The Reckoning

It was ladies' day at Ebbets Field--a warm, lazy, Brooklyn afternoon. The Dodgers led the Cubs, 2-0. Behind the chicken wire in the WHN radio box, Red Barber gabbled easily: "It's a long line drive down center field, folks ... Jeffcoat's under it ... It's a long one ... AND, he has it! Two outs, Robinson at bat ..."

Two innings later, Barber jumped from his seat, hurried through another box, wriggled into the CBS booth and sat down before another microphone. This time his pitch was different: "That's Pafko at bat, folks . . . Big, strong boy, isn't he? ... Fairly exudes strength. Those hands of his are full of calluses. And you know where he got 'em? Milking cows . . ." Next to Barber, two television cameras stared down at the diamond and told the rest of the story.

Ignore & Be Ignored. The Old Redhead is having a chance that most baseball commentators would give their eye teeth to get. On every broadcast from Ebbets Field this season, he squeezes in two TV innings (the fifth and sixth) between his regular broadcasts. It was a painless way to make a painful transition, and Red was making the most of it. Had he plunged completely into TV, he would have lost, at least for a while, a lot of his $35,000 yearly radio salary. If he ignored TV altogether, it might ignore him.

To an old baseball expert like Red (whose pinkish curls are gradually vanishing), television is no threat. But he thinks it will be fatal for many a flashy but inexpert radio announcer: "Radio demands a fellow with a fluency of words and just a smattering of the game. He can get around the ticklish spots . . . fence around until a decision comes through. But in television, you've got to be able to tell them what happens when it's happening."

Already some playful television owners have developed a new parlor trick: tuning the TV soundtrack out, and turning on the radio play-by-play to enjoy the radio announcer's slips.

Old Troupers' Day. TV's Cyclops Eye will put the Indian sign on other radio people, too: the soap opera "stock company" of 40-odd actors who make a fat living, dividing up some 200 roles; the greying juveniles, and the plump, sweet-voiced heroines. "I can think of several top comics who won't last five minutes," says Phil Baker. He added hopefully: "In the end, only the old troupers with stage experience -- like Benny, Allen, Durante--and myself--will make the grade."

Added one television program director: "The 45-year-old woman who imitates babies is done for. Anybody who don't 'look the part--out. Anybody who can't memorize lines, can't cover up--all out. It's gonna be like Hollywood when the soundtrack came in. John Gilberts and Billie Doves in reverse. There's gonna be a lotta broken hearts around here."

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