October 11, 2005

SOUND OF SUMMER SILENCED BY DEADLY DISEASE

      The news came suddenly, if not unexpectedly, Sunday morning.  Tom Cheek, the voice of the Toronto Blue Jays since their inception in 1977 had been claimed; another victim of that dreaded disease.  It was midway through the 2004 baseball season, just after the death of his father caused him to miss his first broadcast in 27 years, that Cheek announced he had brain cancer.  It was miraculous to think that before the season ended Cheek returned to broadcast home games.  All was thought to be well.  It was premature.

       Baseball has such an aesthetic appeal—a grip on the public conscience through the summer months, and in each town, whether major or minor league, the radio announcer holds an important place in the lives of its citizens.  Memories flow though our minds with the mere mention of his name, or from a few of his well-chosen words.  As we move through our lives, spending the days and early evenings of summer out of doors, many of us have radios placed in various parts of the house, with the station blaring out that day’s game.  Summer is baseball.  The game flows through us and seems to cleanse us, carrying all of our problems away with the summer breeze.  For some of us the radio broadcaster is family.  He spends more time with us during those warm weather months than our closest friends. 

      Growing up in Montreal I listened to Dave van Horne.  His was the voice of the Expos and I remember sitting on the front stoop listening to his descriptions, or placing a small transistor under my pillow and falling asleep to his voice.  Each broadcaster had his own way of describing the action—each especially tried to create his own style for describing home runs.  For Van Horne his was “up, up and away.”  I loved listening to him.  But there were occasions in the mid seventies when van Horne couldn’t make all the games.  When he was unavailable the Expos called on some young guy to fill in.  Each time that stranger did I felt, as the game began, that something was just not right—that the game just wasn’t the same.  But by the third inning or so I completely forgot about who was broadcasting—I was simply listening to Expos baseball.  That was my introduction to Tom Cheek. 

      It wasn’t a surprise then that when the Blue Jays came into existence they tabbed Cheek as their voice.  His calm, dulcet manner almost precluded a style.  He didn’t need a home run call.  It wasn’t about him--it was about the game.  Baseball was enough of an attraction.  I only met the man once.  I was operating a café in Oakville, Ontario at a time when he lived in that small Toronto suburb.  Knowing how much I loved baseball my staff would tell me after the fact about those occasions when he strolled through the attached bookstore and entered my café.   But I never saw him.  I wondered if I ever would.  One day, with my head buried inside the grand espresso machine, my concentration absorbed in its ineffectiveness, I heard that familiar voice.  There are only a few voices, outside of my own inner circle, that I would recognize instantly—and his was one.  He was effusive, pleasant, polite, well-mannered and even-tempered.  He didn’t mind spending a few minutes with a fan talking baseball.  From the accounts of those that knew him well the man I met that day was precisely the man he was throughout his life.

       It is unfortunate that Tom Cheek will have to, and he will, be inducted posthumously into the hall of fame.  It would have been appropriate for this man to be honoured by baseball for his years of being content to stay in the game’s shadows and let the game be the show.  There are too many associated with the game who believe they are the show, who believe they are bigger than the game.  Tom Cheek walked in awe of the game.  He sounded on the radio throughout those many years as honest and as real as he did for those few brief minutes in an Oakville café.  He should be honoured not only for his years in baseball but also for his graciousness, his excellence, his loyalty and his compassion.

       There are some people you can spend years alongside with who don’t touch you as much as others whom you barely knew.  Baseball has lost a great man.  RIP.