The great, familiar, famous voice has gone silent now. For decades, Jack Buck provided the soundtrack of the St. Louis summer. He brought baseball to life for generations of Cardinals fans. Each season he took us from April to October. He was our companion, our tour guide, our historian, the man we entrusted with this precious St. Louis tradition of baseball.
He was there in back yards, when families gathered around a grill and a picnic table to listen to the Cardinals on KMOX-AM 1120.
He was there on the front porches of a breezy, cozy evening, his friendly voice meeting us under the nighttime stars. His voice was in the hospital rooms, providing comfort for patients who wanted to stay in touch with their favorite team. He was in the nursing homes, and the schools, and the golf courses, and on the lakes.
He was under the pillow, late at night, as kids smuggled their radios into bed, to stay up late and monitor a distant game from the West Coast. He provided the lullaby as the youngsters drifted off to sleep, happy in knowing that the Cardinals were winning the game.
He was in the car, traveling with us, a pal who always made us feel closer to home, no matter where the road led us, as long as we could receive the radio signal that all but placed him on the passenger side, going along for the ride.
He described them all, from Stan Musial to Bob Gibson to Ozzie Smith to Mark McGwire to Albert Pujols. His words were the link that connected them all. He was there at Sportsman’s Park, and he was there at Busch Stadium, and he was at all the road games. When you heard his voice warming up in that first broadcast from spring training, you knew that baseball was about to return, and it was time to be hopeful, time to worry, time to wait and see what the new season would bring.
He was part of the family. How many grandparents and parents and sons and daughters shared the experience of listening to Cardinals games together?
He was the guy who never said no to kids who wanted an autograph, or anyone who wanted him to pose for a photo. He emceed dinners and fundraisers, ate more banquet chicken than any person in this city’s history, and raised millions of dollars for charity.
Jack went national, calling football games and baseball games for the networks, but always returned home. He never sold out, never forgot where he lived. St. Louis was the only place he wanted to live.
For a tough guy who survived a blast of shrapnel in World War II, he was a soft touch. He’d see a poor person on the street and peel off $20.
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Nearing the end of the life, as he battled Parkinson’s disease, Jack Buck realized how much he wanted to live. The sweetness within him found a fulfilling outlet through poetry.
In Jack’s final days, his dear son Joe Buck would read to Jack late at night in the hospital room. Joe would lovingly read all of your letters and cards and notes. Jack Buck, 77, knew he was dying, but he held on longer than the doctors believed was possible. Joe Buck said the fans sustained his father.
On the night Jack Buck died, the Cardinals defeated Anaheim 7-2 with Joe doing a masterful job of putting his emotions aside to call the game on TV, to serve the fans. Just what you would expect from Jack Buck’s son. That’s a winner.