I've been gone from the states for more than two years now. I left in protest against, among other things, the designated hitter rule. Now it appears that the DH is going to be inflicted upon the entire world, under the pretense of establishing democracy (which I'd previously understood to include elections) and creating a world oil glut.
One of my great joys during the late '90s was watching the White Sox on WGN. Not that the White Sox were all that great, Blackjack McDowell was cool and Frank Thomas was incredible, but they had the best commentators that I've ever heard: Ken "Hawk" Harrelson and Tom "Wimpy" Paciorek. I mean, these guys were way more entertaining than half the games.
The all-time greatest was the last game of the exhibition season in, maybe 1999. I forget against who, maybe the Padres, but in Las Vegas. The Pad's, or whoever, had a big lead and by the seventh inning the Hawk and Wimpy were sparing us no detail in describing their impending "scorch the earth" assault on one of those incredible $1 all-you-can-eat buffets. Somehow the Sox came back and tied it and as things went into extra innings the buffet discussion turned slightly bitter. Somewhere around the 12th inning Hawk started muttering about flight schedules and thoughts were compared and contrasted about the cost and expedience of skipping the flight back to Chicago.
Finally the Pad's, or whoever, scored a few runs around the 15th and things perked up decidedly, with our heroes declaring that they'd be able to scarf enough roast beef in the fifteen available minutes to make the entire thing worthwhile. When some journeyman, Shawn Hare (?), hit a game tying double the broadcast booth resonated with screams of agony and derision.
So it may not be a coincidence that I left America the year after Paciorek retired from broadcasting. He was replaced with Darrin Jackson, and things couldn't have been the same. I largely lost interest in the White Sox and spent more time with "Nick at Night." I discovered jazz. I made extensive travel plans. I figured that the Hawk would probably retire and determined to campaign for his well earned spot in the broadcasting wing of the Hall of Fame.
I should probably clarify my thoughts on both Harrelson and Darrin Jackson.
The Hawk wrote one of the three greatest sports autobiographies in the history of mankind (No one is ever going to touch Joe Namath's I Can't Wait Until Tomorrow...Because I Get Better Looking Every Day, and Tug McGraw's Screwball would receive my baseball vote) but he was more than a writer, slugger, and golfer. He was a worthwhile role model.
As a teenager I read how he made money playing pool, and so I worked out extensively at the pool hall at Marine Site, Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. When I got to college the game underwrote a series of impressive bar bills. Good times. Hawk has always attacked life with a lot of style and grace, and I figured I could too.
I like Darrin Jackson too. I lived in San Diego when he was a dangerous bat, one of the most under-rated players in baseball. He's a very knowledgeable and insightful announcer, very professional and dignified. He'd be perfect for one of those round table discussion groups on ESPN that piss everybody off (normal people because they over-analyze everything, statheads because they fail to comprehend the import of "OPS in late inning pressure situations with the wind blowing in 5-10 mph in a pitcher's park against pitchers with a pitch count between 50 and 75, on two days rest in the month of September").
For my money "OPS in late inning pressure situations with the wind blowing in 5-10 mph in a pitcher's park against pitchers with a pitch count between 50 and 75, on two days rest in the month of September" is less likely to tell you what's going to happen than "batting average when the manager is sitting on the toilet," or "third-grade spelling bee performance," but I digress...and I don't have any money.
So the problem, as brought home to me here in the UK, now that I've shelled out the extra ten quid a month for the North American Sports Channel, isn't Darrin Jackson, it's one of chemistry. Darrin Jackson is fine but he doesn't ascend in the Dionysian flights of passion when the Hawk takes to the proverbial skies of verbal intrigue...I mean, a Cadillac is a fine vehicle but it's not what you wanna take four-wheeling; Gene Hackman is a tremendous actor but there's little point casting him opposite Jennifer Lopez...if you've ever tried to get drunk with an accountant I'm sure you get the point. If you haven't, then consider what you intuitively understand that has precluded the event.
One time Hawk and Wimpy were denying the existence of Devil Rays. The creature, not the team. The press stuff said that they were like 50 feet tall and could leap 200 feet out of the water. Hawk countered that he spent a lot of time in the Florida Keys, on boats, and that he was pretty sure that he would have noticed something like that.
They would leave the camera on people with ridiculous haircuts and make fun of them. They would lust after nachos. They had a bottomless supply of funny vignettes of their days on the field, often having to do with Paciorek's hitting, but nearly as often leaving someone else as the butt of the joke. They were incredibly refreshing in a profession that has sacrificed meaningful dialogue at the altar of political correctness.
Yesterday, against the Indians, the best Hawk could muster was a heartfelt "he's outta there." It's just not right.
Ken Harrelson is 61 years old. Given that his youth included experimentation with bell-bottoms and medallions, and that his mature years are well represented by a controverted hand of poker, there's little reason to think that he'll be announcing for more than 50 more years.
Let's not waste this endangered species. Promote Darrin Jackson to network, and get Hawk the sidekick he needs to thrive in his natural habitat of unbridled glee. What's "Oil Can" Boyd up to, or Jay Johnstone? Even better, talkin' southside, how about Dick Allen? Or maybe, to create the perfect situation Allen could be the new manager...Hawk and Fidrych, "Birds Ruffling Dick's Feathers."
There's got to be a t-shirt concession in that that appeals to even Jerry Reinsdorf.
Reinsdorf's an anti-union idiot, he should go home