Thanks, Bob
Drawing by Rafael Calonzo, Jr.
What is it about a radio play-by-play man that inspires such love from his listeners?
There are many reasons, of course, some more crucial than others, and suffice it to say that not all broadcasters engender the adulation men such as the recently deceased Bob Blackburn do. As a youngster in Seattle, I immediately fell in love with Dave Niehaus’ dulcet tones describing some horrible Mariner teams, but even then, with all the inherent naivete of a 10-year-old, I didn’t need anyone to tell me that Rick Rizzs was, well, not Dave Niehaus.
What is it, then, about these men that causes such devotion? I remember moving to Southern California in the mid-90s, and having everyone down there tell me how wonderful the Dodgers’ Ross Porter was. To me, he was just another broadcaster, but to true blue Dodger fans, he was almost as much of an institution as Vin Scully.
It is that history which forms the first crucial part of the bond between listener and broadcaster. The fact that this man (and let’s not be politically correct for one moment, as these are, indeed, all men of which we are speaking) has been there for everything – the pre-season snoozers, the occasional mid-season “must-wins,” the thundering dunks, the crazy, 41-point games from some unexpected small forward, the last-minute steals, the playoff drives – all of it.
Bob Blackburn was that conduit for many of us, and no franchise shifts, no surprising firings could change that. There will only be one man who introduced me to pro basketball, and that man is Blackburn, a fact as irreversible as the outcomes of the games he described to me all those years on my pathetic clock radio.
All those nights when the Sonics played on the west coast, games that ended long past my bedtime, I lay there listening to him tell me what happened, how the Sonics were making a charge, how Gus Williams was draining another jumper, or Jack Sikma was snaring another rebound – those were his adjectives, his insights, his snippets of humor, and no one else’s.
As the team changed from a championship squad to an also-ran in the mid-80s, it was Blackburn who still told us the stories, about Williams’ holdout, Sikma’s replacement, and the new guy from Wichita State who the Sonics took instead of Detlef Schrempf. He introduced us to Shawn Kemp and Gary Payton, was there when Seattle found a coach from Spain, and all those other crazy moments of the late 80s and early 90s.
More than anything, though, it is the personal connection in a radio broadcast which inevitably elevates the relationship. Think about it – with radio you almost always experience the broadcast alone. Television is a shared medium, at least some of the time, while radio is almost always solitary. There is you, there is the radio, and there is the voice drifting out from within it. It commands your attention much more than television does, simply because you cannot follow the action without devoting your entire mind to listening.
Over time, that solitary experience grows into a partnership between you and the man on the other end. It is a well worn cliché that broadcasters are talking directly to their listeners, but there is truth to that cliché.
I remember a meaningless game between the Sonics and Warriors in the early 80s that went down to the final seconds. Seattle was at the line, needing to make one of the free throws, then hope to rebound a miss and convert a field goal for the victory, or make the second free throw (or third, this was in the 2-out-of-3 era) to send it to overtime.
I can’t remember who was at the line for the Sonics, but I can remember the amazement in Blackburn’s voice as he went from disappointment to joy as the Sonic player missed the second and third shot, allowing Sikma to grab the rebound and the quick follow.
After thousands of games, Blackburn still had the joy the rest of us did at the outcome. “Can you believe it?” Blackburn told us, in words I’ll never forget.
One year ago, I wrote a letter to Bob and his family after learning of his poor health due to a fall at his home in Issaquah. I was pleasantly surprised when I received a note back from his wife, Pat, expressing her thanks for the card. I hope she doesn’t mind if I relay the now-poignant quote from Bob she included at the end of her note:
“It’s nice to be remembered.”
After all he’s given us, how could we forget?
There are many reasons, of course, some more crucial than others, and suffice it to say that not all broadcasters engender the adulation men such as the recently deceased Bob Blackburn do. As a youngster in Seattle, I immediately fell in love with Dave Niehaus’ dulcet tones describing some horrible Mariner teams, but even then, with all the inherent naivete of a 10-year-old, I didn’t need anyone to tell me that Rick Rizzs was, well, not Dave Niehaus.
What is it, then, about these men that causes such devotion? I remember moving to Southern California in the mid-90s, and having everyone down there tell me how wonderful the Dodgers’ Ross Porter was. To me, he was just another broadcaster, but to true blue Dodger fans, he was almost as much of an institution as Vin Scully.
It is that history which forms the first crucial part of the bond between listener and broadcaster. The fact that this man (and let’s not be politically correct for one moment, as these are, indeed, all men of which we are speaking) has been there for everything – the pre-season snoozers, the occasional mid-season “must-wins,” the thundering dunks, the crazy, 41-point games from some unexpected small forward, the last-minute steals, the playoff drives – all of it.
Bob Blackburn was that conduit for many of us, and no franchise shifts, no surprising firings could change that. There will only be one man who introduced me to pro basketball, and that man is Blackburn, a fact as irreversible as the outcomes of the games he described to me all those years on my pathetic clock radio.
All those nights when the Sonics played on the west coast, games that ended long past my bedtime, I lay there listening to him tell me what happened, how the Sonics were making a charge, how Gus Williams was draining another jumper, or Jack Sikma was snaring another rebound – those were his adjectives, his insights, his snippets of humor, and no one else’s.
As the team changed from a championship squad to an also-ran in the mid-80s, it was Blackburn who still told us the stories, about Williams’ holdout, Sikma’s replacement, and the new guy from Wichita State who the Sonics took instead of Detlef Schrempf. He introduced us to Shawn Kemp and Gary Payton, was there when Seattle found a coach from Spain, and all those other crazy moments of the late 80s and early 90s.
More than anything, though, it is the personal connection in a radio broadcast which inevitably elevates the relationship. Think about it – with radio you almost always experience the broadcast alone. Television is a shared medium, at least some of the time, while radio is almost always solitary. There is you, there is the radio, and there is the voice drifting out from within it. It commands your attention much more than television does, simply because you cannot follow the action without devoting your entire mind to listening.
Over time, that solitary experience grows into a partnership between you and the man on the other end. It is a well worn cliché that broadcasters are talking directly to their listeners, but there is truth to that cliché.
I remember a meaningless game between the Sonics and Warriors in the early 80s that went down to the final seconds. Seattle was at the line, needing to make one of the free throws, then hope to rebound a miss and convert a field goal for the victory, or make the second free throw (or third, this was in the 2-out-of-3 era) to send it to overtime.
I can’t remember who was at the line for the Sonics, but I can remember the amazement in Blackburn’s voice as he went from disappointment to joy as the Sonic player missed the second and third shot, allowing Sikma to grab the rebound and the quick follow.
After thousands of games, Blackburn still had the joy the rest of us did at the outcome. “Can you believe it?” Blackburn told us, in words I’ll never forget.
One year ago, I wrote a letter to Bob and his family after learning of his poor health due to a fall at his home in Issaquah. I was pleasantly surprised when I received a note back from his wife, Pat, expressing her thanks for the card. I hope she doesn’t mind if I relay the now-poignant quote from Bob she included at the end of her note:
“It’s nice to be remembered.”
After all he’s given us, how could we forget?
Labels: Bob Blackburn
posted by PN @ 11:39 AM
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