Suddenly, the man looked up and saw me peering inside.
Rather than stay and try to talk myself out of this jam, again I took off running.
I ran about 30 yards by the time I heard the familiar Pop! Pop! Pop! of a pistol again. I zigzagged through the open field and cut behind a tree just as a bullet carved a big hole into the bark inches from my head. I took a deep breath, turned, and continued running out of range, figuring the guy could not chase me with his pants around his ankles.
I never even considered leveling my shotgun and shooting back at him. In times like those, I figured the safest thing to do was to run for my life. So that's what I did — again.
Years later, after I had already made it to the big leagues, I was on a road trip in Oakland. By then I was well known as "Hawk" Harrelson, which didn't stop a 6-foot-5 guy from beating my butt pretty good in a bar. That one I probably deserved, since I had started it.
He threatened revenge moments before the police hauled him away, declaring, "I know who you are."
He was half right, anyway. He had met the Hawk, but he didn't know Kenny Harrelson.
You see, not only had I received a nickname that stuck like glue, but I admit that the Hawk became my alter ego.
There was a huge difference between me and the Hawk. I didn't want to fight, but the Hawk did. Sometimes pressure ate Kenny up, but it wasn't a problem for the Hawk, whether it was on the baseball field or the golf course in front of a big gallery.
A prominent psychologist once told me the Hawk developed his own personality to help Kenny deal with his issues.
Anyway, the day after that scrum in an Oakland nightclub, I showed up at the ballpark sporting a huge black eye. I had to plead with my manager to put me into the lineup. I then hit a long double off the wall with only one eye open.
That episode illustrated a theme in my life.
When I was growing up, some of my friends made bets with each other about whether I would live to see the age of 20. And if a few guys had been more accurate with a gun, I wouldn't have. Not only did I fight a lot, but I was a daredevil. I often did stupid, dangerous things, like drag racing on the streets of Savannah.
I could have died a dozen times in about a dozen different ways over the years. Not only have I been shot at, but I have had a gun stuck to my ribs in a foreign country, taken part in more bar-room brawls than I can remember, and survived white-knuckle, out-of-control rides in cabs over mountainous terrain in faraway places.
I feel fortunate to have lived long enough to put my life story into words.
I like to think I learned something from those near-death experiences. They not only leave you alive, they make you feel alive, if that makes any sense. Let me tell you, there's nothing that rattles your nerves like the sound of lead flying by your head.
I have been beaten up — physically and mentally, figuratively and literally — a lot during my lifetime. I have taken my share of butt- whippings and delivered quite a few myself.
You see, the Hawk was a fighter.
The Hawk never cared how many he faced or how big they were, he knew somebody was gonna get knocked out.
I never quit fighting in the middle of one, even when I was taking a beating. I didn't care if I got my butt kicked once in a while. I always figured a good butt-beating gives a guy some humility. Sometimes, it taught me a lesson or kept me grounded. It's not the worst thing in the world to get the crap beat out of you, and I never let it interfere with my work.
Many a day and night throughout my life, I worked my way out of a tough situation with my 10 knuckles. That's just the way it was where I was raised, when I was raised, and I certainly won't apologize for it all these years later.
In some ways, disputes were better solved that way than they are in today's world. You wiped off the blood, said your peace, and sometimes you even shook hands when it was over. Then you went back to what you were doing to begin with.
Nobody ever died.
Today, they carry the loser of a confrontation to the morgue. The winner, if caught, often goes off to prison.
Fortunately, I avoided both destinations.
Not that my body didn't get damaged along the way. My nose has been broken five times and is somewhat of a mangled, yet prominent, mess. I have had five operations on my eyes and I don't have much peripheral vision. I have screws and pins in my right ankle.
A doctor, while examining my broken right hand once after a fight, told me, "Hawk, you just hit too hard." These days, my wrists are very painful. Doctors have told me I basically wore them out. It's no wonder, because I spent my life swinging away at something — with a baseball bat, a golf club, or my fists.
Now, just because I have been in a ton of scrapes, and owned a bad temper, don't get the idea that I couldn't get along with people.
I made more lifelong friends along the way than a guy deserves to have, from the biggest sports legends on the planet such as Michael Jordan and Arnold Palmer to my teammates from baseball, golf partners, not to mention hundreds of everyday Joes, clubhouse attendants, bartenders, bellhops, and restaurant owners the public wouldn't recognize, as well as some of the biggest business titans America has ever known.
I love people.
I love meeting them, talking to them, getting to know what makes them tick. I just never put up with the rudeness or insults, or what I thought were insults back when I could do something about it. But when I became a professional athlete and a public figure, it seemed I was often a target for the drunkest or brashest guy in the joint. Also, I often defended friends or acquaintances who were unwilling or unable to defend themselves.
I may have grown up without a father in my life and I may have been a mischievous kid, but I still knew right from wrong. Mama taught me well, and I never crossed the line or broke the law.
Along the way, my teachers, schools principals, the media, a manager or two, and some of my critics have called me anything from unruly, wild, outspoken, and flashy, to a showboat and a rebel.
The truth is I probably was all of the above at one time or another.
I went from being a great high school athlete in three sports to the bright lights of Major League Baseball. I played professional golf for a few years and then quit because my terrible temper made it impossible for me to make a living and keep my clubs intact at the same time.
I finally answered my calling: I found a home as a baseball broadcaster.
I was recently hitting a bucket of balls at my favorite course outside Chicago when an older gentleman walked up to me.
"Mister Harrelson, I don't mean to interrupt you," he said, "but I've been reading about you lately and you really have led some sort of amazing life."
I thanked him, finished my bucket, and as I started my 34-mile drive back to my house in Indiana, I thought about what he had said.
"That guy is right," I said to myself. "It has been an amazing life."
Looking back on it, I really believe my timing couldn't have been more perfect.
It is a special thing to be the first person to do something significant. Neil Armstrong was the first man to walk on the moon. Amelia Earhart was the first woman to complete a transatlantic flight. Jackie Robinson was the first black player in the major leagues.
Me?
I was the first big-leaguer to wear a batting glove, albeit by accident. (Actually, it was a golf glove, but the idea caught on and later morphed into the common-day batting glove.) Watch today's hitters at the plate. Is there anyone, outside of a pitcher hitting in the National League perhaps, who doesn't wear one or even two?
I also became baseball's first free agent, even though Curt Flood was credited with that distinction a few years after I did it. But I will explain that later.
No records are kept on this, obviously, but I believe I was the first player to ever have a full-time bodyguard — and I sure needed it.
I was the first major leaguer to quit baseball to play professional golf for a living. Or at least try to.
Then I became the first professional golfer to quit the sport to become a baseball broadcaster.
I know there is nobody else who can claim to have played in the MLB All-Star Game, a World Series, and the British Open.
How many guys have been given golf clubs by Ben Hogan, Jack Nicklaus, and Palmer, or a putter by Payne Stewart only weeks before he died, beaten Sam Snead in match play, or sang on stage with Roy Clark, Jerry Reed, and Chet Atkins, or hung out with the likes of Rocky Marciano and Mickey Mantle, or movie stars like Richard Burton and Liz Taylor, or kneeled in the on-deck circle as the great Carl Yastrzemski ripped a homer at Fenway Park, or sat next to Frank "Hondo" Howard as he ripped into a steak, had a drink with Robert Mitchum, been called a buddy by Frank Sinatra, or even got the chance to meet John Wayne?
I witnessed quite a bit of history, too. I was with Joe Namath the night before he fulfilled his famous guarantee, leading the New York Jets to one of the biggest upsets in sports history, in Super Bowl III. I joked around with Bobby Kennedy at my locker just weeks before he was assassinated. (I never told him that I almost punched his brother Teddy in the face one night.)
I have enjoyed America's greatest venues, from the White House to Air Force One to Fenway Park and Yankee Stadium to the greens of Augusta National.
I played with or against some of the greatest legends of America's pastime. I shared a broadcast booth with several more and played golf with hundreds of people who wound up in Cooperstown.
I know it may seem as if I am bragging about my life, but I sure don't want it to come off that way. Like I said, I just happened to frequently be in the right place at the right time.
There were times I felt invincible, that I could succeed at just about any event or game I tried athletically. I was never afraid to take risks or try something new and I learned the nuances of most sports very quickly.
I was a high school All-American in basketball and a quarterback whom all the big schools wanted to sign. I was a scratch golfer as a high school junior. I could shoot pool with anybody. I averaged around 200 as a bowler. I won my first eight boxing matches as an amateur — until I got knocked on my butt and gave up that sport.
And baseball?
It may have been my worst sport.
Then I made a living at it. Well, if you describe a $6,000 salary when I came up to the big leagues in 1963 as a "living." When I wasn't playing baseball, I supplemented my income betting on myself in arm-wrestling, shooting pool, and, of course, playing golf. I was a pretty good gin player as well.
I admit that I once loved living in the fast lane, at least until I found the woman who settled me down. I traveled by helicopters and limousines. I had long hair and could have passed for a member of the Mod Squad in the 1960s. I used to wear the flashiest, most outrageous clothes of anyone in professional sports, including Broadway Joe. Then there was a period during the 1970s and '80s when I usually sported a cowboy hat on my head and cowboy boots on my feet, with big sunglasses propped on my prominent nose.
All the while, I considered myself "old school," although a few of my former teammates surely would laugh about that label now.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Hawk"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Ken Harrelson and Jeff Snook.
Excerpted by permission of Triumph Books LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
