The Death of a Childhood Legend

Back in the mid-1980s, life was simple.


Skip Caray died today. He was 68.

As a kid in a small town in the South, there were a few certainties. For example, G.I. Joe would always beat Cobra, school would always begin too early in August when it was still to hot to sit still for eight hours straight, and Bonanza was the best steak house in town.

For many others, though this was by no means a certainty, the Atlanta Braves were America's Team. The announcer on TBS and WJCW AM 910 told us as much every time the team played. And we loved it.

We didn't know any better really. Those of us born from about 1972 to about 1978 came of age at a time when if you lived in the South and you loved baseball, you were a Braves fan. Dale Murphy could do no wrong, even though he was fairly slow and his defensive skills were average at best. Bob Horner was the greatest third baseman we had ever seen, though none of us knew Brooks Robinson from Bruce Jenner. Glenn Hubbard and Rafael Ramirez never dropped a double play ball but somehow didn't make it to the all star team. These men, and their team mates, could do no wrong in our eyes even though in the grand scheme of things none of them were the best players in their positions at the time. Most probably weren't in the top ten. We didn't know any better, but it didn't matter, because they were the Braves.

You could count on seeing, or hearing, every Braves game live as it happened through the wonderful medium of basic cable or AM radio. The voice of the Braves were, for my money, the greatest broadcast team of all time. I say that with complete lack of hyperbole. If you have heard ESPN's Sunday Night crew, which includes the know-nothing mediocrity of Joe Morgan, or FOX's nation coverage with Tim McCarver, who is easily the worst broadcaster who has ever lived, then you know what I am talking about. Skip Caray, was one half of the best two man crew that has ever called a game. The other half, "Professor" Pete Van Wieren and Caray had a chemistry that will likely not be matched again. They were absolutely perfect together. They made the games come alive.

In 1992, when the Braves were down to their last out of the NLCS, Skip made the call on the radio. Francisco Cabrera, one of the medicore players the Braves built a dynasty out of, was at the plate. We were down by one but had two on. Dave Justice, the young outfield sensation, was at third. Sid Bream, a veteran first baseman with absolutely no mobility, was at second. And then Frankie got a hit. Skip Caray went nuts. To a 16 year old kid who was in bed listening on his portable radio it was the stuff never to be forgotten. Justice scored easily to tie it. Then, the impossible happen.

"Here comes Bream! Here is the throw he is............SAFE!!!! BRAVES WIN! BRAVES WIN! BRAVES WIN! Braves win!"

That was my cue to jump out of bed and run around the bedroom. My father, working nights at the plant, no doubt had a similar reaction. America's Team had won again, and Skip had told us about it. The man is as much of a part of Southern sports and Southern history as any player, owner, or investor.

R.I.P. Skip Caray