You Can't Make This Up: Miracles, Memories, and the Perfect Marriage of Sports and Television

by Al Michaels

  Meanwhile, Pete Rose was sitting by himself in the balcony as well. In the prime of his career, having just played in a World Series, having bowled over Ray Fosse in the All-Star Game the previous season, on his way to eventually breaking Ty Cobb’s hit record—there was Pete at his first hockey game. If he was recognized or asked to sign an autograph, who knows? That was Pete. It was also a different time. No Instagram. No paparazzi. No iPhones. Pete was a star, but not a celebrity to the point that he couldn’t be comfortable sitting by himself in the upper reaches of the Montreal Forum. Of course, as I’d find out years later from Dryden—leave it to Johnny Bench to get himself into the Canadiens’ locker room that night, and get a picture with the goalie himself.

  Another Pete story: Two nights earlier, the Reds played in Atlanta. During the broadcast, Joe Nuxhall and I had made a big deal about it being Pete Rose’s thirtieth birthday. Can you imagine Charlie Hustle—thirty years old? After the game, we were on the bus going back to the Marriott hotel in downtown Atlanta. Pete was sitting across the aisle from me and I said to him, “When we get back to the hotel, let me buy you a drink for your thirtieth birthday.”

  Rose looked at me and said, “If you wanted to have done that, you would’ve had to have been here last year.”

  I looked at him and started to laugh. And he shot back, “And don’t you say anything about that.”

  Again, it was a different time. A kid would say he’s eighteen, and you’d assume he’s eighteen—no one would go digging to confirm. But remember, too, before 1965 there was no draft. When kids were signed out of high school by a scout, it was a fairly common practice for them to say they were a year younger than they really were. At the time, careers typically ended much earlier, and if you were in your early thirties, you were considered washed up. Thinking ahead, in order to buy a possible extra year at the end of their careers, players would commonly lie about their ages. The scout would often be in cahoots with the player, to do whatever was necessary to sign him. So on that night in Atlanta, Pete Rose was actually a year older than everyone thought he was.

  It was obvious then, too, how much Pete loved to gamble. Apart from going to the horse races and the dog track and the jai alai fronton, he and I played a lot of gin rummy on team flights. It was just Pete and the all-out way that he approached life. He loved action. He craved action. Did I ever see it manifesting itself in the way it did—that he would manage a team and bet on their games and wind up with a lifetime suspension from baseball? No. Never. That was shocking to me, because I figured Pete could always find enough action apart from baseball to satisfy his gambling jones.

  I’m often asked by people who know how close we were at that time my feelings about what happened to Pete. The word I always use is sad. Not tragic—that’s an overwrought description. But sad. To this day, he’s the athlete I most loved covering. I watched his every at bat for three years. His work ethic was out of this world. He was a terrific teammate, embraced by almost everyone on the team. When you were around him, you always felt more alive.

  I’ve read and heard it said, “Pete was selfish because he paid so much attention to his own statistics.” That’s flat-out nonsense. He paid attention to everybody’s statistics. I loved being around him because I would always learn something new about the game. He would see nuances and subtleties no one else did. I’d sit with him on the bus leaving a stadium and he could recite the box score from his brain. The entire box score. He literally remembered every pitch of a game. In the third inning, Torre fouled off a fastball, took a called strike on another fastball, and then lined out to shortstop on a slider. Selfish? Terrible description. Pete was into everything.

  And the record he would wind up setting was beyond comprehension. Breaking Ty Cobb’s record for career hits? When I was a kid, 4,192 hits was one of those records you assumed could never be broken. Who could possibly have the equivalent of twenty-one seasons of 200 hits? Cal Ripken Jr. breaking Lou Gehrig’s “Iron Man” record for consecutive games? I get that. It takes a lot of good fortune because you have to avoid serious injury—remarkable, but in my mind, it still doesn’t compare to what Rose did.

  A few years ago, Pete and I happened to wind up on the same cross-country red-eye flight from Los Angeles to Tampa. Pete had already been banned from baseball for several years. We switched seats so that we could sit together and we talked for the entire flight, reminiscing and getting caught up. As the flight landed, he didn’t directly ask me for advice, but as I reached into the overhead bin for my carry-on luggage, I said, “Pete, you just have to tell the truth.” He was either in a state of denial or had reached the point that he couldn’t backtrack on what he’d been contending for years. Maybe it had been too hard for him to admit an error. It wasn’t that it was never his fault—but I felt that he never wanted to admit a lapse in judgment. In the years since that flight, from time to time, Pete has gradually come closer to admitting culpability.

  It shouldn’t be like this. Pete Rose was one of the greatest players ever, and it’s a shame that this is a major part of his legacy. Again, I go back to the same word. Sad.

  THERE WAS A VERY interesting dynamic between Pete Rose and Johnny Bench. Even though he was from rural Binger, Oklahoma, Bench had a cosmopolitan, somewhat sophisticated, and occasionally regal air about him. Johnny was entrepreneurial, and in the year I arrived, 1971, he had signed to do a syndicated television show, which would include interviews with celebrities from all walks of life. It was produced by a man by the name of Doug Schustek, who was based in New York and sold the show to various television stations around the country. In my first season on the job, before spring training had ended, Johnny came to me and offered me a role on the show as his Ed McMahon. So for the next two years, in addition to broadcasting Reds games, I made a few extra bucks as the sidekick on The Johnny Bench Show. It aired weekly during the baseball season. We would tape it in a local studio when the Reds were at home. If we were on the road, we’d tape it in that city the morning or early afternoon of a night game. And Johnny was able to get some big-name guests. For example, on one trip to San Francisco, Bob Hope came to the studio.

  While Johnny had polish and sophistication, Pete was Charlie Hustle, the hometown, rough-around-the-edges kid who squeezed every ounce out of his talent. By the fifth inning on any given night, his uniform would almost always be dirt-stained or caked in mud. He was also as street smart as they come. Baseball was like a ballet to Johnny—he always made everything look so easy. Pete always looked like he was swimming upstream, churning and chugging. No one worked harder at his craft than Pete. Bench and Rose were never that crazy about each other. But unlike some other examples of two superstars in the same clubhouse or locker room, nothing in their relationship would ever become detrimental to the team. Me? I liked them both very much.

  It was a special group. We had Pete Rose and Tony Perez in their primes. Johnny Bench heading into his prime. And that off-season, Joe Morgan would be traded from Houston to the Reds as part of a five-for-three deal that would, in 1972, restore the Big Red Machine to its glory. Sparky Anderson was a terrific manager, and a great guy. It was a remarkable clubhouse—and that included everyone: players, coaches, trainers, equipment men. There was this beautiful, state-of-the-art new ballpark, and a city whose identity was inextricably linked to its baseball team. Linda and I had overcome the culture shock of moving from the tropics to the Midwest, and had made a lot of good friends. We were looking at what could be a very long run.

  The Reds also allowed me to take on an outside assignment after the 1971 season. I talked about Chet Simmons, the NBC executive who had recommended that the Reds interview me. In November 1971, I got a call from a producer at NBC Sports who worked with Chet. NBC would be covering the Winter Olympics three months hence in Sapporo, Japan. They wanted to know if I’d be available.

  Absolutely! So I flew to New York and they didn’t even put me through a formal audition. They simply talked about their plans, and the nex
t thing I knew, I was headed to the 1972 Olympic Winter Games in Japan. Today, of course, NBC has thousands of staffers working on its Olympics telecasts, and more than a hundred on-air personnel. For instance, at the Sochi Games in Russia in February 2014, I was a daytime host (Bob Costas was the prime-time host, a role he’s brilliantly filled since 1992), but NBC had seven other hosts and dozens of other commentators spread over its various platforms. In 1972? There were only nine on-air broadcasters. Total. And one of them, Curt Gowdy, my mentor, was the sole host.

  I wound up covering some speed skating, biathlon, ski jumping, and an array of other events. That gold-leafed book that my grandparents had given me as a child was sure coming in handy. Then, on the final day of the 1972 Games, the Soviet Union would meet Czechoslovakia for the gold medal in ice hockey. Who gets assigned to it? Me. Why? Because of my extensive experience? Hardly. It was because Curt Gowdy was in the studio and the other two play-by-play announcers in our group, Jim Simpson and Jay Randolph, were assigned to other events.

  I had never called a hockey game. But having grown up loving hockey, I was minimally fit for duty. So here I am, calling the gold medal game of the 1972 Olympics. Live. On national television. By myself with no analyst. The Soviets won, 5–2. I had a blast, but I figured calling a hockey game would be a one-time deal. A few weeks later, I’d be starting another baseball season with the Reds. Little could I imagine how profoundly my career would be impacted by calling this one game at the 1972 Winter Olympics.

  IN MY SECOND SEASON in Cincinnati, the team bounced back from a 79-83 record and a fourth-place finish in their division, and won the National League West. The Big Red Machine was again in full throttle. Bob Howsam had concluded that with more and more artificial turf ballparks coming into baseball, a player like Joe Morgan—who hit for power, but could also run, too—would be increasingly valuable. Sure enough, Morgan hit sixteen home runs and led the team in runs scored with 122 and stolen bases with 58.

  At that time, NBC had the exclusive rights to broadcast the World Series—and they had the following setup: Curt Gowdy and Tony Kubek, who were doing NBC’s Game of the Week, would handle the play-by-play and analysis of the World Series. In addition, Curt and Tony would be joined by the lead announcers for the two teams that had won the American and National League pennants. Those announcers would work the games on NBC television in their home parks, and move over to NBC radio with Jim Simpson for the road games. So I go into the playoffs that year knowing that if the Reds win the pennant, I’m going to be calling the World Series on NBC.

  In the National League Championship Series, the Reds faced the Pittsburgh Pirates, the reigning World Series champions, in a best-of-five series. The teams split the first four games. So it came down to one game for the pennant. And one game to determine if I would be working the World Series. If the Reds lost, the season would be over for all of us—see you at spring training. If the Reds won, it would be on to the World Series—meaning the following Saturday afternoon, at the age of twenty-seven, I would be calling the action on NBC.

  I had always taken my cue from Vin Scully and Red Barber and shied away from being a “homer.” I wanted to be impartial and call games in a straightforward fashion. If the opponent did something well, I praised them. If the Reds didn’t do something well, I addressed that. But for this fifth game, I had an undeniable rooting interest—and I think I might have been more nervous than any of the players.

  Going into the bottom of the ninth inning of Game 5 in Cincinnati, the Reds trailed 3–2. Johnny Bench led off and hit a home run over the right field fence. Bench was a dead pull hitter, so an opposite-field homer was rare. In my call, I think I reached an octave I’d never struck before. Now the game is tied. Tony Perez singles, and George Foster comes into run for him. Denis Menke singles. The pennant is at second base with no one out. Cesar Geronimo flies out to deep right field, deep enough to get Foster from second to third, despite one of the most hellacious throws I have ever seen. A laser one hop from the wall to third base. It will be the last play of the right fielder’s career. Roberto Clemente would die in a plane crash that New Year’s Eve. Darrel Chaney pops out, but then, with pinch hitter Hal McRae at the plate, Bob Moose uncorks a wild pitch, sending Foster home with the winning run. The Reds have won the pennant. The Reds are going to the World Series. And I am going with them. At twenty-seven. In my second year in Major League Baseball.

  Driving home from the game with Linda, we were glowing. And giddy. Not that long ago, I was a kid glued to the World Series on television. Now I would be announcing the World Series on NBC. I was thinking, I can now die and go to heaven. Just wait until after the World Series.

  We were still waiting to find out who the opponent would be—the Oakland A’s and the Detroit Tigers would be playing their decisive Game 5 to determine the American League championship the next day. In Game 5, Reggie Jackson walked in his first at bat, and wound up scoring the A’s first run by stealing home. But in the process, he pulled a hamstring, and though the A’s won the game 2–1, Reggie was done for the rest of the postseason. So my fellow Arizona State Sun Devil, whose exploits I had covered just a few years earlier, wouldn’t be playing in the World Series.

  The A’s flew to Cincinnati to work out at Riverfront the day before Game 1. I walked into the Oakland clubhouse and the first player I ran into was Sal Bando, the A’s starting third baseman. When we saw each other, we didn’t even have to say a word. If our eyes could have spoken, they would have said, “Can you believe this?” Ten autumns ago, we were these two freshmen at Arizona State standing in a long line to register for courses. He wanted to be a major-league ballplayer and I wanted to be a major-league broadcaster. Now, it’s the fall of 1972, and we are both a part of the World Freakin’ Series. I still get goose pimples when I think about that day. Fantasy had become reality. Delicious.

  What followed would become a watershed moment in my career. The country, in effect, was going to be seeing and hearing a lot of me. It was a wonderful opportunity to make an impact. But I was also living in fear of making an egregious mistake. Even in the days before YouTube and viral video clips, if you made a terrible mistake on the air, it could become a scarlet letter that you wore for a long time. You could do irreparable damage to your reputation with one bad performance. On live television, there are no second takes.

  Older and more experienced, I’m now to the point where I don’t even think about that. What’s the worst thing that can happen to me now? I make a terrible mistake, and I say, “Folks, I don’t know what to tell you. I had a complete brain cramp.” But you don’t have that luxury at age twenty-seven, so I felt enormous pressure.

  Before Game 1, I was beyond nervous. This was the World Series. There was the red, white, and blue bunting. A buzz throughout the city. A television audience of many millions. Fifteen minutes before the game, we rehearsed the open. Now we’re on the air live. Gowdy opens up the telecast, sets the scene, and then turns to bring me in. “We now welcome in the young Cincinnati Reds announcer, Al Michaels.”

  The camera pulls back for a “two-shot,” which means we’re now both on camera. I had one subconscious thought I couldn’t get out of my brain: Please, God, when I open my mouth, let air come out. That’s how exhilarated and nervous I was. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen when I began to move my lips. But fortunately, words did come out and I think they even made sense.

  The Reds lost that Series to the A’s in seven games. I didn’t make any glaring mistakes. I’m sure I made a couple of minor ones, but making none is like asking a hitter to bat 1.000. Despite the Reds losing, I still had an afterglow when it ended. The national exposure and the entire experience was a dream come to life. At about that same time, I was learning that the San Francisco Giants were interested in signing me, but I was under contract with the Reds through the 1973 season.

  After the Series, as he did when I was in college, Curt Gowdy again took me under his wing and said, “Kid, you’re gonna ha
ve a good career. Just do me a favor. Don’t ever get jaded.” Which at that time was unthinkable. I was in my twenties and living the life and everything felt fresh and new. But as my career continued on, and even to this day, I can still hear Curt’s words in my ears.

  THERE ARE BLOOPERS, AND then there are bloopers.

  In May 1973, Joe Nuxhall and I bused with the Reds to Indianapolis, where we would play an exhibition game that night at the old Bush Stadium against our Triple-A affiliate, the Indianapolis Indians. In that era, in-season exhibition games between parent clubs and their minor-league affiliates were common. Per usual, I taped my pregame show, The Main Spark, with Sparky Anderson in his clubhouse office. Our standard procedure was for me to tape the Sparky show with a cassette recorder, and then hand the recorder to Joe, who would tape his pregame show, called Turfside, in one of the dugouts with a player. We had a regular engineer who worked every game at Riverfront, and on the road there were regular engineers who worked with different teams, and were experienced in dealing with different formats and workflows.

  So, that night, Joe taped his Turfside show with one of our minor-league prospects in the Indians dugout. I was out by the batting cage and as he taped his segment maybe ninety minutes before the game, I noticed several of the Reds’ players gathered in front of the Indians dugout. There was a little commotion, and a lot of laughter. I thought nothing of it—but as I look back now, I remember one of the players tossing pebbles in Joe’s direction to distract him.

  I took the tape machine back from Joe, went back upstairs to the broadcast booth about an hour later, and gave it to the engineer, whom we’d never worked with before—he was on loan from a local station in Indianapolis. I told him each of our segments began on tape the same way—with Joe or I saying “Five, four, three, two, one” as a cue to let him know he could then hit playback. Then I went out on a catwalk behind the broadcast booth to get the last rays of the afternoon sun. I had in my hand a transistor radio to listen to the show and make sure everything went smoothly. Indianapolis is barely one hundred miles from Cincinnati and our station, WLW, came in clear as a bell.