In his early days as a broadcaster in Atlanta, Skip Caray called to ask if Vince Dooley would be a guest on a WSB talk show. Almost in the same breath, he brought up a controversial incident, saying, “You know I will have to ask him about that.”
It wasn’t Skip’s nature to avoid any issues when it came to his on-air work. At the outset of his Atlanta career when he hosted his talk show, he demonstrated overt impatience with callers who appeared incapable of intelligent questioning and the many who just wanted to air their opinions. If you tendered a foolish question, he had no reluctance to expose the “fool on the air.”
While he had the ability to dismiss a caller with thoughtless conversational baggage by articulating an exit with smooth aplomb, more often than not he refused to grant such consideration. His personality cried out for an intelligent question. If you had insight, a poignant view—and particularly if you had a clever offering—he had time for you.
Over dinner one night, he noted that if the money weren’t good, he would not spend his time “talking to idiots.” After dinner, at which the alcohol flowed freely, we drove to his favorite watering hole. When I expressed concern about being stopped by the police, he said. “I won’t ever be arrested in this town.”
This was the early seventies when he had become one of the most popular sports figures in Atlanta. He was in everybody’s ear in the spring and summer with WSB’s clear-channel signal beaming the Braves broadcast throughout the southeast and into the hinterlands. Even though the Braves often struggled, they were an immensely popular attraction in Atlanta and the state. Skip’s voice made him the best-known Brave of all, and while he enjoyed his work and appreciated his celebrity, he never took himself seriously.
“Did you here the one about . . .?” was a conversational starter created for Skip Caray, and I suspect that in the hours leading up to his death on Sunday, he had a wisecrack about something before succumbing to the Grim Reaper. The last time I saw him—in the press box at Turner Field at a game in early summer—he had a couple of one-liners that caustically put down a couple of senseless politicians. Skip was good at such banter and repartee. He never met a good story he didn’t like. He might say, “I like that one. I’ll give you credit the first couple of times I use it. After that, I will claim authorship.”
One spring, he called and announced that he had a future broadcaster who was interested in enrolling at Georgia. Typical of Skip, he began the conversation by asking, “Do you have any professors over there who know anything about journalism?” His son Chip enrolled at Georgia and eventually worked big-league games with both his grandfather, Harry Caray, and his dad. Chip’s sister, Shayelyn, also enrolled in Athens and lived with us for a quarter. Josh, Skip’s youngest, has always been a Bulldog fan.
Once on a spring weekend in Chicago, I asked Skip if he would arrange for me to sit in Harry’s booth for a Cubs doubleheader. “We can make an exception for anyone who has been nice to my grandchildren,” was Harry’s reply to Skip’s request.
It doesn’t matter how successful or well-known you are, what parents and grandparents most often appreciate is a favor extended to their offspring. Skip, like Harry, was no different.
I liked Skip’s caustic commentary, his enduring irreverence, and his off-the-wall style. He could match wits with the best of cynics and critics, but he cared deeply about his friends and family. He was a robust man with a robust heart. How regrettable that it gave out on him when there were so many games left.
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