Everybody's got heroes, buddy, and I've got mine. Ever since I can remember, that man has been Henry Aaron. Not many people get to actually meet their heroes. I sat in a dugout next to Mr. Henry Aaron - with the same uniform on, on the same team. OK, it was a charity softball game and it wasn't County Stadium, but who cares? I "played" with Henry Aaron.

It was a few years back in Madison's Warner Park at the Pride Classic, a once-yearly fundraiser and celebration. I had managed to con myself into the function - taking the place of my more well-heeled editor - as one of the local "celebrities" who would face some Hollywood stars in said softball game. Tickets were sold for this contest, but it was clear that most everyone was there to catch a glimpse of Henry Aaron.

The Henry Aaron I saw that day wasn't larger than life. Sitting next to me was a withdrawn and very solitary man. I realized that the only time he probably felt secure was in a dugout like this, talking baseball without crowds of people stopping him for his autograph. Henry Aaron appeared to be a very private man who looked as if he wished all the media glare and attention would just go away and leave him in peace. Instead, he had become "the home-run king," an icon more than a human being.

I wanted to strike up a conversation somehow. After thanking him profusely for coming to my hometown, I informed him that I had always worn #44 in honor of my two favorite ballplayers of all-time - "you and Mr. McCovey," I told him. He nodded his head and looked back out at the field. At this point, I must admit that I wasn't the only one in that dugout in awe of meeting Mr. Aaron. Patty Loew, from Wisconsin Public Television, confided to me, "When I was growing up, I was either going to marry Henry Aaron or Eddie Matthews - I hadn't decided which one yet."

Then, I committed my major faux pas. I has snuck a freshly purchased copy of Aaron's autography, "I Had A Hammer," in my athletic bag. When I thought no one else was looking, I nudged Mr. Aaron and softly asked him if he could sign it. You would have thought that an alarm sounded. Suddenly, every person in the dugout was scrambling for something, anything, for Aaron to sign. I had invaded his privacy and the look in his eyes was devastating. The only positive was that there were only a dozen or so people to sign for, and then he could rest again.

There were other celebs in Warner Park that afternoon. Pitcher Richard Roundtree ("Shaft") and his batterymate Roger Mosley ("Magnum P.I.") managed to ring me up for a strikeout. Hall of Fame announcer Merle Harmon got my name wrong on the P.A., but I bounced back for that indignity to single twice in the same inning and even combined on a 4-6-3 double play with Eric Brown, now of Chicago's WBBM.

In the middle of the game, a mock brawl started. Somebody pretended to throw at somebody else, they charged the mound and we were all expected to rush the field and duke it out. I'd seen enough of these fights to know what to do. You look for a friendly face, someone you know or someone remotely your own size to dance with. Nearly everyone else on my team had other plans. Ten or twelve otherwise grown men ran in the direction of the female "American Gladiator," hoping to mix it up with her. My dance partner? Former Milwaukee reserve center Dick "The Cement Mixer" Cunningham, at 7 feet tall and 300+ pounds. Thanks a lot, guys.

By the time we got back in the dugout, Henry Aaron was long gone. I still felt terrible for causing the impromptu autograph session, but I also had my prize - a signed copy of I Had A Hammer. It sits on my desk and never leaves the house.

Everybody has heroes, but heroes don't always last too long. I got lucky the day I got Henry Aaron's autograph and the day I picked him to be my hero. And if this column ever finds its way back to you, Mr. Aaron, thanks for everything. Next time, I'll leave the book at home.