When I was little, I used to pretend to be Dave Niehaus. We all imagine ourselves as our favorite athletes from time to time. But rarely do we pay such homage to our favorite broadcasters. This broadcaster was just that special.
I remember sitting in my bedroom with the game on the radio, staring out from my second-story perch overlooking the driveway. I would pretend I was hovering over a baseball diamond from the omniscient expanse of the press box. The garbage cans were home plate. A balled-up fist propped against the windowsill served as my microphone. I would speak into my microphone, softly mimicking the call of my idol for no one to hear.