...a few ruminations on rebirth and the sanctification of an obscure Northern Ohio town.

F. Scott Fitzgerald is famous for saying that "...there are no second acts in American lives."   This is a wonderfully pithy line that is worthy of, well...F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Sadly, it is patently untrue.

I offer as "Exhibit A" my state of Texas.  Texas was created by a generation of giants.  Yet, interestingly, giants who had failed miserably prior to their arrival here.

Many of the men that died at the Alamo have been elevated to the stature of sainthood by Texas schoolchildren. However, many of them would have judged themselves as profound failures by their own standards.

Colonel Wm. Travis was a disgraced assistant school teacher/newspaper publisher who had failed in a series of endeavors in Alabama. He abandoned his shrewish wife, his son and his unborn daughter to go off to Texas to remake himself.

James Bowie was (to be gentle) a scoundrel.  He arrived in Texas one step ahead of his creditors in Louisiana.  When he lost his wife and children to cholera, he took to drinking and (according to his biographers) never took another sober breath.

And the father of all Texas icons, David Crockett, was a failed politician, author and businessman. As with all true Texans he arrived amidst a shattered love-life.  He looked at Texas as the place of his inevitable re-birth.  Every schoolboy in Texas can recite Crockett's admonition to the voters of Tennessee; "...you may all go to hell! ...And I will go to Texas!"

However, the most pivotal Texan of all was also the largest failure.  Sam Houston was a morose, self-destructive, dynamo of a man who lived too hard and loved too much.  Like Crockett, he was a failed politician and businessman.   Like Bowie, he was an inveterate drunk (...in the years that he lived with the Cherokee he was formally known by his Indian name as "The Raven" but more informally as "The Big Drunk.").  Like Travis he was a born leader who felt that his country owed his more.

Like all of them, Houston arrived in Texas chased by the memories of love gone wrong.  While our Texas forebearers may have come here for different reasons, they were, unanimously, chased here by women.

Yet, on December 10th, 1832, Sam Houston crossed the Red River into Texas for the very first time (...a dated commemorated much like Moses crossing the Red Sea or Caesar's crossing the Rubicon).  As he did, Sam smiled as he noticed a hawk circling directly overhead.  To the Cherokee (Sam's adopted nationality) this was an omen; a portent of great things to come.

Almost 150 years later, I followed.

True to form, I started my journey with my head held low and my tail tucked between my legs.  My departure (from the only home that I'd ever known) was indeed traumatic.  I had loaded my car with a dog, a cat, a few clothes, too many books and the only personal belonging that I deemed necessary to start life anew in a strange land: my coffee maker.  To ease my ennui, I listened to Chicago radio stations as I drove south; initially local rock and roll, and eventually monster AM mega-casters. Finally, I was relegated to listening to WGN radio (Chicago's version of vanilla for the ears).

Late on the first day of my trip, I listened to a panel discussion among various WGN sportscasters about the previous year in baseball and expectations for the Cubs in the season to come.  I was soothed by the dulcet tones of local Chicago icon, Milo Hamilton explaining how, finally, all of the planets had aligned and the next year would be "...THE YEAR!"  

(It should be noted that there are many who feel that the City of Chicago official seal should bear the phrase "Expect Insquequo Tunc Annus."   ...or "Wait until next year.")

The drive from Chicago to Houston is not made quickly.  I decided to spend the night just outside Texas, on the Arkansas-side of Texarkana.  Both literally and figuratively "...on the threshold of a new life."

Early the next morning, I gassed up my 1982 Ford Tempo (without a doubt the most pitiful automobile created by the hand of man), and entered into Texas.  Like Houston, I had come as a chrysallis, waiting to be reborn.

Early in my trip, I located a Houston-based AM station and decided to use it as my beacon home.  Mid-morning, the newscaster announced that the Houston Astros Baseball Club had a major announcement that was to be made at noon that day.

When noon finally arrived, the owner of The Astros stepped to the microphone and announced that, after strenuous negotiations, the ballclub had inked a major deal with a legendary player in the major league.  The newest employee of the Houston Astros would be ....Milo Hamilton.

While it wasn't quite the sighting of a hawk, I was relatively certain that this meant good things!  This move would turn out just fine.  To quote John Denver, "...coming home to a place I'd never been before!"

My youth was blessed with a cadre of men (...voices, actually) that have come to personify baseball both locally as well as nationally.  Men like Jack Brickhouse (a benign, melon-headed blowhard that personified the voice of the Chicago Cubs) and Bob Elston (the dean of Chicago broadcasters), who often sounded like he was broadcasting in his sleep.  Elston brought new meaning to the term "minimalist" while broadcasting my White Sox.  Once, as a boy, I turned on the radio in mid-game.  I waited thru inning after inning straining to hear a box score.  Nothing.  When I mentioned this to my grandmother, she smiled and said "That's 'cause they're losing. Losing bad.  And he doesn't want you to turn the radio off."

Yet, the undisputed voice of Chicago sports was Milo Hamilton.  Milo started his radio career doing live broadcasts in Iowa (much like an actor turned politician born in Tampico, Illinois).  However, due to his silky smooth voice and an infectious love of the game, Milo soon became the voice of both my Sox as well as that other North-side team.

When I left Chicago to go to college, Milo decided to go to Atlanta (where he eventually called Hank Aaron's 715th home run).  Yet, as soon as I returned home, Milo followed me back.

It should be noted that, much like the rest of us, Milo didn't come to Texas unscathed. He had been literally chased out of Chicago by another (notorious) baseball broadcaster; an extremely gifted announcer trapped in the body of an egotistical jerk.  He had determined that Chicago wasn't big enough for both of them.

For 28 years, Milo has served as my umbilical to days gone by.   His patented "Holy Toledo!" warcry brings back "...those thrilling days of yesteryear."  Pre-union, pre-steroid, pre-DH.  With his bad toupee, his garrish sports jackets, his oh-so-politically-correct views on everything and his blatent plugs for free meals from his sponsors, Milo was the distillation of (to use a loaded phase) "when it was a game."  

On September 26th, 2012, Milo called his last game as the voice of the Astros, and I, Toledo and baseball in general will be the lesser for his absence.

It is rumored that his heart isn't capable of making it through another season.  When Milo does face that final out and has to do his 10th Inning program from the big dugout in the sky, I hope St. Peter looks at Milo, slaps him on the back and quotes that other paragon of Chicago sports as he shouts "Hey, let's play two today!"