Fay vs. Rays

"I'm scared. People will be evacuating and the dumb--- Angels are going there."

So said Torii Hunter, Angels outfielder, prior to this week's three game series at Tampa Bay. I suppose I could have said the same thing, subbing "dumb--- sportscaster," of course.

Tropical Storm Fay was nice enough to allow the Angels and I to arrive in St. Petersburg unharmed on Monday, and as we watch the weather today, it appears that the rest of the series will continue as scheduled. I'm here to fill in as the sideline reporter and host on FSN Florida; the Angels are here to test the Rays' resolve, again.

Playing without Carl Crawford and Evan Longoria, the Rays went 7-3 on their ten-day, three-city road trip. That was one game better than Boston's last ten, which stretched Tampa Bay's lead in the AL East to 4.5 games. The Rays returned to the Bay early Monday morning after their final roadie at Texas. I spoke to the FSN Florida production staff when I arrived on Monday, and most of them didn't get to bed until 5am that morning. How these people maintain this schedule for 162 games is a constant source of wonder for me.

Stepping into Todd Kalas's seat is a unique challenge. While Joe Magrane is in New York calling Olympic baseball for NBC, Todd moves upstairs as a color analyst for a couple of games alongside play-by-play announcer Dewayne Staats. That leaves me to handle the pregame and sideline duties. I welcome these chances to work Rays games -- especially this year -- and would certainly never complain about it, but it's tough to develop a rhythm when you see the team in person only once a month. Having two games this week as opposed to a "one-off" makes a big difference. The prep time for Game 2 is dramatically less than that of Game 1. Simply attending the previous night's game, hearing the locker room talk and weighing the mood at the stadium, makes an enormous difference in my job. Hard to explain, but it goes for anything I do -- NBA, college football, whatever. I'm sure Paul Kennedy feels the same way when he has to step in on the Chevy Florida Fishing Report.

Good game last night, albeit one characterized by mistakes: Vlad Guerrero's defensive brain cramp in right that led to a Rays run, BJ Upton's much-discussed baserunning error, a blown cutoff by the Angels that allowed Justin Ruggiano to score the final run of the game -- after Ruggiano ran through a stop sign at third. Interesting that two teams who pride themselves on doing things 'the right way' -- or 'the Rays way,' according to signs inside the Tampa Bay clubhouse -- had a game decided largely on dumb luck. Baseball, as they say, is a funny game.

The Rays are doing it the right way, of course, something that I have written about extensively in this space before. Monday's crowd was still sparse, but cut them some slack -- there was a freaking hurricane coming, or so we thought.

(On that note -- fantastic column in Monday's Tampa Tribune by Daniel Ruth. Pretty much sums up my view of the weather industry. And yes, it is an industry -- making quasi-educated guesses about that which is mostly unpredictable.)

Two more with the Angels -- weather permitting -- and then into September. Meanwhile, on the TV front, the first episode of 'Tailgate Overtime' on Sun Sports is this coming Monday at 7, with everyone back. Pretty cool that the Rays will be playing meaningful games during college football season for the first time ever.

See you on TV.

Skip Caray, 1939-2008

As I was on vacation last week and unable to dedicate any amount of time to blogging, a few words on the passing of Skip Caray.

As an Orlando native who grew up in the '70s, my team was the Atlanta Braves. This was pre-Rays, pre-Marlins, pre-anything resembling a professional sports franchise in my home state other than the Dolphins and the Bucs (who joined the NFL when I was five years old). The Braves, as we all know, were catapulted to the rank of 'America's Team' when Ted Turner had this wacky idea to broadcast their games nationwide via satellite -- a concept that Caray himself called "nuts" when Turner proposed it for the '77 season.

Most of us remember great sports announcers in pairs, and I cannot think of Skip Caray without also thinking of Pete Van Wieren. No offense to the inimitable Ernie Johnson Sr., but it was Van Wieren's pleasant tones that stuck in my head. Interestingly enough, the Braves were my first exposure to the concept of the two-man play-by-play booth, wherein two equally competent play-by-play men would split the call by innings, trading seats, as it were, from PXP to analysis and back. That's much, much harder to do than it sounds. In fact, as I recall, Skip, Ernie, and Pete used to switch back and forth from radio to television in those days (again, during the same game), which is completely unheard of now. That, friends, is serious talent.

(Aside: that is also how I got my first live play-by-play experience. When I moved back to Orlando after graduation in 1993, I was introduced to Andrew Monaco, who was the radio play-by-play voice of the Orlando Cubs (Southern League, AA) and a former Magic employee. Andrew invited me into the booth at Tinker Field several times, using me -- a former high school and college baseball player -- as his 'analyst,' mostly because he was bored out of his mind. One night, without any warning, he pulled a Skip 'n Ernie on me, saying into his live microphone: "Cubs lead it 2-0 over the Birmingham Barons here at Tinker Field. Now, with the play-by-play call for the next three innings, here's Whit Watson." And with that, he took off his headset, folded his arms, sat back in his chair, and stared straight out towards the field with a hint of a smile. A simple act that merely changed the course of my career. I've probably never thanked him enough for that.)

One of Andrew's favorite shticks during those long, quiet, sleepy Southern League games was reading the "out-of-town scoreboard" -- in his case, scores from the Japanese League. You had to be there. With a totally straight face, he would update his Orlando audience on the Seibu Lions versus the Tokyo Giants. It was really, really funny. Skip was funny, too, but in a different way -- a scathing, sarcastic, very subtle way.

He had to be funny, too, because the Braves were God-awful back then. My father took me "up to Atlanta" several times to catch Braves' homestands during those summers, and we pretty much had Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium to ourselves. Even when they were good -- during the Dale Murphy - Bob Horner - Chris Chambliss years -- they maintained the feel of a local club. Different era and all that.

There are three things that stick with me about watching the Braves during my childhood. The first is the stadium itself, the old "Launching Pad," set in a less-than scenic neighborhood and utterly bland; but it was my first Major League ballpark, and that was enough.

The second thing I remember is my great-aunt Sarah, who lived with my uncle Lou in an historic neighborhood close to downtown Atlanta. Every night for the entire summer, Sarah would pull on her Braves cap, fix herself some dinner, and camp out in the living room to watch her Braves. She spoke to the television as if speaking to her own children, a quirk that cracked me up to no end. We made sure to take Aunt Sarah with us to at least one or two Braves games when we came up for our annual visits; the look on her face when she entered the stadium was not unlike my own. Aunt Sarah is still kicking, by the way, although much of her memory has faded.

The third part of my Braves childhood, of course, was Skip. That nasal delivery was beyond distinctive; it WAS the Braves, at least, as far as I was concerned.

The best Skip Caray call that I can remember is one that has no doubt been mentioned countless times elsewhere -- Francisco Cabrera's pinch-hit RBI single to score Sid Bream and win the 1992 National League Championship Series. I was a senior in college at Cornell, with a final exam the next morning, so I shut myself in my room and listened to the game on the radio, with Skip's call. When Bream came chugging home to deliver the pennant -- on two surgically-repaired knees, no less -- I sprinted down the hallway of my fraternity house to watch the replay on television. I'm pretty sure I was whooping at the time.

Want to know what made Skip unique? His call of that play was terrific, no doubt, but a few moments before Cabrera swung, Skip pretty much predicted it.

"There's a huge gap in left-center field," I remember him saying just before the fateful pitch. "If he hits it there, we can dance in the streets."

That level of attention to detail -- that ability to see the whole field, the whole game -- is what made Skip a special announcer. I think about that call all the time. Honestly. When I do a football game, or a basketball game, I spend as much time and energy watching what's happening away from the ball as I do watching the play. I'd like to think I learned that from Skip Caray's call in 1992. I can tell you with certainty that I listened to that call about a dozen times in my capacity as sports director at Cornell's WVBR-FM, and it never got old.

It's become cliche' to suggest that announcers like Skip are a thing of the past, but I submit the opposite: the team announcers who truly resonate with audiences today are precisely like Skip. Critical when they need to be, supportive when deserved, funny when the game demands some levity. Human. People like us, but with a much better view of the game. They make us feel like we're a part of it, like we matter. Even Skip's most famously caustic late-game remark from those dog days -- "you have our permission to turn off the TV and go walk the dog, as long as you promise to patronize our sponsors" -- is inclusive. He KNEW the game was a stinker, and respected his audience enough to realize that they could see it, too. There are a lot of announcers in our business -- too many, probably -- who believe that they are the reason we watch. They're not.

We're there to see the game, and the announcer is supposed to facilitate. That's what I liked about Skip. He wasn't the show, and he knew it. In fact, he seemed to revel in it. For that, I thank him.

May he rest in peace.

What To Expect

Fresh off yet another home sweep of the defending World Series champion Boston Red Sox, the Tampa Bay Rays have the best record in baseball and a 3.5 game lead in the American League East.

In the words of Ron Burgundy: drink it in.

Anyone who has watched the Rays this season -- and in addition to my professional responsibilities with Sun/FSN, I am also officially on the bandwagon -- cannot be surprised by what happened in St. Petersburg on Wednesday night.

Rallying from a three-run deficit by scoring six times in the 7th inning? Evan Longoria with yet another clutch extra-base hit? BJ Upton ripping out the opposition's heart by making a tough catch look easy in center field? A deep, unheralded bullpen that bends, but doesn't break? Pshaw. They've been doing it all year. At some point, the national media will be compelled to change the focus of its Rays coverage from "curious aberration" to "actual, real-life contending team."

You've noticed, too. TV ratings on both FSN Florida and on the Rays' over-the-air broadcasts have set franchise records this week. On the season, viewership is up 36 percent on FSN Florida this year over last; home attendance is up roughly 6 percent over last year's full-season average, but that number should grow as a long-suffering and oft-disappointed Tampa Bay fan base slowly accepts the truth:

This team is no fluke.

I've covered this already, but it bears repeating: yes, the Rays have talent. Loads of talent, in fact, with the most heavily-stocked minor league system in baseball chomping at the bit behind them. But the difference this season is between the ears.

The Rays expect to win. I refer you, again, to the postgame interview I did with Longoria back in May, wherein I asked him if he could believe that his team was (then) ten games over .500: "You know what? Yeah, we can."

Come back to last night, and Joe Maddon's comments after his club swept the mighty Red Sox in St. Petersburg for the second time this season, to lift themselves to a preposterous 20 games over .500: "I can't tell you that I expected it -- I'd be lying -- but right now ... we do expect to win on a nightly basis."

"Expect" is different from "believe." I may believe that I can shoot 2-under, and I may believe that I can run a half-marathon at a 6:45 pace, but that doesn't mean I can actually DO it. I can, however, expect to shoot in the high 70's once every three or four rounds, and I can expect to finish the half-marathon in something less than two hours.

Why? Because I've done it before, and I've done it often. I know my own limitations, and I know how much I've practiced, trained, or played. Expectations indicate experience. And that's what's different about the Rays this season.

Their memories are blissfully short enough to ignore all those last-place finishes from years gone by, but sharp enough to remember that they've been playing well all season. They've now swept Boston twice. They've swept the Cubs and the Angels. They're 33-13 at home. They have a winning record in every month of this season (first time in franchise history). Their expectations are based on reality, not fantasy.

But the real litmus test, of course, is in my house, where I watched Mrs. Red Sox Nation grind her teeth for each of the last three nights. As soon as the Rays blew up for 6 runs on Wednesday night and took the lead over Boston, I heard this from the living room: "Dammit, they can't beat these guys on the road!"

'They' being her Sox. 'These guys' being the Rays. By the way, she fell asleep before Wednesday night's game was over. Three minutes ago, right after I wrote the above paragraph, she walked into the office, asked me who won the game, and walked out, muttering the exact same thing: "They cannot beat them in St. Pete."

This is going to be one very entertaining summer at my place.

The next step, as several Tampa Bay-area writers pointed out this morning, will be to fend off those members of the baseball establishment who stand, arms crossed, smirking, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Will the Rays collapse? Can they continue this pace? And if they do stumble, and miss the playoffs, will this season be considered a disappointment?

Seriously? For a team that finished in last place in 9 of its first 10 seasons? Are we really asking this question now?

"Expect" vs. "believe." The Rays now have expectations. What a delightful dilemma.

Rays Of Hope

I have to be honest -- I haven't been much of a baseball guy for quite some time now.

It kills me to write that, because baseball was my game, from Little League to high school to my freshman year of college. In my first semester at Cornell, I walked on to the Big Red squad, made it through three rounds of cuts, plunked a homer off a parking garage in practice, and then hung up my spikes in favor of a broadcasting career. Yes, I was a ballplayer, once.

Then, in 1994, Major League Baseball cancelled the World Series. Something about the '94 strike rubbed me precisely the wrong way at precisely the right time. In my idealistic 20-something view, any league stupid enough to blow its own championship wasn't worth my time (this was also way before the NHL blew an entire season). I washed my hands of the game, at the professional level, and eventually lost interest in baseball as a whole.

Time passes. I have two kids now, one of whom has already taken his shot at Little League. His mother, I may have mentioned, is a manic Red Sox fan. Baseball comes up in conversation at our house more often than ever, although the NBA, golf, even tennis is a more frequent topic.

A curious transformation is taking place, however. I find myself scanning the sports pages for information I previously ignored. I'm searching the channel guide on my DirecTV for broadcasts that, well, I'm surprised I'm searching for. Funniest dang thing has happened this summer:

The Tampa Bay Rays have made me like baseball again.

Yes, the Rays, the team that has finished DFL in its division in nine of the last ten years. The team once known as the Devil Rays, perhaps the single worst nickname ever chosen for a major professional sports franchise, with awful uniforms that matched. The Rays, who play in the dimly lit, awkwardly located, yet oddly attractive Tropicana Field (the former Thunderdome, Florida Suncoast Dome, or whatever else they've called it). The Rays, the franchise that has spent more than a decade waffling between embarrassing and irrelevant. Those Rays.

Except, they're not Those Rays. Not embarrassing, not irrelevant, and not even the Devil Rays. Not anymore. They're the Tampa Bay Rays, thank you. And they're for real.

I've been to St. Pete several times this season, in various roles -- filling in for Todd Kalas as the Rays host on FSN Florida, shooting interviews for a couple of shows we have in production, even checking out a game or two as nothing more than a fan. And these Rays, these young, impetuous, confident Rays, are making it fun again.

You can check the stats yourself. They can pitch, for one thing. They play defense. They're fast. They're aggressive. But more to the point -- they believe.

After Evan Longoria drilled a walkoff double to complete a three-game sweep of the Orioles last weekend, I asked him in a postgame interview, "can you believe you're 10 games over .500 at this point in the season?"

I loved his answer: "You know what? Yeah, we can."

The Rays are winning, and the cool part is, they're doing it with a collection of young, intensely competitive, preternaturally mature ballplayers.

One guy makes a great catch, the other guys try to match him. One guy turns in a clutch pitching performance, the rest of the staff bust it to hold up their end. Success breeds confidence; that confidence leads to friendly competition among teammates; the cycle strengthens. And there's manager Joe Maddon, he of the refined tastes and California-cool demeanor, pushing buttons with phrases like "the information is all out there." He presents his players with opportunities to win, and they accept. Simple, but it's taken this franchise over 10 years to get to this point.

This is no fluke. I've been there, I've seen it. They may not win their division, but this is not smoke and mirrors. It's too bad that the attendance is still so abysmal -- although if I were a Tampa Bay baseball fan, I'd be just as suspicious, fatigued, cynical, what have you. It's been a long decade over there. If the Rays are still contending at the All-Star Break, fans in that region have no excuses whatsoever, traffic or no traffic, history or no history. This has the potential to be the best baseball story of the last ten years.

Just the other day, I stood along the first base line at the Trop, waiting for Maddon to speak to the media. The Rays were taking batting practice. In the outfield, Carl Crawford and BJ Upton shagged fly balls. In the infield, Aki Iwamura worked on his pivot with Jason Bartlett. Coaches like Dave Martinez and George Hendrick kept everyone loose, getting in their digs. The atmosphere was charged, professional, relaxed. The atmosphere of a winning team.

I guess I was rocking back and forth, or maybe just staring, but one of our producers looked over and said, "you look like you're jonesin' for baseball."

Well, whattaya know. Perhaps I am, for the first time in years.

The Rays have made it fun again.