Mariners Broadcaster Dave Niehaus Dies, and a Whole Era Dies With Him

"I can't imagine not doing it. I can imagine not doing it, but you might as well dig a hole and put me in it." -- Dave Niehaus, 2008.

I heard the old-fashioned way, from the disbelieving exclamation of a downtown bartender. "Didja hear? Dave Niehaus died." See, I had my pupils dilated this afternoon, and I hadn't been able to read the several text messages from longtime friends telling me that Hall-of-Famer Niehaus, the Mariners' radio and TV voice since the franchise's first pitch 34 summers ago, was gone.

Niehaus in 1982

Tens of thousands of us grew up with Niehaus' voice, an annual feature of Seattle life as steady and predictable as October rain. Niehaus' baritone resonated though my childhood--under my blanket, as I defied my parents' orders to go to bed. His voice was part of my teenage years--in beater cars, as my friends and I drove around town. It filled my young adulthood--through Manhattan pay phone receivers, when I'd call 1-800-MY-MARINERS to hear game highlights. And the sound was still there my early 30s--I'd pull a radio out onto my porch, turn on Niehaus, and listen to that voice for what I knew, at his age, might be the last time. I made a point to do so during this season's last game. Macabre, I know. Glad I did.

Seemed appropriate to hear about Niehaus' death at a bar, since when he started his career, that's how sports news spread. Born in Depression-era Indiana, Niehaus lived through four media revolutions, from radio to television to cable to the Internet. And because of those revolutions, no sports media figure in this town will ever have Niehaus' influence.

For most of Niehaus' career, Mariner fans saw our team through his eyes--literally, as so few games were televised. The Mariners' first season, 1977, only 17 of 162 games were on TV. As late as 1994, only 71 games were scheduled for TV broadcasts. Now, we watch the games on TV at the gym with the sound down, or spy the internet gamecast, or follow the score on our phones. Then, Niehaus was often our only live link to the team.

Niehaus did television well, but he preferred radio, and would broadcast the final four innings--that is, the most dramatic ones--over that medium.

"Get out the rye bread and the mustard this time Grandma, it is a grand salami!" -- Dave Niehaus, 1995.

Niehaus' best talent was an actor's knack for using his voice to intensify the drama of the game. With the outcome in the balance, a pitch that came in below a batter's knees was not "low for ball one." It was a growled "LLLLLLLLLLLLOOOOWWW, ballone." His strikeout call mirrored the fast action of an unsuccessful swing: "SwingAnAMiss for strike three." His legendary home run call evoked the theoretical infinity of a baseball field: "That ball will fly, fly away."

Niehaus was not a smooth, effortless talker like the best baseball broadcaster, the Dodgers' Vin Scully. The above call of Edgar Martinez' 1995 playoff grand slam is perhaps Niehaus' most famous--and he flubbed it. His usual line was "It's Grand Salami Time." But in the excitement of the moment, he spat out "time" before he meant to. Likewise, his ejaculation after Randy Johnson's strikeout won the M's the 1995 A.L. West title was a grammatical nightmare: "And Randy looks to the sky, that is covered by the dome, and bedlam, as the Mariners now erupt. 19 long years of frustration is over."

A poet Niehaus wasn't. But baseball, no matter how many snobs try to tell you otherwise, is not poetry. It's fun. It's heartbreak. It's life. "My style is to be honest," Niehaus told the Seattle Times two years ago. "And hopefully entertaining."

Nothing is more trivial than someone mourning their lost childhood, and I'm not going to do it here. I'm an adult, and happy to be one, but given that I was born here in 1976, and have listened to Mariner baseball since I was old enough to turn a radio dial, you know I'm going to be using more than my usual share of tissue tonight.

Niehaus didn't want to retire, and in the end he didn't have to. No doubt the brutal travel schedule of a major league baseball team, which wears even on athletes in peak condition, helped hasten his end. With my apologies to his family, I'm glad he got his wish.

For me, this call, Niehaus' description of Edgar Martinez' game-winning hit in the 1995 divisional series against the Yankees, will always be my favorite. I know it by heart, and it still gives me chills.

"Here comes Junior to third base, they're gonna wave him in! The throw to the plate will be late, the Mariners are going to play for the American League Championship! I don't believe it! It just continues! My, oh my!" -- Dave Niehaus, 1995

Yup, there are those chills again. You're right, Dave. It just continues. My, oh my.