Sunday, August 10, 2008
Opinion, Sports

Outta Here!

Skip Caray’s gone, but not forgotten

Credit: Courtesy Atlanta Braves

By J. Patrick Best

My dad’s mother, Granny Ruth, loved the Braves. She cussed them big-time when they lost (which was most of the time when she was alive), and she would carry on a conversation with Braves announcer Skip Caray and his sidekick Pete Van Wieren as if they were having a cup of coffee with her. “You’re damn right they need some startin’ pitchin’!” she would say in the direction of the television or radio where Skip and Pete’s comments were broadcast, or “They sure as hell could use some more base runners!”

    My mother’s father, Papa, was less direct. To no one in particular, he would voice his disagreements with Skip’s observations in an ultra-slow Southern drawl: “I think Skip’s wrooooonnnng about that booooy. He caaaaan pitch to lefties. He should just beeeee in the bullpen.”

    I wasn’t expecting Skip Caray’s death last week to hit me as hard as it did, but when it did, I knew why. Suddenly, I was an adolescent again, listening to the 1982 and 1983 Braves seasons. Joe Torre was our manager, Chief Nokahoma's Teepee was in the left field stands at Fulton County Stadium (“The Launching Pad”) and I was living with my mom and stepfather in Ozark, Ala. When the Braves traveled to the West Coast, the games would start late, so I’d have to put my ear against the little speaker on my clock radio so I could listen without waking anyone. I hung on Skip’s every word, every pitch, hit, foul ball back to the booth… even his thoughts about dinner or the plane trip to the hated Dodgers’ stadium in L.A.. I had just reached the age when Skip’s sarcastic humor wasn't completely over my head, and I loved feeling welcomed to the club.

My dad, a huge Braves fan, lived in North Carolina and I basically got to see him for just a couple of weeks around Christmas and a month or so in the summer. Every time I turned on the games during those two seasons, I was immediately transported to wherever he was at that moment. I could picture him pumping his fist when Skip announced Dale Murphy, Bob Horner or Chris Chambliss had just knocked one, in trademark Caray-speak, “outta here.” I would imagine my dad closing his eyes and nodding his head in silent approval when Phil Niekro, Rick Camp or Rick Mahler threw pitches that left opposing teams’ batters “caught looking” and headed back to the dugout.

    Listening to Skip Caray announce those games made me miss my dad a little less, made him seem a little closer to me on those nights hundreds of miles away in Alabama. I knew my dad was hearing the same broadcast and yelling “Swing the bat!” and “Go! Go! Go!” right along with me. It made me happy to think that when Skip would slowly say, “And the 3-2 pitch … ” my dad’s teeth were gritted with anxiety just like mine.

     These days, my dad and I see each other more often, but I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe we thought the same thing when we heard about Skip Caray’s passing: That Granny Ruth would have said, “I’m sure as hell gonna miss that S.O.B.” SP

Stephanie Ramage gladly ceded her column space this week to our publisher Patrick Best. After all, it’s Skip Caray.