There will never be another Marty Brennaman
My first memories of the great game of baseball date back to when I was a 7-year-old kid growing up in Reno. I barely remember Bob Robertson slugging a pair of home runs in a single game in the 1971 World Series for the Pittsburgh Pirates as they defeated the Baltimore Orioles. In ’72 my memory grows a little clearer as I remember listening to the great Al Michaels call Johnny Bench’s game-tying home run in the ninth inning and later calling George Foster scoring the winning run on a wild pitch as the Cincinnati Reds beat the Pirates to advance to the World Series. In the fall ...