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.

Who did Bowden Wyatt push into the pool?

Furman Bisher died over the weekend.

If the name doesn't ring a bell, he was a longtime sportswriter and columnist for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution. I used to read his columns about the Braves and The Masters. He wrote a touching tribute to Skip Caray in 2008 when the longtime Braves broadcaster passed away way too early.

The good news is Bisher lived a long, long life. When he retired in 2009, he wrote his goodbye on the same old typewriter he'd used for years. And, even in retirement, he kept on writing. That's a man after my own heart. Here is the story in the AJC.

I got to thinking that Mr. Bisher was the guy that former University of Tennessee football coach Bowden Wyatt pushed into a pool in an infamous incident that ultimately led to his forced retirement.

I checked with marvelous writer Marvin West, who has forgotten more about Tennessee football than most of us will ever know, and he says maybe, maybe not. Marvin's mentor, the late Tom Siler, thought it was Alf Van Hoose of the Birmingham News. At least one longtime UT athletics guy thinks it was former Chattanooga coach Scrappy Moore.

If you can shed any light on whom the wet one was, drop me a line here at the blog or at JakeMabe1@aol.com.

Never be the same

Talk about special.

Got home a little while ago. Closing the books on a tough week.

All I wanted to do was turn the phone off awhile, turn on the Braves game, cook some wings and drink a beer. So I did.

Home opener tonight in the ATL. The Nats are in town.

During the top half of the third guess who showed up in the booth? Pete Van Wieren, Skip's longtime partner, somebody who will forever feel like an old friend.

Pete retired last year. And, as you probably know, Skip died. I had been listening to them since 1985. I've spent more time with them than with members of my own family. I can promise you I would have never loved baseball -- or the Braves -- near as much without them.

The Professor was honored tonight before the game. Threw out the first pitch. The Braves gave him a golden microphone and named the radio booth after him.

So, he visited the Peachtree TV booth tonight to chat with Chip Caray and Joe Simpson. I almost teared up hearing that voice again.

Pete says he likes retirement. He doesn't miss the rain delays, or the west coast trips, or the visits to Shea Stadium. He likes being able to go to his grandchildren's activities. He and his wife want to travel.

But, you can tell he misses baseball.

He started talking about Derek Lowe as if he were still working the Braves beat. That man has forgotten more than most of us will ever know about the game.

As I listened to his voice, and thought about the memories, I mused that things won't ever be the same. I mentioned this to you when I wrote the blog on vacation at Bridget and Dewayne's after Christmas.

I miss the old TBS. I miss "Andy Griffith" and "Perry Mason" and "Sanford and Son" reruns. I miss the classic voice of the announcer that would promote the rural/Southern/action movies the station used to show. Heck, I miss the movies. I miss everything airing at either :05 or :35 after the hour.

And I miss the Braves. I miss all 162 games airing on Ted Turner's Superstation. I miss the low-key graphics, the bad instrumental music at commercial breaks, the times when things seemed simple.

Everything is so commercialized now, so homogenized. Somewhere along the way being regional became a bad word. I am proud to be a Southerner. I hope you're proud of your home region.

Oh, and how will I miss Skip and Pete. And Ernie Johnson. And Don Sutton and Joe Simpson, although they're still around.

It isn't the same. Never will be.

A summer love, gone forever

Macon, Ga. -- Passed by Turner Field last Saturday morning on my way to Bibb County.

It was like seeing your first love years after the fact -- awkward, bittersweet, wistful -- her appearance changed, no longer the girl you once knew.

I found the Atlanta Braves in the 1980s, back when they were awful, back when they showed up every night from April until September on WTBS. You could count on it. Dale Murphy, Bob Horner, Gene Garber and Glenn Hubbard.

Then 1991 happened and we danced in the streets. At least until Jack Morris broke our hearts in Game 7 of the Series -- but what a battle of wits between Morris and John Smoltz!

And, back then, you could count on Skip Caray, Pete Van Wieren (and, for a long while, Ernie Johnson) to keep you company during the game. Seven thirty-five p.m. Eastern, just after "Andy Griffith."

Skip was your favorite because he made you laugh. This was essential when Atlanta was losing 90 games a year. But you loved Pete, too, because he had such a rich voice and vast knowledge of the game. They called him "The Professor."

This beautiful romance lasted through the 1990s and into the 2000s. The Braves kept winning (1995 was the moment of magic) and Skip and Pete were there for all of it.

Warning signs began five years ago. Turner socked it to Caray and Van Wieren, relegated them to regional TV on Turner South, a cold-hearted slap in the face. I was furious. So were others. Ratings dropped. Skip and Pete were back by mid-year.

Then the Braves started losing and this time around it didn't seem so much fun. Dale Murphy wasn't playing right field. Fewer games were broadcast on TBS. I wasn't a kid anymore.

TBS aired its last game last fall. Skip and son Chip brought me one last moment in the sun, the date when you know you and she have drifted apart. Skip said goodbye and teared up. I did too.

I had met him that summer. He said he liked my Braves Hawaiian shirt. I told him he'd made me laugh for 23 years. He said he was glad to hear it.

He was with us a few times on something called Peachtree TV earlier this year. I laughed at the old jokes ("The bases are loaded and Dusty Baker wishes he was.") I missed -- or chose to miss -- the exhaustion in Skip's voice.

Then he died. John Martin Ramsey broke the news, on a sweltering Sunday night, as I was coming home from a Robinella show. I don't remember the drive from North Knoxville to Black Oak Ridge. I was in shock. I had lost a good friend.

I forwent the TV telecast the following night to listen to Pete on the radio. He told Skip stories and fought back tears himself. "At least I still have Pete," I said.

Then Pete retired.

I had met Pete, too, earlier in the year. He was sitting alone at his and Skip's barbecue joint in the stadium. I told him how much I missed him on TBS, how long I'd been a fan, how he and Skip had lifted my spirits the summer the Black Dog nearly nipped me for good.

He smiled, said "Wow," and shook my hand.

Now he, too, is gone. And my romance with the Braves is over.

I had began watching the Detroit Tigers anyway when I bought a satellite dish from Dewayne Lawson's uncle, Clarence Lowe. They became my "rebound" lover. But, it will never be the same. You never quite forget your first love.

I won't watch the Braves this year. I can't do it without Skip and Pete. I don't see the point.

But they and the Braves brought me pure, innocent, child-like joy for 24 years. I'll never forget it.

Somewhere in my memory, it will forever be the dog days of summer, 7:35 p.m. Eastern, Skip and Pete, Greg Maddux on the mound, a "chopper to Chipper."

You'll have to excuse me now. I must go wipe whatever this watery stuff is out of my eyes.

Just what I needed...

Ol' Skip is still making me laugh, even though he's passed on into the hereafter.

I've taken Skip Caray's death pretty hard, partially because he's been such a part of my summers, partially because it happened in the midst of a few other disappointments. Last night, I alternated between TV and radio to hear what the Atlanta Braves family had to say about this special guy. It was just what I needed.

Joe Simpson told several hilarious tales on TV. I laughed for about 10 minutes over an incident with Vanilla Coke.

Apparently, the Coke people wanted Joe and Skip to drink Vanilla Coke on the air and talk about it. Skip hated that kind of thing. He balked. But the powers-that-be told them they had to.

So, they brought up a couple of Vanilla Cokes. Joe started guzzling his, despite the fact it was burning his eyes and all those things that happen when you chug a carbonated beverage. When he finished, he let out an "ahh", turned to Skip and said, "That was great. How did you like yours?"

Skip's classic reply?

"I didn't, the 2-1 pitch..."

Pete Van Wieren was his usual professional self, but you could tell his heart wasn't in the broadcast last night. I went to sleep to the cadence of his voice, holding on to what's left of the familiar, though in my heart I know that what made the Braves special is gone forever.

An Atlanta columnist said it much better than I can:

"Skip and Pete were simply the best — Van Wieren would give us the numbers, and Skip would supply the attitude. Whether the year was 1982 or 2008, hearing those two voices made us feel a part of something that transcended beginnings and endings, something that always was and always would be."

I know what he means. You couldn't count on girlfriends, you couldn't count on the weather, you couldn't count on much of anything really, but you could always count on the fact that Skip and Pete would be there every spring, right on schedule, to brighten your evenings for the next six months.

It's gone now, maybe right when I needed it most. But, it's hard to complain, because Skip provided so many memories, countless moments of pure joy.

Laughing at his quips last night, I realized just how special Skip was, and, too, how much less I would have enjoyed this ride without him.

Saying goodbye

I was somewhere between Barley's and home last night when I got the news.

Skip Caray, the acerbic, nasal-voiced prankster that was such a highlight of many many years of Atlanta Braves baseball broadcasts, is dead. Died in his sleep, they say. Skip was 68.

Skip was practically a member of the family. For roughly 3 1/2 hours, virtually every night from April to September during the last 20 or more years, Skip and/or his partner Pete Van Wieren would keep me company. We made it through the lean years of the mid-to-late 1980s together, and celebrated together through all those division titles and the 1995 World Series.

His father, the legendary Harry Caray, was better known nationally, but to a couple of generations of Braves fans, Skip was as much a part of a Southern summer night as Harry had been for Cardinals and Cubs fans.

He was witty, he was cantankerous, he was irreverent ("And, like lambs to the slaughter, the Braves take the field..."). I can't believe he's gone.

Got home last night and just sat in the dark for a few minutes. Maybe only baseball fans will understand this, but I feel like I've lost an old friend.

Skip and Pete not only kept me company on countless summer nights, they both got me through a bad case of depression a few years ago. I met Skip last summer, but couldn't seem to put what I wanted to say into words. I sometimes have that kind of trouble when talking to people I admire.

He hadn't been around too much these last couple of years. TBS kept cutting back Braves broadcasts, ceasing them altogether at the end of last season. Skip was on the radio a bunch and worked several TV games this year on Peachtree TV.

I can't imagine not ever hearing that nasal voice again or laughing at his wit ("The bases are loaded and I wish I was..."). His talent was such that he could make an otherwise worthless ballgame into a great broadcast.

So long, Skip. I wish I had more writing talent so I could give you the goodbye you deserve.

You were the best, pal. It won't ever be the same. We'll never forget you.

Saying thanks to Pete

ATLANTA -- The man was sitting by himself just outside his barbecue joint. I debated on whether to bother him, finally decided I needed to say thanks.

Several years ago, when they first told me about the Black Dog, one of the things that got me through a rough period was listening to Pete Van Wieren and Skip Caray call Atlanta Braves baseball games. I'd been a fan from way back, before anybody came to watch the Braves, back when the team often found itself lodged in the cellar of the National League West.

Pete and Skip called every game on the old WTBS Superstation. You could count on them being there, season after season. After a few summers, they began to feel like old friends.

Pete was the serious one. They called him the professor. His concise delivery contrasted nicely with Skip's acerbic wit. I guess I've spent more time with Pete and Skip (3 hours a night on average, six months a year, for about 20 years) than anybody else outside the family.

Things changed, as they always do. For awhile, the Braves became one of the best teams in baseball. Then that, too, changed.

Pete and Skip are no longer on TV. (Skip does call a few games on Peachtree TV). WTBS doesn't even carry the Braves anymore. Pete hangs out solely on the radio.

Last night, I walked up to him, introduced myself, shook his hand and told him how much he and Skip have meant to me down through the years, especially during the dark days. He smiled, said "wow" and "thanks" and shook my hand.

Thanks for everything, Pete. You're the best.

Good-bye to all that

Just after 4:30 this afternoon, when the last gasp of my childhood slipped quietly into the early autumn sun, Skip Caray said that a page has been turned.

But, for me anyway, it is time to find a new book.

Thirty years and a million memories later, TBS is no longer broadcasting its flagship program, Atlanta Braves baseball. The final episode was forgettable, a 3-0 loss to Houston, that will be remembered only as Craig Biggio's final game -- and as the end of an era.

I told J.M. Ramsey, who came over to toast one last drink to the Bravos, that I guess I've spent more time with Skip and his longtime broadcast partner Pete Van Wieren (and Ernie Johnson and Chip Caray and Joe Simpson and Don Sutton) than I have members of my own family. Think about it. Three hours a night, six months a year, for something like 20 years. Hard to believe.

But the memories linger.

The really awful years, losing 18 in a row. But Skip made turning in a must. It didn't matter that the Braves were awful. This was, after all, a family -- and families stick together when the going gets tough.

There were moments. Rick Camp. The first few games of '82. That 19 inning affair with the Mets on July 4-5 of '85. Murph. Chuck Tanner. Bob Horner's four dingers. (OK, forget about Chuck Tanner.)

But then, like a beautiful, insane dream, 1991 happened, worst-to-first, the "you've got to be kidding me" season for the ages. And they kept winning and winning and winning.

Smoltz. Glavine. Maddux. Crime Dog. The Lemmer. Sid's slide. Beating the Indians for the whole damn thing in '95. The Baby Braves of the new century.

I was a kid when it started and was well into my career when it stopped. Through it all, Skip made you laugh and Pete wowed you with his brain. Joe and Don were pretty cool, too. And we'll never forget dear, sweet Ernie.

TBS hasn't been the same for many moons. Dean Harned would tell you the beginning of the end came with the takeover by Time Warner, when his beloved WCW wrestling was canned in 2001.

This is true; but there was more. "Andy Griffith" reruns, redneck movies like "Walking Tall" and, yes, professional wrestling all disappeared, gone with the wind you might say. Corporate blandness took over, indicative of the politically correct effort in this country to eradicate regionalism, destroy anything that makes a people unique, proud of where they're from. What's amazing, looking back on it, is that the Braves survived as long as they did.

So now it's over. I feel like I've lost a best friend.

Oh, the Braves will continue, on Fox and other regional telecasts. Simpson has survived the changes and at least Boog Sciambi has made us all forget about the horrible nightmare that was Bob Rathbun. Skip and Pete will hang out on radio and show up on a new regional channel, Peachtree TV, that we may or may not get here in Knoxville.

But this is it. The era is over; the old picture show has closed its doors.

Knowing this would soon happen, I began weening myself off the Braves, like the addict kicking the habit. Satellite TV means I can watch my other team, the Detroit Tigers, nearly every night anyway. The Internet means I can listen to Skip and Pete if and when I choose.

It is a death in the family, but two decades of sweet, sweet memories will never die. I could write a million words and never tell these guys, and this team, how much they have meant to one little baseball fan in one little corner of the world.

So good-bye to all that. Go to hell, TBS. Make yourself over to look like the other, undistinguishable, 500 other channels on the dial. Your ratings won't be that good and you'll never know the loyalty, or the love, we gave Ted Turner's station -- and this baseball team.

But as the sun sets on a sad moment, here's to you Skip, Pete, Ernie, Joe, Don, Chip, Glen and the crew. It may seem trite to say it, but this journey called life won't be near as much fun without you.

Meeting Skip

ATLANTA, June 24 -- Forget the scoreboard.

Sometimes the cosmos, and the baseball gods, and whatever else you want to mention, all come together to create something really special. Something you talk about, laugh about for days afterwards.

Something you never forget.

Such it was tonight at Turner Field. And it had nothing to do with the game.

Nope, the baseball was forgettable. Atlanta lost a laugher 5-0 to the surging Detroit Tigers. About the only interesting thing on the field was impressive plays by Atlanta's Jeff Francoeur and Detroit's Carlos Guillen (AL player of the week, by the way).

But something happened before the game. Something I'll never forget.

We get to the ballpark early, as is my custom. I like parking before the horde arrives. I like to walk around the park, soak up the sounds.

An 8 p.m. start meant we hadn't eaten yet. So we ease over to the BBQ joint in the stadium -- only to find longtime Braves announcer Skip Caray signing autographs!

Skip has been my longtime connection to the Braves. I've spent more time with him and Pete Van Wieren than I have members of my family. He kept us chuckling when the team was losing 100 games a year. He kept us excited throughout all the championship runs in the '90s.

And there he was, friendly as can be, signing a publicity photo for the folks in line. I tried to think of what to say. How do you tell a guy thanks for nearly 30 years of memories?

Skip takes one look at my Braves Hawaiian shirt and says two words.

"Nice shirt."

I laugh -- you always do that with Skip -- thank him and tell him he's brought me many years of joy.

"I'm glad to hear that," Skip says.

He tells Drew Weaver (who addresses him as "Mr. Caray") to call him Skip -- then asks Drew if he has a military background. Drew wears a buzz cut and says "sir" a lot.

Drew says his dad is a Marine. Skip smiles and says "Good."

Off we go. I'm still on cloud nine. I don't think much about the game. I keep checking to see if Skip's autograph is OK.

It was something. The whole thing felt like one of those MasterCard commercials.

Braves parking pass: $10

Ticket to a Sunday night game: $39

Gas for the truck: $50

Meeting Skip Caray? Well, you know the answer to that one.

Priceless.