Voices of Summer: Ranking Baseball's 101 All-Time Best Announcers (22 page)

One day a rhubarb roiled the field. "That batter shakin' his head down there-he don't know what's goin' on. I don't know what he don't know, but
I know he don't know." Critics howled. The Apple yawned. "He laid an egg,"
Allen said. "Too rural, it didn't work." In 1952, Diz rejoined what had: Falstaff Brewery's 20-station Browns network.

His partner was Rotarian. Dean was, yes, Falstaffian. Bud Blattner
liked fact and strategy. Diz shunned biography. "People liked him giving
everything but the score" fishing, hunting, thanking Grandma's Biscuits
for meal, said Bud--"hut wanted me to restore sanity." Some Voices script
a program. Diz was the program. "He created the audience before we said
a word."

In 1952, they added Mutual. One "Game" was in Detroit. Dean's first
inning was "polished, so unlike the usual chaos." At break he winked. "`That's
enough a' that poop. Now 01' Diz is gonna make money. I'm going to
butcher this today,"' foreseeing what he would say, and when.

Dean could not predict crossingTV's Rubicon. Edgar Scherick (lid.

In early 1953, Scherick was a bit ABC TV aide--"a nothing network, fewer
outlets than CBS or NBC." Upside: It needed paid programming "anything
for bills." Falstaff pined to go national. Edgar broached a Saturday "Game of
the Week." ABC hesitated. Baseball was a regular-season local good. How
would "Game" reach TV? Who would notice if it did?

"Football fans watch regardless of team," said Scherick. By contrast,
Phils-Cubs needed a Voice surpassing team: "straight out of James Fenimore
Cooper by way of Uncle Remus," wrote Ron Powers-Diz. In April, Edgar
set out to sell teams rights: "`Game of the Week.' I expected a breeze."
Instead, he hit a gale. Only the A's,Tribe, and White Sox signed. Worse, baseball barred "Game" within 50 miles of' any bigs park. "`Protect local cov-
erage!'They didn't care about national appeal."

ABC, which did, grasped that "most of America was still up for grabs."
In many cities ABC was weak or nil. Unvexed, "Game" wooed an 11.4 1953
rating (one point: l percent of TV homes). Blacked-out cities had 32 percent of households. In the rest, 3 in 4 sets in use watched Diz. Had "Game"
sunk, said MacPail, "maybe sports TV has a different future." Instead, by 1955
its road led to the Network of the Eye banked on floating clouds.

"CBS stakes were higher," said Blattner, leaving Mutual to rejoin Dean.
"They wanted someone who'd known Diz, could bring him out": becoming,
wrote Powers, "a mythologizing presence" not courtly like Barber, or eastern
like Husing, or a blast furnace like The Voice. "The reaction was stunning," mused MacPhail. In Hollywood, Clark Gable golfed each Saturday. "Clark'd
play nine holes," said Bud, "watch us in the saloon, then play nine more."

CBS added a Sunday "Game" in 1957. Outlets cheered in Phoenix, Little
Rock, and Cedar Rapids. Dean cracked Gallup's most-admired list. CBS
offered a prime-time series. Hillary Clinton said it takes a village to raise a
child. A baseball generation's children were raised on Diz.

"America had never had TV network ball," said Blattner. "Now you're getting
two games a week [four, counting NBC, by 19591." Dean cleaned the Peacocks, notably in the Plains, West, and South.

"We would never have on our network a person as uncouth as him," a
CBSer told a sponsor meeting.

"But ... he's on our network ... every weekend, on CBS," said MacPhai1,
watching, he later said, in "suspended terror. I had no control, just wondering
what he'd say or do."

Once Dean eyed Eddie Lopat. "See if you can tell why he gets these hatters out. If you can't, 01' Diz'll tell ya."The junkman retired them. "Figured
it out? Testicle fortitude." Bud blanched. "Well," Diz said, quickly, "I think ya
know what I mean." MacPhail loathed, but forgave, him: "No manners, ran
you over, but first to put comedy into a game."

Dean refused a Falstaff ad-because the date was Mother's Day. United
Airlines hacked "Game." Hating to fly, Diz said, "If you have to, pod-nuh,
Eastern is much the best." In 1958, he made MacPhail's gray hair white. "I
don't know how we come off callin' this the `Game of the Week.' There's a
much better game-Dodgers-Giants-over on NBC."

Batters had an edge: "The ball they're playing with isn't lively, it's hysterical." Umps ranked below English. "That was quite a game," he told
one. "What a shame you didn't get to see it." Cincinnati's Ted Kluszewski,
Bob Borkowski, and Fred Baczewski filled the sacks. "I was sweatin'," Diz
said, "hopin' that nobody'd get a hit so I didn't have to pronounce them
names.

The batter hit toward left-center.

"There's a long drive"-gulp-"and here's ['Game' producer] Gene
Kirby to tell you all about it."

Dean was "the guy," said Bud, "that dropped off the truck and wandered
barefoot into town, saying, `Fellas, what's it all about?' " Reality was more
complex. The boozer and eater ate and drank little. The public man loved
humanity, but not people. "Hi, pod-nuh" became mask and sign. "He didn't know you from Adam, but you thought, `My God, he remembered me 'cause
he called me pod-nuh.' "

In 1960, as we will see, his partner became a retired Dodger shortstop.

"In Pee Wee they got a better player, but lesser announcer [than himselfJ,"
Blattner said. Dean called the first four innings. Reese asked what the pitcher
threw. Diz: "I believe that's a baseball." At one time or another he sang "Precious Memories," ate a watermelon on play-by-play, and fell asleep. Pee Wee
requested a closeup. "Pod-nuh," he said, nudging Diz, "am I keeping you
awake?" The two ex-jocks coursed through Idlewild (now Kennedy) Airport.
Suddenly Dean, in Western boots and Stetson, yelled, "Hey, Pee Wee."

"Yeah."

"How come you played here for 18 years and nobody knows you? Everybody knows 01' Diz."

Reese laughed. "If I had that hat on, everybody'd know me, too." Later he
ribbed the old pitcher in Dean's room. "Dizzy Dean, high hard fastball. I wish
I'd had a chance to hit your shit." In pajamas, Diz started winding. "You might
have hit it, pod-nuh, but you'd be on your ass."

By 1964, they worked at Yankee Stadium, Wrigley Field, St. Louis,
Philadelphia, and Baltimore. New York got $550,000 of CBS's $895,000.
(Six NBC clubs got $1.2 million.) "In '53, no one wanted us," said Scherick.
"Now teams begged for `Game' 's cash." That year the NFL began a $14.1
million revenue-sharing pact. Turning green, baseball ended the big-city
blackout, got $6.5 million for 1965 exclusivity, and split the pot. "A mint,"
said MacPhail, "so they thought."

ABC began mere 28-game Saturday /holiday coverage. Ratings tanked:
Tigers-Twins left, say, Boston cold. Meanwhile, CBS ended with a 21-game
Stripes slate. In 1966, theYanks joined NBC's package: 28 games vs. 1960's
three-network 123. Soon Dean denoted an age so far removed that it was
hard to recall it existed. It did: you do not reinvent youth at the time.

Mine broke Saturday with grass stain, grounder, and broken window.
Pickup games preceded late-morning TV: Sky King, Roy Rogers, and Dale
Evans. Next: lunch, Cliff Arquette as Charlie Weaver, Dennis James's TV
newsreel, 'toons culled from forgotten files. "Game" began at 2. Sunday
wed the morning paper, church, and short walk home. Watching, we were
"pod-nuh"--still are, even now.

Dean did 1967-68 Braves TV, fished, hunted, and wondered at the pastime's mind. An Alabaman wrote to The Sporting News: "We simple people really
miss Dizzy Dean. He added life to the game ... hours of clean, wholesome
fun. Baseball has always been for ordinary folks like me. Please bring 01' Diz
back." Astute and self-aware, Dean might have laughed-except that,
enlarged in exile, he missed "Game," too.

One day he golfed with Reese. "Pod-nuh, lots of trees on the right." Next
tee: "What'd you get on that hole?" after Pee Wee bogeyed. Next: "Sand traps
on the left."A decade later Reese shook his head. "He'd loved the `Game.' Still
had the ego, but the forum wasn't there. We were just a couple country boys
that said things about which people knew."

On May 21, 1973, NBC put Diz on a Monday "Game." Out of the closet
came a sense of yesterday once more. "When they told me I could say hello
to all the fans we used to have, I was so tickled I almost jumped for joy."

Where did Dean live? Curt Gowdy asked.

"Why, in Bond, Mississippi."

Where was Bond? Curt said.

"Oh, 'bout three miles from Wiggins."

Where was Wiggins?

DIZZY DEAN

"Oh, 'bout three miles from Bond."

Diz died at 63, on July 17, 1974, of a heart attack, the fox taken as a buffoon who winds up taking the taker. His words, indeed.

The good die young. In Blattner's case, the young play well. Twice in the
1930s the teenaged St. Louisan became world's doubles table-tennis titleist.
In 1938, Bud signed with the hometown Cards. "My dad started me playing
games with a ball when I was three. I was playing [baseball] on a 15-year-old's
level at nine." In World War II, he called service boxing and baseball on
Guam. "I got thinking of radio. Looking back, good thing."

In 1942 and 1946-49, Blattner hit .247 with the Redbirds, Jints, and
Phils. "I was already 26 after the war. My skills had gone. So I looked elsewhere," selling television shows and directing and calling sports. Beats
included Golden Glove boxing, BAA Bombers, and the International Hockey
League.

Before a game, he studied the road roster. "I'd use the players' last name,
get familiar, then use the first." A hockey player was surnamed Dick. Bud
added his first name before long. The producer howled. "I hadn't even
thought of the combination. Harry Dick in the penalty box, and Harry Dick
on the hoards."

In 1950, Detroit's Pat Mullin's late-inning slam tied the Yanks on a Liberty twinbill. "I was exhausted, and Mullin was coming up [in the 10th].
Except for Pat I'd have been home." Blattner wrote, "The bastard," beside his
name. Partner: "Now to the bastard, I mean hatter."

That year Bud joined a new Browns mikeman from Washington. Man
bombs. Brass rechecks his resume: Washington, Pennsylvania. "Guess it foretold," said Blattner, "my brush with the English language ahead."

Bud began doing games alone. Browns seats were as empty. Commencing
rescue, Bill Veeck liked to drink, seem a regular fellow, and tub-thump the
team. In 1951, the new owner returned from a speech. "Wouldn't it be nice to
get our leadoff man on in the first?" Bud, driving, nodded. Bill renewed the
vision. "Getting a man on in the first would be some event."

Veeck signed new leadoff man Eddie Gaedel. "Bet I could hit any pitch,"
said the 3-foot-6, 62-pound midget. Bill snapped, "If you make one move with that bat at home plate it'll be your last."A huge-by-Browns-rule 20,299
graced an August twinbill. Veeck's A.L. semi-centenary salute vaunted jugglers, acrobats, aerial bombs, and Satchel Paige on drums. Before GameTwo,
Gaedel sprung from a papier-mache cake. "Bill set people up," said Bud.
"They thought that was the celebration."

Suddenly the P.A. boomed: "Leading off, batting for Frank Saucier, No. 1/8,
Eddie Gaedel." The ump called time. Browns skipper Zack Taylor produced a
contract. Crouching, Gaedel took four straight balls. League head Will Harridge
sent him packing. "Advise," wrote Veeck, "the minimum height of players."

A few days later Taylor rocked in a chair near his dugout. Fans voted by
holding signs: "Bunt" or "Hit away." In late 19S3, the Browns-turning-Orioles
contacted Blattner. "They wanted me in Baltimore, but I liked living in St.
Louis." Soon life meant a CBS suitcase. "I loved each bit of `Game'-Falstaff,
Diz, baseball royalty."The Kid, of course, was king.

"Williams was so volcanic, yet a softie." One 1957 "Game" aired from
Boston. Friday, Diz and Blattner metTed at the Kenmore Hotel. Bud had recently
seen a 10-year-old leukemia patient's shrine-"a room of Ted memorabilia"
in a Midwest hospital. Daily he sat on the floor, holding a wooden bat.The nurses
rolled a ball. "He'd swing and they'd say, `Base hit byTed!' "

Blattner asked if Williams could autograph a ball or cap. "No problem,"
Ted said. "Tell you what. I'll come to see the boy"-Ted flew a private
plane-"but on two conditions": only his parents were to know; Bud must
never tell. He finally did, in 1977. By then, Blattner had been estranged from
"Game" since the year Hawaii became a state.

On September 27, 1959, Milwaukee and Los Angeles forced a best-of-three
playoff. Falstaff asked tobacco company L&M to co-host. Diz had trashed cigarettes on the air. "Falstaff said, `L&M won't take Dean.You [Bud] and George
Kell do the games.' "At that point Diz vowed to quit "Game" if Blattner called
the series.

Four decades later, nerve-ends still stung. "Dean couldn't stand that I'd
do the games, not him," said Bud. His threat cowed Falstaff, pulling Blattner,
who resigned. "Diz never grasped why I left. I couldn't have looked in the
mirror if I hadn't."

In December, Bud finally shed his $75,000 contract. "I spent thousands
of dollars in legal fees. I knew I could never again work with Diz." Pursed
lips, set jaw. "When we saw each other in the future, he'd make out like
nothing had happened. His only reaction was that I'd lost my mind."