The Art of Baseball Radio Announcing
The hallmark of an exceptional baseball radio announcer lies in their ability to know when to embrace silence, allowing the game to narrate its own story. Positioned near home plate, a pair of parabolic microphones pick up the crisp sound of a catcher’s glove, the rhythmic scrape of cleats on dirt and chalk, and the electrifying buzz of the crowd. When a bat connects with the ball, a shotgun microphone strategically placed in the booth captures the moment, signaling a home run long before the ball descends into the stands. While numerous other microphones populate the stadium—near the bases and along the outfield wall—these are typically reserved for television broadcasts. The auditory experience of radio has its own limitations.
Listening to baseball on the radio teaches fans that there is an inherent beauty in the art of omission, in absorbing only what is presented. The late, legendary Vin Scully, who called games for the Dodgers from their Brooklyn roots to their Los Angeles legacy, immortalized the final inning of Sandy Koufax’s 1965 perfect game through the power of restraint. He paints a vivid picture of Koufax stepping onto the mound—the “loneliest place in the world”—amidst “29,000 people in the ballpark and a million butterflies” fluttering around him. Scully guides you to observe the nuances: Koufax wiping his finger on his pants, ruffling his hair, and adjusting his cap. Then, he broadens the scope, immersing you in the ambiance of the crowd. After calling the final strike, he masterfully holds a silence for an impressive 39 seconds.
Of course, not every game is a flawless gem, and extended silence can often be perilous. Listeners need to remain informed about the unfolding action. Announcers frequently indulge in metaphorical storytelling, their craft characterized by swift brushstrokes: distinguishing fastballs from sliders while interweaving rich details that transform faceless bench players into captivating protagonists; a playful quip if a nearby microphone captures overheard banter from the dugout. Yet, a relentless chatter is rarely welcome.
The game ebbs and flows, just as it would if you were seated in the stands. Certain moments demand your complete attention; others provide a welcome distraction, a chance to wander off in search of a delicious kielbasa. Icons like Scully understood this rhythm. My grandmother was a devoted listener to Scully’s broadcasts of the Brooklyn Dodgers, a love affair that was tragically severed when the team relocated to Los Angeles in 1958. A fiercely spirited Irish Catholic, she had a belief in the unseen, claiming to sense spirits residing within you, and her leftist convictions were shaped in a home that supported the I.R.A. As a young woman in Albany, she approached her passion for baseball with unwavering devotion, firmly refusing to support the Yankees. (Though my grandfather secretly cheered for them, often turning down the volume when she was nearby.) She eventually found solace and a new team to love when the Mets entered the league in 1962, embracing the scrappy underdogs, who would later break her heart. Her love deepened when she discovered the voice of Ralph Kiner, whom she had seen play in the minor leagues in Albany.
I was born into this rich tapestry of fandom. In my childhood, my father and I would gather around the television to watch games. He often cranked up the volume of the broadcast, surrounded by a clutter of work scattered around his corduroy recliner. I would sit on the couch, declaring my favorite players—Mike Piazza, naturally—and celebrating home runs and double plays. However, more often than not, I found myself feeling restless. The game, to me, felt shapeless and interminable, and I preferred not being confined to a front-row seat.
