My father died in 1985, when he was in his early 60s and I was 17. There is not a week that goes by that I do not miss him on some level. So when I just read that Skip Carey died in his sleep today, I missed my father greatly. Let me explain.
My father was not a touchy feely/positive affirmation kind of guy. I distinctly recall trying to hug my father once when he was in the hospital. My father, even in a weakened state, effectively blocked my hug with an extended hand and the perfectly executed forced handshake. My father was a curmudgeon who showed a father’s love through three square meals, a damn fine roof over my head and the best Catholic education money could buy.
The one way my father and I bonded was through baseball. No, he never took me to a baseball game–that was just not his style. He religiously watched the Braves on TV and listened to the radio. Atlanta’s Channel 17 in the 1970s (long before TBS) was always on in the evening or the radio tuned to WSB in the car. I grew up listening to Braves announcer Skip Carey. The man was even more of a curmudgeon than my father.
So whenever I heard Carey call a game after 1985, it gave me fond memories of my father. This past Wednesday, I was driving up to Tennessee and happened to hear the game on the radio (that’s the great thing about the South–the Braves Radio Network has affiliate stations in several states). Skip and old friend Pete Van Wieren were calling the game. It was like the 1970s all over again (complete with the Braves losing even). Even though it seemed like Carey was hitting the cough button to mute his coughs, I thought I could still hear it sneaking through Van Wieren’s mike. Maybe I imagined the whole thing, but I remember thinking: “Wow, Skip sounds weak.” It reminded me of my father’s voice in his final year.
And yet, Skip’s wit was still intact in that game. I’m glad I got to hear him one last time. Thanks for keeping part of my father alive for me for 23 more years, Skip. I’ll miss you.
Recent Comments