Lucky Bastard

by Joe Buck

  In the eighteen years we had worked together, we had never really talked about Tim working with my dad, other than that first brief conversation in a bar when we were paired up. But as we talked, Tim turned to me and said:

  “You know, I never told you something after all these years. I remember a time when you came to visit us in the booth. Your dad said, ‘Hey, say hi to Tim.’ And you looked at me like you wanted to kill me.”

  I knew exactly what he was talking about. I remember the moment. I remember being in that booth. And Tim was right: I wanted to punch him in the face. I wanted to say, “Hey, my dad is working his ass off and trying to make this work, and he is sixty-five years old! Can’t you work with him? It could be good! Can’t you engage?” I just kind of glared at him and moved on.

  But when Tim brought it up, I had no interest in revisiting it. I said, “I don’t know why I would have done that or looked that way.” I wasn’t going to get into all the old slights: Back then you said you can’t see the wind, you can see the effect of the wind . . . I just let it go. By this point, I was proud to say Tim was my friend. The scars had disappeared. The end of our last broadcast, after Game 6 of the 2013 World Series, was one of the most emotional moments of my career. I got to say good-bye to a broadcasting legend, and a man who had become a dear friend.

  —

  My father has been gone for fourteen years, but if you’ve lost a beloved parent, you understand: He is with me every day. And even in death, he is an outsize personality in St. Louis. Strangers still tell me stories about him. He has a star on the St. Louis Walk of Fame, in the loop area on Delmar in St. Louis. It’s in front of this restaurant where I often take my girls: Snarf’s. We always walk by and give a little look.

  I’ve carried on a lot of his traditions just because I feel it’s my duty. He hosted a police prayer breakfast every year, so I host a police prayer breakfast every year. He helped this charity and that charity, so I will help this charity and that charity. I keep doing what he would expect me to do.

  Sometimes, I still feel like the fat kid who can’t fit into a batboy’s uniform. But I’m proud that I’ve taken care of myself. I obsess about it. I do some weird stuff to keep myself in shape. Every morning I put grass-fed pure butter in my coffee. It’s evidently a good fat that you need in the morning to kind of get yourself going. You laugh. You might want to throw up. But that’s my breakfast. It keeps me full until noon every day.

  I knew when Michelle and I got married that people would draw the wrong conclusions about us. They would say I left my wife for Michelle, or that I found a much younger woman, or that she married me to help her career, which would be insane. Michelle is seven years younger than I am, which really isn’t that much. My parents were fourteen years apart, so my dad was twice the cradle robber I am.

  The truth is that we are best friends. I’m just so lucky that she came into my life when I felt broken and rudderless.

  Michelle works now at ESPN as a feature reporter and host. I could not be more proud of her. She is a hard worker who proves her integrity with every assignment. And like with my father, I never have to worry when someone tells me that they have worked with my wife. People love working with her.

  It must be hard to see your dad fall in love with a woman who is not your mom. But Natalie and Trudy have always known that I put them first, and they see how happy I am. I rarely lose my temper, and if I do, they just laugh at me. They know it will pass. And Michelle is a great role model for them. They are old enough that she can just be their friend. They already have a mother. They don’t need another one.

  —

  In the spring of 2013, I drove forty-five minutes to Troy, Missouri, to get my first tattoos. I didn’t want them to be prominent. I think I would look pretty dumb with sleeves of tattoos, and I don’t think FOX executives would have been happy if I got that Mike Tyson thing on my face. But I got two tattoos I really wanted.

  The tattoo artist said, “This is going to hurt a little bit.” So I braced for pain. And when needle hit skin, I thought: “This is NOTHING.” If you want to feel pain, have somebody put needles into your head, and have them scalp you and take a strip of hair out of the back of your head and start planting it in the front of your head. THAT hurts. This little thing that I felt on my arm was a minor nuisance.

  After all these hair-replacement surgeries, I’m hardened. I think I’d be a good prison guard.

  On my right arm, I got the word Bastante, which is Spanish for enough. I wanted to remind myself: Enough worrying about your divorce. Enough worrying about nameless, faceless people who rip you. I have come to see that everyone in my position gets ripped—it’s not just me. Michelle always tells me, “Quiet your mind.” I look at that Bastante tattoo in the morning and remember to quiet my mind.

  The other meaning of Bastante is: I can’t love my kids enough. I can’t enjoy my job enough. I can find infinite joy in these things.

  On my left arm, I got two words. They are the same two words on the bracelet that my dad gave my mom when I was little:

  So what!

  My mom gave her So what! bracelet to my daughter Natalie, who has a tendency to worry. Natalie wears it all the time. Now I have a tattoo that says the same thing. I guess it’s become a bit of a family motto.

  I didn’t tell anybody I was getting tattoos. Nobody would have believed me anyway. I was embarrassed to show my kids. Natalie was in high school, and she said, “What the hell? What are you doing? Are you, like, having a breakdown? A midlife crisis?” She was looking at Michelle, who has two tattoos, and Michelle said, “I had nothing to do with this. I’m just learning about this today, when you are.” My mom was stunned, too.

  And you know what? That’s one of the reasons I got them: I’m in my forties, and I don’t need anybody’s approval. If they think I’m being foolish, so what? They will get over it.

  I’m in a good place. I’m comfortable with myself, my career, and my life. I don’t care if you think I’m a spoiled kid who is only employed because of my dad, or if you think I hate your team. I do the best I can.

  And I don’t care if the only story you remember from this whole book is about my hair.

  By the way: I color it, too.

  Downtown apartment living (just off my shift grabbing pennies out of onlookers’ hands).

  Age two? One of us is looking at the wrong camera.

  Bad pants, tight shorts.

  My parents with their adopted kids from Molasses Swamp (or fringe rhymes with singe—white-hot).

  Mom, could you have found one salad bar in the late seventies?

  Batboy shirt, Dave LaPoint’s pants, multitasking—God forbid I take two trips to the dugout seven paces away.

  Pregame catch at Busch Stadium with my friend Dave “Rooster” Rader—hot turf makes my bell-bottoms flare more.

  Where it all began. Joe B and Jim Kelch in the Louisville broadcast booth, 1989.

  My favorite picture. . . . My dad holding my daughter Natalie, with me on TV during the 1996 postseason—and he acted like he didn't watch—BUSTED!

  Sorry . . . all I see is hair . . . is my dad in the picture?

  Emmy night. My dad and his Lifetime Emmy, and me and my first Emmy. I don’t know who is more proud.

  My original core four in a photo from the early 2000s.

  The girls at the 2005 World Series in Chicago—Natalie is front runnin’.

  A note that melted my heart. Found in my scorebook before the 2011 MLB All-Star Game in Phoenix, Arizona.

  Natalie and me on Mount Kilimanjaro, February 2013.

  Trudy and me in Amsterdam, summer 2014.

  My friend Artie and my daughter Natalie at his interview show in New York City (he is a bit more subdued than the first time she saw him).

  My new core four—without whom I am nothing—at the NFL Honors show before Super Bowl XLVIII i
n New York City.

  My FOX football crew. Left to right: Ed Sfida (stats), Steve Horn (editorial notes), Dave Schwalbe (spotter), me, HOFer Troy Aikman, Scott Snyder (Troy’s spotter), and Mike Pereira (rules genius). It takes a village.

  Beach wedding at the El Dorado Golf and Beach Club in Cabo San Lucas with my beautiful best friend, April 2014.

  See?!?! We are friends! JT, JB, and TMac before the 2011 MLB All-Star Game in Phoenix, Arizona.

  My biggest fan, smartest critic, best support. The sweetest woman I know.

  My football “boards”—a coordinated mess.

  Closer shot of the basics I compile during the week to do my job.

  About the Author

  JOE BUCK grew up in St. Louis, where he still lives. He has two daughters, Natalie and Trudy, and is married to fellow sportscaster Michelle Beisner.

  * This is a longer story. We will get to that later.

  * There is no school for spotters. Announcers often let their buddies be spotters so they can travel with the crew on the network’s dime.

  * None of this is true. We weren’t rich, and my childhood was not quite what people think it was. We’ll get to that soon enough.

  * I may have looked like her, too.

  * This actually happened. We will get to that, too.

  * You just counted to make sure that was five words, didn’t you?

  * Forty-five. Not that it matters.

  * I look forward to this book coming out and seeing signs in the crowd at a ball game that read “EAT SHIT, JASPER PENNYPUCKER!” Come on, America. Don’t disappoint me.

  * What did they do with all that free time?

  * It was like a prehistoric version of Beats by Dre.

  * It’s not like I was circus-fat. But I was chubby.

  * When Bryce Harper steps into the batter’s box and thinks, “I hope Joe Buck has a great game today,” I will start cheering for him, too.

  * What a dick.

  * Clearly, I was not a candidate for Baby Mensa.

  * Some of you are probably psychologists. The rest of you can fake it.

  * Mayweather would go on to set rushing records at Army.

  * Except once. I will explain later.

  * OK, I fix my hair for the radio, too.

  * Shout out to my man, the late Bob Ross, and his show, The Joy of Painting.

  * Ann was not one of the girls who ditched me for prom. She went to St. Joseph’s Academy, and we dated off and on in high school but never went to my prom together.

  * My dad was color-blind, which led to some poor fashion decisions.

  * I am always late to dinner.

  * I bet you didn’t think I was a frat boy. . . . OK, I guess you probably did.

  * That was a joke.

  * The next year, when I was in Houston with the Cardinals, one player said, “You got to go to Rick’s strip joint. We were there last night. Pay attention to the pictures on the wall going to the bathroom.” There was a picture of my father there. Nice work, Dad. You’re in at least one Strip Club Hall of Fame.

  * I didn’t feel the need to explain that the bass-fishing contest might still be number one.

  * Name-dropping alert!

  * Summerall, Frank Gifford, and Dan Dierdorf are on that short list.

  * My name is Joe Francis Buck, so technically, it’s Joe F. Buck, not F. Joe Buck.

  * Some people in St. Louis say I hate the Cardinals. This is an unwinnable argument for me.

  * Just make sure you always refer to FOX in all caps.

  * We’re getting into heavy name-dropping time now. I swear there is a point to it all. To make you feel better, here is another embarrassing story about me. I was once the emcee for a Budweiser wholesalers’ meeting. Tim McGraw was giving a concert. I was supposed to bring him a Bud Light in the middle of his song, “I Like It, I Love It.” So I brought the beer, and he put the microphone in front of my face so I could sing the next line. But I didn’t know the next line, so I just pushed the mic back in his face. Brutal!

  * You also shouldn’t use Phil Mushnick as your measuring stick for funny, but that’s another discussion.

  * I bet we would sell more copies of this book if we called it Joe Buck: A Social Freak.

  * HBO never reimbursed me for it. Ross, if you’re reading this: Check or wire transfer is fine.

  * My biggest hope for this book is that it helps me get invited as a guest on Stern’s show.

  * This is my least favorite name-drop in the whole book. And half of you don’t even know who Fernando Tatis is!

  * Oh, the horror!

  * Dr. Steven Zeitels. You will meet him in these pages shortly.

  * First line of A Prayer for Owen Meany: “I am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice.” Perhaps my subconscious chose to bring it to Cabo.

  * As we have established, I saved the name-dropping for my book.

  * This helped me understand why some players use PEDs like human-growth hormone to get back on the field. When you can’t do your job, you get desperate.

  * Peyton Manning, Peyton Manning, Peyton Manning.

  * My dad called that play on the radio with Pat Summerall. An autographed picture of Clark making the catch is on a wall of my home office. Take that, San Francisco!

  * At least, that’s what she called it. Dime-store psychology!

  * This is true. Doug actually is Brad Pitt’s brother. This has absolutely nothing to do with the story, and I have never met Brad Pitt, but I just went and dropped his name anyway. I am unstoppable!

  * The day that FOX bought a golf package, before I even knew I would be involved, ESPN’s Mike Tirico texted me and offered to help in any way. The week before FOX’s first US Open, Tirico sent me all his notes from the previous year’s Open. That’s an exceptionally nice thing to do.

  * I am an unabashed fan of the St. Louis Blues. I own season tickets. But I don’t do hockey games on the air. I’m not smart enough—the game is too fast, and the names are too long.

  What’s next on

  your reading list?

  Discover your next

  great read!

  * * *

  Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.

  Sign up now.