Theater of the Ball Arcing through the Sky

Baseball is the Great American Audio Sport

I sit on my back porch in the summer. There's a raccoon's back there that keeps my hound happy. And a fire pit for a sparky rise to the stars. And the radio.

The play-by-play voice takes us through the batter's stance, the pitcher's windup, and the sweet crack of the bat. The ball flies. And flies. And flies. And it's outta here. The crowd is a chorus of amazement. The batter trots around the bases. The hum of the stadium fills the night air, against a counterpoint of crickets and coyotes passing by—baseball on the radio.

Voices define generations. Vin Scully, Howard Cosell, Ernie Harwell, Harry Carey. In New York, the recently retired John Sterling, whose poetic and corny home run calls were anticipated by legions of fans every time the hometown Bomber stepped to the plate.

The voices were much more than the words they spoke. It was the distinct tone, the beautiful sonorous timbre, the hidden smile, the beats and silences, too. The game was in the voice: the field, the dirt. The crowd was the buzzy backdrop, the hot dog vendor's call, The boos for the slump and cheesr for the fist-pumping strike out. It's all there on the radio in living, infinite space, the eternal game of the ages, the tissue that connects children to parents, to grandparents through the ages, sparks of atmosphere, escaping to the stars and sowing the game for all eternity among the stars.

I've got the whole MLB streaming experience on the big screen, but there's nothing better than just listening on my back porch, sipping a beer, leaning back in my chair, and watching the raccoon walk along the top of the fence, climb a tree, and drive my hound crazy. Life 360 in the American urban night. Play ball in the mind. The field stretches forever, the fences shift, the ephemeral fans dash away across the bandwidth, the endless game in the radio waves: baseball, the great American audio sport.