He was the voice of summer.
For the first 27 1/2 seasons of the Blue Jays鈥 existence, Tom Cheek was the one constant. He was there every day, 4,306 regular-season games in a row, plus spring training, all-star games and playoffs, that familiar baritone that even now makes one think of sunshine, warmth and, probably, Joe Carter.
鈥淭ouch 鈥檈m all, Joe, you鈥檒l never hit a bigger home run in your life鈥 is most definitely Cheek鈥檚 most famous call. Completely unscripted, and born of the fact that after Carter鈥檚 World Series-winning three-run homer disappeared over the left-field fence on that October night in 1993, Cheek watched Carter begin to leap around the basepaths in utter ecstasy and was worried that the Jays鈥 slugger might jump over a base during his 360-foot trip.
But Cheek was so much more than that one call. He provided a window, often the only one, into Jays games before the days of nightly highlight shows and daily television broadcasts. Remember, in the early years of the franchise games were only televised on Wednesday nights and Sunday afternoons.
鈥淭om sounded like baseball,鈥 said Nelson Millman, who started as the program director for sports at what was then the Telemedia Radio Network in 1992, and remained with The FAN 1430 and then 590 as grand pooh-bah until 2010.
鈥(Cheek鈥檚) use of the English language to describe the happenings on the field and, more importantly, to weave stories through the broadcast connected with fans at an emotional level. He was comfortable to listen to and gave each game life, to those who were listening. He allowed us all to bring our imagination to following the Jays.鈥
Millman also hired me, and gave me the honour of joining that crew for the 2002 season. Having the opportunity to sit between Cheek and Jerry Howarth for the 2 1/2 years that we had Tom were the most special, meaningful and memorable ones of my career. With all due respect to everyone else I worked with in over three decades in broadcasting, I never had a greater teacher, mentor or champion than Tom Cheek.
Which was a surprise, because Cheek was a pretty intimidating guy for many reasons. First, he was an icon, a broadcasting legend. I can鈥檛 remember how many times, as a grade-schooler, I went to sleep with his voice in my ear coming from a speaker I鈥檇 hidden under my pillow. But also, he was a presence, a big guy with a booming voice. You always knew when Tom Cheek was in a room.
The first time I brought my daughter into the broadcast booth, she was about a year and a half old, Cheek turned around, stood up and with a huge smile on his face gave her a big 鈥渉ello鈥 鈥 and scared the living daylights out of her. She went running into my arms crying from the sound of this giant man鈥檚 booming voice.
But a gentle giant he was. And so kind. Of everything I remember about Tom Cheek, his kindness and humility stand out the most to me.
The first time I stepped into a Jays broadcast booth, it was at Fenway Park for the 2002 season opener. I expected to be sitting up on the second level, with the broadcast engineer, and used to relay out-of-town scores and commercial reads back and forth between him and the announcers, but instead I was seated in the front row, with Cheek to my left and Howarth on my right.
Right before we went to air, Cheek turned to me 鈥 some kid he barely knew 鈥 and said, 鈥淚f you鈥檝e got something to say, say it. The mics are always open.鈥
I didn鈥檛 really say anything, except for an occasional out-of-town score, until the ninth inning when the Red Sox brought in Ugueth Urbina to pitch. I knew that Urbina was the only big-leaguer in history with the initials U.U.U. and that he also had a brother with the same initials, so I told that story on air and Cheek, thankfully, enjoyed it.
Once, at a nondescript spring training game that was rained out, Spencer Fordin, who was covering it for , was finishing up his work and brought his young sister up from the stands to the press box to wait until he was done. One of the press box attendants insisted that she be removed, since she didn’t have a press pass, and sent back out into the pouring rain. Cheek overheard the argument and told her that she could sit with us in the broadcast booth while we wrapped up the game and signed off.
As for his humility, for one thing, Cheek honestly didn鈥檛 think his streak was a big deal. He broadcast every single Blue Jays game for over 27 years, from the first ever on April 7, 1977 until June 3, 2004, when he missed a game in Oakland to attend his father鈥檚 funeral. A week and a half later, on his 65th birthday, he was recovering from surgery to remove a cancerous brain tumour.
Later in the 2004 season, when Cheek was well enough to come back and broadcast home games, the Jays honoured him with Tom Cheek Day, an honour he felt he didn鈥檛 deserve. We were sitting in the dugout before the game and he looked up, saw there was a curtain draped over a section of the Level of Excellence and realized that they were going to put his name up there. His reaction was genuine disbelief.
鈥淵ou have got to be kidding me,鈥 he repeated, over and over, as it began to sink in.
He was besieged by well-wishers after the ceremony, and neither he nor Howarth had made it back to the booth by the time the game started, so I had to call it on my own. They both returned during the top of the first, and Cheek insisted I finish it. When we went to break, I told Tom to get back on the mic and he refused. He said that since I started the inning, I should do the whole thing. Reed Johnson led off the bottom of the first and gave me my first big-league home run to call.
The last time Cheek was in the booth was opening day 2005, when he joined Howarth and Warren Sawkiw at Tropicana Field in St. Petersburg, Fla., close to his home in Oldsmar, and Jerry insisted he get on the mic and call a few pitches. Reluctantly he agreed, and took over as Orlando Hudson came to the plate in the top of the third. Hudson homered, and so did Vernon Wells behind him, and that was enough for Cheek.
The next season, in the Jays鈥 first game after Cheek passed away, Bengie Molina hit an opening day home run that sailed into the 400 level, passing directly over Cheek鈥檚 name on the Level of Excellence. When I told Molina the significance of where he had hit that home run, he got chills.
This is the first spring since Cheek passed away that I haven鈥檛 been in the broadcast booth. Nobody will be, with the radio booth sitting empty this season, but Tom would be comforted to know that even without a dedicated broadcast, his great friend Buck Martinez鈥檚 call will be heard on the airwaves along with Dan Shulman, the best in the business and someone who, like so many of us, grew up listening to Tom.
It鈥檚 also the first spring since then that I haven鈥檛 been able to go down and visit Tom鈥檚 grave, wipe the fallen leaves off his bench, stare out at the pond and thank him again for everything he was to me. To tell him that I hope I鈥檓 continuing to make him proud and how much I miss him.
How much we all miss him.
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