In college, one job I had that allowed me to stretch my broadcasting major vocal chords was as a public address announcer for baseball.
My roommate Dan Kennard and I were broadcasting majors who both loved sports. When not spinning old, scratchy records, we could be found behind the microphone reporting on sporting events from all over the world without ever having to leave the comfort of our radio station, WDYN.
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My senior year we both took on the added responsibility of being the public address announcers for baseball. Although I had only played in one baseball game while growing up, it didn’t hinder me working the press box at Engel Stadium in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Running the scoreboard from the stadium where Babe Ruth once played in an exhibition game and was promptly struck out by a 17 year-old girl, was also a highlight.
Our job responsibilities ranged from raising and lowering the American flag before and after games to announcing the starting lineups followed by a hearty “Play Ball!” We also cued the National Anthem, kept the scorebook, occasionally raked and watered the infield, and became the cheerleaders for our team, the Tennessee Temple University Crusaders.
Courtesy: Tennessee Temple University
There was one man that we reported to—Head Coach John Zeller. Coach Z was a card. The minute he strutted by in his uniform, wisecracking as he went, Dan and I would lose it. Totally.
Because of our work with the team, Coach Z invited Dan and I to travel to an away game against David Lipscomb College in Nashville. The trip also included a night’s stay in a local hotel—pure delight. The bad news was that Lipscomb was a top-notch baseball program; the double header would prove to be challenging. The good news? The games were rained out! What could be more perfect to two poor college guys who loved nothing more than eating and sports than a free night’s stay in a hotel, a continental breakfast, and heading back home from an undefeated road trip?
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“Clink.” In the hotel room, we toasted our success.
At the end of the season, TTU hosted the National Christian College Athletic Association’s national baseball tourney. Teams from around the country would descend on Chattanooga, with only one team going home with the trophy.
There was one slight problem—rain. It rained and rained and rained so much that I thought I caught sight of Noah and his ark drifting by the dorm. When Dan and I arrived at the ballpark the day the tournament was scheduled to begin, Coach Z told us we had the day off and that they would begin the tournament the next day—play all day and night—in order to get the double elimination tourney in the books.
The next day was much nicer, although the outfield grass was soggy. The American Flag was raised, the National Anthem played, three up three down, and before we knew it, we had the first national tourney game under our belts. Not bad.
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Games two and three went as well as could be expected. Coach Z delivered lunch to the press box and I tried announcing “Now batting for the Eagles, #22, Dave Shorydustrmx.” I was starving and tried announcing and eating a sammich at the same time. I looked over at Dan who about lost his sammich laughing at me. Little did I know that this laughter would pale in comparison to the evening’s frivolity.
Courtesy: Tennessee Temple University
TTU had a player by the name of Lester Hixson. Lester was a really good player, who when done with college, would go on to play in the farm system of the Baltimore Orioles. What is important to know for this story, however, was the fact that Lester was double the card Zeller was and Lester was deaf. Those two attributes are extremely important to remember.
Later in the evening, when Dan and I were drinking enough RC Cola to keep awake the entire team, ol’ Lester visited us in the press box. TTU wasn’t playing and Hixson was bored, so he trudged up the back steps of the press box and the entertainment began.
After the flag was raised, Dan announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the playing of our National Anthem.”
Dan and I removed our TTU baseball caps and were in the process of placing our hands over our hearts when Lester reached over, grabbed the mic, and told us he was going to sing the National Anthem.
“I’m going to sing the National Anthem”, mouthed Lester. He picked up the mic and pantomimed singing to a large crowd. He waved his arm left to right across his body, and extended his left arm towards the flag in the outfield. He was hilarous—but his timing couldn’t have been worse. We had a game to play.
I looked immediately at Dan whose mouth was hung open like the front door of a 7-11.
“You’re what?” I asked.
“I’m singing.” Lester put the mic up to his mouth and began to sing, “Oh, say, can you see.”
My heart jumped into my throat. I couldn’t tell if he had flipped the mic on or not.
“No!” I hissed.
By this time, the fans who had travelled across the country to take in nine innings began craning their necks up to the press box to see why there was a delay in the National Anthem.
Lester, to his credit, had figured out that if he stood far enough away from the edge of the press box, folks wouldn’t be able to see him—they would see only Dan and me. And what they saw was me in a heated discussion with the invisible man.
“Give me the mic,” I mouthed.
“Nope,” replied the crusading comedian.
“I need it,” I pleaded.
“Not gonna give it back,” replied Lester.
I reached over, grabbed the mic, and then hit play to start the music. Lester, in the meantime, was laughing so hard that he about spit up his spleen.
Unfortunately, Lester was just getting warmed up.
Later in the same game, the manager of the team from California made a visit to the mound, extracted the starting rag arm and replaced him with the largest pitcher I’ve ever seen poured into a baseball uniform. When he shook off the catcher’s signs, five jowls rolled from left to right in a slow motion version of the Rockettes. Everybody in the opposing dugout licked their chops at the thought of tapping a slow roller to the mound and ending up on third before the guy could reach down and snag the ball.
Dan and I, being the consummate professionals we were, giggled nonstop.
“Now pitching for the Warriors…” pause…microphone at side…giggle… “#45”…pause…mic at side…giggle… “John Smith.”
The mic was quickly turned off as all three of us were snorting and coughing. Once again, fans turned around to see who was doing all the laughing and this time, all three of us were plastered to the back wall of the press box, laughing and giggling.
When we finally, and I mean finally, gained our composure, Dan and I stepped back to our positions. I glanced at Dan and chuckled, and he responded in kind. I glanced to my right and was horrified to discover that Lester had once again grabbed the mic. By the evil look on his face, I was sure that this time he meant business.
In the blink of an eye, the catcher flashed the sign, Smith started into his windup, and everyone in the stadium heard, “Fat Boy!”
Because Lester was deaf, his words didn’t always sound like those enunciated by hearing people. Instead of “Fat Boy,” what came out was “Bat Boy!” But we all knew what he meant.
As the pitch was rocketing home, fans spun their heads around; all they saw was Dan and I standing there with mouths frozen open. Lester had split the scene of the crime and was taking the back stairs two at a time. The steps kept thundering, and in through the door came Coach Z.
“What is going on?” he hollered.
I just knew my P.A. career was coming to a crashing halt.
“Lester grabbed the mic, turned it on, and yelled “Fat Boy!” at the pitcher on the mound,” I answered.
Coach Z tried to talk and not laugh at the same time.
“Guys”…snort… “you have to”…chuckle… “make sure”…heh heh… “you don’t ever let Hixson near that microphone again!”
All three of us lost it, backed out of sight, and let loose.
