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Inside Hokie Sports
I don’t want to insinuate that I am old. I’m
not. I haven’t experienced nearly as much life
as many of the readers of this column. I also
haven’t contributed to our way of life in nearly
the impactful ways of many others. However,
I am getting older, and that seems to bring
with it an appreciation for the passing of not
just people, but also a more intimate time.
Believe me, it is hard for me to fathom
when I look around to root out who just said
“back in my day,” or “I miss the way it was,”
only to discover that I made those statements.
It pains me during a lull in a press conference
to notice everybody staring at smartphones
rather than talking to each other about the
things said in the previous interview. It’s not
judgment because I, too, looked up from my
own smartphone to make the observation in
the first place.
It also isn’t a resistance to technological
advancement, and I certainly try not to
sound like a curmudgeon who constantly
opines about the good old days. It is more of
nostalgia for the pace of things when I was
growing up learning this craft and starting
out. I am certainly not blind to advancement,
but I also possess an appreciation for subtlety
that I lacked in my younger days.
I’m certain other broadcasters feel that
way at the moment, as our fraternity recently
listened to the best to ever do this job, Vin
Scully, who plans to retire after more than 60
years at the microphone. By doing so, he takes
away the largest treasure trove of stories ever
amassed by a broadcaster.
He gathered those stories the old fashioned
way—by talking to people. In my opinion,
no one matches his ability as a thorough
storyteller. He stayed persistent in his effort
to unearth the seemingly minute details of a
player’s or coach’s story and was patient in his
method of doling them out during the course
of a six-month season. In that way, he created
bonds between Dodger fans, Los Angeles,
and wherever his characters hailed from, for
decades.
That’s a simple way to explain his greatness,
and it was actually much more complex than
that. He combined those aforementioned
qualities with a completely unique and
charming delivery, as well as profound
humility. He also displayed his eagerness to
relate.
Scully was the best, but not alone. Ernie
Harwell, Jack Buck, Harry Carey and Red
Barber all reside in that class, as do many
others. Jon Miller, Bob Ueker and a few
others still remain, but unfortunately, the
next generation of broadcasters appears to
be following a different path. Knowing that
conjures sadness within me because they
possess the talent to do it. Yet the pace of
sports—and life—has changed. Some call it
‘evolving.’ In either case, they couldn’t do so if
they wanted to do so.
The greatest compliment I ever received
while calling baseball games was never meant
to be a compliment:
“Your style reminds me of the old-school
broadcasters.”
It meant that my call was very descriptive,
and in some ways, long-winded and more
detailed in terms of the characters on the
stage. I thought that was great, but it was not
the more quick hitting, rerack consistently for
an audience that constantly changes during
the course of a game. That now seems to be
the normal style of choice—clicking from one
station to next, opening one app after another.
In the past, the audience simply turned on the
radio while on the patio and tuned in for the
night. Not so much any more.
It was part of a rejection letter that I
received for a Major League job, one of a
hundred that I received in the years before
I came to Blacksburg. When asked, I always
responded that my goal was to be the voice of
a community, whether a baseball community
or a larger one. The two used to be one in
the same. The problem came about because
I aspired to something being phased out,
whether consciously or not.
I beat my head against the wall for a
number of years, naively thinking that, at
some point, a team or a situation would see
it my way. The relationships that I made in
with
Jon
Laaser
The Way It Was