DATE: Sunday, August 10, 1997               TAG: 9708100077

SECTION: LOCAL                   PAGE: B1   EDITION: NORTH CAROLINA 

TYPE: Column 

SOURCE: Paul South 

                                            LENGTH:   79 lines

TUNING IN A BALLGAME ON RADIO RALLIES BYGONE JOY

Every once in a great while, a joy is rediscovered that seemed long gone, like Woolworth stores, hickory-shaft golf clubs and Bible school butter cookies.

So it was last week with baseball on the radio.

Surfing late night across the AM radio dial, amid the morass of talk shows and Radio Havana, I found the Seattle-Baltimore game.

Suddenly, it seemed, the thin black box glowed with a heavenly light, even though it was only from the off/on button. Change the teams to Atlanta and Los Angeles, or St. Louis and San Francisco, and it could easily be 1967 again.

Thirty years ago, it was not uncommon on warm summer nights to sneak a radio and its earplug into bed, along with a bag of Cheese Doodles, a comic book and a flashlight.

The games would come from places now gone from the face of God's good earth: Crosley Field in Cincinnati, Forbes Field in Pittsburgh, Shibe Park in Philadelphia and now, demolished as of last Saturday, Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium.

Milo Hamilton and Ernie Johnson would tell the play-by-play story, recounting the exploits of Henry Aaron and his Braves teammates against Clemente and Mazeroski, and Gibson and Brock, Mays and McCovey and Drysdale and Wills.

In those days, the sweetest utterance in the English-speaking world came during an Aaron at-bat.

``There's a drive . . . Way back . . . That ball is gonna be . . . OUTTA HERE!!!

On more than one night, an Aaron home run would prompt an unexpected yell from me that would split the quiet dark and end my clandestine baseball festivities.

Late summer nights weren't the only times that radio listening was verboten. Many an elementary school teacher filled her desk with confiscated transistor radios and earplugs during October, when enterprising kids would try to catch a few innings of the World Series.

Most folks believe that the long locks of the 1960s and '70s were a protest against the Vietnam War, or rebellion against adults. That may be, but some of it used to camouflage earplugs during the fall classic.

Last Wednesday, those memories came flooding back.

I joined the game in progress. Baltimore second baseman Jeff Reboulet is at the plate. The announcer works every detail. Reboulet gets a pitch to hit and lifts a ``lazy'' fly ball into short right, and Jay Buhner comes on to make the catch.

Baseball on TV is nice. But fly balls are never ``lazy'' on the tube. On the radio, the mind has to work a bit. To see the right-handed hitter Reboulet look at the third base coach. He doesn't just ``check the signs'' he ``eyes'' the man at third.

Maybe it's just me, but ``eyeing'' someone is a bit more serious than ``checking the signs.''

Sadly, after Reboulet's lethargic pop, the signal faded, my trip around the bases at Memory Stadium ended, too soon.

But I will try again, for a number of reasons.

Radio took us through the glory years of Mel Allen, ``Red'' Barber, Jack Buck and Harry Caray. Buck provided the greatest one-liner I ever heard on a baseball broadcast. With St. Louis trailing by a substantial margin late in the game, Buck said, ``The Cardinals are down 9-0, and anyone who thinks St. Louis will come back in this one would leave the porch light on for Jimmy Hoffa.''

Radio baseball taught me that you score a 'round the horn double play five to four to three.

Radio baseball told me that Mrs. April May June Ledbetter from Cairo (pronounced Kay-row, like the syrup) would win $1,000 if Biff Pocaroba homered in the seventh. Hardcore Braves fans will remember Pocaroba, the catcher with an unforgettable name and less-than-memorable stats.

It told me when it was Dahlonega, Ga., Night, and when some family from Greensboro had driven down to see the Braves.

And radio baseball taught me something important - even after my folks would yell at me to turn off the radio and flashlight and go to sleep. Seconds after the tiny transistor box went quiet, and darkness took complete control of my room, my parents' voices softly called out, something I miss to this day.

``We love you.''

``What's the score?''

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