Voices of Summer: Ranking Baseball's 101 All-Time Best Announcers (4 page)

"I knew Chicago, yet NBC put Graham on play-by-play and me commentary," said Hal. Soon it told him to take over. "McNamee announced the change and graciously said it should have been this way from the start."
Totten shook his head: stringing for college seemed a lifetime away.

"Graham, Ruth, Dizzy Dean," he mused. "I'm calling 'em, knowing each. If
those weren't big names, whose were?" Gradually, his daybook included basketball, boxing, golf, hockey, polo, table tennis, and wrestling; air, auto, and
horse racing; and NFL Bears and college football. Missing: baseball. Cause:
Mutual Radio's Series and All-Star exclusivity starting in 1939 ("it wanted
new voices"); the Federal Communications Commission, making NBC sell a
network ("Blue" became ABC); and WCFL, kicking the Cubs and Hose to
WIND and WJJD, respectively.

"Radio's funny. You love a sport, and then it's gone." The ex-copy boy
rejoined the News, did Mutual's 1945-50 "Game of the Day," then bought a
Keokuk, Iowa, station. In 1951, adding a Three-I League team, he attended a
supposedly one-day meeting. "Turns out it was two, so I went out to buy a new
shirt." Returning, Hal did a double-take: League owners had made him head.
In 1962, he dissolved the 77-year-old Southern Association.

"Television killed the minors, the majors carrying games and the medium in general." Totten entered advertising, retired to Florida, and
found baseball still a writer's game. "Cover to cover, I still can't get
enough." Hal read until his death.

NAL TOTTEN

Bing Crosby played Father Flanagan in the Oscar-winning 1945 film Boys Town.
From 1929 to 1943, another Flanagan (Charles Carroll) made of baseball a
religion. "It's one of those unique gifts," he said of his nickname, "Pat." Others
included gray hair, brown eyes, and a made-for-TV face, none of which
swayed radio. A breezy voice, can-do knack, and blueprint of a mind did.

Flanagan arrived in Chicago in late 1928. The Cubs and Sox aired their
entire home schedule. Away games were ignored, which got Pat to puzzling.
"Stations didn't do the road because line charges were expensive." But how
could you cover baseball without being at the park?

Answer: wireless telegraphy, like Western Union's Simplex machine,
"[giving] play-by-play," wrote The Sporting News, "within three seconds of the
time it occurs." An operator sent Morse Code to the station. BI L meant hall
one, low; S2C, strike two, called. Eureka! AVoice could etch play he never saw.

One day, Pat used Simplex for a game from Cincinnati. "If you want these
out-of-town games regularly, write and tell us," he said, signing off. Next day
9,000 listeners did. "Harold Arlin invented baseball on radio," said Brickhouse. "Pat invented re-creations," buoying baseball for the next thirty years.

Virginia is the Mother of Presidents. Iowa fathered or schooled nine of the Voices
of Summer. Twist and shake: Born in Clinton in 1893, Flanagan graduated from
Grinnell College, fought in World War I, practiced chiropractic at Palmer School
in Davenport, and sang songs, led exercise, and taught philosophy on its station.

"Some first year!" Pat later said. The 1929 Cubs won the pennant. CBS's
Flanagan dueled McNamee on the Series. In the opener, A's manager Connie
Mack started Howard Ehmke, 35, "who hadn't pitched much. Connie loved
surprise." The retread K'd a Series-record 13. Then, up 2 games to 1,
Chicago led Game Four, 8-0. "In the seventh, the A's suddenly score ten
runs." During that inning, Mule Haas flied to center. Hack Wilson thought it
a can of corn.

"He's over, getting under it," Pat began. "Wait, it looks like Hack's lost it
[in the sun]! He has ... the ball falls! [Joe] Boley scores, and Max Bishop! And here comes Haas. An inside-the-park homer!" The inning whipsawed the
Classic: Philly, 10-8.

In 1930, Hack knocked in a still-record 191 runs. Two years later,
Charlie Grimm became the first skipper hired after mid-season to win a pennant. Even odder: Chicago, expecting an every-third-year N.L. flag--"an
itch," chirped Flanagan, "like clockwork." The Cubs' clock stopped after
1929-32-35-38.

The 1921-35 White Sox flunked the first division. Pat tried not to notice,
speaking 30,000 words in a typical nine-inning game. A listener patented a
"word-meter": Flanagan averaged 240 words per minute; 200 meant "stalling
speed." In 1933-34, he called his first midsummer and last Fall Classic,
respectively. Next year the Wrigleys lost their fifth straight Series. "Maybe we
should skip October," said Grimm.

By 1935, four Des Moines outlets called the Cubs. "Most did some
games live from Chicago," said WHO's Ronald Reagan. "Thanks to Flanagan,
I could do them from hundreds of miles away." Once the wire stopped.
Reagan considered returning to the station. "Then I thought, no, if we put
music on people'11 turn to another station doing it in person." What to do?
Make a big to-do.

"Fouls don't make the box score, so for seven minutes I had Billy Jurges set
a record." Pitcher Dizzy Dean used the resin hag, mopped his brow, tied a shoe.
Rain neared. A fight began. "None of this happened, but at home it seemed
real." Finally the wire revived. "Jurges popped out on the first ball pitched."

In 1937, Reagan left for Hollywood. A year later, Pat salved his last threeyear itch. On September 28, Chicago trailed Pittsburgh by a half-game.
Inning nine began 5-all. "It's dusk, Wrigley had no lights. The ump said game's
over if no one scores this inning."The Bucs and first two Cubs went meekly.
Gabby Hartnett faced Mace Brown. "This is it," said Flanagan. "The Cubs have
to score. A long drive to deep left-center! Lloyd Warier going back! Gone!
Gone! Cubs win!" They clinched the pennant October 1.

The City of Big Shoulders then shouldered another blow. "We've played
'em twice [also 1932] now," Pat said of theYankees' sweep. "Win a Series? I'd
settle for a game."

In 1943, braving cancer, he would have settled for good health. Flanagan
retired to the Cubs' longtime training site, Catalina Island, off Los Angeles.
"I love it. I've been coming here for years."

He died in 1963, at 70, a decade after Pittsburgh became the last team
to mint live road coverage. "Pat wouldn't like radio now," said Brickhouse at
the time. "He'd miss re-creations." The world outliving baseball's Father
Flanagan was not a world he knew.

PAT FLANAGAN

The Midwest, circa 1920s. The White Sox' steel and concrete home wraps
double-decked to each dugout. A single tier reaches each pole. Brick studs
Comiskey Park's exterior. The feel is blue-collar, working-class, Irish and
Eastern European.

Eight miles away, gales off Lake Michigan lead pitchers to schizophrenia.
"For the first time," said Bill Veeck, Jr., son of the then-Cubs head, "Wrigley's
shell resembled today's." In St. Louis, Sportsman's Park straddles Grand
Avenue and Dodier Street: to the lower Midwest, Lourdes.

Each spring, the Cardinals train in Florida. In 1927, the Cubs begin
training on Catalina Island. "Ultimately," said Veeck, "Johnny O'Hara would
call all four St. Louis [Browns, too] and Chicago teams-only guy to do so."

For now, Chicago's new Voice seemed grateful for another place to go.

Born in Brooklyn, O'Hara graduated from New York University, got a government wireless license, boarded frigates and passenger liners, and for seven years toured the globe. At bed in Singapore, the extra-first grade operator dreamt of Shibe Park, Fenway Park, and Crosley Field.

In 1923, Johnny, then 19, became a WOK Chicago radio engineer.
Bored, the adventurer hopped a hull and took sail again. "I'd copy presses. It
killed me to read the scores." He returned home, built a portable station, and
entered vaudeville, telling yarns from the seven seas.

One night, the regular M.C. had a bender. O'Hara subbed, wowed
WDT's station manager, and was hired as announcer. In 1927, he joined
WCFL, the Voice of Labor in Chicago. "I wanted the working or idle listener
-anyone you could find!"

Daily he did the Cubs, White Sox, and a 5 P.M. hot stove show. "Al
Capone gets paid by the bullet," Johnny told an audience. "How come I can't
get paid by the word?"

O'Hara aired an All-Star Game, did three World Series, and in 1936, rode the
Chicago and Alton train to KWK St. Louis. "Chicago likes his style," wrote
The Sporting News. "St. Louis just had more money." Later he taught radio
code to Army Air Corps instructors. Many toured Guadalcanal, Remagen,
and Monte Cassino. Johnny envied them. Nothing could ease his lust.

In 1943, ex-pitcher Dizzy Dean joined the vagabond. Next year, the
Redbirds won a third straight flag. Improbably, the A.L. Browns took their
first. O'Hara was not considered for Mutual's all-St. Louis Series. Worse, Diz became a then-220-pound gorilla. "Try confronting that!" historian Bob
Broeg said. "Gradually Cardinals broadcasts became Diz and company."

JOHNNY O'HARA

In 1947, O'Hara exclusively joined the Browns. Having written a book,
Experiences of a Wireless Operator at Sea, he put out to sea in 1949. "Retiring,
Johnny became a radio operator on Merchant Marine vessels," said Broeg.
The Happy Wanderer entered his final port June 3, 1963.

"You have to know when to hold 'em," sings Kenny Rogers, "know when to
fold 'em." Bob Elson, a gin rummy whiz, had pigeons in every town. Chicago
Tribune columnist Jerome Holtzman asked about lessons. "That is like asking
Jascha Heifetz to teach you to play the fiddle," Bob snapped. "I give lessons,
but they will cost." On 1929-71 baseball, he was confident of his cards.

Elson patented "He's out!", shilled like an artisan, and hatched the onfield interview. In 1943, The Old Commander-U.S. Great Lakes Naval
Training Center, 1942-45-was given leave for the Series. "Franklin Roosevelt asked that he announce," Jack Brickhouse said. "Only time that a president pulled rank to get a uniformed baseball guy home."

Raised in Peoria, Bob's protege deemed him "the most imitated, creative
announcer who ever lived" -a god. In 1960, hearing him for the first time,
I thought TOC ungodly dull. "You should have heard him when I did!"
boomed Jack, a "pup out of Elson like [later] Earl Gillespie, Gene Elston,
Bert Wilson, and Milo Hamilton."

I couldn't, through accident of birth. When I did, Elson wasn't Elson. He
should have folded before the dealer closed.

In 1914, Bob, nine, sang in Chicago's famed Paulist Chorister Choir. "I was
like O'Hara. They toured the world." He entered Loyola, transferred to
Northwestern, and studied medicine. In 1928, visiting pool whiz Willie
Hoppe,TOC stayed at St. Louis's Chase Hotel. Its top floor housed KWK.
Touring the station, Bob found 40 men in line. "You're the last today [for an
audition]," a woman misinterpreted. What the heck, Elson figured, his career
taking a carom shot.

Bob read a script, became a finalist, and was picked by listeners. Next
day WGN brass read about his coup. "`You're from Chicago?' they called me.
`What are you doing down there?' " Debuting, he quickly tired of organ music, hooked the Cubs and Hose, and became the bigs' pre-war network
prism and progenitor. "I was close to Kenesaw Landis when he was making
assignments. He'd bellow, `Don't mention any movie stars attending the
World Series even if they slide into second base.' "