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Published Sunday, October 05, 2008

Munson- Godspeed, old friend

The lyrics from "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" put in perspective the essence of what sports means to most of us. "Root, root, root for the home team, and if they don't win it is a shame." Rooting for the home team would include the announcers, especially if they are college play-by-play announcers.

The guys doing Monday Night Football? It doesn't matter if they play it straight, but if your team wears red jerseys and silver britches, the announcer better let it be known he is for the Dawgs.

Ed Thilenius, the baritone play-by-play artist who preceded Larry Munson, wasn't a cheerleader behind the Georgia mike, but his voice was so authoritative that he commanded widespread respect. On top of that, people knew him. He lived amongst the faithful, who saw him driving to work, eating lunch at The Varsity, and having coffee downtown.

When Larry Munson came along, it was different. He lived in Nashville, motoring to Athens on Friday, calling the game on Saturday, and then hustling out of the press box back home to Nashville. He met more state troopers than Bulldog fans.

Larry was old school. In the beginning, he played it straight. I can remember coaches' wives complaining, "He doesn't sound like he is for us." For Munson to like us, he had to get to know us. And we had to get to know him.

What I am saying, believe it or not, is that -- at least in the beginning -- Larry was not the most popular personality between the hedges. Didn't take that long for that to change, however. It began when he moved to Atlanta and began working for the Georgia network, announcing everything from news to weather to sports and making coffee and sweeping out the stock room. That was his predawn to dusk routine.

Often, he would leave the office for some distant, small Georgia town, where he spoke at a banquet for a modest fee, returning home about time to go to work. He never turned anybody down for a speaking request. That in itself showed that he was a fellow with a humble and modest bent. That wears well with folks.

Before long he was saying "we," and with that came exhortations for the team to measure up. "C'mon you guys... we need a miracle." When we got one, he went over the top. Without question, Munson had a gift for the right phrase at peak moments. As he would say it, the hobnail boot thing. Sugar falling from the sky, on and on. It was like a cleanup hitter hitting a game-winning homer, a quarterback connection for the winning pass as time expired. In short, when opportunity presented itself, he rose to the occasion.

Two developments boosted his career considerably.

To begin with, Vince Dooley's early teams displayed a fighting spirit, which often stimulated victory late in the final quarter. His teams found a way to win. A play-by-play announcer can only rise to the occasion if the team is doing the same on the field. Dooleyball stirred emotions.

Munson was not immune.

The other factor in Munson's rise to universal constituent affection came when Dan Magill, ever the promoter for anything that championed Bulldog loyalty, began producing tapes of Munson's great calls and selling them to Bulldog Club members. For Magill, Sundays were a workday just like the rest of the week. I remember one Sunday in the early seventies, Dooley came by his office, and Dan told him, "I think this guy Munson is damn outstanding behind the microphone. He is a great announcer." Dan had been listening to tapes of Georgia games as he consolidated statistics and wrote releases for the coming week.

Munson had two overpowering assets: Dooleyball and Dan Magill as his promoter. Still, Munson had to deliver, and deliver he did with ingenious commentary. He had a sixth sense for delivery and riveting thought.

He took homerism to a new level. The Georgia fans ate it up. They couldn't get enough Munson.

"I don't know where he comes up with that stuff," the late Skip Caray (Atlanta Braves announcer) used to tell me when we got together for lunch or drinks, "but I'll tell you one thing. It is great radio. I love to listen to him call a game."

The call that made him connect beyond his Bulldog affiliation -- attracting regional attention -- was when Rex Robinson kicked the game-winning field goal in Lexington when Georgia defeated Kentucky 17-16 in 1978. You remember. Larry never said the kick was good, he just screamed into the mike that the kick sailed through, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!" It was a cool, crisp October night, and WSB's Clear Channel signal beamed that call into the upper Midwest, probably all the way to Minnesota where he grew up. With all due respect to the other great calls, I thought that was his signature call. A lot of truck drivers moving across the country became Larry Munson fans that night.

While Larry became popular as a movie critic, I will remember him for his most passionate interest away from the mike -- fishing.

I once fished with him at his favorite lake near Mansfield, learning that he talked when he fished. "[The wind is]... out of the north, and I don't like it. I don't like the looks of things. Yeah, you knew it would be this way if the north wind got up, driving down those big bass five, six, seven, eight, nine feet."

Then he told me about his sister, Dorothy, finding his dad's old tackle box and sending it to him.

"When I opened the package and took that old tackle box out, I hugged it. I felt like I could communicate with my dad again. It brought back such great memories. Him and me on the lake. The fish biting and the water lapping against the boat. When I am really down, I come here to the lake. I'll hunker down out here all by myself and talk to my dad. A fisherman always understands. If you need advice, a fisherman will know what to tell you."

Retirement means that Munson will have more opportunity to fish. We're gonna miss him, but as we watch him ride off into the sunset, we have memories to treasure. Every one is a keeper. If you are like me, there is regret that an era has ended, but there is consolation in the fact that we should forever be grateful he came our way.

Godspeed, old friend.

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