Larry Munson’s greatest call came when he was at the tender young age of 79.  Isn’t that an amazing stat?
 
Sometimes (or many times) I have trouble going through the Gwinnett Braves lineup on the radio without stumbling over names; and here he was, in October of 2001 bellowing out the legendary line.

Many things made that the seminal call in Munson’s career.  First, there was the hatred of Tennessee.  A trait cultivated in his years calling Vanderbilt games.  Secondly, there was the passion.  Munson’s passion was genuine, and we all knew there was nothing phony about his descriptions of UGA football.  His off-the-cuff style was never scripted.  Finally, Munson was left alone.  No one ever (to my knowledge) told Munson how they wanted a game done.  No one ever suggested a way for Munson to do play-by-play.  It was always his call. 

In 1990, my family arrived in Georgia from Connecticut.  One Saturday afternoon that year, I was driving around East Cobb running errands and tuned into WSB to catch the Dawgs’ game.

I could not believe what I was hearing.  I was pulled in.  In that short span, I became a UGA fan.  The drama, the panic, the emotion in his voice was contagious.  When I arrived home later that day, the conversation between me and my wife went something like this: 

“Have you ever heard Larry Munson call a Georgia football game?” I asked.

“No, you know I’m stuck here with five kids every day,” she snapped. “I don’t even have time to watch TV.  Why?”

“Well it’s one of the greatest things I’ve ever heard,” I replied.  “And I tell you, I had no idea where the ball was, but it didn’t matter.  It was incredible.”

Fast forward 10 years to 2002, I’m now with WSB, and get to work with Munson for the first time.  The man who is larger than life is a very down-to-earth easy going guy.  To this day, some of my best memories in broadcasting are the Friday nights before a Dawgs’ game on the road.   That is when the radio crew would go out to dinner with Munson.  His stories, his humor, his reaction to our lame attempts to entertain him have become memories that will never be wiped away.

Since Larry’s passing, the radio crew dinners have faded away.  It’s only proper.  They really were never “radio crew” dinners.  They were “Munson” dinners.

So every time we play Tennessee, the memories of Munson come rushing back stronger than ever.  It’s because of the famous “Hobnail Boot” call and also because I can still hear him say:  “That Tennessee orange on white makes it impossible for me to pick out the blankety-blank numbers on those blankety-blank ugly uniforms.”

Being able to work with Larry Munson, even though it was for a very short time near the end of his career,  is the highlight of mine.

Let’s hope we step on their face and break their nose again Saturday.  That would be the Munson way.