Anyone Else Would Fall Short Too

Soon after I realized I wouldn’t be Magic Johnson, I wanted to be Chick Hearn.

Chick Hearn made the play-by-play job look like so much fun. It must have been, for him to keep doing it all of those years, through 3,338 consecutive games, and even after two major surgeries.

I set out on a path to Chick’s seat, but took a detour through the world of writing. During the last few years, it often struck me that it was a good decision because otherwise I’d still be waiting for him to vacate the Lakers’ play-by-play job.

In retrospect, I should have stuck with the more realistic goal of growing to be 6-feet-9. You’ve heard of players who were compared to Magic, but will anyone ever come close to duplicating Chick?

There’s more than just an open chair now. There’s a gaping hole in Lakerland.

The Lakers have been able to follow Wilt Chamberlain with Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and then Shaquille O’Neal. They’ve gone from Jerry West to Magic Johnson to Kobe Bryant. They’ll never replace Chick Hearn.

Looking back, the events of last season at least prepared us for the challenge. Chick missed 56 games after undergoing heart surgery in December. His return was delayed when he fell and needed hip replacement surgery in February.

We adjusted to the voice of Paul Sunderland in his absence. And even when Chick returned to the microphone on April 9, we braced for his possible retirement after the next season.

“You can’t go on forever,” his wife, Marge, said that night. “Everything comes to an end.”

Chick’s death concludes not only a chapter in L.A. Laker history, but an entire book. Volume I.

Before Fox Sports Net and its cable predecessor, Prime Ticket, existed, the way to catch Laker home games was to listen to Hearn on the radio. There were so many nights with the lights out, the clock radio on, Mom letting me stay up past bedtime through the end of the fourth quarter--because it was the Lakers and this was really important. If it was a dramatic game, the next day my friends braced themselves for my inevitable replay of Hearn’s call.

Like thousands of other Laker fans, during playoff games I turned down the sound on the CBS telecasts of postseason games and turned up Hearn on the radio. Even with the annoying background buzz on KLAC’s AM signal, Hearn still sounded better than CBS announcer Tom Heinsohn.

Listening to Laker broadcasts meant you never had to study the rules of the game because Chick taught you. He taught me the dimensions of the court. He taught me that the team that wins the opening tipoff will have possession to start the fourth quarter, that the losing team gets the ball to start the second and third quarters. He even made the complicated old illegal-defense rules sound simple when he described a player in violation: “He was guarding the paint, and it’s not going anywhere. It’s dry.”

Every time I see a shot bounce off the rim and over the backboard, I hear Chick saying, “Up and over and out.”

Think of how challenging it must have been to verbally illustrate some of Magic’s passes. But did you ever feel shortchanged when Hearn described them?

Didn’t you feel as if you knew exactly what was happening when Kareem Abdul-Jabbar would swing left, shoot right to unleash his skyhook? Or when Hearn took you step by step through Jamaal Wilkes’ funky jump shot: “He sets ... he fires ... he gets!”?

And, of course, he provided the two perfect words to describe one of the most exciting plays in sports: “Slammmmm dunk!”

He certified good Laker victories, because if the Lakers could meet his demanding standards, they must have played well. And at the most agonizing times, he still held out glimmers of hope. I might have jumped off my friend’s balcony after the Lakers had lost Game 7 of the ’84 NBA Finals in Boston if Chick hadn’t reminded everyone in the waning moments of the game that the sun would still be shining the next day and life would go on.

When Mom took me to my first Laker game as a sixth-grader, I was so excited that we entered the Forum as soon as they opened the doors. Long before the first player came out to practice, Chick was at his customary seat--high above the western sideline--preparing for the game, going through imaginary play-by-play out loud.

During a break, he let me come up to the booth and he signed my program. He was nice to me then, he was nice to me whenever we talked these last five years I’ve been working at The Times. No one ever gave me more compliments on my writing.

I saw him often throughout the playoffs. He might have looked frail, he might have needed help to get around the arena, but I never thought about what a remarkable feat it was for him to be there. It seemed normal. If there’s a Laker game, you need a basketball, referees and Chick Hearn.

It didn’t seem as if an era had ended when he gave up the microphone in December because you always had the sense he’d be back. Even when the bad news came over the weekend, I refused to write him off. No one could close the refrigerator door except Hearn or a higher power--and I’m not talking about the Laker chain of command.

So now Chick takes his seat next to Jim Murray along the heavenly press row, while the rest of us struggle to find the right words to describe someone who used them so deftly.

Our condolences to Marge, whom we got to know through Chick’s frequent mentions during his broadcasts, a woman who is even nicer in person.

What else can we do? Here’s one small suggestion: Before they raise the newest championship banner on Oct. 29, the Lakers should retire Hearn’s jersey--No. 3,338.

He called the Lakers’ victory in Game 4 of the NBA Finals, so he should be a part of the ceremony. Let’s be glad he came back for one last playoff run, and that the Lakers took care of business so that Volume I could end the way it should have. Chick Hearn goes out a winner.

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J.A. Adande can be reached at: j.a.adande@latimes.com.