by Gregg Pearlman
As a lifelong Giants fan who's had the privilege of hearing the action described by Russ Hodges, Lon Simmons, and Hank Greenwald (and as one whose ears have been punished by some profoundly lesser lights), the toughest words I've heard since "And the ballgame is over, and the 1993 season is over" are: "This copyrighted broadcast...."
And I'm not just being silly here. I'm starting to realize that from now on, each time I hear Hank Greenwald spoof the disclaimer, leading into it with some shaggy-dog story or other, I've now got one less disclaimer to hear. The number of silly disclaimers left in Hank is now officially finite.
On Tuesday, August 27, 1996, I turned on the pregame show late, just in time to hear Duane Kuiper finish reading a statement by Hank Greenwald stating that he plans to retire at the end of the season. I didn't hear why. Then Kuiper and Mike Krukow interviewed Greenwald on the pregame show; I didn't hear it all, as I was interrupted -- because, after all, I was at work, and my supervisor foolishly expected me to do something related to my job during a Giants game -- and my take was that Hank's basically sick of the grind. He did say something about wanting to prolong his life, which made me wonder if there's a health issue.
And would it surprise you if there were? We've heard a great deal, especially this year, about Hank, cigars, cheeseburgers, and big, fatty sandwiches. He himself frequently makes references to his physique -- short and really, really squat. Hank is 61, and I don't have the feeling that he eats much tofu and drinks spirulina by the gallon in the offseason.
A lot of Giants fans -- or just baseball fans in the Bay Area -- are very upset by the news today. Hank is quality, pure and simple. He's class. He is, almost literally, the Voice of the Giants. We the fans depend on him -- and Ted, Kruk, Kuip, and Lon Simmons, of course -- to not only tell us what's going on on the field but also to make educated comments on what they see and hear. All of these guys are fine analysts of the game -- not always a hundred percent correct, of course, but they sure know more about baseball than I do.
But one of the many things that makes Hank special is his knowledge and deep love for the lore and history of baseball. Clearly no other sport has such a mystique; in fact, no other sport really has a mystique, period. And Hank makes the mystique of baseball obvious. He shows what I consider great respect for the listener by making that listener interested in way more than what's going on in the game at that moment. Sure, there are those baseball fans who really don't care about anything except what's happening on the field, but these fans -- and I say this with all due respect, i.e., none -- are bozos. If you can't appreciate listening to an interesting, funny, insightful man who knows his subject cold, then you're not worth knowing.
Has anyone ever heard anything negative about Hank? Substantial, I mean, not stuff that's just a matter of taste. (By the way, let me state for the record: If you don't like Hank Greenwald, you are an inferior person.) When Hank left KNBR and the Giants to become one of the many broadcasters for the Yankees, occasionally there'd be some remark to the effect of, "Well, Hank has an ego, you know." So what? What's wrong with knowing you're good at something? He's never pretended to be the best in the business, and his humor is always self-deprecating. Clearly he doesn't take himself more seriously than he deserves to. But other than the "ego" comments, what bad stuff do you hear about Hank? I have yet to run into a real, live human being who doesn't like him. In fact, the only place I've seen anything disparaging about him is in the occasional moronic letter to the editor in the "Sporting Green" on Saturdays.
There are lobectomized people every year who somehow manage to get their letters to the editor printed in the Chronicle saying, "When are they gonna get rid of Greenwald? If I wanted to hear about history, statistics, and cigars, I'd buy books about history, statistics, and cigars. Just tell me what's happening in the game." But among the things I -- and so many fans -- appreciate about Hank is the very fact that he obviously does tons of homework about baseball. Sure, maybe he doesn't know sometimes whether Detroit is playing a night game or a day game, but who cares? His love for the history and lore of baseball is valuable, and he passes it on to his audience -- I hope.
But to those fools who want "just the facts," here's what such a broadcast would sound like:
"The pitch to Bonds: low, ball one. (Sounds of breathing, silence, checking one's watch, sighing, leaning back in one's chair, and more silence.) Taken on the inside corner, strike one. (Several seconds of dead air, during which you think you can hear someone in the booth talk about hot dogs, but you can't make out what they're saying.) Fastball, way up high, ball two, 2-and-1. (The sound of Hank taking a bite out of a burger, chewing thoughtfully, swallowing audibly.) Breaking pitch, in the dirt, ball three. (A long inhaling noise, as of a drag on a cigar. A series of staccato exhaling noises, as if blowing smoke rings, followed by some violent coughing, since you're not supposed to inhale when smoking cigars.) 'Scuse me. Ball four, he walked him." Yaaaaaaaawn.
So what legitimate reason could there be to disparage Hank? Now, yes, I'm stating my own opinion and putting it forth as fact -- which it is -- but the man's awesome. Now, we all have our favorites, especially favorite players. I'd say my all-time favorite player is Willie Mays. Right up there is Willie McCovey, of course, and, more recently, Bob Brenly and Robby Thompson. My reasons are entirely personal, as are anybody else's. But my favorite players -- everybody's favorite players -- come and go. Sure, it hurt when Mays said goodbye to baseball, when McCovey retired in mid-season in favor of "phenom" Rich Murray, but somehow Greenwald's departure hits me harder. And, again, I'm not alone. The Giants newsgroup is full of folks saying the same thing. I had the opportunity to speak with Hank once. Twice, really, but the first time was in Mesa during spring training, 1991. There he was, standing ten feet in front of me, looking straight at me as if waiting for me to say something intelligent, or at least to say that I'm a big fan -- and I said nary a word. I could think of a billion things to say to him that day, but I couldn't think of just one.
Pat Stadille called me late in the 1992 season and said, "We gotta get to the 'Stick on Sunday against the Dodgers. It may be our last chance." (By all indications, the Giants were going to be in Tampa Bay the next year.) So we went, of course, and we found ourselves on the mezzanine level. "We gotta meet Hank," Pat said. (This is someone who, in high school, always did what we, the older kids, said; since then, clearly he's spent all his time turning the tables. I mean, there's no way I'd even think of meeting Hank at the ballpark.) So Pat wrote out a very sappy note and handed it to an usher, who very kindly brought it to the broadcast booth. About ten minutes later, out came The Man, waddling majestically, as only Hank can. He was wearing a Giants tie, identical to the one I wore to my son's bris.
He shook our hands and chatted with us for a while, urging us not to forget about or give up on baseball. "Baseball is bigger than any one player, or even any one team." Well, we knew that, but we were clearly depressed at the prospect of losing Our Boys. Hank didn't believe the team would stay without a stadium, and we figured -- as we usually do -- that if Hank said it, it must be so. (I was therefore amazed that the team stayed in The City.) I said something about the rumors of Tommy Lasorda becoming the manager of the Tampa Bay Giants being the final indignity, and Hank chuckled amiably. I thought, "Hey, I made Hank laugh." It was small payback; I still owe him billions of times over for the laughs he's given me.
And there's really no way we can pay him back, is there? A letter saying, "Oh, Hank, we love you, please don't go" just doesn't cut it. I'm thinking that we need to contact the Hall of Fame, find out who votes on the Broadcasters' Wing, and explain that Hank needs to be there. There honestly has never been a broadcaster I've enjoyed or admired more than Hank, and I suspect I'm not alone. The man is simply a great announcer, absolutely tops at what he does. He's the Barry Bonds of the Booth, only without the attitude, real or perceived. And even comparing him to Bonds is damning him with faint praise. Willie Mays, maybe... how about Babe Ruth?
And part of the guy's charm is that, if you made such a comparison to his face, he'd just get embarrassed. He's head and shoulders above better-known broadcasters, such as Vin Scully, Al Michaels, Tim McCarver, Harry Caray (as if there's any comparison here), and Ernie Harwell. But if you told Hank that, he'd tell you you were talking nonsense. He doesn't seem to think he's anything special. But he is, and one reason is his obvious respect for his audience -- respect which manifests itself in the desire to enlighten and entertain us no matter what, and to give us credit for some brains. He's got his opinions, sure, but he never blows smoke.
So when I -- or, in today's newspaper, Mike Krukow -- happen to suggest that Hank belongs in the Hall, I'd expect Hank to shrug it off. He stated publicly that he doesn't deserve the respect and admiration that his listeners give him, but he's wrong. The man deserves Hall-of-Fame status -- if it were up to me, he'd get his own wing -- and it'll be a crime if he's never inducted.
I've always wanted to go to the Hall myself, knowing, of course, that I'd only ever be a paying customer. I entertain these fantasies of going with my dad, or my son, or my two best friends, Dave and Pat. (It's a guy thing.) Or maybe all of the above.
I hope to be there the day Hank is inducted. I can picture myself watching Hank speak, holding my son's hand, and saying, "There stands the finest broadcaster either of us will ever hear."