Posted by trope on December 05, 2010 at 19:03:41:
www.chicagotribune.com/business/columnists/ct-biz-1205-phil-20101205,0,3229575.column
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Santo was nothing fancy but meant everything to Cubs broadcasts
Unpolished, heart-on-his-sleeve ways only deepened the affection of fans
Phil Rosenthal
Media
December 5, 2010
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When Cubs radio analyst Ron Santo died Friday at age 70, it triggered a memory of an old "Seinfeld" rerun.
"Maybe I could be like an announcer. Like a color man," George Costanza said. "You know how I always make those interesting comments during the game?"
While humoring his newly unemployed pal by agreeing that he did indeed make good comments, Jerry felt compelled to point out a simple truth.
"Well," he said, as if explaining to a child that people are different from birds, "they generally give those jobs to ex-ballplayers and people that are, you know, in broadcasting."
"Well, that's really not fair," George said, wounded, a response that still gets a smile of recognition from plenty of "Seinfeld" viewers every time it's shown.
Every sports fan thinks he or she could be a color commentator, having offered "interesting comments" to friends, family and other bar patrons for years. But it's like applying for the job of being someone's best friend or favorite uncle or, more precisely, the best friend or favorite uncle of hundreds of thousands of someones.
This is especially true when it comes to the epic, meandering, summer-long conversation that is a baseball season.
Santo was an ex-ballplayer with Hall of Fame-type credentials who didn't dwell on expert analysis, and he rarely came across like a broadcaster even after 20 seasons behind the microphone on WGN-AM 720's Cub-casts.
His popularity and longevity were due to the affection Cubs fans had for him as a player and only deepened as their proxy in the booth and through his playful interaction with play-by-play man Pat Hughes, his broadcast partner the last 15 seasons.
His success illustrates what makes the role of color man so difficult to peg: The best in the business do not share many common threads beyond the fact they wear well and can carry a dull game.
Some sagely unlock strategic intricacies, educating the audience and deepening their appreciation of the game. Others seem to be little different than other fans of the home team, only louder. Some push. Some patronize. Some rant and some root. Many are known for patting players on the back, while others are known for spanking them. Some manage to pull off all of that and then some.
And the best broadcast team in baseball is when Vin Scully works alone.
For decades, Scully has been speaking with no one while speaking to everyone on Los Angeles Dodgers broadcasts, weaving a lyrical narrative in which he plays all the parts himself ? play by play, expert analyst, historian, humorist, even the sponsors' tout ? in monologue form.
Harry Caray had a series of uniformly unremarkable partners on White Sox broadcasts until he was teamed with Jimmy Piersall in 1977. Through 1981, they offered unvarnished, unsparing assessments of what they saw. Sox management came to feel they wanted at least some varnish. But, for fans, the duo was unpredictable, which could not always be said of the teams they covered.
Steve Stone, on White Sox telecasts, adds nuance and insight that makes fans smarter without making it seem as though he's dumbing it down, the way Tim McCarver too often seems to do on national Fox telecasts. On Cubs telecasts, Bob Brenly brings plenty of knowledge, but, just as important, seems to be having a good time with Len Kasper.
Sometimes it boils down to chemistry and comfort. When Chicago Tribune parent Tribune Co.'s Cubs and WGN-AM were looking to replace Dave Nelson as a color man on Cubs broadcasts, they hired both Santo and Brenly in 1990, giving Santo a chance to get used to the role in a three-man booth with play-by-play announcer Thom Brennaman.
His successor ? Mark Grace, Rick Sutcliffe, Dave Otto, whoever ? will not likely get that kind of help. And Hughes' role will change with the new partner. Hughes had to carry much of the burden of telling listeners the what, and often also the why, of what was happening. That left Santo to punctuate what it felt like, for those on the field and in the stands.
When Brant Brown dropped that infamous fly ball with the bases loaded and two out in the bottom of the ninth in 1998 at Milwaukee, there were plenty of things that could have been said. Scoff, but Santos' reflexive groan, "Oh, no!" covers it.
Hughes and Santo drew each other out, with Santo sometimes a Gracie Allen to Hughes' George Burns.
Often as not, as the Cubs' chances for a pennant cooled with the weather, they could recast yet another season's dreary diamond drama into something closer to a diverting "Road" picture in the Hope-and-Crosby vein.
The thing about a team that hasn't won a World Series in 103 years and a National League pennant in 65 is its broadcasts can more than occasionally become a show about nothing, and not everyone can successfully pull that off.
Copyright ? 2010, Chicago Tribune