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By Sheldon Ocker
Beacon Journal sports columnist
POSTED: 06:20 p.m. EST, Nov 11, 2008
More than a few Northeast Ohio sports fans viewed Herb Score as a tragic icon, a heartrending example of Cleveland's luckless sports landscape.
I will tell you from experience that he didn't agree.
Oh, maybe he did for a few moments after one of our first encounters, but he shook off the minor disaster almost instantly. More remarkably, Score continued to speak to me for the next 30 or so years.
In 1970, I was a rookie baseball writer who had just been handed a hamburger in the small snack bar behind the press box at Comiskey Park in Chicago. Score was standing next to me.
Burger in one hand, plastic squeeze bottle filled with ketchup in the other, I pressed hard. Ketchup burst out of the container, bounced off the meat patty and landed on Score's nearly white raincoat, purchased earlier in the day.
I was mortified. I had just stained a man's expensive (I think) garment, maybe permanently. Of all the trench coats I might have soiled, why did this one have to be resting on the broad shoulders of Herb Score, of all people?
Score was of my generation, but when I was in elementary school, he was already pitching for the Indians. And not just pitching. Score was to be the next exalted pitcher in a franchise that employed future Hall of Fame starters Bob Feller, Bob Lemon and Early Wynn.
Score was sure to follow them. In 1955, he was American League Rookie of the Year. He led the league in strikeouts and was selected to play in the All-Star Game his first two seasons, and he won 20 games in 1956.
We all know what happened after that. On May 17, 1957, Score was struck in the right eye by a line drive off the bat of Gil McDougald of the New York Yankees. The ball broke Score's nose and fractured several bones in his face. He recovered but was never the same pitcher, winning only 19 more games in a career that abruptly ended with the Chicago White Sox in 1962.
Score forever adamantly denied that being hit in the face led to his decline as a pitcher. His take: A more mundane injury, a sore elbow, shortened his career.
Maybe so, maybe not.
More important, Score moved on. One phase of his life had ended. No sense brooding over spilled milk (or sprayed ketchup). Feeling sorry for himself didn't offer much solace, so why bother? Others suffered worse fates than him and didn't complain.
But it would be a mistake to say that Score was merely trying to make the best of a bad situation. He honestly didn't see himself as unlucky or as being deprived of his destiny. So what if he didn't make the Hall of Fame. How many players do?
Voice of the Indians
Score became the radio voice of the Indians from 1964 through 1997. He felt fortunate to be paid a salary for speaking into a microphone for a few hours a day, and not even every day. For five months of the year, he didn't even do that. This was not Score's definition of work.
Certainly, he didn't take the job seriously enough to become a polished broadcaster. Score didn't understand that talking about baseball is no less a profession than playing baseball. Maybe that's why he became known for his bloopers.
''Warming up in the bullpen is Efrem Zimbalist Jr.,'' Score once announced, mistaking a television actor for Tribe reliever Efrain Valdez.
And Score once gave this line for an outgoing pitcher: ''And for Steve Lamar, two innings, one hit, no runs and a walk.''
The problem is that Steve Lamar was his partner in the broadcast booth.
But nobody seemed to mind Score's mistakes. He was one of us, a guy who worked and lived in Northeast Ohio for decades. He represented the joy and the disappointment of the 20th century Indians like no man this side of Bob Feller. Maybe even including Feller.
Fabric of the team
Eleven years after his last broadcast, until his death at age 75 on Tuesday, no sports fan around here is likely to consider Score's life as separate from the fabric of the local baseball team. And consider this: In the 39 years Score was associated with the Tribe, he watched or participated in more than 6,200 games — 41 percent of the team's total from its inception until his retirement.
Score had his shortcomings as a broadcaster, but he did one thing better than anyone. When play stopped for a discussion among players, managers and umpires, Score instantly knew why. Always, without exception.
During a game at the Metrodome in the early '80s, a manager called time and began jawing with an umpire. I was sitting next to Terry Pluto, then the beat writer for the Plain Dealer.
Neither of us could figure out what was going on, so we headed for the broadcast booth to ask Score. While we waited for a commercial break, Pluto lost the handle on a paper cup, and Score suddenly was bathed in hot chocolate.
He stopped his description of the game and told the radio audience, ''Terry Pluto of the Plain Dealer came into the booth. I do not know why he is here, but he just spilled hot chocolate on my pants, on my shirt, on my tie, on my shoes, on my scorebook. Hot chocolate is everywhere. ... And there's a fastball for ball 2.''
Meanwhile, ball one and a couple of strikes never made the airwaves, but so what? If Score taught his listeners anything, it's that baseball, even at the highest level with millions of dollars at stake, is just a game for most of us.
Moreover, even that rare individual who might have reached the top of the major-league mountain if not for a bad break needs to keep his life in perspective.
And so as he did with me after the ketchup disaster, Score continued his friendly association with Pluto for the next three decades. Believe me when I say that Terry and I were grateful.
Remembering Herb Score
Cleveland Indians broadcasters Tom Hamilton, Mike Hegan and Rick Manning share their memories of working with Herb Score, the long-time voice of the team who died Tuesday.
Tom Hamilton on Herb Score (MP3 Audio)
Mike Hegan on Herb Score (MP3 Audio)
Rick Manning on Herb Score (MP3 Audio)
Sheldon Ocker can be reached at socker@thebeaconjournal.com.
More than a few Northeast Ohio sports fans viewed Herb Score as a tragic icon, a heartrending example of Cleveland's luckless sports landscape.
I will tell you from experience that he didn't agree.
Oh, maybe he did for a few moments after one of our first encounters, but he shook off the minor disaster almost instantly. More remarkably, Score continued to speak to me for the next 30 or so years.
In 1970, I was a rookie baseball writer who had just been handed a hamburger in the small snack bar behind the press box at Comiskey Park in Chicago. Score was standing next to me.
Burger in one hand, plastic squeeze bottle filled with ketchup in the other, I pressed hard. Ketchup burst out of the container, bounced off the meat patty and landed on Score's nearly white raincoat, purchased earlier in the day.
I was mortified. I had just stained a man's expensive (I think) garment, maybe permanently. Of all the trench coats I might have soiled, why did this one have to be resting on the broad shoulders of Herb Score, of all people?
Score was of my generation, but when I was in elementary school, he was already pitching for the Indians. And not just pitching. Score was to be the next exalted pitcher in a franchise that employed future Hall of Fame starters Bob Feller, Bob Lemon and Early Wynn.
Score was sure to follow them. In 1955, he was American League Rookie of the Year. He led the league in strikeouts and was selected to play in the All-Star Game his first two seasons, and he won 20 games in 1956.
We all know what happened after that. On May 17, 1957, Score was struck in the right eye by a line drive off the bat of Gil McDougald of the New York Yankees. The ball broke Score's nose and fractured several bones in his face. He recovered but was never the same pitcher, winning only 19 more games in a career that abruptly ended with the Chicago White Sox in 1962.
Score forever adamantly denied that being hit in the face led to his decline as a pitcher. His take: A more mundane injury, a sore elbow, shortened his career.
Maybe so, maybe not.
More important, Score moved on. One phase of his life had ended. No sense brooding over spilled milk (or sprayed ketchup). Feeling sorry for himself didn't offer much solace, so why bother? Others suffered worse fates than him and didn't complain.
But it would be a mistake to say that Score was merely trying to make the best of a bad situation. He honestly didn't see himself as unlucky or as being deprived of his destiny. So what if he didn't make the Hall of Fame. How many players do?
Voice of the Indians
Score became the radio voice of the Indians from 1964 through 1997. He felt fortunate to be paid a salary for speaking into a microphone for a few hours a day, and not even every day. For five months of the year, he didn't even do that. This was not Score's definition of work.
Certainly, he didn't take the job seriously enough to become a polished broadcaster. Score didn't understand that talking about baseball is no less a profession than playing baseball. Maybe that's why he became known for his bloopers.
''Warming up in the bullpen is Efrem Zimbalist Jr.,'' Score once announced, mistaking a television actor for Tribe reliever Efrain Valdez.
And Score once gave this line for an outgoing pitcher: ''And for Steve Lamar, two innings, one hit, no runs and a walk.''
The problem is that Steve Lamar was his partner in the broadcast booth.
But nobody seemed to mind Score's mistakes. He was one of us, a guy who worked and lived in Northeast Ohio for decades. He represented the joy and the disappointment of the 20th century Indians like no man this side of Bob Feller. Maybe even including Feller.
Fabric of the team
Eleven years after his last broadcast, until his death at age 75 on Tuesday, no sports fan around here is likely to consider Score's life as separate from the fabric of the local baseball team. And consider this: In the 39 years Score was associated with the Tribe, he watched or participated in more than 6,200 games — 41 percent of the team's total from its inception until his retirement.
Score had his shortcomings as a broadcaster, but he did one thing better than anyone. When play stopped for a discussion among players, managers and umpires, Score instantly knew why. Always, without exception.
During a game at the Metrodome in the early '80s, a manager called time and began jawing with an umpire. I was sitting next to Terry Pluto, then the beat writer for the Plain Dealer.
Neither of us could figure out what was going on, so we headed for the broadcast booth to ask Score. While we waited for a commercial break, Pluto lost the handle on a paper cup, and Score suddenly was bathed in hot chocolate.
He stopped his description of the game and told the radio audience, ''Terry Pluto of the Plain Dealer came into the booth. I do not know why he is here, but he just spilled hot chocolate on my pants, on my shirt, on my tie, on my shoes, on my scorebook. Hot chocolate is everywhere. ... And there's a fastball for ball 2.''
Meanwhile, ball one and a couple of strikes never made the airwaves, but so what? If Score taught his listeners anything, it's that baseball, even at the highest level with millions of dollars at stake, is just a game for most of us.
Moreover, even that rare individual who might have reached the top of the major-league mountain if not for a bad break needs to keep his life in perspective.
And so as he did with me after the ketchup disaster, Score continued his friendly association with Pluto for the next three decades. Believe me when I say that Terry and I were grateful.
Remembering Herb Score
Cleveland Indians broadcasters Tom Hamilton, Mike Hegan and Rick Manning share their memories of working with Herb Score, the long-time voice of the team who died Tuesday.
Tom Hamilton on Herb Score (MP3 Audio)
Mike Hegan on Herb Score (MP3 Audio)
Rick Manning on Herb Score (MP3 Audio)
Sheldon Ocker can be reached at socker@thebeaconjournal.com.
Comments
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Posted 07:48 PM, 11/11/2008
God bless Mr. Score and his family. He's one of the guiding beacons of my 54 years of life.
Class and dignity all the way. Along with humor, humility, and a good dose of ketchup and hot chocolate!
Take care, Herb. From Julio...
Posted 08:04 PM, 11/11/2008
This is one of the most well-written pieces I've ever seen associated with the Beacon. What an excellent picture of the kind of down-to-earth guy Herb Score was.
Fairlawn, OH
Posted 11:02 PM, 11/11/2008
Great story, Sheldon. We'll all miss Herb, "the soundtrack of our summers".
Akron, OH
Posted 11:54 PM, 11/11/2008
Yes, Mr Ocker, I add my compliments to those of others for a heartwarming article about Herb Score. Herb Score was true blue, an admirable person; you were fortunate enough to know him first hand.
R M Kraus
Akron
Posted 03:18 AM, 11/12/2008
We are of those die hard wait till next year fans who often turned down the TV sound to listen to Herb and Tom on the radio. We also recorded some of him and Toms broadcast of the Indians world series. He will be greatly missed. "Just wait till next year". We've been saying that since after the 1948 world series, but we keep coming back and keep hopeing that another next year will be it.
akron, oh
Posted 10:31 AM, 11/12/2008
swing and a miss...called strike three
it's a deep fly ball that's tracked down by the shortstop...
long fly ball...is it fair? is it foul? IT IS!
RIP herbie, you were the voice of my summers.
Posted 11:35 AM, 11/12/2008
I will always remember listening to the game when Herb was hit by that line drive. As a young boy whose baseball heroes were Herb Score and Rocky Colavito, I was devastated. Herb was one of a kind - a gracious, good human being.
Posted 08:05 AM, 11/15/2008
Herb left the world with many friends that I suspect will miss him dearly. Thanks Herb!
