Voices of Summer: Ranking Baseball's 101 All-Time Best Announcers (8 page)

By the 1930s, baseball twitched with angst. Who would pay if you could hear
for free? Landis ordered a moratorium on more radio coverage. Next, he
told teams to charge a broadcast fee. By 1938, all but three teams aired their
home schedule. "Can you believe it?" Bob Elson smiled. "The only exception
was New York"'s expiring five-year ban. That year, the National League
named the Reds' president to save Brooklyn from insolvency. Larry MacPhail
said his new club would use the wireless.

In 1939, the Dodgers' first Voice followed MacPhail from Cincinnati.
"MacPhail believed in [radio's] promotional power ... he became sold on it,"
said Walter Lanier ("Red") Barber, who sold the game. From any seat at
Ebbets Field, you heard players jabber, saw faces harden, felt tension creep.
Said Bob Costas: "Barber was the voice of that experience."You could walk
down the street, a hundred windows open, and hear every play.

Vin Scully thought Red a palatine. "A cabbie'd say, `That Barber, he's too
fair.' "To Costas, he detailed the borough's joys, worries, and confessions of
the heart. "Red's appeal soared because people sensitive about the image as
dees and dems--I'll meet ya at Toydy-toyd and Second Avenue'-were
pleased that this erudite man represented them."

MacPhail grasped how "radio [made a game] played by two teams ... a
contest involving personalities who had families, troubles, blue or brown
eyes," said Barber. Frank Sinatra sang, "There used to be a ballpark." In
Brooklyn, there used to be a broadcaster constitutionally unable to say a prejudicial word.

Born, Columbus, Mississippi, in 1908, the distant relative of writer Sidney
Lanier moved at 10 to Sanford, Florida. In 1929, he hitchhiked to the University at Gainesville. A part-time job was cleaning a teacher's boarding
house. One day the professor asked Red to read his paper on WRUF campus
radio. Barber had wanted to teach English. "By the time I finished the paper,
I wanted to drop out of school."

Red became the station's $50 a week Voice and director. When school
ended, "I'd look for broadcast jobs." In 1933, the Reds went belly-up. A bank
hired MacPhail, who sold tycoon Powel Crosley a majority chunk. Halving
his salary, Crosley hired Barber for then-500,000-watt WLW. "I want a
chance," Red told his dad. Said MacPhail: "He didn't know how to score a
game. On the other hand, it was like nothing they'd heard."

Since 1930, WFBE Cincinnati's Harry Hartman had chanted socko and
bammo and belto and whammo. He weighed 320 pounds, sat behind the plate,
and broadcast in his underwear. Red would have sooner stripped. "Doing recreations, some guys had crowd noise, pretending they were at the game." Not
Barber, placing the mike by the telegraph. "No con. You heard the dot-dash,"
said Scully-also a man who treated custom like a dangling participle.

On May 24, 1935, Red aired baseball's night inaugural. That fall bred his,
and Mutual's, first World Series. Landis collared him before Game One.
"Suppose a player ... spits in my face. Report each step he makes. Report
how much spit hits me. Report my reaction. Don't worry about the Commissioner. That will be my job. Yours is to report the event." Barber did:
Detroit's first world title.

Next year, Cincy hosted the first Ladies' Night. In June 1938, anything
worth doing was worth doing twice. Johnny Vander Meer no-hit Boston,
3-0. Four days later a) Ebbets Field debuted at night and b) Vandy cobbled a
second straight no-no. "Baseball here seems a different planet," Red mused.
On ours, the Third Reich crossed the Polish border September 1, 1939,
starting World War II.

Five days earlier, baseball crossed a line upon which it would never
double back.

"The players were clearly distinguishable," wrote The Sporting News's Harold
Parrott of the bigs' TV baptism, "but it was not possible to pick out the ball."
By contrast, you could pick up Red, in Ebbets' second deck, on the thirdbase side, hawking Ivory Soap, Mobil Gas, and General Mills. "Yes-suh," he
drawled of Wheaties, "that's a Breakfast of Champions."

Making history, Barber was flying blind. "No monitor, only two
[W2XVS] cameras. One was by me, the other behind the plate, and I had to
guess from which light was on where it pointed." Few had to guess about
Brooklyn's niche. Until 1898, the borough was an independent city. Incorporated into New York, it still felt like a Nation-State. "Manhattan had skyscrapers, wealth, and fame. The only way Brooklyn could strike back was
with their club. The fans were personal, like the park."

Most of the 32,111 seats had a good view-if you weren't behind a post.
Housewife Hilda Chester waved a cowbell in the bleachers. Behind first, Jake
the Butcher roared "Late again!" of a pickoff. The Dodger Sym-Phony was a
vaguely musical group. "Their specialty," said Steve Jacobson, "was piping a
visiting strikeout victim back to his bench with a tune `The Army Duff.' [Because] the last beat was timed for the moment the player's butt touched,"
he might tardily sit down. "The Sym-Phony still had that last beat ready."Any-
thing, Red said, could happen here-yes-suh, and did.

In 1919, ex-Bum Casey Stengel returned, doffed his cap, and had a
sparrow fly away. In 1930, Brooklyn got three on base. Punch line: "Yeah,
which base?" (Third.) In 1940, the Bums taunted plate umpire George
Magerkurth. A parole violator attacked him on the final out. "Before I know
it," marveled George, "he's beating me to a pulp."

The archetype fan screams, "Kill the ump!" Fearing the con might, colleague Bill Stewart helped police haul him to the jug. N.L. head Ford Frick
then fined and suspended skipper Leo Durocher for "inciting a riot." Just
another day in Flatbush USA.

Barber did "College Football Roundup," the Army-Navy Game, Rose,
Orange, and Sugar Bowls, NFL title game, five All-Star Games, and 13
Series. "Because of him," wrote David Halberstam, "and radio's importance
then, we remember the messenger as distinctly as the message." Red's
favorite year was the last of an uncertain peace. On April 13, 1941, Brooklyn
honored him with a Day. Next week, he read a script for the NewYork Phil-
harmonic's "Symphony in D for the Dodgers," rejoicing that urban Brooklyn
had spurned the farm.

Each regular arrived from another club. The Dodgers won a franchisehigh 100 games, drew a record 1,214,910, and began their Subway Series.
Behind, 2 games to 1, Brooklyn led, 4--3, with two out in the ninth. Reliever
Hugh Casey worked Tommy Henrich to a 3-2 count. "Casey then threw the
craziest curve I ever saw," said Barber. Larry Goetz boomed "Strike three!"
Fooling catcher Mickey Owen, it settled near the screen. Henrich reached.
DiMaggio singled. Charlie Keller hit a two-strike pitch off the right-field
wall: 7-4, Yanks. You could hear a sigh.

"The condemned jumped out of the chair and electrocuted the warden,"
a writer said. A day later New York won its ninth title. The Cathedral of the
Underdog played a tired and humbled dirge.

Across the river, Mel Allen gabbed slickly for the pinstripes. Red talked
around a stove, a 3-minute egg timer telling him to give the score. "When the
crowd shouted, so did you," Allen said. Barber cleaved. "Never raise your
voice. When the crowd yells, shut up."

If a million people saw the Bums, wrote Robert Creamer, 10 million heard the Redhead. "A person could cover the length of the beach of Coney
Island," added the Daily News, "and never lose his voice."The mound became
a "pulpit."The pitcher "tied the hitter up-turned him every way but loose."
Once Barber said: "You ought never talk past your audience, and surely never
talk down."

Talk wed "catbird seat" and "tearin' up the pea patch" and "rhubarb on the
field." A field was "the sun garden"; bat, "a dirty brown-looking stick, wellseasoned"; game, "as tight as a brand-new pair of shoes on a rainy day." Said
Creamer: "The language he used ... became part of everyone's speech." In
1944, the Yanks' and Giants' sponsor tried to part Barber from Brooklyn.

"My [$50,000] contract had a year left," said Red. "Gillette said, `Break
it, we'll pay legal costs.' " Livid, he stayed. In 1945, Branch Rickey, Walter
O'Malley, and John Smith bought half of the Ebbets estate. Anything can
happen: Rickey broke baseball's color line. Barber eyeballed his soul: "I'd
been one of the first he told: I was the Voice, and from the South."At first he
thought of quitting. Later Jackie Robinson hailed his healing. "If there are any
thanks involved," Red said, "I thank him."

Jackie debuted April 15, 1947. "I was there," said Larry King, living in
Bensonhurst. "He just seemed to glide." Barber never said, or had to, that
Robinson was the bigs' first black. "Every word I said, or didn't, was carefully weighed." Brooklyn won his second flag. Allen joined Red on the Series.
The Yanks took a 2-0 lead. The Bums then won a 9-8 parody. Next day New
York led, 2-1, after 8 2 / 3 innings.

Rarer: Starter Floyd ("Bill") Bevens had ceded 10 walks and no hits.

Form demands ignoring an at-work no-hitter. "What I did or didn't say
wouldn't influence what happened on the field," said Allen of Mutual. "But
players on the bench think you jinx it by talking. It's part of the romanceone of the great things that separates baseball from other sports, like the seventh-inning stretch or the lack of a clock."

Game Four was timeless. Mel called the first four and a half innings: "I
respected the tradition." Barber, a "reporter, not a dealer in superstition," did
not. Instantly he leaked Brooklyn's line score: one run, two errors, no hits.
Allen gasped, Red recalled, like he was trying to swallow chinaberry seeds.
"Before Red, most Voices were hacks," said Ernie Harwell. "He rejected that
for perfection." Bevens had lost perfection. A no-hitter would suffice.

Ninth inning. Two out. Al Gionfriddo steals second base. Pete Reiser
works Bevens to a 3-1 count. Manager Bucky Harris walks the potential winning run. "The pitch (to pinch-hitter Cookie Lavagetto]," said Red.
"Swung on, there's a drive hit out toward the right-field corner! Henrich is
going hack! He can't get it! It's off the wall for a base hit! Here comes the
tying run and here comes the winning run!" ten Brooklyn's only hit: Series,
tied. Then: "Well, I'll be a suck-egg mule!"

Game Five fizzled: NewYork, 2-1. Next day fused a record Series crowd
(74,065), longest regulation game (3:19), and ooh-ah denouement.
Dodgers, 8-5, in the sixth: two out, two on, and DiMag at bat. "Leans in. He
has one for three today, six hits so far in the Series. Outfield deep, around
toward left, the infield overshifted," Barber said. Then: "Swung on. Belted.
It's a long one! Deep into left-center! Back goes Gionfriddo! Back, back,
hack, hack, back, back! He makes a one-handed catch against the bullpen!
Oh, Doctor!"

DiMaggio kicked dirt near second, a rare show of fury. Game Seven:
Stripes, 5-2. "Great year, sad end," said Brooklyn's Pee Wee Reese. He was
playing the Redhead's song.

In 1946, the then-CBS Sports director created "College Football Roundup."
Two years later Barber nearly died of a hemorrhaged ulcer. That fall, still
weak, he was phoned by A. Craig Smith, the Gillette ad czar who asked Red
to jilt Brooklyn in 1944.

"Smith took it personally, tried to end my Series. Saving me was only
how the Commissioner began naming Voices." In 1948, television sets
waxed from 165,000 to 3 million. "The world's changing," Craig said, "and
you're the only guy who can make it [Gillette TV] go." Barber balked, then
caved. "I said OK. Every hour I worried I'd hemorrhage again and cough
up blood."

The postlogue hemorrhaged Brooklyn. 1949: "Going way back, back,
that's the ball game, a home run forTommy Henrich!" Red said in the Series
opener. "Look at him grin! Big as a slice of watermelon." The Yanks took the
third chapter of their serialized novel. 1950-51: Flatbush lost a last-day flag.
1952: Red telecast his second Classic. Going home, the Bums held a 3--2
game edge. They got the Bum's rush: 3-2 and 4-2. In Game Seven, Duke
Snider found Bedford Avenue. "Boom. Look out. Look out." Noise crested.
Finally: "You needn't look any more."