I would have written right after Jack Brickhouse left me a voice-mail message during the U.S. Open in June. He called because something he saw during the tournament reminded him of an anecdote he thought might be helpful in my coverage.
I hadn’t returned his call to say thanks. Instead I wanted to surprise him with a piece in this space about what his calls and our relationship had meant to me through the years.
When you cover sports for 17 years, you tend to get a bit jaded. You meet many famous athletes, but it’s part of the job. Michael Jordan, Tiger Woods, Walter Payton, blah, blah . . .
Not to sound snooty, but in this profession, if you get caught up in idol worship you might as well stand in line for autographs.
I do have one exception. The guys who always move my needle are the sports figures I watched during my youth. During the baseball strike in 1994, I once spent two hours with Ernie Banks looking through his old photos in the Tribune archives. Each picture had a story.
You can’t help but imagining yourself as a 12-year-old and how it would have felt like to spend two hours with Mr. Cub in 1971. All I could say is: Neat.
Like all kids of my generation in the 1960s and ’70s, we were raised by Brickhouse. He was our afternoon companion.
So you can imagine my surprise when I came home one fall evening in the late 1980s and pushed the button on my message machine. Out came that deep, distinctive voice that I had heard a million times in my youth.
“Ed, this is Jack Brickhouse . . .”
All of a sudden I was a kid again. Mom, Jack Brickhouse wants to talk to me?
I hadn’t met Brickhouse yet, but I was running the baseball writers’ dinner, and he had a quick question for me. The call struck me in such a way that I wanted to tell my boyhood friends, friends that I had lost touch with that the Jack Brickhouse was on the line. They’d understand.
Since that call, I had come to know Brickhouse fairly well. We met during meetings for the Chicago Baseball Cancer Charities, and I often was able to visit with him at committee dinners. No matter what beat I was on, he always knew what I had written about in recent weeks. That impressed me.
During the final season of Chicago Stadium, I was assigned to write a story on the years he spent in the place, covering everything from political conventions to boxing. I asked if my dad could come along over lunch to listen to his stories. He said sure, and from that moment on, whenever I saw him, the first thing he would say was, “How’s your dad?” If you knew sports figures, you would know how rare it is to get a personal question directed to a reporter.
But Brickhouse had the personal touch, and that’s probably why he connected with the fans the same way Harry Caray did. Even though most people never met them, the two announcers always felt like part of the family. They were in our homes every day–and they never yelled at you if you didn’t do your homework.
That’s why it was such a thrill to get to meet Brickhouse as an adult. Obviously, the novelty wore off, but there still was a part of me that felt like a gushy kid whenever we were together. I never lost that feeling, nor did I want to.
Brickhouse at the mike represented a time in my life where sports had that great blend of innocence and meaning everything to a young kid. If Brickhouse said I should let “Whitey Lockman do the worrying” for me today, I said fine, even though at 12, I don’t think I had many worries.
My life basically consisted of baseball in the spring and summer, football in the fall and basketball in the winter. And Brickhouse was there every step of the way.
You remembered his call of Kenny Holtzman’s gems, with the excitement stretching his voice thin as he cried, “It’s a no-hitter!” You remember how Kent Nix led the Bears to a couple of comeback victories, and all you heard on the winning touchdown was “HEYYYY-AARGGGHH-OOHH-YEESSSS,” as Brickhouse and Irv Kupcinet fell out of the booth.
It wasn’t textbook, but they don’t teach enthusiasm in Broadcasting 101. Brickhouse had it, and that’s why hearing the replays of his famous calls in the tributes Thursday brought back so many memories for so many people. It was a special time for kids like myself, thanks in part to guys like Brickhouse.
If you were a part of those generations of kids who grew up with Brickhouse, you know exactly what he meant to you. He was one of the reasons why you fell in love with sports.
That’s why Thursday was a bittersweet day. His passing was sad, but reliving those moments again made us remember why he touched us the way he did.
I planned to write these thoughts in a column. To tell him how much I appreciated that phone call in June.
Here’s a guy less than three months removed from having major brain surgery at age 82, and he’s taking the time to call a golf writer to share a story.
I shouldn’t have waited. If I had written this sooner, I know I would have received a call from Brickhouse.
He would have graciously told me how much he appreciated the kind thoughts.
“Thanks, pal,” he would have said.
Thanks, Jack, from all of us.
