Rest in peace Mike Shannon

I grew up listening to baseball games on the radio. Fans “tuned in” to men with great storytelling skills whose voices sounded just right. Paired with the broadcasters — like a fine wine with dinner — was the stadium ambience: organ music, beer vendors, the crack of the bat. Now most everything is video. Turn on a television set today and graphics and stats of every kind bombard you. Even if you’re not paying attention you can instantly see the score. The screen is full of graphics showing you where exactly the ball went in the strike zone and how fast it got there, plus the scores from other ball games.

Modern games feel like I’m losing a wrestling match to statistics. I don’t really care what so-and-so’s bat velocity is on Mother’s Day with runners on the corners and a full count. Just give me an old ballplayer with a gravelly voice who can describe what Albert Pujols is doing in the batter’s box. For my whole life that was Mike Shannon. He could paint a picture of a batting stance and make it sound interesting. It’s a skill that you’re probably born with, takes decades to hone, and probably requires the perfect amount of cold, frosty Budweiser.

Shannon undoubtedly knew baseball. And it’s not a Cardinal game without his “steeerike” call and chuckles. I loved catching a rain delay when they hadn’t cut away from the game yet and Shannon would tell stories from his playing days. Fun stories about teammates that are St. Louis legends. What Midwestern boy wouldn’t have killed to play with Stan “The Man” Musial, Bob Gibson, Lou Brock, and so many other greats like he did?

Shannon was born and bred in St. Louis. One of his high school friends was Stan Musial’s son and young Mike got to visit with “The Man.” Shannon was the top high school football and basketball player in the state his senior year and he went to the University of Missouri. Frank Broyles recruited him and said that had the Cardinals not offered Shannon a $50,000 bonus to play baseball he’d have won the Heisman Trophy. The Cardinals brought Shannon up to the big leagues in 1962. Ten years later he made the switch to the broadcast booth. After 50 seasons of broadcasting — an incredible 64 years of working for the same organization — he retired after the 2021 season. St. Louis’ beloved “Moon Man” passed away on April 29, 2023.

I get all poetic and emotional when I think about baseball, so excuse my ramblings. But when I imagine listening to baseball in Heaven — I hope there is baseball — I will once again be able to listen to Jack Buck and Mike Shannon. Sure, Vin Scully was good. I’d like to have heard Mel Allen. I got to hear Harry Caray call Cubs games. But to me, no one else really stacks up to Buck and Shannon. And Heaven certainly has organ music. Ernie Hays, who tickled the ivories at Busch for 40 years is probably up there playing “Here Comes the King” right now.

Those two broadcast legends were there for me every summer. Times are different now; you just click a button for everything. There’s no magic in that. In the days of radio you had to turn dials and know things. There’s a satisfying tactile feeling to turning a radio on and setting the volume. You have to know which stations to tune to depending on where you are. You have to find that sweet spot on the dial. Some static is part of the experience, but when the crackle overpowers the sweet sound of KMOX, you jigger with the antenna. Then listening to the game becomes an accomplishment, as it is made possible by your electronics prowess and understanding of radio waves and how they interact with the atmosphere.

The Cardinals broadcasters were so good that when someone asked what the score was, I’d have to stop and think. Often I would admit I didn’t know because I wasn’t listening to the parts of the game that you get from statistics. I just enjoyed the experience. I liked the stories and the sounds. How the atmosphere made a night game and a day game sound completely different. Listening to night games always took me back to one of my most fond memories, which was walking underneath the concrete arches of Busch Stadium and getting that first glimpse of the field. The bright green of the AstroTurf, the blue walls, the red seats, it was like I was in a dream. Guys playing catch right there in front of me that I had only seen on baseball cards. Ozzie Smith doing a back-flip. Bringing my glove even though it was probably impossible to hit a foul ball into the third row of Section 363.

Buck was immaculately polished; you knew you were listening to greatness. Shannon was relatable and exciting — “It’s a long fly ball… Get up, baby! Get up!” — just what you’d expect from a guy who’s played on that same field. They recharged my batteries, removing the scars of life and replacing them with happy memories. Weather permitting, they were there whenever I needed to feel like an American should: happy and excited or relaxed after a hard day of work. Shannon tricked me though: for years I thought I was drinking right along with him as the game went on, but the old jokester wasn’t drinking at all. I was just listening to a three-hour-long Anheuser-Busch commercial.

My son never really took to baseball so I feel like he missed out on something fundamentally American: listening to Buck and Shannon on a muggy Missouri night, hearing Hays’ organ on their end blend in with the katydids on mine as I relaxed on the front porch rocking chair. I don’t know that there is a modern replacement for that; it’s probably just a baseball-shaped vacuum somewhere in his soul.

My dad and I listened to Mike Shannon. My grandfather did too, although Shannon’s broadcasting career was just starting. My great-grandfather might have watched a young Shannon in person at Sportsman’s Park. For half a century he was part of what tied me and my family together. Through Shannon I got to know Musial, Roger Maris, Whitey Herzog, Dizzy Dean, Willie McGee… Maybe he thought he was just talking about a game. To me, it was much bigger than that. Baseball won’t be the same without him.

Mike Shannon had family in the town I worked in and would visit occasionally. You'd see him walking down the street where I used to live when I was in college occasionally. I always figured I'd catch him one day when the stars aligned and we'd talk baseball. Or maybe I'd kidnap him Ray Kinsella-style and we'd catch a game. But it wasn't meant to be.

Nice memories. I have some as well. I grew up in Maryland, and listened to Senators games with Dan Daniels and John MacLean, and Orioles games with Chuck Thompson and Bill O’Donnell.

At night, when AM radio signals carry farther, I recall hearing Reds games on WLW, and heard Harry Caray on KMOX.

Later in life, I heard many a broadcast with Jerry Coleman broadcasting Padres games.

Yes I agree the stats nowadays can overwhelm us. The TV screen is way too crowded. Launch angles and exit velocity are some of the things that just don’t seem too important.

I remember listening to ball games on the radio with my Dad. The crowd sounded like crickets, katydids and other summer bugs (there’s an insect in our area that makes a periodic ‘cracking’ sound and that was added when the bat hit the ball; and there was a minimum of talk from the announcer.)

It’s a sound and special ambiance that has always been one of my favorite memories. Very peaceful.

I grew up with By Saam and Richie Ashburn. Richie played with the Whiz Kids of 1950, and my grandparents claimed they bought his house in Havertown PA but I could never prove it.

Maybe it would help Chris Carter feel a little better, but the TV team for the Rays, DeWayne Staats and Brian Anderson, have a “radio” feel to their commentary, so much so that I can listen to them without watching the TV and feel like I’m at the game, the way By and Richie did back in the 60s when I was a kid.

1950s. In bed by 8. Transistor under my pillow.

Listening to the Tacoma Cubs or Seattle Rainiers from far-off places I could not imagine - like Sacramento or San Diego or Honolula(as my mom called it).

And the vision of the game was in my head enhanced by the a announcer who was probably in a Seattle studio calling the game off of a ticker table tape.

THAT was radio!!

He was one-of-a-kind. His Shannonisms were hilarious, as was how ornery he could be.

Someone had attended a party with him the night before a game, and then was visiting with him in the booth. He had to use the restroom, and when he came back, Shannon said to him, “You’ll be receiving a call pretty soon, big boy. Heh heh heh.”

It turns out, while he was in the restroom, Shannon said that they were at a party, and that the guy had a beer in one hand, and two women on the other arm.

His wife was furious, and sure enough, the phone started ringing. Shannon’s over there laughing his head off while the guy’s trying to convince her that it wasn’t true.

He was sharing this on KMOX during a retirement tribute.

ah yes, you were hearing games with Pacific Coast League teams.

I recall hearing about the “recreated” games, in which an announcer read the events of the game off the ticker tape, and had sound effects in the background, to make you think he was really at the game.

There was an episode of The Odd Couple where they recreated a game like that. If I remember correctly, Felix described the shortstop as moving with the dexterity of a lizard.

Nope, it was Felix talking about Roger Staubach scrambling.

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