When I was in college, I took a sports journalism class and for my final paper, I wrote a story called, “The Video Camera of Sports.” The essence of the story was to get at the root of that burning question that has always lingered for me: what is the root of my special connection with sports? Much like a long-lasting friendship, I have felt a unique bond with sports that goes far beyond a simple enjoyment of the game. It is more than that.
In writing my story, I came to the revelation that my enjoyment of sports had as much to do with the game between the lines as it did with the memory it evoked. Each game I played as a kid prominently featured a friend or family member. Sports meant something to me because it framed my childhood—literally. My childhood is in some ways a tale woven through various sporting events. It helped connect me to what mattered most.
Today, I was reminded again of the power of sports when I learned of the death of long-time and legendary Atlanta Braves announcer, Skip Caray. I can’t look at Skip or hear him broadcast a game without hearing the legendary call of the Braves winning the 1992 NLCS in dramatic fashion over the Pirates.
Take it away Skip: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MuYKTv8nqhM.
“Here comes Bream! Here’s the throw to the plate! He iiiiiiiisssssssss … safe! Braves win! Braves win! Braves win! Braves win! … Braves win!”
Like many Braves fans, every time I hear that call it sends a chill down my spine, and often, a tear down my cheek. The chill? That can be attributed to the memory of a Braves team that fought back to win a tough NLCS with the most unlikely of heroes. The tear? That can be attributed to everything that goes alongside the memory of that night—namely, watching the game with my Mom.
When someone like Skip Caray passes away, all we can do as mere bystanders is remember what role he played in our lives. In my life, Skip Caray plays a role in that tear.
Every time I read or hear those words I vividly remember watching that game with my Mom. My brother, four years my elder, had gone to bed because the Braves had fallen behind, but my Mom and I stayed up to watch it from my parents bedroom. Even as a 10-year old, I remember thinking the Braves’ fortunes were doomed when a relative unknown came to the plate—Francisco Cabrera. But then the unthinkable happened. Cabrera lined a single to left field and I leapt to my feet on my parents’ bed and plead with the painfully slow Sid Bream to score. More than that, I remember my Mom screaming right alongside me, refusing to go to sleep until I was done watching the game. Of course he did score, and the Braves were on their way to the World Series. But the tear is not about the Braves, it is about the time watching that game with my Mom.
Few memories from my childhood stand out as vividly as the one watching the Braves win the 1992 NLCS. That is what Skip Caray meant to me.
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