ATLANTA — Henry Aaron’s statue at the old Turner Field lives a reasonably lonely existence. Behind the gates of Center Parc Credit Union Stadium, the statue dedicated to the man who broke Babe Ruth’s home run record just a quarter mile away is the only reminder to the public that this was once a ballpark of some accord.

Now home to Georgia State football, the signage is everywhere. So, if you want to fully enmesh yourself in the history, you’ve got to make the trek to Truist Park in Cobb County to remember the glory that once was the Atlanta Braves’ franchise.

The former Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium, where Aaron hit career home run No. 715 to pass Ruth, has been a parking lot for the facility that was originally built for the Olympics three decades ago.

But on this sticky Sunday afternoon, in the bowels of the one park where the team did not win a World Series title, four men with direct connections to Aaron are sitting in the old team clubhouse, where photos of Aaron’s historic night in April 1974 adorn the walls. They’ve gathered to have a conversation about their late friend/mentor/teammate and guiding light for The Players Alliance, hosted by former MLB outfielder Curtis Granderson.

There is Dusty Baker, who was on deck when Aaron hit 715; Ralph Garr, widely regarded as one of Hank’s best friends on the team; Gary Matthews Sr., also a teammate of Aaron’s in Atlanta; and Cito Gaston, who played multiple seasons for the Braves. They were all gathered alongside former MLB pitcher Edwin Jackson, a Columbus, Georgia, native and Hall of Fame pitcher C.C. Sabathia, whose idea this was to begin with.

“Baseball is just so much about numbers. I felt like we would be missing an opportunity not to tell that story, right? And having it, you know, being 7/15 and, you know it being in Atlanta, it just makes so much sense,” Sabathia said. “It’s easy for me. I love sitting around and hearing their stories. And we get a chance to [as players], but it’s never on camera. It’s never on the record.”

This time it was, and the tales didn’t disappoint. Sabathia, 44, who will be inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame on July 27, understands that the privilege of just knowing the history isn’t enough. The privilege of being around the game is fantastic if you’re only looking to serve yourself. But the memories of the spoken word are oftentimes taken for granted, and in some cases intentionally erased.

Hearing tales about Aaron from your peers is an experience you can’t just recreate. Personally, there’s something very familiar. Even though I’m sitting in a former big-league locker room, the banter and the tone of the convo feels familiar. Be it the uncles at the card table or in the backyard at the family or church function, or sitting around with your old high school buddies talking about the old days, these guys were happy to take an afternoon to document their own memories, nevermind Hank Aaron’s.

“I mean, I didn’t know what we were getting into, but I knew it’s gonna be fun, right? I mean, with all the brothers that are here, guys that I played with, guys that I grew up with, you know, guys that I helped raise,” said Baker, 76, referring to Sabathia, who he’s known since he was a 12-year-old at his baseball camp.

“It feels great, but you also realize that you’re getting older, and, you know, like you’re realizing that some of the greats are passing on. I think it’s even more necessary for us to continue the legacies that were before us and give back, because when we’re gone, we’re gone.”

Monday night at the MLB Home Run Derby — 7/14, if you will — the warmups that players wore on the field were numbered either 3 or 44, after Babe Ruth and Aaron. Major League Baseball is not going to let anyone forget those two names.

But for guys like Gaston — who took over a 12-24 Toronto Blue Jays team in 1989 and won a division, then later won back-to-back World Series in 1992 and 1993 but somehow never won a manager of the year award — these kind of conversations very much feel like all they have. He openly admits that he believes he’ll be dead before his name is selected for the Hall of Fame.

“Oh, man, this was a ball,” Gaston, 81, an All-Star in 1970, said after the taping. “We laugh like this all time. We had a great time and love giving each other a little jab. I sort of remind folks that you know this ain’t gone nowhere, that’s for sure. Really appreciate that they invited us to do this.”

It really is sad to see so many facets of the game that titans like this helped create just sort of wither away. While the numbers continue to be down for Black players across MLB, you lose so many parts of life and culture that were fundamental factors in why some kids wanted to play the sport to begin with.

“Dusty practically raised me in this game, I know it’s gonna be special, or just the stories that come out of it, the inspiration that people can get, just understanding where these men came from and what they had to endure to play the game of baseball. I don’t think any of us could have done it,” said Sabathia, wearing a Hank Aaron white Braves jersey, a replica of the one he wore when the home run record was broken.

“I know I couldn’t have done what Dusty did: being a kid out of high school, coming from Northern California, going to the South in that time. I wouldn’t have made it. I have to thank them and pay it forward to those guys and always make sure that their stories are told, because I wouldn’t be a baseball player if it wasn’t for these men.”

If you step back and look around the world, the state of affairs, and see how entire histories of humankind have been wiped out, it feels like more than just a fun link-up between old guys. To be there in person was almost emotionally overwhelming. It’s entirely possible that this many people who knew Henry Louis Aaron well will never be in the same place at the same time again.

The conversation was joyful but determined. Spirited without feeling chaotic. Full of intent without being preachy. All qualities that the men said Aaron exuded to everyone, no matter who you were.

Origin stories of guys’ nicknames were real fun, with Dusty interjecting a few times to remind guys that the names they were known for were not necessarily the first ones.

Ralph “Roadrunner” Garr, 79, who actually was officially licensed that moniker at one point by Warner Brothers, was known as “Alligator” when he was in the minors. Dusty still calls him Gator to this day. For Matthews Sr. — known as Sarge, a nickname given to him by Reds legend Pete Rose — Baker reminded him that in San Francisco he was known as “Sweet” due to his swing, though at the time he was somewhat defensive about.

And of course, Cito’s actual name isn’t that at all. Some dude who knew him as a teenager working at a gas station told him that he looked like a Mexican wrestler by that name when he grew up in Texas. To quote a famous movie: His real name’s Clarence. He changed it officially in the bigs after his first year. When asked about it by a visiting reporter the following spring training, Gaston casually lied and said he didn’t know anyone by that name. A+ bit.

They traded stories about everything, including where they most liked to eat on the road: Peachtree in Kansas City, the Busy Bee in Atlanta in the ’60s and ’70s, where they served ham hocks. Sweetie Pie’s in St Louis.

My personal favorite memory of hijinks came when Dusty and Gator tagged-teamed to tell the story of the time they waited for their manager to check their room, then snuck down to Hank’s room to hang out. Well, the first place that skipper Eddie Mathews went after their room was Aaron’s. They ended up hiding in a closet for hours, because Mathews said he liked drinking beer with Hank, and The Hammer wasn’t going to rat them out, but he also wasn’t going to let them off the hook and ask his manager to leave. Again, hilarious.

For all the talk about Aaron’s character, his feats of strength and uncanny ability to hit tons of homers without ever really blasting the type of moonshots that we saw at Truist Park on Monday night, his determination and will to play was the theme that stood out most.

After cutting his hand badly helping a teammate push his car out of a ditch at the end of the season, shattering the taillight with his sheer hand strength, he seemed iffy to play. And the playoffs were coming up. Aaron took three shots of Novocain, one each between the spaces of his non-throwing hand fingers, and hit .350 in the series with three home runs.

“I said [to myself ever since], he’s not a human,” Garr recalled, still in disbelief.

Aaron didn’t have sons who made in the majors. Dusty’s son is currently in the Washington Nationals’ system. For a long time, that was as viable a path as any to getting to the bigs for Black players. Generational talent lasted generations. With that becoming more and more rare, for Matthews Sr., who with his son became the 14th father-son combo to play in an All-Star Game when Matthews Jr. made it in 2006 — the same year he made the greatest catch in the history of the center-field position, as I see it — it seems like a sad way for our culture and community to go.

Matthews Sr., 75, lamented on only making one All-Star Game and constantly being told that if they could take one more guy, it would have been him — a feeling many Black folks know well.

“[It’s] always great when you get together and be able to talk about baseball with former players. I think this should be a celebration in talking about guys. That’s why you’re able to keep the history,” Matthews Sr. said with a wistful and thankful look in his eye. “CC and Curtis [are] taking it to another level. It really does mean a lot, because I don’t want to say they’re taking us out to pasture, but we’re close to it.”