It seems writers are always talking about voice. Finding your voice, choosing a voice for a story... and even, on some occasions, hearing voices. (No one ever said we writers were the most mentally stable crowd.)
On a personal note today, I'd like to join the rest of the University of Georgia's Bulldog Nation in saying goodbye to a familiar and beloved voice: our longtime football play-by-play announcer Larry Munson, who passed away on Sunday night.
Larry Munson was a spirited and colorful part of my alma mater's football tradition, and for many of us who grew up in Georgia, he was as much a part of fall Saturdays as washing the car or raking the leaves. Larry called the games for 40 years in his signature gravelly voice, using metaphors that were always lively, if occasionally incomprehensible. [Many will long remember his remark, ''We just stepped on their face with a hobnailed boot and broke their nose!'' after a big touchdown pass against Tennessee in 2001.] Since his retirement in 2008, there has been a void on fall Saturdays for Georgia fans everywhere, a void that deepened Sunday night on the news of his death.
For me, the loss of Larry Munson is not so much about football, but rather the echo of a deeper loss. To be honest with you, I was never a huge football person, and it's only been in recent years that I have embraced watching UGA football on a regular basis. In fact, during the five years that I studied at UGA, I went to maybe four football games. And even then, it was mostly for the pre-game beer.
When I was growing up, though, my Dad watched and listened to the games religiously. Never mind that he didn't go to UGA, never mind that he spent most of his career working for in-state rival Georgia Tech. He was a bulldog fan through and through, and I can still remember the crackling sound of Larry Munson's voice on the AM radio while Dad cleaned the garage or worked in the basement. I wasn't really interested in the game itself, but my Dad was my hero back then. I didn't think anything was more perfect than a sunny Saturday watching him working around the house in paint-splattered jeans and a sweatshirt.
In recent years, things had changed. Dad didn't do as much around the house anymore, and didn't seem to enjoy life with the same fervor I remember from my childhood. Our relationship changed, too, as our family went through a series of painful experiences. While we were always pretty solid, there were strains between us that didn't exist when I was a kid. It wasn't long ago that I found myself nostalgic and longing for those quiet Saturdays when things seemed simpler. When the sound of Larry Munson's voice was the backdrop for moments of calm amidst the chaos.
When Dad was diagnosed with lung cancer earlier this year, I was especially devastated because I felt that the birth of my older son (and the expectation of the younger) had finally brought us together in a way that we'd been missing. In fact, we watched more Georgia football games together in the last two years than we had in a decade. The last time I saw my Dad, he came to our house in early September -- you guessed it -- to watch the football game. Georgia lost that game to Boise State, but it doesn't matter. We had a great time together, and I'm so happy we had the presence of mind to take pictures of our family in Red & Black, sitting together, with my one-month-old son cradled in his Granddad's affectionate arms.
Dad died a little over two weeks later. Needless to say, the rest of the season has been bittersweet for me. The Dawgs are going to the SEC championship, but my Dad isn't here to enjoy it with our family, or to tirelessly analyze every step of the way with my husband. This past Saturday I got a message from one of Dad's best friends in the world, who he has known and loved since graduate school: "Guess I'll never glance at a Georgia football game and not think of your Dad." Me, either.
When a public figure passes away, we all have our own connections and reasons to mourn. I know I am not alone in missing Larry Munson, not just for who he was for my school, but who he represented in my life. For the memories and feelings that come flooding back whenever I hear that famous voice.
1 comment:
So right you are. Did the televised games even bother to have an announcer, since everyone turned the TV volume off and listened to Munson's radio call?
You can read, and hear, some Munson favorites at http://insider.espn.go.com/blog/colleges/georgia/post/_/id/484/larry-munsons-top-10-favorite-calls.
M.J., you were barely past toddler at the time, but for many of us, "Lindsay Scott!" ranks as one of the greatest calls in all of sports broadcasting, and I am not even a Dawg's fan. Only moments earlier the desperation and then total despondency about what appeared to be a certain loss, and the loss of a potential national championship, was so evident in Munson's voice. He was barely mumbling the calls. Too bad that the recording does not continue through the after-run ramblings about the broken chair which included "We were gone. I gave up, you did too. We were out of it and gone. Miracle!."
Maybe the experience for me was enhanced by the huge importance of the game itself. Then again, maybe I was listening to that game with a very special friend. If not, I know I was thinking about him and what he was doing at that instant... and laughing a bit.
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