Hearing Voices

I still hear voices in my head.

No, not demons or evil spirits, but the voices of my youth, the voices that emanated from two of my constant companions during my growing up years, my bedside radio and television.

Sure, my Dad and my grandpa and others helped teach me to play the games, but the voices, the voices taught me the history of the games, the nuances that could only be detected by decades of paying close attention to every detail, from endless hours of talking to players, coaches and managers.

The voice the rings loudest is that of Jack Buck.  I have written much about him over the years.  I learned more about baseball listening to him call games on KMOX than I learned from anyone and nearly 20 years of playing the game.  Outside of my immediate family, Jack was my hero, the one I wanted to be like.

I still hear Joe Garagiola and Vin Scully as well.  Garagiola, the former catcher, who for years called the NBC Game of the Week.  Yes kids, there was a time when you saw one game a week on television, and it wasn’t that long ago.  I can still hear Garagiola reminding me that baseball can be fun, and funny things happen.

Vin Scully is still with us, in his mid-80’s, who started broadcasting the Los Angeles Dodgers when they were still in Brooklyn.  To put that in perspective, the Dodgers last year in Brooklyn was the year I was born (1957).

Scully is the Rembrandt to Buck’s Rockwell, painting a canvas of descriptive words which filled the mind with vivid color and imagery.  There is no one like him in baseball today.  I doubt there ever will be again.Do this for me.  Go to You Tube and type in “Kirk Gibson Home Run, 1988 World Series.” 

Buck is calling the game for CBS Radio, Scully I think for NBC Television.  In the bottom of the ninth, the Dodgers, trailing 4-2, send up Gibson to pinch hit in the bottom of the ninth.  Gibson, their best hitter, is rendered useless for the World Series because of knee issues.  Yet, someway, somehow, he hits a home run off of the Athletics Dennis Eckersley to win the game for the Dodgers.

Listen to Scully’s call, “In a year that has been so improbable, the impossible has happened.”  Then listen to Buck, where he broadcast to the millions listening on radio, “I don’t believe what I just saw.”  Then after a couple seconds of silence, he says it again, “I don’t believe what I just saw!”  Classic.

But the voices in my head replay more than baseball.  With every hockey game I watch, I hear Dan Kelly, who has been dead for 20 years, saying “he shoots, he scooooooooores!”  Goosebumps.

Then there is football, where three voices share space in my brain.  There is Ray Scott, one of the early voices of the NFL, who seemed to be the play-by-play man on every important NFL game.

They there is John Facenda, who did not broadcast for just one team, he broadcast for all of them.  For years, Facenda, who was a Philadelphia newsman, was the “Voice” of NFL Films, narrating every play and highlight.  At NFL Films and around the NFL, Facenda was simply known as “The Voice of God.”  You Tube him as well, and look for “The Autumn Wind.”  I so wish I had a voice like him.

Then there is Pat Summerall, which I guess is the reason I am writing this column.  The University of Arkansas graduate was voice of football for a generation.  Starting in the 1970’s with Tom Brookshier who was later replaced by John Madden, Summerall respected the intelligence of those watching.  He didn’t state the obvious, just in his own, smooth style, let you know what was happening.  He was the total opposite of Madden, his partner for 20-plus years at CBS and Fox.  

Summerall died this past week at the age of 82.

I saw a bumper sticker a few months ago that said, “I may be old, but I got to see all the good bands.”Let me tweak that for a moment.  “I may be old, but I got to hear all the good announcers.”
Buck, Garagiola, Scully, Kelly, Scott, Facenda and Summerall. 

I still hear voices in my head, and they can stay as long as they want.

This originally appeared in the April 25, 2013 edition of the Pocahontas Star Herald.

42

Looking back on my nearly 56 years on this earth, I really don’t think I have ever been a focal point of prejudice of any kind.  So to pretend that I understand the pain someone goes through who has been the victim of prejudice would be a lie.  I don’t understand their pain, and there is no way I ever will.

I don’t know if I would call myself a baseball historian or not.  Certainly not like Donald Honig, or Lawrence Ritter, or Roger Angell or other similar writers whose works I have enjoyed through the years.  No, I am not in their league, but do know a lot about the history of baseball, certainly more than the average person.  I don’t say that to brag, but to say baseball is one subject I know a lot about.  I also know a lot about airlines and airports.  That doesn’t make me smarter than anyone else.  Most of us have at least one subject in which we know more than the average person, a subject in which we have immersed ourselves.  A subject in which many would consider us an expert.

Before I went to the movies Sunday afternoon to see “42,” I knew the Jackie Robinson story.  I knew he had grown up in California, had starred in baseball and football at UCLA.  I knew he had gone into the Army, had been court-martialed for refusing to move to the back of a bus.  I knew once he had been discharged from the Army, he began playing baseball for the Kansas City Monarchs of the Negro baseball Leagues.

I knew Brooklyn Dodger President and General Manager Branch Rickey was looking to sign an African-American to sign to a contract so he could integrate baseball.  But he wasn’t looking for just any African-American, he was looking for the one player who, as the movie pointed out, had the courage to walk away from confrontation.

I knew the story.  There was really nothing in the movie that I didn’t already know or had heard or read. 

But the movie brought the Jackie Robinson story to life.  It put racism, Jim Crow laws, the pure hatred of one human being to another right there in living color for the world to see.  The words that have filled so many books on baseball suddenly had more meaning than before.  It was real, it was scary, it was sad.

Brian Helgeland wrote and directed “42”, which is more about human relations than it is about baseball.  Helgeland brings to life the racism Robinson endured, from his own teammates signing a petition saying they don’t want to play with him, to opposing players and managers telling slurs and insults at him while he is in the batter’s box.  Opposing pitchers threw at his head, opposing players tried to spike him.  Through it all, Robinson did not retaliate.  Did it bother him?  Absolutely, Did he want to quit?  You bet.  But he never retaliated, he never stooped to their level.  He persevered, he fought on, he played baseball.

One of my favorite scenes, and certainly one of the more poignant ones, happened when the Dodgers were playing the Reds in Cincinnati.  The Dodger shortstop was future Hall-of-Famer Pee Wee Reese, who was also a Southener from Kentucky.  If you are familiar with the story at all, you know the abuse Robinson endured was particularly brutal from Southerners.  When the Dodgers played in Cincinnati and St. Louis, the barbs were personal and painful.

But in this scene, between innings, when the Dodger infield was throwing the ball around the infield, Reese comes over to Robinson to talk to him, eventually putting his arm around him as they talked.  Reese, in his own way, was showing the people in the stands, in the baseball world, and yes his own Dodger teammates, that he accepted Robinson for what he was, a teammate and a valued member of the Dodgers.

But the movie is also about Branch Rickey.  The man who took the chance and brought Robinson to the big leagues.  Rickey always had Robinson’s back, looking out for him, trying to protect him.  Yes, Rickey signed Robinson to a contract because it was the right thing to do, but he also did it because he wanted to win games, and knew Robinson would help the Dodgers be a better ballclub.  Indeed, the 1947 Dodgers, with rookie Jackie Robinson playing first base, won the National League pennant.  Just as they did in 1949, and 1952, ’53, ’55 and ’56.  Six pennant in 10 years, because Rickey integrated baseball.  In 1948, Robinson was joined by Roy Campanella, then Don Newcombe, Junior Gilliam and Sandy Amoros.

Chadwick Boseman does a good job as Jackie Robinson.  The smile, the way he held the bat and ran the bases, Boseman nailed Robinson’s character.  Harrison Ford also deserves recognition for portraying Branch Rickey.  When we got home from the movie, I showed Marilyn pictures from the 1950’s and ‘’50’s of Rickey.  He and Ford could have passed for twins.

I was born in 1957, and grew up in the suburbs of St. Louis.  From the time I went to kindergarten, we had African-American children in our classes.  We ate lunch with them, studied with them, had recess with them.  It was no big deal, in fact, we didn’t know it was a big deal in other parts of the country.  I am grateful I was shielded from that bigotry, and do not have to carry the burden of any racist actions today.

I doubt “42” wins an Academy Award for Best Picture.  But at the very least, it should challenge us to take a look at ourselves, where we have come from, and make us vow never to let racism gain a foothold in America again.

I knew the Jackie Robinson story before.  But now, thanks to “42,” I feel like I know the person who wore the number.

 

This column originally appeared in the May 30, 2013 edition of the Pocahontas Star Herald.

BBQ Bologna

On most Saturdays, I have breakfast with Tim Scott, Lloyd Lewallen and Eric Moffett.  We usually meet at the Jct. 166 Cafe in Pocahontas at 7.30a and for an hour or so to eat and talk and laugh.  The food is good, even though we all usually order the same thing every week.

This morning Tim was not with us, having bailed to go see his grandkids in Northwest Arkansas, but we did have two guests.  Eric's father, who lives in Huntsville, Ark. joined us as did Eric's father-in-law from Rowlett, Texas.  As is usually the case, at one point during our gluttony, the conversation turned to food.  I was sitting next to Eric's father-in-law, Dave Brownfield, and during the course of our conversation, I discovered we both had a love for a certain Mexican restaurant located in the Fort Worth Stockyards named Joe T. Garcia's. 

As we swapped stories taking turns raving about Garcia's, Dave asked me if I had ever been to a certain restaurant in south Dallas that served bar-b-que bologna.  Almost immediately my eyes glazed over and I started to salivate thinking about my favorite childhood lunch meat bathed in sweet, smoky barbecue sauce.  Dave couldn't remember the name of the restaurant, but promised to get it for me.  He also added it was the best bologna he had tasted.

Later this afternoon, I received an e-mail from Dave, telling me the mystery restaurant was Little Bob's BBQ, located just a mile or two south of downtown Dallas in the Oakcliff area.  I Googled it, and I am semi-familiar with the neighborhood in which it is located, just off of I-35E.   Knowing the exact location, only makes the desire to taste this desirable morsel even more.

I don't have a trip to the Metroplex planned anytime soon, but I think Marilyn may be going sometime in July with her mother and sister to see her brother in Greenville. which is about an hour east of Dallas.  Maybe, if I am lucky, she'll make a stop in south Dallas for me.  It could happen.

Two-year vacation

When the Eagles music group got back together sometime in the 1990's, I remember watching the video of their reunion concert.   At one point, Glen Frey says, "for the record, we never broke up, we just took a 15-year vacation."

With that in mind, I never quit writing, I just took a two-year vacation from posting.

With some encouragement and prodding from a couple of friends, I have decided to re-commence my posting.  As usual, there will be some original thoughts, and some copies of my column from the pages of the Star Herald.

As I tell my friends when I send them things to read, as always, happy reading.