Nothing Was Sacred During Murray’s Stint as Cubs’ Harry for Day

Leading off for the Expos today will be Casey Candaele. Well, he’s no good. . . .

Wallach’s under it and makes the catch. Too bad he didn’t fall down....

Is this that terrible Foley up again? Hey, Foley! Foley! Strike out, Foley! I hate everything you stand for!

--BILL MURRAY, Cub broadcaster

After spending nine innings near or next to designated meatball Bill Murray in WGN’s TV-radio booth at Wrigley Field, a worn-out Steve Stone turned to Murray and said, “Bill, I think you’ve revolutionized play-by-play.”

Some baseball broadcasters are so smart. Some are so nice. Some are so dull.

Murray must be the first one who ever leaned out of the booth and screamed at the batter, “Do you still beat your wife?”

Every bit as loony and almost as toony as he was in movies such as “Ghostbusters,” “Stripes” and “Tootsie,” Murray worked a Cub-Expo game last weekend as part of WGN’s Harry for a Day project, with celebrities filling in for regular announcer Harry Caray, who is still in Palm Springs recuperating from a stroke.

Caray, who spoke on the phone with Murray during the game, is targeting May 19 for his return to the Cub booth. In the meantime, pinch-talkers ranging from sportscaster Bob Costas to political columnist George Will to “Cheers” bar star George Wendt have been manning a mike.

Even Harry’s son, Skip, did it one day. There was no family resemblance, though, considering the fact that Skip does not wear Linda Ellerbee-sized glasses or have a voice that sounds as though he just swallowed a pail of sand.

From the time WGN became a nationwide cable network, baseball lovers around the country have been exposed to Harry Caray. The ones accustomed to gentle, articulate men such as Vin Scully in Los Angeles or Ernie Harwell in Detroit found Harry to be too loud, too rowdy and too interested in welcoming somebody named Wanda from Waukegan.

In and around Chicago, though, where Harry was often the most interesting thing at the park, some listeners still consider the Scully-Harwell types to be white-bread boring. They miss Harry’s butterfly net and bad singing. And, let’s be honest, the livelihoods of several bartenders depend on Harry’s return.

Bill Murray, born and raised near Chicago, alumnus of the Second City comedy troupe, has a lot of Harry Caray in him, which might not be an accident. He is a big, eager, scraggly, sloppy, friendly sheepdog. He is loud and a little obnoxious, but good obnoxious, not bad obnoxious. There is such a thing.

As Harry for a Day, Murray had more fun than he ever had watching Sigourney Weaver or Dustin Hoffman slip out of a dress.

He heard some fans yell up to the booth, and said: “Nice to see the gang from Joliet maximum security prison here today.” He took exception to a call by the plate umpire, and said: “What’s with that crazy Eric Gregg? Where’s he staying? What hotel’s he at?” He was pleased by pitcher Rick Sutcliffe’s success in the game, because: “Frankly, he owes me money.”

Murray also mouthed every sportscasting cliche he had ever heard, then turned it inside out. Such as:

--When Montreal pitcher Floyd Youmans was ejected for arguing a call: “You hate to see that sort of thing happen, especially when we’re hitting him so well.”

--When Chicago outfielder Chico Walker took a big cut and missed: “He was trying to tie up this game with one swing of the bat, which isn’t easy when your team is winning, 7-0.”

--When an Expo grounded out: “That play went 6-3, for all you people scoring at home. How many of you people are scoring at home? Is anybody scoring at home?”

He said so many of the things you had wanted baseball broadcasters to say for so long.

He wasn’t a subtle “homer” for the home team; he was a shameless one. He wasn’t programmed; he was spontaneous. He wasn’t responsible; he was ridiculous.

Maybe an everyday announcer couldn’t get away with this stuff. Maybe some Expo would excuse himself, march upstairs and wrap that microphone cord around his throat.

Tim Wallach probably laughed hardest when he heard things like: “Here’s a stupid single to center by Wallach. Boy, I hate this guy. He always hits the Cubs.”

But how would Jeff Reed have reacted to a regular broadcaster who, with the bases loaded, stuck his head out of the booth and hollered at the batter’s box: “Hey, Reed! Do you still beat your wife? Huh? Do you?”

Even Murray’s mother, Lucille, wasn’t spared. When she visited the booth for a few minutes, Bill accused her of being out in the parking lot stealing hub caps, and said just because she had spent 35 years raising nine kids was no reason for her to think that she could quit her job scrubbing floors.

At that point, Steve Stone, the regular partner of Harry Caray, looked at Mrs. Murray and asked: “Was Bill raised by wolves?”

It was either a new high or new low in sportscasting, depending on your taste. But speaking as someone who will never be this funny, never be Murray for a Day, TV baseball will never get any better.

Speaking of which:

Get better, Harry.