He was the most beloved man in Seattle: Eternally good-natured, Seattle Mariners broadcaster Dave Niehaus had a contagious enthusiasm.
After the seemingly endless, soggy Seattle winters, Niehaus and the Mariners were the harbingers of springtime renewal, the lights at the end of the long gray tunnel.
Going to games was fun, but if you couldn’t get tickets, listening to Niehaus’ play-by-play on the radio or television was equally exciting. In fact, some fans, such as my friend’s father, Jim Rasmussen, brought hand-held radios with headphones in order to listen to the commentary from the broadcast booth while seated at the stadium.
Niehaus had been with the team since its inception in 1977; he narrated the first pitch thrown in the now-defunct Kingdome, and 22 years later, in 1999, he threw the inaugural pitch at the opening of the new stadium, Safeco Field.
But the Hall of Fame broadcaster’s voice fell silent this week. Niehaus died Nov. 10 from a heart attack at the age of 75.
It was impossible to listen to a game he called and not feel joy, even when the Mariners were down and out. Niehaus had catch phrases that were as ubiquitous as “Who Dat” is in New Orleans.
“My, oh my!” was one of my favorites, as was “Fly away!” — his commentary on a baseball that had sailed beyond the outfield, into home run territory. Perhaps he was best-known for the phrase, “Get out the mustard and rye bread, Grandma! It’s grand salami time!” That was reserved for a rare and magical grand slam. His sweet sense of humor revealed his genuine kindness. Niehaus is to me what Buddy D. is to many of you.
Several years ago, my father, who researches the neurological disorder ALS, commonly known as Lou Gehrig’s disease, got to throw the first pitch at a Mariners game on Gehrig’s birthday. Afterward, Dad sat in the broadcast booth for the first few innings of the game, chatting with Niehaus during commercial breaks. Niehaus called him "Doc."
My dad recalls, "What I remember most of all was seeing what I would have thought was exactly what Niehaus was seeing. But listening to his broadcast, it was clear how little I really saw. Along this line, Niehaus said that of all the accolades he’d received, the one he valued the most was from the Society for the Blind – they said that [Niehaus] made them see."
Niehaus spoke of the players with an uncommon familiarity –– as if they were his sons. In fact, the city viewed him as a member of the family. So it’s no surprise that those who call Seattle home are mourning his unexpected death as they would a family member.
(Tribute to Dave on KOMO-TV News Channel 4 in Seattle here.)
I am mourning the loss down here, all 2,600 miles away. Oddly enough, this comes as the Saints gear up to play that other team from my hometown, the Seahawks.
Despite the fact that they are both port cities filled with wonderful people whom I love, Seattle and New Orleans don’t actually have a whole lot in common. Comparing the two metropolises is like comparing apples to oranges or even football with baseball.
Where we dovetail is the passion we have for our underdogs.
I grew up rooting for the underdog Mariners –– save for a few spectacular seasons in the ’90s –– so when I moved here eight years ago, I was entirely unsurprised to learn about Saints fans and their frenzied, if not seemingly futile, devotion. (Of course that dedication was rewarded on that magical February night when the Saints won the Super Bowl and Buddy D’s memory was honored by a parade of men wearing dresses.)
Because of the rollercoaster seasons, Mariners attendance figures could shrink as quickly as they could swell. To boost the morale of whatever crowd was there, a graphic of an animated Kingdome, its roof detached, would appear on the DiamondVision screen urging fans to “Raise the Roof!” or “Make Some Noise!”
It was shown after particularly bold moves — a double play, a home run, a strikeout — or during the times that lacked excitement, and I believed that graphic to be representative of reality. At a young age I would scream at the top of my lungs while I kept an eye on the roof. For many years, I thought it was actually possible for it to become detached from its foundation, bolstered by the sheer noise and enthusiasm from the fans inside. Needless to say, I never excelled in physics. But if there were one voice that could blow a roof off a joint, it would have been Niehaus’. His dedication resonated throughout the city of Seattle and beyond.
Tyler Kepner, a New York Times baseball blogger, recently wrote: "[The Mariners] tend to succeed when expectations are low and fail when fans get their hopes up. They have wondrous talent … with no World Series to show for it. But always, they have had Niehaus."
Indeed. Seattle always had Niehaus, and Niehaus always had faith. He taught us about loyalty and unconditional love.
Niehaus called more than 5,000 games and narrated countless hours of my childhood and teen years. Everyone I’ve spoken to back home has expressed the same sad sentiment: Seattle just won’t be the same without him. I hope they serve not just peanuts and cracker jacks in heaven but also rye bread, mustard and grand salamis.
Sarah Ravits grew up in the Seattle suburb of Mercer Island. While she still pledges loyalty to the Mariners, she has never been a Seahawks fan and will wear black and gold Sunday.