The Sunday Memory Drawer - The Radio Home of the Mets

This station is now the "talk of New York." But, back when I was a kid listening to my beloved Mets on the radio, their home was at 970AM. WJRZ-AM in New Jersey.

Our Sunday Memory Drawer today opens with a little Len Speaks housekeeping. You might remember that I told you about my Dodger Think Cure auction bid win and that I will be somehow associated with the Dodger Talk post-game show one night. Well, that date has been confirmed for Thursday, August 5. I will send you all the appropriate links prior to that day.

Now, I'm not exactly sure what I will be doing with them. I know I'll watch the game from the press box. Beyond that, will I be on the air? Will I simply wear some headphones and wave to the non-viewing crowd when my name is mentioned on the air? Who knows? It's just a great reward for making my annual cancer research donation.

But, if I do get to have a moment on the air, I have one story all queued up to tell. And it's all about the only time in my life that I actually called a post-game baseball talk show.

I have digressed significantly. Let's time travel back to WJRZ-AM.

As a fledgling Met fan in my even more-fledgling youth, I had to depend upon the radio broadcasts more than ever. Not every game was telecast. Frequently, the big color Zenith TV in the living room was unavailable to me. And, if there was a West Coast start time, the transistor radio was on underneath my pillow until I was caught by the parental police force. WJRZ was my lifeline to the Mets. As faint as the signal was.

Indeed, WJRZ just added to my already burgeoning lack of baseball self-esteem. The Mets weren't the Yankees on the field. And, on the radio, the Mets' station wasn't the equal of the Yankees' flagship call letters. While the Bronx Pinstripes were on either WCBS or WHN with great personalities and musical formats, the Mets were broadcast from an antenna/coat hanger in Hackensack, New Jersey. I wanted to be a fan of my team's radio station, but it was a strain. Sometimes, you could hear it. Other times, the Mets might as well been broadcast on Radio Free Europe. The team's games came equipped with a steady and persistent hum.

To make matter even worse, I longed to identify with the music offered by WJRZ. Except it was country. Oh, not the hip, smart country music of today with the electric likes of Carrie Underwood, Faith Hill, and Tim McGraw. Nope, this was the guitar-picking, straw-sucking, shoe-shedding country music of the hills. Every other song was sung by Eddy Arnold.

"Make the world goooooo awaaaaaaaaay!"

When it came to this station, I really wanted to. Make the world go away. The Mets were sloppy seconds again, and, as a result, so was I. Surely, nobody in my neighborhood would be caught dead listening to WJRZ nightly.

I was caught dead listening to WJRZ nightly.

The super down-home and folksy baseball coverage of the Mets was anchored in pre-game and post-game shows by one of the WJRZ deejays, a kindly sounding man named Bob Brown. In retrospect, he was probably in his forties at the time, but he sounded like your grandfather. Imagine what it would sound like if your pastor was doing a sports talk show.

There was nothing edgy about Bob Brown and his Met shows. His personality came across as slow and methodical. He even had an odd way to pronounce some Met player names which a friend at my school lunch table used to mimic.

"Art Shaaaammmmmmsky."

The phone calls Bob took were also of the rather boring variety. There was nothing ever contentious about his shows. No arguing. No disputes. No pulse, really.

And then there were his on-air contests, most notably the one offering your opportunity to be "Met Manager of the Day." Bob would dig into the previous season's archives and find a strategic moment in the game. He would tell the designated on-the-phone contestant what the game situation was. For instance, the Mets are down by a run in the seventh inning at home. Tommie Agee is on first base and Cleon Jones is at the plate. What does the manager ask Cleon to do?

A. Bunt to sacrifice.

B. Hit and run.

C. Swing away.

Okay, in today's internet world, this contest doesn't work. Because all a listener would have to do is access Retrosheet.com and look up the box score for the game in question. There would be no way you could lose.

But, in Bob Brown's day, there was also no way you could lose. Because he wouldn't let you. If you gave the wrong choice as your guess, Bob would lead you away from it.

"You don't want to do that."

If your second guess was also wrong...

"You don't want to do that."

Bob wouldn't stop until you cornered the right response which would then be validated by the play-by-play tape of that game.

Everybody was a winner in Bob Brown's world. Your prize?

A Dairy Queen Dilly Bar.

I repeat...

A Dairy Queen Dilly Bar.

I never entered to be a contestant. There wasn't a Dairy Queen within twenty miles of my Mount Vernon home address.

Inexplicably, Bob Brown and I would soon have a direct encounter. On the day the Mets won the 1969 World Series. This was euphoria for me. I had stayed home from school to watch the impending victory in Game 5. I was vindicated at last as a baseball fan.

As Cleon Jones clutched the ball for the final out, I needed to share this with somebody. Anybody. Mom was at work. Dad was at work. Grandma was home, but she was having her daily check-in with "General Hospital." My dog Tuffy was napping under the bed.

I ran outside and scooted up the block to gloat amongst my Yankee fan buddies. No one was around. I was immensely gleeful but sadly alone.

I went back into the house and tuned into WJRZ. Well, at least, I could stretch out the personal victory party a little longer by listening to Bob Brown's post-game show. And, then, a lightbulb...

I should call him and get on the air.

By now, I knew the drill. I knew the studio call-in number. I knew you had to turn down your radio. I just had never bothered to call before.

Back in those days, there wasn't even a call screener. You simply waited for your ringing signal to get picked up by Bob Brown himself. My first few attempts got me the nasty buzzy beep. But, suddenly, it was ringing. And, then...

"Hello, this is Bob Brown and you're on the air."

Er....................

I was one of those cute little adorable voices you hear on call-in shows today. Precious to a fault. Somehow, I stumbled through some congratulatory message to the New York Mets. As if the team was actually listening to me. Bob asked me if I had a question.

And I crossed the line.

"Bob, do you think the Mets will trade for a new third baseman because they can't go another season with Ed Charles and Wayne Garrett?"

Or something like that. I was now the typical asshole caller of any sports talk show. The Mets' victory in the World Series wasn't even an hour old and I was suggesting they dismantle part of the line-up for the next season.

My moronic question had also achieved the impossible. It made the kindly and almost saintly Bob Brown mad.

"Are you kidding, young man? You can't simply enjoy today's win. You're already worried about next year?"

Or something like that. I, of course, am paraphrasing. But Bob's anger came through loud and clear.

Click.

And so ended my one and only time to call a sports talk show. If I get the chance, I will tell that tale on Dodger Talk. But, if I don't, well, whoop, there it is.

Dinner last night: Cheese, crackers, fruit, and other wonderful snacks at the Hollywood Bowl. Thank you, Leo and Connie.