Heeeeere’s Uecker! : Mr. Baseball Has Done More With a .200 Lifetime Batting Average Than Anyone

Bob Uecker is a guy who would casually eat a sandwich while his house was burning or change radio stations while his car was plummeting over a cliff or raise the sail while his boat was sinking.

Wrong? What’s wrong?

If your name is Robert George Uecker, nothing is wrong. Ever.

This man can be locked out of a saloon, stranded in an upper deck or mired on the bottom of a pond--and everything is beautiful. If Uecker had been manager of the St. Louis Cardinals, he would have given umpire Don Denkinger a box of chocolates and a bouquet of flowers.

“Everything is always great,” he insists. “No matter how bad everything might be, everything is super.”

Huh?

In a capsule, that is the philosophy of life for a man who parlayed a .200 career batting average into a fortune. The fool frowns and the fox laughs.

Invariably, Bob Uecker is the butt of Bob Uecker’s humor. Rodney Dangerfield has built a career on his plaintive quest for respect. Uecker does not get any respect either, but he breezes blithely through life, oblivious to ill-fortune.

Take, for example, Bob Uecker Studios. I took a tour one day this week--and it didn’t take long.

You wondered about the San Marcos dateline? That is where Uecker’s “studios” were located this week while he was taping segments of The Wacky World of Sports.

“And now,” chanted a bevy of enchanting young lasses, “from the Bob Uecker Studios in the middle of nowhere, from the show that asks itself the question, ‘Why did we hire Bob Uecker?’ . . . “

Our hero was finally introduced, bounding onto the set with that “Must-Be-in-the- Front- Row” grin. Balloons and confetti flew through the air and a band played.

It was as if Johnny Carson had been introduced. Almost. Maybe not even almost.

Bob Uecker was standing in the middle of an athletic field at San Marcos High School. Rows of tract houses lined the bluff above the field and the auto shop was in the background.

Only Bob Uecker could revel in such good fortune.

Uecker’s “set” was a parody of Carson’s, a desk and chair with a couch nearby. Introductions were handled by San Marcos cheerleaders rather than Ed McMahon, and the music was played by the San Marcos band. The “studio audience” was populated by whatever students happened to have a physical education class that particular hour.

It was hardly Hollywood, but Uecker loved it as only he could.

Poor Uecker couldn’t even get any respect in his own studios. Two San Marcos football players, Jim Terral and Todd Roth, crashed the set and collided at his feet.

Uecker: “Coupla guys from home ec.”

A golf ball landed at his feet and Ron Layton and Ken Broach, a couple of San Marcos coaches, played through.

Uecker: “Hole’s only a mile down the road.”

What’s a minor interruption? On with the show.

When Uecker tried to get into a monologue, Mario Lira and Danny Karrer kept blowing their trumpets and Billie Porit kept banging her cymbals. Obviously, they loved him too much to stop.

And now, a blushing Uecker was explaining how the cheerleaders had put together a routine in his honor. He would just have to let them do their thing, love being what it is.

“Everyone say Garvey . . . good!” they yelled. “Everyone say Uecker . . . ugh!”

“I don’t really like Garvey either,” the oblivious Uecker smiled. “I’m sure they have another cheer . . . “

“What do you say,” the cheerleaders cheered, “take Bob away . . . “

Uecker, of course, thought it was all wonderful. How could anything be anything but wonderful?

Meanwhile, for all the respect he was getting center stage, he was getting less behind the portable bleachers. Numerous students, taking advantage of the break, were sprawled out either doing their homework or sunning. So what if a star of such magnitude was shining only a few feet away?

It could have been that they had become blase about such goings on. Because the production company headquarters at the nearby La Costa resort, San Marcos High School has entertained visiting celebrities such as Willis Reed, Duke Snider, Bob Gibson, Pete Rose, Walt Frazier, Brooks Robinson, Frank Robinson, Bruce Jenner, Wilma Rudolph, Michael Jordan and Willie Stargell.

And, now, the biggest name of all: Bob Uecker.

“Who’s Bob Uecker?” a girl asked.

“You don’t know Bob Uecker?” her flabbergasted boyfriend answered.

“I don’t watch television,” she said. “I don’t know who Bob Uecker is.”

Far from the impromptu set, about a half-dozen students stood or sat atop the bluff which overlooked the athletic field. Layton, the baseball coach, laughed.

“Those kids,” he said, “must have gotten their tickets from Uecker.”

Poor Uecker. When it was time for a break, there was nowhere to go. Bob Uecker did not have a fancy trailer nearby with a star on the door. Even Rodney Dangerfield would have that.

Uecker leaned against a van while swarms of youngsters lined up for autographs. This was a busy man, what with commercials for beer, hotels, service stations and paint and the Mr. Belvedere television series, Milwaukee Brewer broadcasts and The Wacky World of Sports.

“I enjoy doing everything I do,” he said. “If I didn’t enjoy it, I wouldn’t do it. I don’t need any time off. This isn’t a bad way to make a living. Doing it for laughs.”

Uecker probably signed more autographs this one day than he did in his entire major league career, such as it was. He signed little scraps of paper, $1 bills, $5 bills, textbooks, an arm, a hand and even a balloon.

“Could you sign this to Rick?” a girl asked. “It’s for my teacher. It’s worth 10 points on my grade.”

Bob Uecker smiled obligingly. Certainly, he would sign for Rick. I kept waiting for the other shoe to fall. I kept waiting for the girl to tell him her teacher had given her 50 points for Michael Jordan’s autograph. She missed her cue.

One of the “studio” go-fers asked him if he would like to get in out of the sun and away from the autograph hunters, but Uecker declined. This was what fame was all about.

And Bob Uecker is about as famous these days as anyone who has ever played the game of baseball. You might recall, in fact, that one of the television networks conducted one of those phone-in polls, asking the question: “Should Bob Uecker be in the Hall of Fame?”

“The response was amazing,” Uecker said. “There were something like 280,000 calls and 84% said, ‘Yes, I belong.’ But it was all a spoof.”

It may have been intended as a spoof, but maybe it should have been taken seriously. It is called the Hall of Fame, and “fame” indicates a state of being well-known rather than a level of skill. Bob Uecker qualifies.

The man should definitely have a plaque at the Hall of Fame. On the roof.