The Spirit of Radio

Last night was another of life’s simple joys.

Happened as I was preparing to read to my son in his bed. As I approached his top bunk, I could see he was fiddling with some piece of plastic.

Turns out it was the cheap transistor radio he scored during the July 4 weekend. Juxtaposed against the Wii, PlayStation2 and various electronic gadgets and gizmos in his room, this tiny radio seems, at best, quaint.

But there he was, curiously spinning the dial. He zipped past the gospel hour preacher. Past some guy jabbering in Spanish. And almost past the classic rock station. I stopped his itchy trigger finger before he could dispatch “Peace of Mind” by Boston, allowing me the chance to extol the virtues of one of the greatest debut albums, the first LP I ever owned.

The next spin of the radio dial yielded something beautiful.

A little context might help. The weekend had been tough on the boy. Some sketchy choices of his resulted in some discipline from me. Plus, a big family gathering overstimulated and exhausted him. So by the time he crawled into bed on Sunday night, he was weary -- and probably a little wary of me being there. With good reason. I had been irritable and quick-tempered.

The simplicity of the radio softened my mood, flooding my mind with memories. For Andrew, it was little more than a novelty. A sly smile would creep across his face with every station received.

Then we heard baseball.

I immediately detected the rhythm of the play-by-play announcer. The roar of the crowd. Quickly I told Andrew what he’d stumbled upon: His first baseball radio broadcast. And this was not some meaningless mid-summer Rangers game.

This was Red Sox vs. Yankees. Top of the 9th inning. 54,000+ at Yankee Stadium screaming as Manny Ramirez comes off the bench to face Mariano Rivera, who is trying to preserve the 4-4 score.

I tried to explain the situation. Two outs. Runner at third. The league’s best hitter against the league’s best pitcher. A classic confrontation in one of sport’s greatest rivalries. We were swept up in the moment, cheering and fist-pumping with each pitch. (Alas, there were only three; Manny struck out without even lifting the bat off his shoulder.)

The rally was quashed, the half-inning was over, and the announcer proclaimed the heart of the Yankee lineup was coming up in the bottom of the ninth.

“Dad, do we have to read?,” Andrew asked.

So we spent the next few minutes listening to the game on the radio and talking about baseball. I’d interpret clichés and jargon for him, while explaining how the announcers try to create theater of the mind for us, the listeners.

And how, when I was a kid, the radio would transport me to games. I vividly recall family road trips, listening to Lon Simmons call the Giants games. Or (much to my sisters' chagrin) the ever-present baseball game coming through Mom’s kitchen radio, perpetually tuned to a Dodgers, Angels, or Padres game. Southern California summers allowed us to enjoy the company of Vin Scully, Jerry Doggett, Dick Enberg, Don Drysdale and even Jerry Coleman. What great memories. What joy.

I hope last night will be the first of many play-by-play memories for my son.