Voices of Summer: Ranking Baseball's 101 All-Time Best Announcers (12 page)

In 1932, the bug-bitten barrister cracked radio in Covington, Kentucky,
then at WFBE Cincinnati. Barber's 1934 arrival put him on the street.
Unfazed, Russ did Chicago baseball, boxing, and Big Ten football, then
trekked to Class-B Charlotte. "Plus, I re-created all sorts of big-league
games. For three years I didn't see a park."

Once Landis summoned him for contradicting an umpire. "I was so terrified," Hodges said, "I couldn't move from my chair." In 1942, he moved to
Washington. "No flag, but finally I did games in person."That year, leaving the
Army, the Yankees' Allen began listening to tapes.

Even a volcano needs a rest. "I called Arch [McDonald], who said Russ'd be
a great assistant," said Mel. Soon they went drinking at Shor's. "We hit it
off-marvelous chemistry. Before long Russ and I could almost read each
other's mind."

They read through 1948. That offseason Hodges crossed the Harlem
River. "While Barber gave his listeners corn-fed philosophy and humor,"
wrote Wells Twombly, "and Allen told you more about baseball than you
cared to know, Hodges of the Giants told it the way it was."

The Polo Grounds fused pigeon stoops, bullpen shacks, and an oblong
shape: 279 feet to left; 257 feet, right; center, ghostly 483. On May 25, 1951,
Willie Mays reported from Triple-A Minneapolis. The rookie went hitless his
first 12 ups. "What's wrong, son?" said Durocher, who heard him crying.

"Mister Leo, I can't play here," Mays, 20, moaned.

"I brought you here to do one thing play center field. And as long as
that uniform says `New York Giants' and I'm the manager, you will be in
center field every day." Next day he cleared the roof.

Brooklyn-born comic Phil Foster dubbed Thomson's homer "D-DayDat Day." The Giants lost the Series: Russ and Allen keyed NBC TV's 64outlet network, including an affiliate in Matamoros, Mexico. Mays joined the
Army, returning to rob Cleveland, over the shoulder, in the 1954 Classic
opener. Dusty Rhodes pinch-homered to win Games One--Two. Each sired
"Bye-bye baby!"-Russ's riposte to "How about that!"

Giants sweep: having called Rhodes "useless," Leo changed his mind. By
1957, Stoneham changed his about staying in NewYork. Page 1 of the NewYork
World-Telegram mourned: "It's Official: Giants to Frisco." On September 29, the
Giants lost to Pittsburgh, 9-1. For Hodges, moving day had truly come.

That year he hired Woods, recently fired by the Yankees. "Russ saved me. No
one will ever know the guys that he gave money or advice." Jim pined to join
him in California. Instead, Simmons-"! was local. Horace wanted that"-needled "The Fabulous Fat Man, more fabulous than fat." Columnist Charles
McCabe mocked "their Madison Avenue style." Most liked the streamer of
art, rib, and scheme.

"How ya doing, everybody?" Russ began each broadcast. Better than
his duds.

"Ross/Akins asked him to take the labels out of his clothes," Lon
laughed. "Said he was ruining their image."

The ' S9ers almost won the flag. Hodges and Allen called the first 1961
All-Star Game. We had been this way before: 1962 Bums--Dints playoff. L.A.
led the decider, 4-2. "All that effort-for what?" Mays mused. A last-inning
flurry: Giants, 6-4. Chemistry/memory: Russ and Mel shared a last Fall
Classic.

Game Seven: New York, 1-0, ninth inning, two on and out. The Yanks'
Ralph Terry had ceded Bill Mazeroski's 1960 Series-ending dinger. "[Now]
my heart was in my throat," almost swallowing a 1-I pitch. Willie McCovey
lined to Bobby Richardson. The Giants reached their next Series in 1989.
Hodges never called another network game.

The real Russ was an epicure of hooch. "If we win the game, we'll drink
because we're happy," he told a colleague. "If we lose, we'll drink because
we're sad. The only way we won't drink is if we tie." Curfew extended an
extra-inning game. "We're just gonna break a rule." Mays broke the mold:
3,283 hits, .302 average, 11 Gold Gloves, 24 All-Star Games, and 660
homers. Hodges called the first 630. "He was like my older brother," said
Willie. "I trusted him about everything."

In 1963, Russ released a memoir, My Giants. Mays became a two-time
MVP (other, 1954) in 1965. That August 17 San Francisco's Juan Marichal hit
vs. Sandy Koufax. Catcher John Roseboro "threw the ball hack too close to
my ear," said Marichal, clubbing him with the bat. "An amazing fight by baseball standards," Hodges jibed. "Almost worthy of Coogan's Bluff."

In New York, Horace telecast the entire home schedule. He limited
Frisco's-"No home coverage to protect attendance"-to nine games from
Dodger Stadium. It worked till the A's invaded Oakland, divided the Bay.
Russ retired in late 1970. "He'd had enough traveling," said Simmons. Be
careful for what you ask.

"Russ agreed to do Giants P.R. and baseball for me when I was busy with
the 49ers, but it wasn't the same."The chain smoker died April 19, 1971, at
61, of a heart attack-"really, a broken heart." Mays, weeping, was a pallbearer.

October 3, 1951. "Hartung down the line at third base, not taking any
chances. Lockman with not too big of a lead at second, but he'll be running
like the wind if Thomson hits one." Fate threw. Thomson hit one. "The Giants
win the pennant!"

Russ HODGES

For a time baseball's radio world yoked only big-league cities. By mid-century,
14 of 16 teams added a network for distant burgs and farms. Dayton heard the
Reds. Champaign liked the Cubs. Like Sherman, the Senators seized the
Shenandoah Valley. The problem was geography. America's baseball clock
read 12 to 3.

"Every team was in the Northeast and Midwest quadrant," mused
Lindsey Nelson. Coverage began in Maine, ended in Missouri, and ceased
near Washington, D. C. By contrast, those west of the Mississippi and south of Virginia got only the network All-Star Game and Series. "They were thirsting
for coverage." A solution began brewing in The Old Scotchman's head.

The Scotchman was Gordon McLendon: born, Paris, Texas, 1921;
county newspaper editor at 14; Yale '42, major, Oriental Languages. He
called baseball and basketball, working with classmate and future actor James
Whitmore. "A great voice," said Gordon, whose own rose and fell like a
roller coaster.

In World War II, McLendon interpreted Japanese. Home, he began interpreting a map. "I knew from Armed Forces Radio how troops loved baseball.
I also knew that people outside the Northeast wanted baseball"-and that the
Federal Communications Commission wanted new outlets in the South,
Southwest, and West.

Gordon did, too. "My dad had bought me a station in Oak Cliff [Texas,
near Dallas]," he explained. In 1949, KLIF formed the Liberty Broadcasting
System. In 1949, "Game of the Day" became its core. Each outlet sold ads,
paid line charges, and gave him $10 a game. In return, baseball's first regularseason series marked for many a pivot in their lives.

"He had a minimum of cash and maximum of ingenuity," said Nelson. The
upshot, quoting Liberty's station break: "America's second-largest network"
-a stunning 458 affiliates by 1951.

"If we wanted to do a game from Detroit, interview a guy in Cleveland, Gor-
don'd say okay," aide Jerry Doggett chuckled. His sole cost was salary-and
$ 27.50 for Western Union. "Most games were re-created," mused another
Voice, Bud Blattner. "Without leaving the studio, McLendon made $4,000
each game."

To seem live, he mixed two general and two loud crowd turntables in
studio. Another fillip: local color. "We tape accents at, say, Fenway Park, then
use them for the Sox," said Gordon. He found that the men's room sired a
grand P.A. echo chamber. Each day an employee in the john simulated the
effect.

Once Nelson re-created a game from Griffith Stadium. Entering a
booth, he said in studio, "is the President of the Liberty Broadcasting System,
Gordon McLendon."

"Ah, yes, Washington [not saying he was there]. At this time of year the
cherry blossoms are beautiful." Even the moniker was a ruse. Barely 30, The
Old Scotchman was so vivid-"casual pop flies had the flow of history behind
them, double plays resembled the stark clashes of old armies, and home runs deserved an acknowledgement on earthen urns," Willie Morris wrote in
North Toward Home-that games in person seemed dull.

A team's "hope is as black as the inside of a cat."The first inning became
"the hello half of the home frame." Habit was vital: two games daily, two
more each holiday, 300 a year. To protect local coverage, outlets were blacked
out within 75 miles of a major league city. Unharmed: 90 of America's then140 million people. Said Nelson: "Gordon and his network became better
known than more famous announcers and far more solid companies."

In 1949-50, three of four flags settled the final day. A patron could be
forgiven for preferring Nevada to New York City. "In a big league city you
just heard your team," said Blattner. "The sticks got the entire majors." Next
year LBS did the last month of the Giants-Dodgers joust. McLendon then
aired the playoff. In every sense, you inhaled The Scotchman live.

"From the bay of Tokyo, to the tip of Land's End, this is the day," he began
at the Polo Grounds. Thomson's blast bred "The Giants win the pennant!"
Silence. Crowd noise. Finally, "Well, I'll be the son of a mule."

Bob Costas was born March 22, 1952. "On tape, he's roaring from the
first pitch no letup. All the stops are out. The end of the world,
Armageddon"-apt, since McLendon's lay around the bend.

In 1952, Gordon, doubling his per-game fee, added non-baseball programming. Unintended consequences were lost affiliates and higher costs. Worse,
new Commissioner Ford Frick mugged "Game"'s lifeblood. "He barred
Gordon from parks," Nelson said, "got Western Union to stop re-creations.
Six clubs even refused to let games be covered."

LBS sued baseball for $12 million for "illegally hindering and restructuring . . . commerce." The Scotchman shrugged unconcern. "They have
admitted all that we have charged them with." The bigs' reply: "Our agreements [were not] made behind the barn." In 1952, a judge KO'd McLendon's
bid for a temporary injunction. "Game" died that May, its fall even faster than
its rise.

Gordon denounced "the brazenry, ruthlessness, and illegality of those
who are corrupting our fine national game." He forged the "top 40" musical
format, began the first all-news station, yet "loved `Game,' " said Bud, "more
than anything he ever did."Another lieutenant raised his glass. "I'll be in some
obscure place," Lindsey glowed in 1988, "and out of the blue people of
middle age will say, `I used to listen to you every afternoon.' "

Imitation spells flattery: Mutual's 1950-60 daily "Game," CBS TV's 1955-64 "Game of the Week," ESPN's 1990- "Sunday Night Baseball." John
Kennedy said we recall people for one thing: Sally Rand, baring all; Ike,
World War II; Bill Gates, the computer. Peoria knew little of McLendon's
stratagem. It loved him as daily priest.

"By two o'clock almost every radio in town was tuned to the Old Scotchman,"
Morris wrote ofYazoo City, Mississippi. "His rhetoric dominated the place. It
hovered in the branches of the trees, bounced off the hills, and came out of the
darkened stores; the merchants and the old men cocking their ears to him, and
even from the big cars that sped by, their tires making lapping sounds in the
softened highway, you could hear his voice, being carried ... in the delta."

Baseball is a beer-drinking sport. Even now, The Scotchman pours.

GORDON MCLENDON

John Wayne, entering a room. Norma Jean Baker, raising her skirt. Errol
Flynn, breathing.

Presence.

Al Helfer braved World Wars I and II, did Mutual's 1950-54 "Game,"
became "Mr. Radio Baseball," and called NewYork's pre-1958 bigs trinity. "He
drank triples without any apparent effect, and sometimes wore a cashmere cardigan that cost the lives of a herd of goats," wrote Ron Bergman. Al
explained why few found him neutral: "I don't mess around."

Helfer was born 30 miles southwest of Pittsburgh to a 5-foot-9 dad and
5-3 mom. Go figure: The 6-foot-4, 275-pounder-"They never knew why I
was so big"-played basketball and football at Washington and Jefferson.
Entering radio, he re-created the Bucs, then joined Barber in Cincinnati.
"Five bucks a week, and I was worth every cent!"