Voices of Summer: Ranking Baseball's 101 All-Time Best Announcers (48 page)

Network radio ferried the Expos' long-time Voice to Quebec, Vermont,
eastern Ontario, and upstate New York. The English-TV Canadian Broadcasting Corporation carried him to Brandon, Calgary, and Dawson City.
"They were Canada's team," said outfielder Ken Singleton, "long before the
Braves called themselves ours."

Be careful what you wish for -a larger place than Parc Jarrv. In 1977,
the Expos left Canada's Ebbets Field for a baseball tomb. "Looking back," said
Dave, "the team and I were made and broken by a field."

Wes Westrum cracked, "Baseball is like church. Many are called, but few are
chosen." At one time few called Montreal a big-league city. Then, in 1967,
Canada's centennial, "Man and His World," dwarfed New York's 1964-65
World's Fair. "Suddenly," mused Gerry Snyder of the Montreal Executive
Committee, "baseball saw cosmopolitan, not sticks."

The National League gave Montreal a team "on condition that a suitable
site is found." In 1968, league president Warren Giles and Mayor Jean Dra-
peau OK'd a 3,000-seat plot. Capacity swelled to 28,456. tarry would
work till when? Next April 8, L'Expos opened in New York. Six days later,
"frost hadn't left the ground," said Van Horne. "Yet nobody cared our opener
was like standing on a sponge. What a moment: game one outside America."

SRO hailed an 8-7 home squeaker. Next week, Bill Stoneham no-hit the Phils. "Some guys never call one. I knew then that whatever the franchise was,
it wouldn't be dull." Born in Easton, Pennsylvania, Dave had schooled in Richmond, called Atlanta's 1966-68 Triple-A Richmond, and joined the Expos.
Balding, "I looked older than my age. At first their novelty kept me young."

Once at 2 A.M. he promised "an autographed Expo ball to the listener writing
farthest from St. Catherine and Peel Streets." More than 400 wrote. Many
recalled Montreal as Brooklyn's 1939-60 conveyer belt. Ex-Bums colormen
included Duke Snider, Don Drysdale, Pee Wee Reese, and Jackie Robinson, going
blind from diabetes.

"Dave," he said, nudging the monitor, "just point to the ball, so I'll know
where it is when I'm talking about replays."

A Quebecer still replays the age.

Early-seventies Montreal had a 1,214,300 population. The '69-73ers averaged 1,263,452. "Our percentage of seats filled was 60 percent," said Van
Horne, "with the Mets and Cubs highest in the league."The Expos acquired
red-haired Rusty Staub-Le Grand Orange. Skipper Gene Mauch parlayed
George Patton and John McGraw. "Steve," he told pitcher Steve Renko, "I see
the sideburns are down and the ERA is up."

Each year the jig seemed up for Jarry Park. "The league said we needed
a dome with our awful weather," said Dave. "We couldn't wait to leave."
Attendance fell. "How stupid that we talked ourselves into calling it antiquated," added Staub. Last game: September 26, 1976. Van Horne soon
yearned for home.

His new haunt, 60,000-seat Olympic Stadium, suggested a space ship:
walls bowed out, then in, curving back to almost meet. Three tiers loomed a
province from the mound. An interior fence tied the poles. The back wall
loomed beyond. "In between was a blackness between the field and building
shell," said Dave.

Its no-man's land nicely characterized the park.

Le Stade Olympique opened for baseball April 15, 1977. A retractable roof
that froze when wind hit 25 miles an hour wasn't finished till 1987. Ultimately, a faulty generator kept it closed. For a while it didn't matter.

In 1981, "A fly ball to center! Dawson is under it! He's got it! Charlie Lea
has pitched a no-hit, no-run ballgame!"cried Dave. "The first ever for a Frenchborn pitcher!"The Expos finally made an L.C.S. Like the Big 0, its final broke
your heart. "Fly ball, center field!" said partner Ron Reusch in the 1-all ninth. "Dawson going back! ...That ball is a home run! That ball is out of here ... and
the Dodger bench clears to congratulate Rick Monday!"

Found: a 1983 home record 2,320,651. Lost: mascot Youppi "the only
warm thing about the Expos," wrote La Presse ejected from a game. Part of
a 55-ton concrete block in the upper deck collapsed. Said Van Horne: "You
began to ask if the franchise was collapsing, too."

Seals in a pre-game circus refused to leave the field: grounds help,
chasing them, was heckled by the crowd. An 18-wheel truck in a parade took
a U-turn through the fence. "I'd see the plaque and statue of Jackie
Robinson," Dave mused, "and wonder what he'd think."

He would likely wonder about 1994. Van Horne has, ever since.

Venus: That August 12, the Expos' .649 percentage led the bigs. Mars: A
labor stoppage killed the Series. "We didn't know it then," said Dave, "hut it
killed baseball in Montreal."The strike cost the club nearly $16 million. Next
season it finished last.

Van Horne aired 1994-95's The Baseball Network. "Regional coverage,
so I did the Expos." In 1997, he got the Canadian Baseball Hall of Fame's Jack
Graney Excellence in Broadcasting Award. It didn't aid attendance. Only a
new park could keep the Expos out of les Etas-Unis.

In 1999, new owner Jeffrey Loria touted a 36,287-seat den. It went
nowhere. Upset, he yanked baseball off TV and English radio. Dave fell to
Cyberspace: "You're listening to baseball on the Internet!" Privately, he told
a friend, "I'm broadcasting daily, and I might as well be dead."

Fish swim upstream. In 2000, the Palm Beach Gardens, Florida, resident
took his home run call, "It's up, up, and away!" to Miami. A year later Loria
traded the Expos for Van Horne's new team. Florida won a 2003 wild card.
Next: Division Series. Down, 3 games to 2, the Giants trailed, 7-6. "A line
drive out into left field. Conine ... up with it, the runner's waved. Here's
the throw to the plate ... Pudge [Rodriguez] is waiting! He tags him, gets
knocked over, holds on, and the Marlins win the game! ... And the Marlins are headed to the National League Championship Series!"

Venus: The Cubs took a 3-1 game L.C.S. advantage. Mars: The Marlins
won the pennant at Wrigley Field. The Series emptied their pocketful of miracles: Florida, heating the Yanks in six.

"What a run," said Dave. "Who says all good things must end?"

Recalling Pare Jarry, Montreal does each day. L'Expos left for Washington
in late 2004.

DAVE VAN HORNE

In 1969, the American League expanded to Kansas City and Seattle.
Through 1975, Middle America heard Bud Blattner. Partner Denny
Matthews then "succeeded, not replaced him," said the Royals still-liegeman
behind the mike.

By 1980, Matthews keyed the A.L.'s largest radio network-120 stations, in 1 1 states, from New Mexico to Florida. Illinois Wesleyan '66 is now
the longest-but-Vin Scully Voice of any big-league team.

"As a kid, I'd listen to Jack Brickhouse," he said of 1950s downstate Illinois. Baseball often means a team. If "Hey-Hey!" conjured the Second City,
to many Denny bespeaks the Royals.

As a child, he walked, not talked, the game. In high school, the Giants gave a
tryout. Later Matthews and Doug Rader manned Wesleyan's middle infield.
In football, Denny's receiving yardage topped Otis Taylor's. "He was the Natural," added Rader. "What couldn't he do?"

September 1968. Having never called an inning, Matthews asked the
Cardinals if he can tape a game. "A lot of people [over 3001 are going to apply for the K.C. job," a friend cautioned. "It's not enough that they like your tape.
They gotta remember you."

Schlitz Beer vended the Royals' KMBZ Radio/KBMC TV network.
Denny found a dealer, got several dinner menus, and stole a Schlitz-logo
serving tray. An ad filled the outside flap. "The inside was blank, for the place
to put its menu." Matthews printed his resume, put a menu on the tray, and
enclosed a tape. "Here," he wrote Schlitz, "is my final pitch for the Royals' job."

Some deem baseball a universal language. Soon Denny found that its universe surpassed English. Daily he hosted a pregame show. By August 1969,
each player except utility infielder Juan Rios had appeared. Magically, Juan
gets three hits. Denny names him next-day Star of the Day. Shortstop Jackie
Hernandez offers to interpret. The interview begins.

"Jackie," Matthews said, "ask Juan about last night." In Spanish, Rios
seems a chatterer. Denny thinks that "There must be some terrific stuff."
Rios then hands Hernandez the mike.

"Juan said he feels great," says Jackie. Producer Ed Shepherd drops his
recorder. Matthews drips with sweat. "This guy has just told his life story and
that's it"-five seconds in translation.

July 2, 1970. English again works undertime. Guy's Foods is a local sponsor.
The third inning starts. Denny's mind begins racing. "For those of you planning a Fourth of July picnic, take those good Guy's potato chips." Pleased, he
smiles. "And, fans, while you're in the store, be sure to grab Guy's nuts."

Bud's face whitens. Matthews prays for a seven-second delay. Surprisingly, Guy's head Guy Caldwell howls. By 1973, all hailed the sole 1962-91
new big-league-only site. Royals Stadium's 12-story scoreboard in a fountain,
waterfall, and pool complex lit a dead-end age of ballpark handiwork,
spurring defense, alley pop, and speed.

In 1976, Denny rolled 7: first K.C. title/first year as Voice. Through
1978 the Yanks stood in the L.C.S. door. Then, in 1980, George Brett hit
.390. The Royals took a 2-0 game playoff lead. At the Bronx Zoo, No. 5 hit
in Game Three's seventh: Stripes, 2-1. "Gossage ready. Swing and a high fly
ball!" sidekick Fred White said. "Deep right field! There she goes!" Royals Stadium's scoreboard used more than 16,000 bulbs. Brett's three-run titian still
hangs in lights.

"Making the Series," said Denny, "threw off all that frustration."
Renewing it: Philadelphia, in six. "For us, this was climbing another step."
Ahead: the final rung.

Matthews climbed one in 1982, calling his first network L.C.S. The Stadium
again hosted Kansas City July 24, 1983: Brett, homering for a 5-4 victory;
called out for illegal pine tar on his bat; then bolting from the dugout like a
lynx on speed.

In 1985, he averaged .333. K.C. trailed the expanded L.C.S., 3 games to 1.
"Before that year we'd have been dead," said Denny, "but we used our chance,"
beatingToronto three straight.

"The War Within the State" followed. St. Louis took a 3-2 game lead.
Behind, 1-0, Jorge Orta led off the Royals' next-game ninth by rolling to
first base. Pitcher Todd Worrell beat him to the bag-until Don Denkinger
ruled him safe. Steve Balboni popped foul-until Jack Clark lost the ball. A
passed ball and walk preceded Dane Iorg's winning hit.

"It's a situation," he said, "you dream about as a child." In Game Seven,
Bret Saberhagen threw a manly gem. "One out to go in the ninth inning!"
Denny said. "Eleven to nothing. The one-oh pitch. Fly ball! Motley going
back to the track! No outs to go! The Royals have won the 1985 World
Series! And they converge on the mound in celebration!"

Two decades later, he would like to celebrate again.

Ageless: Brett, winning batting crowns in 1976, 1980, and 1990-"only guy
ever," said Denny, "to lead in three decades."

Peerless: the 13-time All-Star, getting his 3,000th hit September 30,
1992 vs. California.

Timeless: the small-market Royals felt financially strapped.

In 1997, Matthews touted realignment. "Create four geographic divisions," he told the owners. "We'd be with the Cubs, White Sox, and Cardinals." Instead, the bigs eyed "contraction." In 2001, Denny contracted to 130
games a year. "It recharges the battery. You get away from it for a few days and
come hack strong," reaching Salinas and Ft. Smith and Yuma and Dodge City.

In 2004, Matthews telecast his first play-by-play since 1986. "1 had to
remind myself you don't need to paint the picture." He had outlasted 16
managers, 139 trades, and five Royals named Jones, but not doubt. Wrote
columnist Joe Posnanski: "Where's the love for Denny Matthews?" Partner
Ryan Lefebvre mused how he could walk through K.C.'s Plaza Hotel without
someone offering a glad-hand or brew.

Denny hated to schmooze or self-promote. "It's not my job to scream. I
tell what happened and then you can scream." Some Voices think the hymn
"How Great Thou Art" means them. To Matthews, story-telling meant team, not self. "You don't learn about his life," said White: once working out with
the Packers, catching passes from Len Dawson, or hitting a receiver in a
touch football game.

"Denny, thank you," said Rush Limbaugh, eyes moist. "That was the first
touchdown I ever had."

Why wasn't Denny beloved?

He was, quietly, like himself.

Better late than never.

In 2004, the Rovals held Denny Matthews "Talking Bobble Head" Day,
named him to their Hall of Fame, and helped fill a special K.C. to Wellington,
Kansas, train.

Denny's granddad had worked for the Chicago and Alton Railroad.
Matthews became a "train nut" and Midwest grade crossing safety
spokesman. "The crews were terrific," he said of the thank-you ride. "The
only problem was that they wanted to talk baseball-and I wanted to talk
trains!"