Free at last, free at last, thank God almight I'm free at last (of mornings)

It's been about a month since I updated this blog, so it's long overdue. I'll start with some recent news and then try to get back in the habit.

The good news: I'm no longer working mornings. Actually, it just might be the greatest news ever.

My days of waking up at 3:45 a.m. and getting to the radio station at 4 a.m. are officially over. So are the days of going back to bed around 10 a.m., sleeping as long as I can until the kids in the apartment wake me up, and then going back to work at night to call a baseball game.

This is my first official week as co-host of an afternoon talk show -- "JJ, Josh and The Mouth." JJ is JJ Stokes, the former 49ers wide receiver. The Mouth is the program director and the radio veteran in the group.

Our show is from Noon to 3:30 p.m., Monday through Friday, on AM 970 ESPN Radio. Our focus will usually be the Northern California sports teams. But we talk about a little of everything, from guy talk and random stuff to the biggest sports stories of the day. So far, it's been a good mix of the loud-mouth radio guy, the ex-jock, and the former newspaper reporter. We've had pretty good chemistry, and that should only increase. Each show, at least once it seems like two of us gang up on the other one.

My focus still remains making it to the major league as a play by play announcer. I'll continue this job next year when baseball season returns. I have no idea if I'll be back in Modesto. It depends what other jobs open up nationwide. My boss knows this, and is fine knowing that I could theoretically be leaving anytime in the next week to 10 years.

I'm also still doing play by play of our Friday night high school football game of the week. And I'll be filling in as the PBP announcer for two Santa Clara men's basketball games when they go to Nevada and Utah (which I'm *very* excited to do).

Most importantly, NO MORE MORNINGS.

Cheers from Mo-town.

The waiting is the hardest part

It's two days until the next football game that I'll broadcast and I'm definitely restless. I hate waiting a week for the next game. I know what I did wrong last week. I know how I need to improve my skills. I want to work on it now; not in a few days. I hate waiting for the next game.

What I love most about baseball is also what I hate most. I love that it's daily. I hate that it's daily. Few people understand just how exhausting a season is -- both mentally and physically -- when you play so many games in so few days. But that daily schedule is something I cherish, as a fan and a broadcaster. There's always another day for your team, or for yourself, to gain some redemption, to improve, to re-prove it wasn't a fluke. Yet at the same time, it can be torture on your body, and it wreaks havoc on your social life. Working in baseball, you work every day -- Saturdays, Sundays, holidays -- during the summer months at a time when most people take vacations. The rare days off are usually on Mondays.

When I left college 11 years ago and had my original play-by-play aspirations, I actually felt baseball was my worst sport as an announcer. I thought basketball was my best and football was my second best. But I love baseball most, I understand its history best, and it's just easier for me to talk about it.

When I decided to leave newspapers and try this play by play thing in March, I knew the best path was through minor league baseball. It's not that I necessarily only want to do baseball in my life. Doing football once a week, or basketball 2-4 days a week, seems like a cakewalk compared to seven baseball games a week. But I knew that what I needed most was repetitions. That's the only way to get better. No sport provides repetitions like baseball.

Last week, I was talking to my program director about this topic. He mentioned how there's so many more baseball jobs in the minors than any other sport. The first reason is obvious -- there's so many more minor league baseball teams.

The second reason is less obvious. My theory is that baseball weeds out the weak. A lot of college graduates might think they want to be a baseball broadcaster. But after 100 games, little pay, lack of sleep, constant travel, and the grind of a season, the job can lose its luster. Many don't feel it's worth it, especially after a few years. That's why the lower levels of minor leagues have so much turnover. If you reach the majors, or even Triple-A, you know the drill. You get it. You like it, or you know how to cope with it.

Meanwhile, very few football or basketball announcers (especially college basketball with a season just over 30 games) leave their jobs. Why would you? It's a great gig. The work load isn't that hard. You can still see your family and have a normal life.

I'll broadcast 10 football games over the next 10 weeks. During baseball season, I did approximately 65 games in the same number of weeks. The number of reps is priceless. The progress I made was enormous.

I just hope all those baseball reps help me do football. I remember what I was like after 10 baseball games. I was still very raw, very green, and very much a work-in progress.

Moving at the speed of light

It's amazing how much faster a game goes by when you're doing the play by play, especially when it's new. The first few baseball games I did felt like they were flying by. But last night's football game -- my first live on the radio, and my first period since college in 1996 -- felt like it was going a thousand miles an hour.

It didn't help that both teams have complex offenses, with receivers and running backs shifting all over the place before each play, shotgun formations, constantly rotating players, and a hurry-up style of offense.

It slowed down later in the game. At least, I felt like I was slowing down later in the game, and I think the actual pace slowed down as well. It was fun, but oh man, was it intense. I enjoyed the intensity. That's a style you can't bring to a baseball game until the final inning or two, and even then, you have to be mindful of baseball's natural rhythm.

The feedback I was given was positive. In my heart, I know I can do much better. I'm curious to see what I can do with a week to prepare. The hardest part was spotting the number of the player quickly. The press box wasn't very high and when the parents stood up, I couldn't see everything.

Identifying the player with the ball is rather important, don't ya think? Then instantly knowing his name is important too, huh? Having to check his name on a roster -- as I did far too many times -- has the recipe for disaster.

The highlights of the game can be viewed here -- http://videos.modbee.com/vmix_hosted_apps/video/1507148

I thought the biggest plays of the game, especially the 90-yard touchdown run, were my best calls of the game. So I happy with that. But I need to identify the ball carrier or wide receiver quicker.

Cramming for a final exam

In a few hours, I'll broadcast my first football game. My first emotion is sheer panic. I'm trying to remain as calm as humanly possible right now, because I know that I'll be hyper ventilating once the game starts. My theory is that if I fool people into thinking that I'm confident going into the game, maybe I can trick myself into thinking the same.

The panic comes from a lack of preparation.

The baseball regular season ended Monday. The playoffs started Wednesday and ended Thursday. Now it's Friday and I've had little time to prepare.

I did go to Oakdale High's practice on my off day Tuesday. I have rosters. I know a little what to expect from Oakdale. But I'm totally clueless about Turlock High. I'll need to find the coach before the game to get starters and a crash course on the team.

Not my ideal way to make my football broadcasting debut, but here goes nothing.

Top memories of the year

The baseball season is over. One hundred and forty-three errors, including an exhibition game and the two playoff games, in just over five months. Looking back now, what a blur. Wow.

Driving back from Visalia tonight, after a heart-breaking loss in Game 2 eliminated the Nuts, I couldn't help think back on my biggest memories of the year. These aren't necessarily my fondest memories. These are my strongest memories.

1. Broadcasting a game in the rain. I'll never forget this. I'll always tell this story to would-be announcers, friends and family. It was the ultimate "what the hell am I doing?" moment. No press box in Visalia. The rain wasn't hard enough to stop the game, but plenty hard enough to drench me.

2. The inning with Eric Young, Sr. It lasted 34 minutes, included six runs, two pitching changes, and a manager ejection. Listened back to it recently and the inning was amazing. Senior was great with his stories, enthusiasm and infections laugh. The background noise sounded great. I thought our chemistry was great. The inning was extraordinary in all that happened.

3. The 4th of July game. Capacity crowd inside the ballpark and all around. Fireworks going off on the golf course behind home plate, and the soccer fields beyond the outfield fences. The San Jose center fielder lost a ball in the smoke from those fireworks. It was like a Normal Rockwell painting brought to life. Baseball. America. Fireworks. And the radio announcer serving as master of ceremonies for people in their cars listening as they arrive at the game.

4. The Randy Johnson game. I've watched Randy Johnson before, interviewed him, and written about him. But it was still very special to broadcast a game with the future Hall of Famer on the mound. The crowd was electric on that Easter Sunday. It was a baseball crowd that came to see baseball, not minor league stunts. It was a close game, which Modesto won on a game-winning sacrifice fly. And it was our first glimpse at Nuts pitcher Brandon Hynick, who would become the consensus Pitcher of the Year in the Cal League.

5. The July 1-3 Stockton series. All three games were great, but the finale was a crazy game. Stockton scored four in the bottom of the eighth to make it 12-11. The Nuts rallied with five in the top of the ninth for a 16-12 win. It was a game that launched their second half surge, and it was one of my best games as a broadcaster. Felt like I nailed the big plays, the background noise sounded like the majors, and it was when I knew for certain I found my calling.

6. Taking batting practice last week. It was exhilirating and terrifying (since all the players and coaches were watching). It was really, really cool and I hope to do it more often in the future. If I ever hit one out, I'm totally doing a home run trot. Mostly, I hope to do it again while breathing like a normal human. Felt my heart beating faster than at any point in the last six months -- more than when I decided to go to Texas for a month to practice by play by play; more than when I took this job; more than my first time on the air on Modesto's Morning News; more than my first game; more than my first game from Bakersfield live on the radio with a flipjack cell phone comrex setup.

7. Catching flyballs in the outfield all year. Did it less as the season went on, and only for road games. I did it mostly because I could. But I justified it (and this is truth) by saying it helped me as a broadcaster describe the condition of the field, the wind, the sun, and how the ballpark plays. It allowed me to talk with players in their "office," pick their brains for details that I could use on the air, develop comraderie with them, and I think they got a kick out of seeing their radio announcer run around the outfield like a crazed man living out his boyhood Little League memories.

8. Saying "it's gone" when it wasn't. The worst sin for a broadcaster. My most humiliating moment. It was the inspiration to finally use the eye glasses I was prescribed well over a year ago. Now I can't imagine broadcasting a game without them. I only use the glasses when I'm on the air, and it's amazing what a difference they make.

That's all I've got

One of the highlights of the season came tonight. It had nothing to do with the game (which we lost). It had nothing to do with the broadcast.

I got to take batting practice before the game. Didn't expect it to happen, so I was hardly dressed -- with loafers and no socks. But hey, when you're invited to take some hacks in the cage of a professional ballpark, you don't worry about equipment.

All I cared about on the first swing was making contact. I did, thank goodness. I whiffed on a couple others -- pretty much anything down and away -- and heard a few laughs from the players, as they stretched.

I pulled everything. Out hitting coach, Dave Hajek, who was throwing the BP to me, said, "well, we know where to play you." I did hit one drive pretty good to left. Hit it good enough to stop and see how close it would come to the fence. It missed the warning track by about five feet, but at least it rolled to the wall.

"That's all I've got," I declared, figuring I would beat our shortstop, Chris Nelson, to his standard punchline. Nelson's favorite expression during batting practice -- or pretty much at all times -- is to ask "is that all you've got?" after somebody hits a flyball. It doesn't matter if it hits the warning track, barely goes over the fence, or goes wayyyyyy over the fence. Nelson will say it, in his southern accent, "that all ya got?"

Bottom line, I didn't make a fool of myself. I hit some line drives. I pulled everything. At least I made solid contact most of the time. But I definitely proved I belong in the broadcasting booth.

Still, it was incredibly cool.

A Night At the Museum

We're back in Rancho Cucamonga for this final weekend of the season, where the press box has no separators for the radio announcers and everybody else in the press box.

It has the potential to make you very self conscious, but I've gotten over myself enough to no longer care. Besides, the guys in the press box are super cool. In fact, tonight we had a lot of fun up there between innings -- which spilled onto the air.

A family was sitting three rows in front of the press box. The mom was watching a portable DVD player with the movie, "Haunted House." Later, they switched to, "A Night At the Museum" -- and it was hard for me to suspend my disbelief. The kid spent the whole game looking at his phone, playing some game. The dad listened to his ipod.

Just think of all the things to distract you and entertain you at a minor league game -- two mascots, a videoboard, the interns throwing t-shirts into the stands, crazy between-inning promotions ... oh yeah, and the game.

But this family wanted nothing to do with anything from the game. My friend Jeff Levering, the Quakes announcer, was talking about it on the air. He pointed it out to me, and I started talking about it as well.

Then another spontaneous, cool, funny thing happened. I was talking about how Jeff Kindel (our first baseman) and Cliff Remole (the Quakes first baseman) were teammates at Georgia Tech. I was looking at what years they were drafted and how old they are. Then I realized it was Kindel's birthday, and blurted it out on the air.

The official scorer laughed at how I said it, just before a commercial break, and then during the break we realized that Jason Van Kooten (our third baseman) was also celebrating his birthday ............. and, so was a player on the Quakes (whose name I can't remember right now, but that's OK because that's not important to the story). That got me going on a mini-birthday rant.

So naturally, I keep talking about the birthday boys throughout the game, whenever given the chance. And in one of those beautiful/lucky moments on air, Van Kooten singled home his fellow birthday buddy Kindel in the ninth inning for the go-ahead run.

As for the family ... they missed it. The battery ran out on their DVD player and they went home before the game ended.

Playoff bound

Third time was the try for the Nuts tonight as they clinched a berth in the California League playoffs. This has been a foregone conclusion for at least a month, if not longer, but now it's official. It's not a huge accomplishment, considering six of the 10 teams make it, but the playoffs are still the playoffs.

Mentioned a few weeks back how fortunate I felt to be broadcasting a winning team, because the job is so much more fun and easy, and I realized this is just the latest chapter in winning teams that I've been around.

When I covered the Giants from 2000-2003, they made the playoffs three times in four years. The only year they didn't was 2001, and that was the year Barry Bonds hit 73 home runs and they were eliminated on the third-to-last day of the regular season. There was a 100-win season in there, and a Game 7 in the World Series.

The three previous years, when I covered the Oakland A's, they were eliminated from the playoffs the final week in two years, then reached the second round of the playoffs last year.

So this will be five times in eight years that I'll be part of the playoffs. As a writer, my emotions would be mixed. The playoffs are exciting, you get to write stories with bigger headlines, bigger placement and you know that more people are reading your words. It's a chance to raise your profile as a writer, network with writers and executives from around the league, and you're one of the biggest experts.

But it's still more work, and you don't get paid extra for it. In fact, the years my teams didn't reach the playoffs, I wasn't distraught at all. That meant the offseason began earlier, and I enjoyed watching the playoffs on TV from Mexico.

As a broadcaster, you're defining moments occur in the playoffs. This comparison is probably a stretch, but I thought about Golden State Warriors announcer Tim Roye finally getting his first NBA playoff series this year after a decade calling games. I'm getting the chance in my first year as an announcer.

So I'm fired up. We delivered another solid broadcast. It wasn't official when Greg interviewed Eric Young, Jr. down on the field, because another result was about 10 minutes away from happening, but we were able to capture the moment in the appropriate way. If they advance further in the playoffs, we can get more excited.

One last note: I didn't go into the locker room to partake in the champagne celebration. Just didn't feel that was my place. I didn't do anything to help them win any games, and it actually bugs me when people celebrate something they didn't accomplish. Of course, if we win it all, maybe I'll let somebody pour champagne on my head.

It's news to me

The news is easy. Well, let me rephrase that. Reading the news is easy when my co-anchor, Jaime Lee, does most of the work and just tells me what to read and when.

This week, I'm filling in as a news reader, since our regular news anchor is on vacation. It's different, and that makes it fun. Again, it's also easy. Not to give away any secrets or anything, but it's basically reading what a news agency has written, perhaps tweaking something here or there.

As a newspaperman, I always considered myself a journalist who just happened to cover baseball. I didn't like the idea of being a baseball writer who happened to work for a newspaper. I always felt that I could write news and report on news stories; I just didn't want to do that, because sports are way more fun. Besides, these days, there's just as much "news" writing around a baseball team as "baseball" writing. And I liked the versatility involved.

Anyway, I felt Jaime and I had good chemistry on the air, especially when one of us would do a "light" story heading into a commercial break. That's when you read a story, such as 80-year-olds having sex more often these days, and then we both express how grossed out we are by that for 10-30 seconds before the traffic is delivered.

It's been a fun week. There's more to do, so the time goes by faster than doing the sports three times an hour. It's also easier because doing the sports, you have to write your own scripts, find your own highlights, package it all together, and make sure your timing is just right.

But I will be glad when the week is over because then I go back to my normal schedule, which means doing my Modesto Nuts game notes and preparing for that night's broadcast inbetween my sports updates.

Fear of the magic

Each day, the fifth line in my daily notes contains the Modesto Nuts magic number to clinch. This is the number that I use on broadcasts. This is the number we use on the radio, that I give to the opposing announcers, any members of the press, post on the internet, and that our season tickets holders (who receive a copy of the game notes) read in their seats.

Going into tonight, the Nuts magic number is two. That means, if they win, they're going to the playoffs.

But I have this massive fear that my number is wrong ... the Nuts will win, celebrate, and then I'll realize they haven't clinched just yet.

It's not wrong, don't get me wrong. I double check every day. I ask Brian VanderBeek of The Modesto Bee to check every few days. But I still worry about it. I'm not used to being the PR guy who provides the information. I'm used to being the reporter who has the PR guy tell me the number.

What makes it tricky is there's two different races going on. The Nuts are one victory away from this wild-card berth, and also chasing the second-half title. So there's two different wild-card numbers. And there was one day last weekend when it became mathematically possible (although very very very remotely possible) for it to appear like the Nuts had clinched a "wild card" berth, but then still choke away the second-half division lead -- and in the process would end up not winning the wild card after all. It sounds impossible, but it really was possible.

In order to illustrate how this was possible, I pretended it wasn't possible and told nobody. Sometimes, less information really is more.

OK, now I'm going to triple check the magic number yet again for today.

We're live on the radio tonight, start to finish, and I really hope we clinch it tonight. Then I only have to worry about one magic number.

Final exam

In many ways, tonight was my final exam as a broadcaster. A good friend of mine, David "Google" Feldman, came out to Stockton and sat in the booth for the broadcast. Feldman is a producer of the Oakland A's games on TV, and he's produced a ton of other sporting events. He's called Google because he knows as much as Google, and knows it just as fast. Seriously. I thought I knew a lot about baseball, but he puts my knowledge to shame.

His job means he's sat in a production truck for thousands of sporting events and heard hundreds of play-by-play announcers. He's heard great ones, average ones, and bad ones. He knows the differences, he's opinionated, and he's not the type to sugarcoat what I'm doing right and wrong.

He's become a good friend during my years covering the A's, so I was fired up he would make the trip from Walnut Creek to Stockton to catch a game on a day off. We grabbed some lunch before the game, and he asked what I thought I was still struggling to do.

Told him that I'll probably always have to fight my urge to talk too fast, that I usually get tongue-tied once or twice a game describing a play, and I sometimes struggle with starting a story late in an inning that gets cut off.

On the last item, Feldman told me that's not a problem. Just say, "we'll talk more about that next inning" and it serves as a good "tease" to keep the viewer around. The key, Feldman added, is not to forget to come back to the story.

Early in the broadcast, Feldman gave me two excellent critiques.

One, I used one of his all-time hated phrases: "good success." He was right, and I can't believe how often I use it. It's totally pointless to use the word good. Feldman said the only thing that is "bad success" is when you have bad sex.

Two, he said my pacing was just a bit off. For example, Stockton third baseman Frank Martinez came to the plate in his first at-bat and I used him as an example of how the Ports have been devastated by injuries and promotions to Double-A Midland. I mentioned the first time we came to Stockton, he was batting ninth, and now he's batting third. Feldman told me it was really good information, but I rushed it. Introduce the batter. Pause. And then get to the information. I was rushing to get to my information.

Wasn't as nervous as I thought I would be for my final exam. Feldman sat right next to me, almost like a spotter or statistican would, and I saw him nodding his head out of the corner of my eye a bunch of times. I took that as a good sign.

Feldman left before the ninth inning, and told me something along the lines of, "you sound good. You're not talking too fast. You're information is great. You're doing really good."

Not sure if that counts as an A on my final exam, but it meant the world to me. It's probably more like a B or a B+. And again, he's not the type to blow smoke up my butt to make me feel good. He'd rip me if I deserved it. Feldman doesn't have the clout to hire me, but his approval definitely gives me the confidence to continue my broadcasting aspirations.

Still not sure if this means I'm ready for Double-A, or Triple-A, or the majors. Then again, I don't know how you determine if somebody is ready. I guess you're ready when somebody hires you. It's an extremely subjective process. There's guys in Triple-A who have been doing games for well over a decade, extremely good, and I'd think they are ready for the majors.

So I'm not going to get too far ahead of myself. But after tonight, and after a season of struggling to get feedback on what I'm doing right and wrong, it was awesome to know that I'm definitely on the right track.

Inning of the year

Tonight was my favorite inning of the year. I had Eric Young, Sr. join me in the booth for the sixth inning. Early in the game, I was worried it would be a really quick inning, because it took 37 minutes to complete the first three innings.

But the baseball and broadcasting gods were smiling down on me. The sixth inning lasted a whopping 34 minutes. We had two pitching changes, a five-run top of the sixth, a run in the bottom of the sixth, and a manager ejection. We didn't take any commercial breaks, during the pitches changes or middle of the inning, and just stayed live.

Senior was tremendous. I knew him a little from 2003, when the Giants acquired him late in the season and I was covering the Giants. He's one of the all-time great people in baseball, he enjoyed a productive 15-year career in the majors, and now he's an analyst on "Baseball Tonight."

Looking back, I'm amazed that I was able to keep going with him that long. We covered all sorts of topics, from EY's home run in the first at-bat ever for the Rockies to his son's decision to chose minor league baseball over a football scholarship, and from his life after baseball on TV to how often he talks to his son during the season.

At the end, I told Senior that in addition to raising a great baseball player, he's raised a fine young man. Junior is always great on post-game interviews, he's respectful and a class act. Senior's face lit up and he told me that's the most important thing. I was told after the game our phone lines lit up at the radio station as well, people calling to say how great it was that Senior was in the booth, and my message to him at the end.

It almost seemed like Senior was disappointed to go at the end of the inning. He had a blast on the air with me.

Without question, that inning was my favorite of the year.

Losing yourself in the air

On the bus home Sunday night, we were watching the movie, "Miami Vice." A few of the players were asking if we had seen it. Uhhh yeah, every Friday night growing up in the 1980s ... it was only the greatest TV show. Ever. There's a really horrible photo of me, circa around 1984, with a white sport coat, white pants and a purple collar shirt -- the junior Sonny Crockett. Hitting coach Dave Hajek admitted he owned a white sport coat too.

Anyway, 80s fashion aside, I bring this up because a remix of the Phil Collins song, "In the Air Tonight" set a really cool tone for a scene in the movie. As that was going on, Greg Young sent me a text message asking for suggestions for songs to use for these new between-inning spots he was creating about the push for the playoffs.

First thought was immediately the Phil Collins song I heard. Greg put together two spots, another using the Eminem classic "Lose Yourself," and both are pretty sweet. Hearing them last night between innings got me fired up for the playoffs and the final three weeks of the regular season.

At various times in the season -- and I felt this way as a writer too -- it feels like it's going by painfully slow. But right now, I can't believe there's 19 games left. I want to savior every inning down the stretch. There's some really cool things that I could be witnessing and describing the next month, and I'm pumped up to be part of it.

In fact, on the bus ride home, I started thinking about putting together a "season in review" CD that captures the storylines and emotions from this season. Greg is down for working on it with me. Should be a labor-intensive process, but we've done a good job of setting aside highlights throughout the season to make it easier.

With our library of materials and creativity, it could turn out pretty damn sweet. And if putting together something like that helps us get one step closer to the majors, all the sweeter.

'This is your job'

The topic of my daily pregame interview with manager Jerry Weinstein was "the Dog Days of Summer," a fancy way of saying you're tired. Every team goes through it, usually this month. It's late in the season. The body is aching. It's hot. The finish line is near, but it's not the final sprint just yet.

The "dog days" apply to broadcasters as much as players. Must admit I was dragging a bit this weekend. I'll blame most of it on being in Visalia, which is always a challenge when you're broadcasting outdoors at this Godforsaken relic of a ballpark, the sun is beating down on you, and you're staying at the Godforsaken hotel that is the LampLighter Inn -- not to mention when you've only had one day off since early April.

I don't have problems getting motivated to call games. It's the daily pregame preparation that gets old. Plus, most of my fatigue stemmed from how annoying it is taking apart all the radio equipment, packing it up, then unpacking and setting it all up again each day. This is another occupational hazard from their non-existent press box.

Alas, hitting coach Dave Hajek put things in perspective. He told his players, "this is your job" -- which I took to heart. Thought about the excitement I felt for this career move four months ago, how no job is perfect, and told myself, "self, don't complain because you have to broadcast a baseball game every day."

I know a week after the season is over, I'll miss baseball and want it to start again. So that fired me up ... well, for the game, not for setting up all that damn equipment again.

Besides, happiness is knowing in a few hours, I'll be done with Bakersfield and Visalia for the season. Oh damn, almost forgot about the playoffs. We'll be back here once more.

Very removed from Barry's history

Sometime during the 2001 seasons, when I was on the San Francisco Giants beat with Dan Brown, we discussed whether the first sentence of our obituary would contain the words "Barry Bonds" in it.

As in: "Josh Suchon, who covered the Giants during a four-year span that included Barry Bonds' single-season record 73-homer season and later wrote a book about him, died yesterday after the parachute broke as he was attempting his first solo skydive. He was 33."

We agreed it would. A year later, after I published a book about Bonds' season, I just about guaranteed that happening. Suppose I still have the rest of my life to do something more noteworthy than writing about Barry Bonds, but I understand these things. Do a Google search for myself and most of the entries still include Bonds, four years after I stopped covering the Giants. Such is life.

I became burned out on Bonds in recent years, but it didn't stop me from wanting to watch history. Took advantage of Monday's off day to visit SF. Thought the planets and stars were aligned perfectly and Barry would do it during the one chance I had to witness. Instead, missed history by a day.

When Barry connected on No. 756, I was in Lancaster, it was the sixth inning, and I was describing a walk to a No. 9 hitter from the No.5 starting pitcher in our rotation. It's safe to say that's not where I thought I would be four years ago when this moment arrived.

A minute or so after Barry's blast, we were during a pitching change, I was looking for the mlb.tv feed and accidentally ended up playing the audio of Barry on the microphone during my internet broadcast.

So yeah, my tiny sliver of being a part of history didn't go as I once thought it would. Still no regrets on this career move. But no question, it was hard not being in San Francisco tonight, hard not watching it live, and hard finding out from the public address announcer in the middle of the Mojave Desert at a minor league ballpark, and hard scrambling to get details as I continued to broadcast my lame ass stinker of a 15-2 loss.

What I miss. What I don't miss.

Took advantage of a rare day off today to head back to San Francisco, in hopes of seeing Barry Bonds make history. Cashed in some good karma from my four years covering the Giants to get a press pass. Didn't see a home run, but came away with an interesting perspective on what I walked away from, and what I walked into.

Which, of course, is great material for an overdue new blog. So between Barry's four at-bats, as I sat in the press box where I made my living the last seven years, next to my former colleagues and friends and competitors, I made a list of the things I miss about covering major league baseball for a newspaper, and the things I don't. They're in no particular order.

WHAT I MISS
1. The food. Chicken fingers and fries, or pizza, is my dinner about 95 percent of the time at Modesto Nuts games. The spread tonight was salad, fruit, chicken, pasta, rice, green beans, deli meats, warm sourdough bread, and snickerdoodle cookies.

2. The spacious press box. Even packed with reporters from all around the country, it's enormous compared to the minors. The broadcasting booths at AT&T Park are actually small by major-league standards, but they look like apartments compared to most places in the Cal League.

3. The buzz of the crowd that understands the game. Cheering when an injured player gets up. Giving the starting pitcher a standing ovation when he departs after a great effort. Clapping their hands in unison to get a strikeout. And rising to their feet as one, chanting "Bar-ry, Bar-ry" as the man of the moment comes to the batters box. Instead of the minors where, you know, just standing up when the mascots are introduced.

4. An announcement of scoring decisions. Instead of the hand-sign games we play to try telling each other how a play was scored ... or waiting until the inning is over to walk into another room and find out how a play was scored.

5. The lighting.

6. Replays. To help describe a play a second or third time that was close.

WHAT I DON'T MISS

1. The scrum of reporters, at least 30, if not 50, around Giants manager Bruce Bochy before the game. Soooooo glad that's no longer me.

2. The distance between the press box and home plate. Even in SF, where it's much closer than most, it felt like another time zone away.

3. Signs that warn the press "keep off the grass" during batting practice, meaning the area in foul territory in front of the dugouts. Hell, I shag flyballs in the outfield before most road games.

4. Looking at your laptop more than the game. A horrible habit. Impossible to break. Intentionally didn't bust out my laptop tonight, just to avoid old habits. Instead, I looked at what my friend Paul Gutierrez from the Sacramento Bee showed me on his laptop ... and I aimlessly stared out into space thinking of items for this list.

5. The avalanche of stats. It's remarkable the amount of stats that are available to use. I purposely try to limit the amount of stats I prepare for myself each game, so I won't make my broadcasts stat heavy. Probably still rely on stats a little too much, but the volume of stats available in the majors is overwhelming and tantalizing. Like that piece of dessert you know you shouldn't grab, but you eat two anyway.

6. Players who don't run out grounders. Must say it's so refreshing that our players always run hard. Always. No matter what.

7. Reading the other papers first thing in the morning to see if I got scooped. Gawd, I hated that. No worse feeling that getting scooped. Painful. Rips your heart out. Ruins your whole day. The pain of getting scooped is far far greater than the pleasure of scooping others. In fact, I never enjoyed a scoop (not that I had many). Felt more embarrassed than proud when I had a scoop.

8. Thinking to myself, "I hope Barry doesn't break the record now, in his fourth at-bat, because it's almost 10 p.m. and that wouldn't leave much time to write my story on deadline." Or even when a historic moment isn't on the line, the anxiety of cranking out an early edition story on deadline in the final three innings, hoping that whatever team is winning doesn't lose the lead and force me to re-write quickly.

9. Reading a story that has anonymous quotes from players, and trying to think who was the source. OK, that's a lie. That's actually fun, especially since it's usually easy to pinpoint the 1-3 only possible candidates due to deductive reasoning.

A few other thoughts from my day back in the majors:

1. The number of jaded, bitter, cynical reporters who expressed genuine happiness for my decision to switch careers was pretty damn cool. Not sure if they just respect the cajones to make a fairly life-altering career move, if they wish they had the guts to try something new, or if they were just glad to get me the hell out of their daily lives, but it was a nice reinforcement to know that I'm not completely nuts.

2. Told my story to Dave Fleming, one of the Giants announcers, about broadcasting a game in Visalia in the rain. Dave broadcasted a full season in Visalia not too long ago, which is an inspiration to us all in the Cal League, and told me a story that made me realize my rain story was nothing. During a road trip, Visalia's clubhouse manager (or "clubbie") resigned, and Dave was forced to do the work. So he would cut up the watermelon as part of the pre-game spread in the afternoon ... broadcast a game at night ... then spent overnight cleaning dirty jockstraps and uniforms. And one of the days was his birthday! Dave doesn't seem like the type to take his surroundings for granted, but I hope re-telling the story reminded him a little more that paying those dues in the minors was worth it.

Alright, bus leaves for Lancaster in about six hours. I better pack and get to bed. Ehh, I'll pack in the morning.

Excuse the shameless plug ... more press about me

Nuts' Suchon savors broadcasting
Successful sportswriter would rather call the action like a fan
By Mark Shugar / MLB.com

MODESTO, Calif. -- With one out in the bottom of the 10th, the Modesto Nuts had strategically worked runners into scoring position against the Stockton Ports, allowing outfielder Travis Becktel to step to the plate with the chance to drive in a game-winner for Modesto.

That's when things got a bit, well, nuts. And up in the press box, Modesto radio broadcaster
Josh Suchon had the call.

"The pitch gets away from the catcher. Here comes [Nuts outfielder Justin] Nelson to the plate. He's safe! The Modesto Nuts have won the ballgame, 9-8, on an errant intentional walk pitch!
"You've got to be kidding me! Now I've seen it all."

** The entire story can be viewed at this link **
http://www.minorleaguebaseball.com/news/article.jsp?ymd=20070719&content_id=277144&vkey=news_milb&fext=.jsp

I think it will always be weird when I read a story about myself, since I'm so used to writing stories about other people. Must admit, like many athletes, I was a little worried the reporter would mis-quote me or take something out of context. Power to the digital recorder. The writer made me look good ... which ain't easy.

Getting over yourself

Minor league ballparks, especially press boxes, are not built for people who are self conscious. Learned this quickly. First stop of the year was Bakersfield, where the others in the box can hear every word you say. Second stop was San Jose, where the scoreboard operators sits right next to you in a very tiny box.

In Rancho Cucamonga, the most gorgeous ballpark in the league, you're still in a wide open with the writer(s), other announcer, and scoreboard operators. Some call your corner -- it's not a booth -- a penalty box from hockey. In Visalia, you're completely outside ... rain or shine.

The point is, others in the press box can hear every word you say. In most ballparks -- the people in the last rows before the press box -- can hear every word. In Visalia, we had a game with so few attending, the starting pitchers who were charting pitches later told me they heard every word -- and they were a good 20-30 feet away.

In Bakersfield, where we are tonight for thank goodness the final time this year, our bus driver and his son, all the pitchers, and all the fans (well, both of 'em) underneath my booth can hear every word as well.

No doubt, I was very self conscious when the season began. To this day, I'm still a little self conscious. Perhaps I'm just more aware, especially if I screw up something. But when we were in Rancho Cucamonga last weekend, I didn't feel the same anxiety that I felt when the season began.

Told myself the followings things:

1. The people who are hearing me are used to hearing the visiting announcer every game.
2. I can't do anything about it.
3. I owe it to the audience to not worry about it.
4. I can't possibly be the worst announcer they've ever heard.

And most recently:

5. Here's a chance to show off ... and maybe get some feedback.

It's still not easy. I know it's hard to imagine this, because hundreds are listening on the internet and on the radio, but it's really weird to know that a few people right next to you are listening.

Slowly but surely, I'm continuing to get over myself and just do the job.

Life in A-ball, cuz

The headline was a popular expression, or so I'm told, of last year's Modesto Nuts manager Glenallen Hill. We had one of those days when G-Hill would have said that phrase a lot.

We bussed down to Bakersfield, which just edges Visalia for the most depressing place in minor league baseball. OK, most depressing in the Cal League.

For some reason, we had a different hotel. Never a good thing when you're switching hotels in the middle of the season. The address we were given was for a Ramada. We pulled up, and the lady at the front desk about had a heart attack when she saw 25 baseball players, plus coaches and staff, get off a bus. They had no record of us staying there.

Phone calls were made. Hotels are setup by the home team. The Bakersfield front office insisted we were at the right place. Turns out, there's another Ramada in town. Who'd have thought there was two Ramadas in Bakersfield?

But thank goodness there are. The first Ramada looked like a dump. Of course, I will admit, it was sad that we weren't staying at the same hotel as the pale-skinned woman sitting at the pool, weighing a good two and a half bills, legs spread wide, and smoking a cigarette. But a few others on the bus had already called "dibs" on her anyway.

I digress. Arrived at the other Ramada, and all is well in the world. Temporarily.

The phone lines at "historic" Sam Lynn Ballpark -- I prefer to say prehistoric -- are a joke. You can't stay connected for longer than 20-30 minutes. Not when I call to the radio station. Not when the radio station calls me. So once again, we had to use the cell phone comrex to establish a connection.

There's no internet. No wireless. No DSL. That means, even though we had an internet-only broadcast, we had to broadcast the game from a cell connetion. I had ringing in my ears all night. Tough game to broadcast. We scored eight runs in the second inning for a 9-0 lead. From that point on, I'm trying to fill seven innings of a game that is essentially over.

It's a good 20 degrees hotter in the press box than the ballpark, and the game time temperature was an even 100 degrees. When the night was eventually over, I'd see a sun rash all over my chest.

But the night wasn't over when the game ended. Our bus had a flat tire. No way he could drive it. It's hard to find somebody to fix a bus tire at 11 at night. Now, if this happened in Modesto, ever front office member would be giving rides for the players and staff back to the hotel. We'd volunteer to do it, and wouldn't think twice of it.

Instead, no such help from the Bakersfield front office. Only one guy was left in the front office, and at least he called a cab company for us. Most of the team waited on the bus watching a movie until the first cab arrived. Some players got rides from friends and family back to the hotel.

The things about cities like Bakersfield, there's not a lot of cabs. It was two drivers who ended up taking everybody back and forth who didn't get a ride elsewhere.

I let the players go first, and waited until the end. Ended up swapping stories with Chris Strickland, our trainer, and a few others about busses breaking down in the middle of nowhere. One thing about people in the minors like Chris, they have great stories. When I say great stories, that's another way of saying, "oh my goodness, that's horrendous. Tonight is bad, but that was ridiculous. I'm so glad that happened to you, and not me."

Finally got back to the hotel around 1 a.m., almost three hours after the game ended. I've had my share of ridiculous travel stories in seven years covering major league baseball. Last night wasn't the worst. It was probably in the top five, but only because of the dueling Ramada hotels from the afternoon.

Indeed, welcome to A-ball, cuz.

** UPDATE: Our bus driver Craig had the tire fixed the next day. He found a key inside the tire. Yes, one of the great citizens of Bakersfield keyed our bus. Nice. **

Polishing a turd

About three weeks ago, I started to prepare myself for a rough summer. Our team had just been swept three games in Bakersfield, who brought a 10-game losing streak into the series. Our record was 3-7, and I feared the prospect of broadcasting another 60 games with lots of losing, and lots of bad baseball.

To my relief, the team has taken off. Going into tonight's game in Bakersfield, the Nuts have won 18 of 24 games. We're in first place, and the playoffs are looking like a foregone conclusion.

No doubt, I got lucky. I just don't know how you broadcast games nine innings every day for a losing team. For instance, my new friend John Rosen is the High Desert announcer, and his team has lost eight in a row entering tonight, 26 of 34 in the second half, after being in last place in the first half ... and, he has to broadcast 70 home games in the middle of nowhere (aka. Adelanto).

Another new friend, Zack Bayrouty of the Stockton Ports, is forced to call games for a team that has lost 22 of 34 games in the second half. In Zack's case, his team is really tough to watch because all the good players have been promoted to Double-A. All that remains is journeyman, castoffs from independent leagues, and non-prospects.

You can't be super critical of your team. I mean, most of your audience is the friends and family of the players on the internet, season ticket holders listening on the radio, or a handful of other diehard baseball fans who stumble upon the game while driving down the freeway. In the cases of High Desert and Stockton, they just don't have the talent the other teams in the league do.

Once again, this really makes me appreciate a guy like Ernie Harwell, the legendary announcer of the Detroit Tigers. Harwell did a lot of games between the 1984 World Series and the 2006 World Series, a lot of really dreadful games where the Tigers rarely won, and did it with dignity and class. As a result, he's probably the most beloved employee of the Tigers. That's the ultimate pro.

It takes a special pro to strike the right balance of "being positive vs. being honest" as you broadcast games for a team that's really bad. At some point, if I stay in broadcasting long enough, I'm destined to eventually have to do that.

Sure hope that I could do that, if I had to do that, but I'm very happy that I don't have to find out right now.

Breathing more

The biggest theme to the feedback I’ve received this season is to slow down, and let the broadcast “breathe” more. This will always be tough for me because I have a fairly hyper personality. Always room for improvement now in my broadcasts, but listening to my games over the last 3-4 weeks, I realize that I’m wayyyy better than I was in April.

The telling sign for my improvement is how it’s changed my speech patterns in everyday life. I’ve always been a fast talker. An amateur psychologist might conclude it stems from being self conscious, or a lack of confidence, or just being nervous. (Personally, I think I’m just always in a hurry to do everything – talk, type, eat, drive, etc.)

During one of my recent coaching sessions, this point was driven home as we evaluated my interview with Oakland A’s general manager Billy Beane.

One of my questions was: “your assistant general manager, David Forst, many consider him the heir apparent in Oakland, or a GM candidate elsewhere. Did he try to talk you out of that seven-year extension?”

My coach thought it was a great question, but he thought the delivery was off. I’ve listened to that question about 20 times now, and it kills me, because it would be soooooooo much better if I relaxed and asked it slower.

Such as, “your assistant general manager is David Forst. (pause) Many consider him the heir apparent in Oakland or a GM candidate elsewhere. (longer pause). I’m curious (quick pause) did he try talking you out of that seven-year extension?”

As any stand-up comic will tell you, it’s not just what you say; it’s how you say it. I’m learning that … slowly … sometimes, very slowly. I’m learning it’s much easier to do solo, in the booth, than it is doing a live interview with the most famous GM in baseball.

Recently, I was talking ball with my friend Zack Bayrouty, the Stockton Ports announcer, and I asked him if he heard what Bakersfield third baseman Chris Davis did the night before. Z-Bay said no, so I explained how Davis extended his hitting streak by going 4-for-4 … with four runs … and four RBIs.

“Wow,” Z-bay said.

“Annnnnnnd,” I added, pausing a second or two for emphasis, “he had four errors also.”

Two months ago, I’d have said, “hehadfourhitsfourrunsfourRBIsandfourerrors.”

Nowwwww … I draw out the words a little longer … pause for dramatic affect … let the words from the first part of the sentence sink in … and then finish my sentence. Granted, easier said to do that talking to Z-Bay, than a live interview with Billy Beane, but a lesson to be learned and practiced more.

Knowing my friends, they will probably find this really annoying … and tell me to stop talking like I’m on the air and just talk like the old Josh.

Channeling the ghost of Jack Buck

My first "Jack Buck" moment came last night. During his famous call of Kirk Gibson's home run to beat Dennis Eckersley and the Oakland A's in Game 1 of the 1988 World Series, Buck told the audience, "I don't believe what I just saw."

The stakes weren't exactly the same in my game or my call. OK, mine was a like a pebble of sand on Waikiki Beach compared to that game, but it was my own moment to use a Buck-esque phrase.

The scenario: tie game, 10th inning, second and third, one out. Stockton was intentionally walking Modesto's Travis Becktel to load the bases. Well, that was the plan. The second pitch sailed to the backstop for a wild pitch. The winning run scored on it.

Here is how I described it. Midway through the call, felt myself screaming a little too much, and tried to lower my voice, without losing the excitement or the drama. If you listen closely, you can tell when I flipped the mental switch in my brain to not scream.

You can never prepare for a call like that. It's all about your spontaneous call. Truth be told, I was lucky this called turned out how it did. For one, I was actually writing "IW" (intentional walk) in my scorebook when it happened. When I heard the crowd go crazy, I looked up and saw the catcher running to the backstop. I described the rest pretty well, although the perfectionist in me would have changed a few things.

"You've got to be kidding me," I said. After a pause, I then added, "Now I've seen it all." Made a conscious decision not to admit on the air that I didn't actually see it. I'll admit it here on this blog. It's easy to say, "never take your eyes off the field because you might miss something." That's true. But you have to look down at your scorebook and stat sheets. Nobody has a photographic memory. It's called note taking.

But I tell you what, I'll probably never look down during an intentional walk ever again.

A midterm exam

Imagine being early into a report, and finding out it was a mid-term exam that's worth half your grade. That's what last night's broadcast felt like.

We went live on the radio in the second inning, and I learned that my boss was running the board back in the studio. Not often that a program director will spend a Saturday night pushing the buttons for commercials, and this wasn't his choice.

No grade was given out, so it wasn't a real mid-term exam, but it was definitely weird knowing the boss was listening to every word. He'll listen to bits and pieces of games, but he has a life, and he lives with his girlfriend, and I'm sure she doesn't want him listening to games every night.

It was almost like not wanting to disappoint your parents. After all, few people were giving me the time of day as I tried to make the transition from print to radio. This guy took a huge chance on me, and this was the ultimate opportunity to show him that he made the right decision.

Overall, I thought the broadcast went fine. Most importantly, it went smooth. In and out of breaks, and the transition from one announcer to announcer. Thought my best call of the night was on a double play, and these days, I get more excited about making a good call on a double play than a home run.

Early in the broadcast, the boss sent a text message that said, "you guys sound good." I wrote back, "we always sound good." If you don't believe us, just ask us.

Hopefully, he took notes and will provide some feedback when I see him Monday in the office. Then we'll know how I did on my mid-term.

** UPDATE ** No feedback at all. Jeez, talk about your buzzkill. Thought it was a mid-term, or at least a pop quiz. Guess it was just another game after all, which I suppose is fitting, the more I think about it. Baseball broadcasting isn't about having a great game when your boss is listening. It's about having 140 consecutive quality broadcasts because you never know who might be listening. You have to be a grinder in this business.

In a pickle

Pickles are great on sandwiches. Pickle was one of my favorite games to play as a kid.

Describing a pickle in a baseball game is not easy. It's one of the hardest, in fact, and I've been thinking lately it's the ultimate test of a baseball announcer's skill. They don't happen very often, and they usually end quickly .. well, at least in the majors.

In the minors, sometimes they take awhile and don't end so well for the defense. We had back-to-back pickles in the last two games.

The first was Monday night, when Eric Young, Jr. was caught between first and second base, and Travis Becktel made a dash home ahead of the throw. Everybody was safe.

The second was last night, when Cole Garner was caught between first and second base, the Bakerfield infield -- no doubt thinking about the previous night's play -- butchered it again. This time, the lead runner stayed at third base, and Garner was safe at second.

Upon further review, I ended up getting wayyy more critical than I usually get. Hope it wasn't overboard, but figure the audience needed to be told the truth.

Overall, I don't love or hate my calls on those. Consider them acceptable, but think it displays that I'm still not exactly where I expect myself to be at handling these plays.

Next came an example where my journalistic background helps me. A botched rundown is an immediate storyline and I wanted to go with it. So I said the standard, "let's see if the Nuts can make them pay" line, and sure enough, they did.

A two-run single by Young. Then a two-run double by Chris Nelson. Then an RBI double by Justin Nelson. Another RBI double, this one by Jeff Kindel.

Then I took a light-hearted approach, saying "I was just being optimistic" about making Bakersfield pay for the mistake. In all, the Nuts scored seven runs in the inning, led 8-0, and rolled to a 15-2 victory.

Earlier in the game, nearly nailed the call of Young scoring from second base on an errant pickoff throw. I've quickly learned to always expect Young to take the extra base, and proud of the way I saw this play developing. But at the beginning, I accidentally said the pickoff throw to first base -- instead of second base -- and had to correct myself.

P.S. Yes, in case you're wondering, now that I finally know how to post audio clips, I have gone mad in posting a lot of them. A record nine in this post!

Only in the Cal League

Well, maybe you can get away with some of this stuff in Double-A or Triple-A. But tonight was an example of something you can do broadcasting a baseball game in the California League that you can't do in the big leagues.

The Nuts won easily tonight, 15-2. It was 8-0 after two innings. Total blowout.

Greg Young and I had been thinking about a night when we'd ask the team's biggest character, shortstop Chris Nelson, to interview one of his teammates live on the radio. Just to mix things up. Received clearance from the program director to go for it. Not every time. But just for something new.

We figured with a game like this, everybody on Modesto's side would be in a good mood and it was the perfect night. It took some prodding from batting coach Dave Hajek, but Nelson agreed to interview teammate Cole Garner. It was hilarious. Nelly was cutting off answers, making sure that nicknames were explained, and handled himself like a pro.

Afterward, the fellas in the sound room turned on Chris Nelson's entrance music again, which is "Heart of a Champion" by, fittingly Nelly.

The part they use starts with "Nel-ly, Nel-ly" as he comes to the plate and includes the line, "ain't no way they can stop me now." Anytime Chris gets a hit, they play the "ain't no way they can stop be now" line again, and you can see Chris fired up on the bases. So when they played it again after the interview, Chris puts his hands above his head, and took a victory lap around the bases.

Described it all on the radio, as I tried to keep from laughing. It was a beautiful moment and showed the comraderie you get in the minors between the players, broadcasters and videoboard operators.

Can't imagine A's shortstop Bobby Crosby interviewing teammate Shannon Stewart live on the field on A's radio broadcast, then taking a victory lap as they played his song. But in the minors, it worked.

My days of staying in a king bed in four-star hotels, flying to the best cities in the country, and expensing everything are over.

A night like tonight, however, was priceless.

4th of July fun

No idea if this is accurate, but I felt -- or maybe it's hoped -- that our radio audience last night was our biggest. The circumstances were certainly there. It's the 4th of July, and I imagine a lot of people BBQing in their backyards, and having a radio on with the ballgame. After all, what's more American that fireworks, BBQing and baseball?

Here in Modesto, the postgame fireworks is also the city's municipal fireworks. So the golf course behind the ballpark was packed, as were the soccer fields beyond the outfield fences. The fans were constantly setting off fireworks of their own. In fact, so much smoke was in the air from the fireworks, San Jose center fielder Antoan Richardson even lost a ball in the smoke, during one of Greg's innings.

The area around the ballpark was packed with fans. Again, perhaps wishful thinking, but I imagined the fans around the ballpark with their radios listening to the game, or at least listening to the game on the radio as they circled the ballpark looking for a place to park, to know how close the game was to ending.

Made it a point to say hello to the fans outside the ballpark a bunch of times. One of them is an older dude who is always at games and calls himself "tree guy" because he sits under a tree and collects foul balls. At least once, when a foul ball was headed his way, I'd let him know on the air.

It was a good game, the Nuts won 9-5, thanks to a leadoff home run by Eric Young, Jr. and another first inning homer by Justin Nelson. Against my better judgment, I watched the fireworks, got stuck in massive traffic, and will get one less hour of sleep.

If I was in a rut a few days ago, the sellout crowds the last two nights, plus all the great action definitely have me out of it.

Exhausted, yet exhilirated

Now I know how arena football announcers must feel. Or how my colleague Jeff Lasky, the play by play announcer in Lancaster -- where every game is a slugfest -- must feel every night.

Last night's game was a 16-12 slugfest. Modesto won it, and the back-and-forth drama made for a lot of fun. Exhausting, yes. Ridiculous, yes. And exhilirating, most defintely.

It was yet another example of something that's wayyyyyy more fun to broadcast than it would be to recap for a newspaper. A lot of home runs were hit, and I got to have some fun describing some of them. Such as the tape-measure home run by Justin Nelson that made me pretend I was in San Francisco.

On the heels of my post a few days ago about calling the other team's dramatic home runs, I thought I found a better balance of "excitement vs. oh no" when Stockton's Tommy Everidge hit a three-run home run in the eighth inning to give the Ports the lead.

Nearly got caught with my head down in the scorebook, and recapping the scoring from the top of the ninth inning, when Chris Nelson hit a towering home run that broke the game open, and provided the final score. Wasn't happy that I missed the pitch coming to the plate, but recovered good enough.

This was one of those games when I'm still jacked full of adrenaline an hour after the game. That makes falling asleep difficult. And that means I'll have to be extra careful that I don't carryover that emotion into the first inning of tonight's game.

Think we got carried away in our giddiness over the crowd mic. We had it cranked up a little too much, so a good majority of the game wasn't as clean sounding as we'd prefer. I have the ultimate respect for engineers and sound techs. Whatever they get paid, it's not enough.

The ultimate crack of the bat

It's always fun going to Banner Island Ballpark in Stockton because:

1. the ballpark is new and beautiful.
2. the radio booth is enormous.
3. the Stockton Ports are the A's affiliate, and I know more about that organization than any other.
4. it's a road game, but it's the shortest trip.
5. there's good free food.

The list is not necessarily in that order. One really cool thing about the ballpark is they have a crowd mic somewhere in the ballpark that we can plug into our mixing board. We don't even know where it's located, but it makes the broadcast sound soooo much better. For starters, we don't have to tape a mic to the outside of the press box, and don't have to worry about some jackass fan walking by and thinking he's funny by saying something into the mic.

But also, it makes the crack of the bat sound amazing. In addition, in last night's game, you could really hear the crowd make a collective "ooooooohhh" when one of the Ports players missed a catchable flyball on the warning track.

The broadcast sounds big league. Very cool.

In fact, in the latest cool thing we've got going on our website, Greg figured out how we can post audio highlights from the game on the website. The links are inside the game recaps. You can hear last night's right here, and you can definitely hear the crack of the bat in the highlights.

Baking in Bake-oh

The primary purpose of this blog is the photo. It's basically to make you laugh, and make you feel sorry for me.

This is the "broadcast booth" in Bakersfield. I couldn't doctor this photo, even if I knew how. The window really is that dirty. The room really is that tiny. Not to mention, what you can't see is how the temperature in that closet is somehow 10-15 degrees hotter than it is in the ballpark.

Fortunately, it was only in the lower-90s this weekend in Bakersfield. It could be well over 100.

So earlier this season, when it was raining and I had to close the window to keep the equipment dry, and I unfathonably said a home run was a home run, even though it was flyout, my excuse is trying to call a game through that disgusting window.

Calling the other team’s walkoff

Like a lot of things in broadcasting, the excitement level when describing the other teams’ dramatic moments is a fine line. Don’t want to get too excited. Don’t want to show no emotion either.

Last night was my fourth game calling the other team’s "walkoff" victory. Listened back to my call, and actually wished I’d have gotten just a little more excited. Not a lot. Just a little more excited. My biggest regret was taking so long to say the final score.

Thought my setup was pretty good. Bakersfield’s Chris Davis was 4-for-4 with a home run. As the Blaze batted in the eighth, I said Davis would get another shot in the ninth. As the Nuts batted in the ninth, with a one-run lead, I said it would be wise to get more runs because Davis is due up in the ninth. As the bottom of the ninth started, I said the dangerous Davis is due up third.

Sure enough, Davis hit a two-run walkoff home run. Problem was, he hit it so quickly, I didn’t have much time to call it. It was a line drive that barely cleared the 20-foot fence. The crowd, as usual, was pretty weak in Bakersfield -- so there wasn’t a ton of excitement coming from the crowd mic. I should have delayed my call a second or two behind the action, giving it a more dramatic call. But at the same time, it’s the other team.

Earlier this week, I heard the A’s Ken Korach say, “do you believe it?” when Kelly Shoppach hit a three-run, pinch-hit walkoff home run to beat the A’s. That was on my mind, but I could believe this one.

I flat-out expected it, and felt it coming for a couple innings. Ended up saying something like, “can’t say it’s not surprising” based on what he’d done earlier in the game. The biggest thing I wish I’d had done is say that Bakersfield won sooner. It was implied, and I definitely said it, but I should have stated it precisely a little sooner.

With nothing else better to do in Bakersfield, listened back to some of my calls from earlier this year when the home team beat Modesto.

Actually really liked my call – short and precise – when Inland Empire’s Luke May hit a walkoff homer in late April. The stupid train horn interrupts the call at the end.

Probably a little too excited, and tried to say too much in too little amount of time, when Stockton beat Modesto in the 11th inning last month.

The game winner by San Jose a couple weeks ago was a little tricky. It was nearly a spectacular, “catch of the year” play by Modesto left fielder Cole Garner. Couldn’t tell, in fact, if he caught it or not. Even after he dove, I wasn’t sure because nobody chased after the ball to the wall, so I had to wait longer. That ever-so slight delay minimized the so-called “perfect call” from occurring.

The other factor making it a difficult call is that play basically won the first half for San Jose because Stockton was about to lose in Visalia. But it wasn’t official yet. So again, I couldn’t accurately state the San Jose Giants had won the first half just yet. I did quickly say, “it’s pandemonium at San Jose Muni” and did what I think announcers should do – shut up and let the crowd tell the story. The crowd was going nuts, pardon the pun, but the crowd mic didn’t pick up on that as well as I’d hoped.

Oh well. I’m reminded of something my friend Johnny Doskow, the announcer for Triple-A Sacramento, recently told me: “you’re never as good as you think you are; and you’re never as bad as you think you are.”

The inevitable rut

The past few games I've felt like the broadcasts were ... well, not bad. Just not great. Perhaps it's an inevitable rut from doing so many. Perhaps it's not coincidence my rut arrived at the same time as the team's hitting rut. The games haven't been very interesting. Quite boring, truth be told. I know it's my job to make them interesting, but it's tough when the storyline becomes the same.

It leaves me with a few options.

1. Rip the team's offense. Not going to do that.
2. Neglect the team and talk about other stuff. Don't want to do that.
3. Turn into a homer who is cheering/urging the offense on.

The last is the lesser of three evils. Being a homer is a very, veryyyyy fine line. Talked with my program director about this, and he reminded me of the audience.

I'll paraphase his advice: this isn't the majors; it's still A-ball; the only people listening are the season ticket holders, host families, relatives and friends, and diehard baseball fans who just love any baseball on the radio. They aren't exactly looking for a down-the-middle, ESPN Sunday Night Baseball broadcast.

It's funny, one of his other pieces of advice was, if a certain player is really slumping and gets a hit, it's alright to say, "there you go (insert name)". I laughed because I did exactly that last night. Travis Becktel was in a 12-for-115 slump. When he singled, "there you go" might have been my exact words. In fact, in my excitement for the kid coming through, I called it an RBI single immediately.

Problem was, the runner hadn't scored. In fact, the runner was only about one-third of the way home. Luckily, the runner scored. In my call, I pretended like I never said "RBI single" as I described the close play at the plate. As I looked at my partner Greg Young, he gave me a "that was close" look, so I decided to just talk about it on the air. I said how I was so excited for Travis that I gave him the RBI wayyyyyy before he had it. Probably a mistake on my part, but I hope it's because my heart was in the right place.

Again, being a homer is a very fine line. The overwhelming majority of your audience wants your team to win, so you should speak to them like a fan. The old journalist inside me wants to stay more objective, but one of the things that I really like about this career switch is that I don't have to be objective anymore. It's fun to get fired up when your team does something well.

Of course, when your team is struggling, then it's a struggle balancing between being honest, being supportive, being excited (even when there's nothing to be excited over), and still sounding genuine about it.

The midway report

Hard to believe, but the season is halfway over. Seventy games in 74 days. Whew. Time flies when you're talking baseball all night and barely sleeping. Figured the all-star break was time for some deep, philosophical thoughts on how it's going.

The more I think about my feelings, the more I just feel lucky that I landed where I did. For a couple years, I've been trying to get back into broadcasting. But no team anywhere in minor league baseball would give me the time of day. Some of my broadcasting friends went above and beyond the call of duty to hype me up as a possible No.2 announcer at a couple Triple-A jobs two offseasons ago. But for all the No.1 jobs I applied to get, I basically was totally ignored.

When somebody finally did give me a chance, it came in a city just outside the Bay Area, limiting how far I had to move, and allowing me to stay close to my friends and family. It was with a team that happened to hire my cousin (when neither of us knew the other was about to get hired).

The official employer was an all-sports radio station, which allowed me to:

1. continue my journalistic background as the sports director of the morning news.
2. be a fill-in, talk-show host for a couple segments of my co-workers' talk shows regularly, or even the entire show when somebody is sick.
3. cover the NCAA west regional in Sacramento.
4. do live interviews with players, such as Bobby Crosby and Nick Swisher, or just yesterday with A's general manager Billy Beane, that we air later that day or the next day on the radio station.
5. basically yuck it up and have fun on radio.

Most minor league radio announcers -- as in 99 percent -- work exclusively for the team. Not me. Which means, more important than anything else, I don't have to sell advertising. Nothing is more deflating than applying for a job as the play-by-play announcer, and being told that your ability to sell ads means more than you're ability to call a game.

Granted, not every game is on our radio station because we carry the Oakland A's and other pro sports, which get first priority. (All games are live on the internet though.)

But the all-sports station provides a priceless amount of crossover programming opportunities, such as broadcasting live for six hours yesterday from Stockton's ballpark to pump up the California-Carolina League all-star game -- even though we weren't broadcasting the game. Some of the other announcers in the Cal League, who I've quickly come to call good friends, call their games during pledge drives for PBS or on a station that switched to a Spanish format during the season.

I'm lucky at how our product has turned out too. This might sound arrogant, but at least for home games, we have -- by far -- the best overall broadcast team in the Cal League. And it's not even close.

No other team has a daily manager show. Nobody else does a live postgame interview with a player down on the field. Nobody else has a newspaper beat reporter with the talent and knowledge, not to mention the feel for radio, like our Brian VanderBeek of The Modesto Bee. I humbly think Greg Young is the best No.2 in the league, could be a No.1 right now, will be a No.1 next year for sure, and I'd find it hard to believe that anybody else has better on-air chemistry than we do. If nothing else, nobody has as much fun as we do.

Don't worry, I'll stop bragging shortly.

And here's the kicker: not only did I not know any of that coming in, I didn't even make the decision to setup the broadcasting team. Pure luck.

This blog started three months ago with me mostly making fun of myself and my mistakes. Call it all-star break nostalgic thoughts, or the lack of sleep, or an over-indulgent sense of self, but we've been damn good.

Now, just wait until we know what we're actually doing.

That gut feeling

So far, so good when it comes to my worst fear about broadcasting -- needing to badly use the bathroom in the middle of a game. The first thing I scout out, when arriving at a ballpark for the first time, is how far the bathroom is from the press box. You know, just in case.

I can make it, between innings, in Modesto and Lake Elsinore. San Bernardino would be close. No chance of making it in Visalia, Bakersfield, Stockton -- or this weekend, here in San Jose. So when I'm calling games solo at those four places, I do three things.

1. Hit the bathroom about 5-10 minutes before starting the broadcast. (I also call this my daily nervous pre-game pee.)
2. Avoid drinking lots of fluids.
3. Carefully watch what I eat before the game.

Now that the temperature is over 100 degrees, this is a challenge. The need to stay hydrated and keep the pipes from getting dry is important. A couple close calls this weekend. When the game ended Friday, the bladder was running out of patience with me. The game Sunday went 11 innings, and there were a couple moments when it seemed like it could go forever. That was another welcome end to the game.

At my father's house after the game, during a Father's Day BBQ with the family, my sister asked if I lost weight. Since she was the second person to ask in less than 24 hours, I weighed myself. Sure enough, I've lost about 20 pounds since the season started.

I have four reasons why.

1. No alcohol since the season started. (My longest stretch of sobriety since high school.)
2. The major-league press dining room is all-you-can-eat, and always has desserts. Now, I alternate between chicken fingers and a slice of pizza at home games.
3. The overall minor league lifestyle. It's hard to eat quality meals consistently. The small towns don't have many options, and not much is open after a night game. I've somehow continued to avoid eating any fast food burgers (or Taco Bell), a streak that dates back to December 2002.
4. It's now over 100 degrees in Modesto, and I simply can't eat anything hot when it's this hot. That means lots of salads and fruits and sandwiches. Who knew that hot weather could be so healthy?

Who the hell is Joshua?

Just before the season began, I spent a game in the A's radio booth with Ken Korach and Vince Cotroneo. The idea was to watch the A's announcers describe the game on the radio, and takes notes on how they went about doing it. Found it very helpful. Vince volunteered to listen to one of my games, and I finally took him up on it.

Vince's first resposne was, "who the hell is Joshua?"

Ok, so here's the story.

For 33 years and some change, the only person who called me Joshua was my mom ... and that's when I was in trouble. I was always Josh. I used Josh in print, and for all the radio/TV interviews I did. Always thought Joshua was too formal and biblical.

Of course, ever since the "Friends" episode in which Rachael says her boyfriend's name as "Josh ... ooooohhh .... ahhhhh" I've been a much bigger fan of Joshua. But that's another story.

Anyway, the name Josh Suchon is a tongue twister. To say Suchon, it's like the girl's name Sue and the boy's name Shawn. That makes for a lot of sh's in a short amount of time. You have to consciously pause between my first and last names, or else they run together. It usually gets butchered.

So I decided to go with Joshua Suchon. Thought it sounded smoother. Also liked the idea of a slightly different name to coincide with my new career. Josh was the writer. Joshua is the broadcaster.

Everybody still calls me Josh in person, including my program manager -- even on the air. So I guess the new name isn't exactly taking off.

Working solo vs. partnering up

The first game of a road trip is always an adjustment because I broadcast all nine innings, solo, for road games. For home games, I do six innings of play-by-play (always with somebody in the booth with me), and two innings sitting "second chair."

Must say I'm very happy with this schedule. I get to learn how to work solo, and how to work with somebody. After all, if I ever reach the majors -- or I should say, when I return to the majors -- there's a very high chance that I'll have one (if not two) analysts in the booth with me. Yet, there's times you need to be able to carry a broadcast solo.

We're nearly halfway into the season, and I've realized that I definitely prefer working with somebody. Main reason is because I think I'm just a social butterfly who prefers to be around other people. But also, it's damn awkward spending three hours basically talking to yourself. A lot more exhausting. Harder to come up with something to fill the time between the action, especially when the game is lopsided.

The key, of course, is who your partner is. If the two people are fighting over the microphone, it's a disaster. The second guy needs to let the broadcast "breathe" by picking the right time to talk, and then knowing when to ... well, shut up.

I try to randomly listen to a different minor league broadcast every game, just to get a feel for how other broadcasters approach their craft, and compare that to my own style. There's always something you can learn, either good or bad, from others. I heard one game when the "color analyst" felt the need to analyze every pitch and say something between every pitch. It sounded horrendous.

Brian VanderBeek, our buddy from The Modesto Bee, is really good at knowing when to talk and when to let me do my thing. I think Greg Young and I have developed good chemistry as well. Greg will rarely say anything the first inning of a game, just so I can set the stage and get into the flow of the game. I try to do the same for him, when he takes over in the third inning.

Beek joins us for the middle innings, and that's when it becomes story time. Sometimes, it's like we're hosting a talk show within a baseball game. I try to have 1 or 2 topics to discuss within the flow of the game, which have to do with what's happening with the team or around baseball. I'm sure there's been a couple times we ventured too far from the game, but I don't think we do it often. Besides, you can't know what's too far over the line, until you cross that line.

For the last three innings, it depends on the game. If the game is over, Greg and I will be more chatty. If it's close, I try to stay out of Greg's way in the seventh inning. Besides, he's looking to build his demo reel, and every inning is potentially the inning that will land him his next job -- so I need to stay out of his way.

For the last two innings, Greg is usually frantically putting together highlights for our post-game show, or he's thinking of questions to ask our postgame guest. So he's not on the air much anyway.

I can honestly say there hasn't been one time, in nearly 70 games, that I've wished my broadcast partners would shut up. That's quite an accomplishment. And trust me, I'd write it, if I felt it.

Overall, I'm damn proud of our broadcasts. Between having three voices, and mixing the time spent focusing squarely on the game and branching out, I think there's great variety to the broadcast. I might not be Vin Scully, and Beek might not be Tim McCarver ... well, actually, thank goodness Beek is not Tim McCarver.

When luck and preparation merge

Not to sound too cocky, but I'm really starting to feel like I'm on a roll. Obviously, there's still lots and lots more for me to improve on, but I'm excited about where I'm at right now. I thought Sunday's game was my best nine innings of solo work. Thought that Monday's game with Greg and Brian was our best group effort. Thought we topped that last night.

It helps to have a compelling game, but you can't depend on a good game for a good broadcast. Last night wasn't even a great game, but I thought we had a great broadcast. Part of that is luck, and part of that is preparation.

Examples:

1. When Daniel Carte came to the plate in the second inning, I started off by describing how he normally hits fourth or fifth in the order, but he's been slumping lately. That's why he's hitting eighth, but he's dangerous in that spot of the lineup. Carte hit a grand slam a pitch or two later, the biggest hit of the game, so I looked like a genius. That was premeditated luck.

2. When Nick Haley came to bat in the fifth inning, I said that he was, "an admitted steroid user." Brian VanderBeek of the Modesto Bee was in the booth with me. Beek laughed. Haley grounded out on the next pitch, and then I said, "Brian will tell you why he's an admitted steroid user." Beek described the disease that Haley had, how much weight he lost, and had steroids were prescribed to him as part of the cure. I'd consciously held back in describing this disease earlier in the game because Beek told me about it, and the journalist in me didn't want to scoop Beek on his own information. Then we had some back-and-forth interchange about steroids and testing. I explained what a "whizzinator" is, and we had some laughs. I humbly thought it was a compelling slice of the broadcast, and a great way of "setting up" my broadcast partner.

3. In the eighth inning, I noticed that Max Scherzer was throwing a perfect game for the Visalia Oaks. Because I'm scraping for extra dollars, I write a weekly Cal League notebook for http://www.minorleaguebaseball.com/, which forces me to keep track of the other nine teams in the league. Scherzer is a first-round pick of Arizona in 2006, just signed before the one-year deadline for $4 million and some change, and made his pro debut the previous week. I knew all this because the notebook forces me to learn this stuff. Also know this because a high school buddy of mine tipped me off him about, since they both attended the University of Missouri. Otherwise, I'd be oblivious to the guy. As a result, I had all this information in my brain about Scherzer that I was able to say on the air. Didn't have to look it up. Hopefully, this background info meant more to people listening, rather than just hearing about a perfect game. That was preparation-based (and desperate for money-based) luck.

4. We had some fun too. Our good friend Zack Bayrouty, the Stockton Ports announcer, had a constant stream of attractive females saying hello to him in his booth (which is right next to our booth). So I mentioned this on the air, and complained how Greg and I have no female admirers, and how Z-Bay is putting us to shame in our own ballpark. It was a five-run game at the time, so we weren't neglecting critical moments. That wasn't lucky or preparation. That was just envy.

Let them hear you smile

The headline is the biggest piece of advice that I took from my first coaching session. The other biggest lesson was, "it's not what you say; it's how you say it."

We talked about some of the most memorable play-by-calls, such as: Jack Buck's, "Go Crazy, People, Go Crazy!" after Ozzie Smith's game-winning home run in the 1985 playoffs; Al Michaels saying, "Do you believe in miracles?" after Team USA beat the Russians in the 1980 Olympics; and Jack's, "I don't believe what I just saw," after Kirk Gibson's home run beat Dennis Eckersley in Game 1 of the 1988 World Series.

What made those calls so memorable wasn't just what they said; it was how they were said. Using your voice -- going up and down, being incredulous, spontaneous, and empathic -- is critical to the success of a call.

Still, the hour didn't go as I thought. I was hoping to get feedback on my play by play. Instead, we focused on interviewing and I did a couple mock interviews by phone. It was odd, and I don't think the mock interviews were indicative of what I'm normally like doing interviews.

But it was still helpful. If nothing else, it made me realize that when I'm trying really hard to focus, I end up sounding wayyyyyy too serious. I need to sound more conversational, like I'm talking to a buddy.

Interviewing is truly an art form. It's the hardest thing to do in journalism. Most people take for granted how difficult it is, and laugh when they hear dumb questions. But ask anybody who has done it -- a little or a lot -- and they'll tell you it's a constant struggle to ask questions in a way that elicit the best answers.

Interviewing for newspapers is much different than interviewing on the radio or TV, which is something I'm constantly learning. For print, it's all about being informal, chatty, conversational. You don't want the subject to feel like they're being interviewed. For radio and TV, you need to be empathetic, concise with your words, and setup the subject best. I feel like I'm better than most at interviewing, but I'm still far from perfect.

Anyway, I hope the second session involves a critique of my play by play. After all, interviewing is important, but that's three minutes of my day. The play by play is three hours of my day.

By the way, I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm getting coached. Some of my broadcasting peers told me it was a waste of money. The way I see it, Tiger Woods has a coach. So does Roger Federer. Dan Patrick gets coached. They are the best at the professions. It seems silly that a journalist turned broadcaster would not get coached.

Predicting my critique

In a few hours, I'll get the first of four professional critiques of how I'm actually doing in this career move. I mean, this is fun and all, but it would be good to know whether I'm any good.

I know that I'm not making a fool of myself. And that Jon Miller's job is safe. And that I'm (hopefully) not the worst announcer in the Cal League. And that I'm (probably) not the best in the league either. Considering I haven't received any specific feedback -- good or bad -- figured it was worth the investment. (Plus, I could use the tax writeoff.)

Eager and excited to get this feedback, and then apply it to games later tonight and throughout the rest of the season. In an attempt to self critique, and decide how much the professional critique is worth the investment, I've decided to make a list of things I'm expecting to hear.

1. I talk too fast too often.
2. It wouldn't hurt to stay a second or two behind the action, instead of exactly as it's happening, because it will allow room for "cleaner" calls that aren't as rushed.
3. Too repetitive coming out of each commercial break.

Submitted two games. One was nine innings solo when Modesto beat Visalia, 4-1, behind a complete-game effort by Brandon Hynick. The other was the six innings of play by play from one of the games at Stockton. Can't even remember which one, but I know it was a long game with lots of offense. Figured a pitchers duel and slugest, plus a solo game and working with a partner, would provide good contrasts for feedback.

Topics I'm most curious to hear:

1. Do I give the score often enough?
2. Do I give too many (or not enough) stats?
3. Do I "paint the picture" of the sun, the fielders, the ballpark, etc.?

I'll post the feedback when it's done.

Static feedback

Found myself lacking interesting topics for the blog lately, which means one of three things.

1. I'm so horrible I've just gotten to used to being horrible.
2. I'm so incredibly talent I should be promoted to the majors today.

(or more likely)

3. The grind of 62 straight games has made the "new-ness" factor (if I'm allowed to make up a word) wear off, the games are starting to blend all together, I don't want to write about the same topic every day (especially technical difficulties), and a first-year broadcaster's life isn't really all that interesting once you get past the "holy cow I was nervous for my first game" thread.

One thing does come to mind from last night and Thursday's game. We weren't able to establish a "land line" connection, so we did the game via a cell phone comrex. See the post "cell of a debut" for more details on this. For whatever reason, the crowd mic comes blasting through my ears at record decibels through this cell phone comrex -- even when I barely had the crowd mic up at all. Don't know why, or how, but I swear my ears were ringing worse from the 3,749 fans in attendance last night than my ears rang after Games 6 and 7 -- combined -- in the 2002 World Series.

Between a 5-0 deficit in the first inning, and the crowd mic blasting me away, it was a game I'd rather forget. Considering our team lost 10-3, made three errors, and could have been charged with 2-3 more errors, they probably agree to forget it.

That's the beauty of baseball. Always a new game the next day to make you look great ... or sound dumb.

Knowing the audience

The first rule I was taught in journalism was to know your audience. It makes a big difference in what you write. I have no clue who my audience is for this random blog of mine, but I do know my audience for our internet broadcasts. It's the friends and family of the players and coaches.

I know this for two reasons:

1, It's common sense.
2. I get emails from them and the proud mothers are eager to introduce themselves to me when they come to a game.

It's all very flattering, and the compliments are always good for the ego. Of course, I'm talking about their sons, so of course they're happy with me. Still, it's a little weird when a pitcher comes into a game, and I know the grandparents are listening intently to every word.

The radio audience is wide and vast. The only information they know about the players is what I tell them, so I feel like my job is just as much to inform them about who these players are, as it is to describe the game. I probably get a lot of accidental listeners on the radio because their car radio was left on AM 970 from an A's game, or one of our talk shows, and they listen a little. I'm trying to keep those listeners. I'm sure there's a few season ticket holders, especially the host families, who listen to every inning.

But the internet audience already knows everything about the players because they are related to them. Still not sure how that should change my approach to calling a game, or whether I should even be thinking about all this.

It's not the first time I've been accused of thinking too much. I should probably follow the legendary advice of Crash Davis from the movie, "Bull Durham," which was ... "Don't think. It can only hurt the team."