When Jeter leaves, he'll be taking Stadium's voice with him
By
Marty Noble / MLB.com | 7:43 AM ET
NEW YORK -- Supporting the
oft-declared notion that big leaguers play 'em one at a time,
Derek Jeter indicated two weeks ago that
he couldn't say for sure whether he'd play on Sept. 25. Honest. That
date -- Thursday -- brings the end of the Yankees' home schedule and
perhaps their pursuit of October games. But on Sept. 10, with his team
not yet clinically dead, the Captain hadn't yet connected Sept. 25 to
the distinction. Indeed, Jeter said he didn't recognize the date as
potentially being his last wearing the pinstripes.
Would he play? "Probably"
was the response from Jeter when reminded of the significance of the
date. Who could be certain, though? Even the Captain is day to day.
But we all sense -- even
if he didn't -- that Jeter is an automatic inclusion in the Yankees'
lineup Thursday night if for no other reason than that the evening has
every chance to deliver his final moments in the Yanks' home whites.
And, as such, it also has every chance of being the last time the voice
of Bob Sheppard will fill a ballpark. One last time to hear dignity
delivered with distinction and in decibels.
It has been at Jeter's
request that the voice of that Yankee Stadium has moved across
the street and remained current more than four years after Sheppard's
death. Once a lack of stamina prevented him from making regular trips
from his home on Long Island to the Bronx, Jeter requested that a
recording of Sheppard's "Num-bah two, Derek Jee-tah, num-bah two,"
precede his at-bats.
No other Yankees player
requested the same treatment. It had to be the Captain.
But now, with Jeter about
to retire, Sheppard's electronic legacy also is about to take its leave.
So, no matter the outcome of their game against the Orioles, the Yanks
will suffer a loss.
Of course, the farewell to
Jeter will override all other developments during their 81st home game.
The reception for the shortstop is guaranteed to exceed the spontaneous
outpouring of affection prompted by similar circumstances involving Paul
O'Neill in Game 5 of the 2001 World Series, the cheers afforded
Mariano Rivera last year and all that
Camden Yards directed at a different shortstop in 1995 when he passed a
different Yankees captain.
But to men of a certain
age, those who cut their tympanic membranes on Sheppard's grandeur in
the early and mid 1950s, a final word from the man with the golden
larynx and precise elocution will be noticed and appreciated. And
treasured. To hear Sheppard one last time will be simultaneously
delightful and sad.
Jeter will go on; the
Yankees' regular season will end in Fenway Park on Sunday with the third
game of a series against the Red Sox. But the splendid voice of the late
Yankee Stadium public-address announcer is likely to be silenced
Thursday once Jeter's final plate appearance of the game has passed.
We may hear it again on
the YES Network in those Yankeeographies or in previews of the day's
programming. Or a trip to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown might
provide a repeat of Sheppard's gentle vocal genius.
But will we ever hear
again that distinctive and mellifluent introduction of a player in a
large stadium filled with partisan folks who understand how special an
experience it was for all those years? Old-Timers' Day 2017?
It was with the sound of
sophistication that Robert Leo Sheppard spoke into a microphone,
beginning in 1951. Some routine summer game against the Indians in 1956
somehow seemed more important after Sheppard's voice delivered a
welcome. He enhanced the experience.
Sheppard aged -- he was 99
when he died on July 11, 2010, three years after his final game at the
mic and nearly 54 years after I was introduced to his introductions --
but his smooth, flawlessly enunciated introductions never grew old.
Jeter understood that.
"His introductions were as Yankee as you could get," he said at his
locker that night two weeks ago.
* * * * *
A lifetime of at-the-park
experiences began for me in 1955 with visits to Ebbets Field, the Polo
Grounds and finally, in 1956, Yankee Stadium. The two National League
parks had moved me. Yankee Stadium did more, was more, meant more. And
one of the first elements of my first visit to the ballpark in the Bronx
was Sheppard's voice.
As my father and I started
up the first ramp, the distinct, hybrid aroma of cigar smoke and stale
beer hit us hard. I liked it. Next came the flat acres of green.
Black-and-white television hadn't prepared my eight-year-old eyes for
how green and vast the Stadium lawn was. Smell, sight and then ...
sound. A guy was hawking scorecards -- a complimentary 2 1/2-inch pencil
came with them -- with a voice seemingly borrowed from Gilbert
Gottfried.
When we had moved far
enough from his irritating sales pitch, we heard his antithesis.
Sheppard said, "Good ah-ph-ter-noon, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to
Yankee Stadium." A half-empty ballpark was filled with that voice. I was
struck.
Sound so often comes in
second to sight in our lives. Seeing is believing. Hearing is, well,
seemingly something less to some folks. In those moments on the old
ramps that afternoon, sound took first place for more than a moment.
Sheppard's words were so full and rich, his delivery so deliberate. I
loved the sounds of the McGuire Sisters, the Clovers and Elvis. But even
the King couldn't make a ballpark sound so regal as Sheppard's voice
did.
Years later, Reggie
identified it as "the voice of God." Mel Allen was the voice of the
Yankees when I began monitoring Yankees games. I decided Sheppard was
the voice of Yankee Stadium. He was in his fifth summer in the booth in
'56. I thought his voice and delivery were extraordinary, though I
didn't use that adjective then. At age 8, I hadn't yet been introduced
to the word mellifluent, either. But it was only the perfectly
appropriate term. Soothing, powerful, distinctive, elegant. Ideal for
the home park of the game's premier franchise. It suggested grace.
Tom Sturdivant was the
Yanks' starter against the Indians that night in July 1956. He wore No.
47, a number that had never before been assigned to a Yankee. Sheppard
introduced him as "Number faw-tee seh-ven." I felt more sophisticated
because I had heard the enunciation.
Sheppard always treated
all letters and syllables fairly. Heaven knows he never dropped a G. It
never was "pinch-hittin' for the Yankees." Sheppard never used a New
Jersey "A" or a Long Island accent (see Frank Viola). Either would have
been an unforgivable gaffe by a man who taught speech at St. John's
University and taught generations the proper pronunciation of "Di-MAH-ggio."
Sheppard gave every "T"
its due, just as Art Garfunkel would in Paul Simon's "Dangling
Conversation" -- "It's a still-life water color in a now-gray
afternoon." Sheppard prepared me to appreciate the precision of Julie
Andrews and Barbra Streisand.
I enjoyed every appearance
by "Loo-ees A-r-r-royo" and even interlopers such as Jose Tartabull and
Jose Valdivielso because of how beautifully Sheppard introduced them.
When we played in the P.S. 28 schoolyard, everyone wanted to be Mickey
or Whitey or Ellie Howard. But I wanted to be Sheppard, too. And I
wanted Sturdivant to play.
Years before I started in
this business, I shared an elevator with Robert Leo Sheppard, unaware of
his identity until he thanked the man who had pushed the buttons. I
introduced myself to him years later when I had a press-box credential
and he had special standing throughout the game. He was so gracious and
elegant.
I made a habit of dining
with Bob and organist Eddie Layton in the press room at the old Stadium.
I routinely kept the salt shaker on my right when Bob was seated to my
left just so he would have to ask for it: "Mah-ty. ... would you kindly
pass the salt."
Thank you, Robert. And
thanks to Jee-tah as well.
Marty Noble
is a columnist for MLB.com. This story was not subject to the approval
of Major League Baseball or its clubs.
Phil Reisman: For 20 years, Jeter epitomized class and medium cool
TJN 4:21 p.m. EDT
September 25, 2014
Unless you are a longtime
fan you probably never heard of the assorted journeymen, bush leaguers
and has-beens who played shortstop for the New York Yankees between 1981
and 1996 — a period covering 15 unsuccessful seasons that mercifully
ended when Derek Jeter arrived on the scene.
By my count 19 mortals
preceded Jeter, one of whom had the telltale name of Stankiewicz.
Some great athletes are
loud and brash. They make news on and off the field — not all of it
good. Reggie Jackson, for instance, hit clutch home runs, bragged a lot,
feuded with teammates and irritated his manager. He predicted that they
would name a candy bar after him — and damned if his prediction didn't
come true.
In terms of self-hype,
Jackson was of a sports lineage that included Muhammad Ali and Joe
Namath. These were outsized personalities whose words and deeds sizzled
like hot, multicolored sparks.
Jeter never burned, but
glowed for nearly two decades. He never got too high, or too low.
Always, he was medium cool. He personified the virtue of sleek
consistency. More than that, he possessed that special New York je ne
sais quoi that is applied (and often misapplied) by the single word,
"class."
Joe DiMaggio had class
and, like Jeter, a rare kind of elegance that Hemingway called grace
under pressure.
But in at least one
important characteristic, Jeter was quite different than the great DiMag.
Marty Appel, the public relations executive and author of several fine
books on the Yankees, put it this way: "DiMaggio always seemed like an
adult and Jeter seems like he still has a lot of boy in him — which is
great."
Few people are better
qualified to assess the Jeterian mystique than Appel, who, at the start
of his career, was assigned the task of handling Mickey Mantle's fan
mail.
"When everybody talks
about his great character and he how played the game right — it's all
true," Appel told me. "He's not the only guy. There are a lot of really
fine, quality people in the game, but Jeter has that extra dimension of
having played under a microscope for 20 years in the biggest market and
in a lot of World Series, so he's closely followed.
"But there's probably 20
guys on the Kansas City Royals who are his equal in character. We just
don't know about it."
Part of Jeter's success
has to do with the fact that despite the scrutiny of the New York media,
he has avoided getting into trouble. Rarely , if ever, has he uttered a
memorable sentence to the press, something he freely admitted in an
interview in this week's New York Magazine. "If I was giving them
headlines all the time, I wouldn't have been here for 20 years," he
said. "But they ask boring questions. Give me a different question, and
I'll give you a different answer."
Jeter will be enshrined in
the Baseball Hall of Fame. But he's far from the greatest who ever
played the game. Detractors say he lacked range as a shortstop and was a
glorified singles hitter. Rubbing it in, they point out that he was
never named the league's most valuable player.
In this way, Jeter's
celebrity reminds me of Bruce Springsteen's. It's a cult-like worship
that is fueled by talent, certainly, but also sex appeal. Dare to
criticize "the Boss," and the wrath of his vast and loyal fandom will
surely follow. Same goes for Jeter.
Put it this way — if Jeter
had resembled Yogi Berra, he would have been loveable but not lusted
after.
Google the name Jeter
along with "sex" and "super models" and all sorts of stuff pop up under
headings such as "Jeter's Top Ten Hookups." Here's an Internet entry for
Cuban "goddess" Vida Guerra : "She gained popularity as a video girl,
who had an amazing rear."
I could go on, but you get
the point.
