SCOTT SIMON, HOST:
Bob Greenberg died this week, at the age of 67. He was a sportscaster who happened to be blind, and when I've told people he's one of the most extraordinary people I've ever worked with, there's usually polite incomprehension. A blind sportscaster?
Bob worked for WBEZ in Chicago, and he could be cranky, blustery and loud. But it was a marvel to watch him work. A helper would read box scores to him every day and Bob would pound a Braille keyboard to punch them into cards. If a football player caught a pass, Bob would rifle through his cards like a riverboat gambler, find the dots and stats he wanted, and announce: That's the third fourth-down pass Baschnagel has caught this year.
In the early 1980s, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar could be little sullen with reporters. After a hard game on a cold night, the press cornered him in the locker room, barking questions. He turned with a cold stare and saw Bob Greenberg, dressed in rumpled, ill-buttoned clothes, holding a white cane and a microphone.
How'd you get here? Kareem asked. Not hard, said Bob, who then explained how he knew the exact number of steps to bring him to the Lake Street L Station; how he felt for the right combination of coins to put in the turnstile; and then the number of steps to take along West Madison to Chicago Stadium.
Maybe that's why I can remember so many stats about the game, Bob said. Abdul-Jabbar paused to take that in and finally replied: Ask your question, sir.
Athletes often disdain reporters as snoops and second-guessers who couldn't catch a ball that's laid in their lap. But Kareem saw Bob Greenberg and seemed to think, you've worked hard to get here, too.
I don't recall Bob saying there was anything he couldn't figure out how to do because he was blind. But I came to feel that that having to count and calculate most every step, every day of your life, could make any man a little cranky.
Bob told me once that over the years, he had painted in his mind's eye what most every play in sports, indeed, what most every item on Earth - from beetles to roses to whales - looked like. But he said he couldn't quite see home runs. They had a distinct sound: the single stroke of the bat, the crowd's hopes and cheers rising as the ball sailed into the stands, or just fell into a long, dismaying out. I sure wish I could see that, Bob said.
Alfonso Soriano of the Cubs hit a home run out of Wrigley Field yesterday. I like to think Bob saw it.
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SIMON: And you're listening to NPR News.
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