Not Just About the Radio

This is a response to a few people, and I definitely over thought it...

I need to clarify something. A few people on Substack and some friends missed the point I was trying to make. I should probably let it go, but it stuck with me longer than I expected.

Louis L’Amour wrote over 100 novels. After a few, you see the formula, a rugged man, a dusty town, a clear conflict. He had a lane and stayed in it. Steinbeck and Hemingway didn’t write nearly as many books, but every one had weight and a reason to exist. I read them because they slow me down. They trust me as a reader. They don’t fill in everything, they leave space. You don’t just read them. You sit with them.

Baseball used to be the same way. It had patience. It didn’t rush or overexplain. It trusted your imagination. You didn’t need graphics or breakdowns just the voice and the moment. The storytelling lived in the silence between pitches.

"You can still listen to baseball on the radio." I know that. The signal is still there. But what’s in the signal that’s what’s changed. The imagination, the pacing, the storytelling, it’s fading.

I’m talking about a feeling. Sitting on a porch, breeze through the screen door, a cold drink sweating in your hand, the game humming softly in the background. The announcer didn’t fill every second. He just let it happen. You pictured the infield, the shift, the batter stepping out. You were part of it.

Now it’s stats and background music and nonstop commentary. I don’t need the launch angle. I need Bob Uecker excitedly saying, "Get Up, Get Outta Here, Gone!" because he sounded like a fan. He was the funny drunk uncle, who made you laugh and reminded you why the game mattered. Then there was Vin Scully the reassuring father. Calm, steady, never in a rush. He made the game feel safe.

Storytelling takes work. I’ve been writing a fiction story for years. I used to share my progress, but it’s a struggle. I edit more than I write. But I’m learning what to add and what to leave out. That’s what great broadcasters understood when to speak and when to let the game breathe. Today, announcers are handed everything. It’s not their fault, it’s just how it is, they don’t get the opportunity to learn to be a storyteller.

I can tell what team is batting now just by the stadium music. It’s all noise. The sound doesn’t tell a story, it fills a gap. It used to be a game. Now it’s a broadcast package.

That’s what I miss. The pace. The imagination. The trust.

Substack, for me, is where I figure this stuff out. I’m not trying to be a storyteller. I write my opinion. I work through what I feel. That’s the whole point.

But I do read storytellers. Like Gary, who writes "Coco Crisp’s Fantabulous Afro." He takes you somewhere. You don’t just read him; you go with him.

That’s what I’m missing in baseball. That moment when a voice carried you somewhere. No visuals. No noise. Just the game, and your mind filling in the rest.

That’s all I was trying to say.