Dialing up The Fall Classic

 Our national pastime is perfect for radio. Pitch perfect. A perfect announcer can paint word pictures that even HD can't capture.

Back in the Dark Ages, when one could only get "Monday Night Baseball" or maybe a Saturday game of the week, I'd fire up an AM radio not unlike the M&M Boys unit shown at left and could pick up games as far away as Chicago and Detroit.

This was long before cellphones and every other damn thing ruined radio's oldest bandwidth.

Television has its advantages, but baseball and radio go together like peas and carrots.

I was reminded of that fact this weekend. Driving home from my friend Shelton's house last night, I listened to the last couple of innings of the World Series on Sirius/XM, Joe Castiglione on WEEI. Tonight, I caught a couple of innings on KMOX -- Mike Shannon and John Rooney.

The best part? No Tim McCarver.

There is a caveat at work here, though. Baseball is terrible on the radio (or on TV for that matter) if the announcers are atrocious. I was spoiled for years by Pete Van Wieren, Skip Caray, Ernie Harwell, Marty Brennaman, Joe Nuxhall, and, after satellite surfaced, the peerless Vin Scully. I still have nightmares about Bob Rathbun and Ken "Hawk" Harrelson.

I'm not old enough to have heard the late, great Lindsey Nelson cover the New York Mets on the radio, but I certainly remember some of his later national TV broadcasts. ("Hello everybody, I'm Lindsey Nelson!") When he moved back to Knoxville, you could often spot him downtown sporting his trademark plaid sport coat. I think he lived at the Pembroke. Feel free to correct me on that. I'm going by memory.

Now, I'm kicked back on the couch, the Series playing on TV as I type. I like Joe Buck. I'm glad this is it for McCarver. But I'm biased. For years I had one of his Topps baseball cards taped to my toilet.

 TV announcers aside, this game is tailor-made for radio. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

'Bless you boys!'

Bless you boys!

The Detroit Tigers have evened the ALCS at 2 games apiece. Man, this is shaping up to be a classic.

Yes, your humble servant is somewhat divided. Detroit and the BoSox are two of my three favorite MLB teams. (The third -- the ATL -- has already been eliminated.)

But, I'm pulling for the Tigers in this series. One, I've loved them longer. Two, the BoSox won it all in 2004 and 2007. The last time the Tigers won the Series was 29 years ago. (By the way, I've got that entire Series on DVD to watch in winter.)

So, I'll be for the AL in the World Series regardless.

No doubt, my buddies Thomas, David, Dave, Ed, Jim, Robbie, Mike (no, not Hermann) and Jed (and, somewhere, Sam Malone) are boosting the BoSox.

Over in the NL, buddies Drew and Nick are cheering on the Cards, and Spencer, Ken and Roy (and maybe Bob) are dreaming for Dodger domination.

But, since my blood runs orange in so many ways, I am pulling for the Old English D this week. So, too, are pals David and Jen, Cortney, Danny, Grant, Matthew (no, not Shelton) and Mike (no, not Hermann).

"Bless you boys!"

Bonus points to anyone who knows who uttered the above phrase. (And it isn't who you think.)

Walter Mitty dream jobs

OK, let's get one thing straight:

I've got the best job in the world.

Sure, the pay isn't great, the hours are long, you hear more complaints than applause, and when you screw up 100,000 people can potentially see it.

But that's my story and I'm sticking to it. I tell tales for a living. Doesn't get much better than that.

Still, I have my Walter Mitty moments. So, here are a list of jobs I sometimes dream about on cloudy days.

Being Rob Petrie -- I don't want to be just any ol' comedy writer for a TV show. I want to be Rob Petrie from "The Dick Van Dyke Show." Let's face it: He sits around all day thinking up jokes with Rose Marie and Morrie Amsterdam. Every now and then they get to make fun of bald guy Mel. They work for Carl Reiner's Alan Brady. At night, Rob goes home to Mary Tyler Moore circa the 1960s Capri pants era. (OK, we'll forget that he also trips over the ottoman -- sometimes! -- and for some strange reason has to sleep in a single bed next to Mary's.) His neighbor is Jerry Paris. What a life!


Being Jack Benny -- I'm a big radio guy and missed out on its Golden Age. Thank God I can listen to endless hours of Benny's classic comedy. Picture perfect timing, classic routines, the self-confidence to make yourself the butt of every joke, Jack Benny's show created the sitcom. He was everything his radio/TV character wasn't -- warm, generous, even talented on the violin. I would have loved to have had a radio show like Jack's, Sunday nights at 7. LSMFT!

Being Harry O/Magnum, p.i./Jim Rockford -- Yes, I would like to be any member of this trio of TV detectives. Oh, I know it's a fantasy. The work is hard, tedious, dangerous. But, I'll take a beachfront cottage in San Diego (Orwell), a guest house in Hawaii (Magnum) or even a seedy trailer by the highway in Los Angeles (Rockford). Shows about quirky detectives have given way to a saturation of rote procedurals. It's such a shame.

Being Jonathan Schwartz -- He's been a fixture on New York radio for decades. Jon Schwartz is one classy cat. Saturdays and Sundays on WNYC, he spins everything from Sinatra to the latest showtune singer. He used to be a cabaret singer himself. His dad was a famous composer. He lives in Manhattan. He likes baseball. He writes books. Yes, sir. Yes, indeed.

Being Robert Osborne -- Need I explain it? Although he's finally slowing down, Osborne has been the host of TCM since its inception. He waxes poetic about classic cinema. And he does it with class, confidence and cogent comments. Roll the next clip!

Being Vin Scully -- Oh, that sounds too pretentious, but I'd love to be a radio/TV play-by-play announcer for a major league baseball club. The national pastime is tailor made for radio really, and Vinny and the late Ernie Harwell and a couple of others are the cream of the crop. They knew what to say, they knew when to shut up and they did it (and in Vin's case is still doing it) with class and competence.

Having said all this, being Jake Mabe is pretty darn good.

But I can dream, can't I? (To coin a phrase.)

Fun in Ferndale

Ferndale, Mich. -- So, our three day weekend comes to a close.

Big blur, super short, too little time. But, then again, that's the way of it, right? We work too much and play too little, all in the name of some passe Protestant ethic.

To hell with that.

But, we've had a blast. At left, you'll see Jennifer and me with Robert Washington, Elvis Tribute Artist extraordinaire, the highlight of our stop Saturday at the annual Michigan ElvisFest. Fabulous. Hear him here.

We are here, too, to see friends David and Jennifer. I have been heading here, or they have done the opposite, since 1999. They live in Ferndale, this funky, freaky, fantastic foxhole north of Detroit.

This afternoon, we watched the Tigers tame the Orioles via the televisions at Rosie O'Grady's bar. Then we went shopping. I bought three or four books at The Library bookstore -- John Cheever, James Agee, a "Hawaii Five-O" paperback from '68, and Ernie Harwell's early autobiography. (Then I dropped a C-note at a vintage clothing store. Groovy, baby!)

Speaking of the late, great Mr. Harwell, we saw the play "Ernie" at the City Theatre in downtown Detroit on Saturday night. I laughed. I cried. I lamented a long-gone era. Mitch Albom wrote the play. Perfectly poignant.

Before the show, we drove by a fenced-in lot, all that remains of beloved Tiger Stadium. I don't care how cool Comerica Park may be (and it is cool), it will never match the magic of the long-gone cathedral at The Corner. Not a chance.

This weekend was much-needed medicine. I've felt like hell for two weeks. So has Jenn. We needed a grin. We needed old friends.

Every time I come to Ferndale, I get caught up in its bohemian beauty, in its quirky charm, in its ethos.

Now I must return to tea party-tinged Tennessee. I will be honest. The thought depresses the hell out of me.

So it goes. Life is good.

We have enjoyed these two days. I have gotten all shook up and basked in beer and baseball and bell bottoms and the beauty of time spent with friends.

But here is the best part:

We'll be back.

There used to be a ballpark

And there used to be a ballpark
Where the field was warm and green
And the people played their crazy game
With a joy I'd never seen.
And the air was such a wonder
From the hot dogs and the beer
Yes, there used to be a ballpark, right here.

-- Frank Sinatra, "There Used to be a Ballpark Here," 1973

The gaping hole in the side of old Tiger Stadium this morning has nothing on the gaping hole in my heart.

I finally made it to the corner of Michigan and Trumbull in the late summer of 1999. It was the last year for baseball at the beloved ol' stadium in Detroit. Me and a buddy from Halls, Drew Weaver, made the 8-hour trek to Motown to say good-bye.

The Tigers were awful that year, as they so often were from 1988 to 2005. But, on this magical Saturday afternoon, they beat the Baltimore Orioles. I've forgotten the score. Cal Ripken Jr. wasn't playing that day, but he brought the lineup to home plate before the game.

It was a special moment in several ways. That game marked the beginning of my enduring friendship with two special pals, Michigan native and "Magnum, p.i." guru David Romas and his wife, Jennifer Bondy. It was also my first -- and only -- visit to the grand ol' girl that was Tiger Stadium. The last home game at the Corner was played that September; the Tigers moved to big new Comerica Park downtown the following year.

We were the last fans to file out of the stadium that Saturday night. We stayed and stayed, not wanting to say good-bye.

I looked out over that green field, thinking about Cobb and Kell, Kaline and Cash, Lolich and McLain, Tram and Sweet Lou. I looked up at Ernie Harwell's broadcast booth and wondered if he'd go to the new park. (He did, finally retiring in 2002.)

I thought about Tom Selleck, who for all practical purposes introduced me to the Tigers through Thomas Magnum in the '80s. And I knew with all my heart that I'd never step into another park quite like this one.

Several groups tried to save the stadium over the last 8 years. Meanwhile, she sat and rotted, cracking at the seams -- sad, lonely, neglected. The wrecking crew tore a big hole in her side yesterday. Looking at the pictures on the internet made me want to throw up.

A group is still frantically working to save the field, the dugouts, 3,000 seats and Ernie's booth. I don't know. From what I understand, it hinges on government money, so I'm not going to hold my breath.

But generations of Michiganders -- and even a Tigers fan from Tennessee -- will forever have their memories. I'll never forget that Saturday at the corner of Michigan and Trumbull for the rest of my days.

"Yes," Sinatra sang, "there used to be ballpark right here..."

Almost perfect

What a day.

Were it not for the fact that my right kidney's stones are now moving and causing agony, yesterday would have been perfect.

First and foremost: My dear friends Dewayne Lawson and Bridget Trogden are the proud parents of a new son, Jacob Paul Lawson. Mother and son are doing fine. Proud papa made my day when he called.

Tears filled my eyes when I heard the boy's name.

The legendary Ernie Harwell, 80-something years young, was the guest commentator on the Tigers game yesterday afternoon. Ernie's the best of the best.

He tells a great story during the game about a Tigers player who began his career here in Knoxville when the Smokies were a Tigs affiliate in the sixties. After a while the player was sent to the old Atlanta Crackers. Ernie says the Crackers' stadium sported a sign in left that read "Hit it here and win a pint of whiskey."

That Cracker became a switch hitter.

Detroit took care of the Los Angeles Angels in high fashion 12-0. Jeremy Bonderman mixed his 90 mph fastball and nasty slider rather well for eight innings. His final line was 4 hits, 0 earned runs, 5 walks and 6 strikeouts.

Ernie watches a lot of baseball these days. He catches games on the radio, reads coverage in the newspaper. He's also a popular speaker on the circuit.

"If a guy burps in a movie house, I give a speech," he jokes.

Perfect afternoon it was for baseball in Motown. Packed house, loud fans. There's something special, almost ethereal, about day baseball. Seeing the boys sporting the old English D in the bright sunshine, backed by that velvet Southern voice, conjures up the intangible something that was once great about this game.

Last night, crafty Atlanta veteran John Smoltz shut down the New York Mets to earn his 200th win. The Braves are within a stone's throw of first place.

Almost perfect, man. Almost perfect.