The simultaneous discovery of four activities back in junior-high days had a major effect on me. The first three arose together: discovering hot tea, eating toasted, buttered English muffins, and watching professional basketball games on television.

None of these actions sounds impressive to modern sensibilities. But growing up in Roanoke, Virginia where all tea was iced and bread was loaf-shaped and puffy, I felt like an adult as I watched steam from a cup of Lipton’s curl above those butter-fragrant rounds of dense bread.

So how did basketball get on the menu? I honestly don’t know, except that it was a great era for the sport (recall names like Wilt Chamberlain, Bill Russell, and John Havlicek). The game seemed so snazzy, barely resembling what my classmates did in gym classes. And while I marveled that my mother let me steal so much time from practicing and studying, the experience of viewing those games on Sunday afternoons, nestled in a high-backed rocking chair with a TV tray holding my snacks, marked the height of sophistication!

Oh how I sighed and cried when my Boston Celtics—or whichever team was behind—would lose. Amid such histrionics, I developed an unfortunate habit of being unable to tolerate suspense in a sporting event. To this day, I leave the room, pacing the corridor while sending up fervent pleas until the score is decided.

Meanwhile, I mentioned four activities. The fourth ended up having the biggest impact: listening to games on the radio.

It was the era of the cheap transistor radios. These became a favorite toy of my father who admired their technology and doled them out to any friend lacking one. Daddy twisted the dial to find country music from Nashville, while I sought any channel broadcasting a game. For some reason, I became a huge fan of the University of Alabama’s football team, coached by the legendary Paul “Bear” Bryant and led, then (1962-65), by quarterback Steve Sloan.

These were halcyon days for Alabama football. Sloan, who started his college career as backup to a fellow named Joe Namath, caught my imagination to a degree hard to explain. Based on hearing his field actions called on the radio, I decided I was in love with him.

What could have sparked such adolescent feelings of passion? Was it the game? Perhaps. But the real cause of my fascination lay in the narrative woven by the ‘Bama broadcaster. Gradually I realized that I didn’t care which sport I listened to. What I wanted was a master broadcaster’s magical narrative. Enhanced by the atmospheric sounds of the crowd, radio broadcasters of this golden era knew how to relay not just action, but a captivating story: the setting, the mood, the players, the coaches, and the emotional stakes undergirding each game. Call it “story-hour for grown-ups,” if you please.

One thing is for sure: the talent of these broadcasters made them bigger legends than the players and coaches . . . which brings me to the point of my essay today! Apparently, the costs of maintaining separate personnel to narrate the games strictly for radio has become a disincentive for some teams. Who listens to radio anyway, some head-honcho figures, when TV, cable, and on-line options are so prolific?

Well, a lot of people listen to radio, but far fewer will do so if the trend of scrapping the powerful radio narratives in favor of the bland commentary used for televised games continues. The captivating skills of radio broadcasting are unique to the medium: through the voice of a talented radio broadcaster, a game moves completely into the listener’s imagination.

I was reminded of all this by Jerry Wilson’s article Baseball on the Radio and the Lost Art of Listening:

You don’t see the center fielder chasing down a fly ball, yet you do. You don’t see the fastball just catching the outside corner for a called strike, yet you do. A well-called ballgame allows you to make the game your own, something no television broadcast can ever accomplish.

With each passing year, we are less and less a listening culture. Our society neither values nor develops the auditory capacities inherent in every hearing child. Instead, our societal experience abounds in the visual (pan to the sad image of a one-year-old with her sensitive little eyes glued to a mother’s cell phone). Everything has to flash and flicker. The attention span of this screen generation already measures in seconds, not minutes.

Worst of all, children raised on screens absorb the message that virtual life is better than real events. The last 14 months of virus shut-down have done nothing but exacerbate the problem.

In this audience, many of you adore and consume audio books. You also take time to listen to great music (compositions which tend to last longer than three minutes!). You embrace podcasts produced by the best speakers and institutions. And, best of all, you expose your children to the highest quality of audio resources such as Jim Weiss’s library of magnificent recordings and age-appropriate versions of complex works like the Iliad and Odyssey. In short, you value the cognitive and spiritual value of what has been called the “Theater of the Mind.”

So, enjoy Jerry Wilson’s short lament on this subject. Then, if you’ve never experienced the intimacy of hearing a game on the radio, give it a try. Take the lights down, brew some tea, toast some English muffins, and let the announcer’s voice take over. Or, if you’re wired more like me, brew your tea, turn up the speakers, and run all over the house, taking care of tasks while your mind follows the narrative. See if you don’t find yourself sitting on the edge of those bleachers, tallying each play in your imagination, invigorated by the experience.