There are few people who are truly irreplaceable, at least professionally. Even if Uncle Jim is your favorite, the guys down at the pipe fitting plant can probably find someone else to do the job, even if s/he doesn't do it as well. Yes, it's sad when a favorite writer, actor, director, or artist passes on, because there won't be more of their work, but at least what already exists will continue to exist.
But Bob Sheppard was, and remains, truly irreplaceable. There won't be another one like him ever again, and that's a shame.
Sheppard, who passed away Sunday a few months short of his 100th birthday, was the public address announcer at Yankee Stadium (the real Yankee Stadium) for 56 years. Think about that--56 years. That's impressive enough even before you remember that George Steinbrenner once fired three managers in a single season, which lasts only six months.
Sheppard wasn't flashy and he wasn't entertaining. He was just really, really good at what he did. A teacher of speech and language, he made sure that every player's name he announced was pronounced perfectly. Not correctly; perfectly. When he introduced Jorge Posada (in his first game) as Jorge Pasado, Sheppard was mortified, apologized to the catcher the next day, and never repeated the mistake. When he saw a simple Anglo-Saxon name like Steve Sax, he was disappointed; there was no melody in that.
Nicknamed "the voice of God" by virtually everyone, Sheppard performed what seems like a simple job with class and precision, and paid attention to the details. He didn't "root for the home team" in his announcing; he didn't spice up the home players' names. He simply told his audience (whom he famously welcomed to Yankee Stadium before every game) who was batting, then went back to the book he was invariably reading between hitters. By all accounts, he bolted for home (surprisingly quickly for a man in his 90s) immediately after the last out was recorded.
But new Yankees--and opposing players coming to the Stadium for the first time--would wait to listen to Bob Sheppard introduce them. Many reported goosebumps. That didn't happen anywhere else.
At tomorrow's baseball All-Star Game (usually the snoriest night of the baseball season), there will be one genuine highlight. Sometime in 1997, when it was clear that Sheppard actually wouldn't last forever--the Yankees had just assumed he was immortal--Derek Jeter asked that a recording of the man introducing him be made, and that it be played in every game Jeter played for the Yankees, no matter how many years into the future that might take him. And in Anaheim tomorrow, when Jeter comes to bat in the bottom of the first inning, it will be Bob Sheppard who announces him. Good on you, Derek. You're a class act, too.
Mr. Sheppard, wherever you are or are not now, you will be sorely missed. Not many people are irreplaceable, or perhaps, every one of us is.
LP-to-Digital Conversion Project Update: James Taylor began the week. Now, since the earlier albums in Mr. Taylor's canon (his Apple album, Sweet Baby James, Mudslide Slim and the Blue Horizon) are already included in my CD collection, we skipped those, but still found some gems.
One Man Dog is not one of them. It should have been--James hanging out with some great musicians in a cabin, making music. But the songs (aside from One Man Parade and Don't Let Me Be Lonely Tonight) are uninspired, sort of like the work of a man shoehorning certain elements into his work to make it more commercial, and failing. Hmmm...
On the other hand, Gorilla is one of my more fondly remembered Taylor albums, and one I was really looking forward to in this project. It did not disappoint. Working with then-wife Carly Simon, friends like Graham Nash and David Crosby, Taylor produced a smooth, enjoyable work that maybe doesn't have the same painful heft of earlier (and some later) works, but sure does boast songs you want to hear more than once: Mexico, Lighthouse, the title song among others. If you haven't listened for a while, take a try. You'll smile.
By the same token, In The Pocket is trying a little too hard to make you smile, but JT is a very strong album that actually branches into a few musical styles and finds interesting lyrical points of view ("I'm just a bartender/and I don't like my work/but I don't mind the money at all"). And the find of the week might be Dad Loves His Work, an overlooked album that has some really interesting work (Hour That The Morning Comes, Stand and Fight) on it.
Following the most famous Taylor, because these records are being converted alphabetically by artist name, came Kate Taylor, who made a couple of really enjoyable albums with her older brother, and Livingston Taylor, whose lengthy career has included some strong albums (3-Way Mirror) and some slogging, but the occasional gem (Pajamas, Loving Be My New Horizon). Alas, I have no Alex or Hugh.
A collaboration between Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee provided some rollicking blues, but lasted only the one album, and now, we're on to Three Dog Night, which probably could have been limited to a greatest hits album without losing much (beyond their hilarious cover of Randy Newman's My Old Kentucky Home).
The stack is getting pretty short, friends, but then there are singles to be considered. Seven months in, we still have some time to go.
