I can still hear Jack Brickhouse’s voice. It’s as if the ’60s and ’70s have returned and the Cubs announcer is in the TV room in my home. I hear not just his trademark phrases but the reedy excitement of the delivery. The rise of his voice (“back, back, back …’’) as it follows a baseball toward its final resting place in the outfield bleachers (“Hey, Hey!”). Almost like a giggle that can’t be contained. Joyful. Childlike in its wonder.
I don’t need a scratchy replay to hear it. It’s in my head. I’m by no means alone in my emotional attachment to someone I never knew or even met.
