No Bitterness in Herb Score

Terry Pluto: No bitterness in Herb Score
by Terry Pluto Plain Dealer Columnist

Thursday November 13, 2008, 11:05 PM

It was a hot spring- training day in Tucson, Ariz., about 25 years ago when Herb Score and I were talking about a pitcher who had said he planned to quit near the prime of his career.
"I think you should play until they tear the uniform off your back and tell you that you can't play anymore," said the Indians' broadcaster. "That's what I did."

It happened in 1963, when he was at Class AAA Indianapolis. He was still trying to come back from an eye injury -- that resulted from a line drive off the bat of Gil McDougald on May 7, 1957 -- and later, arm problems.

Score told me, "There's nothing better than playing."

He quickly said he was grateful to be the Indians' radio voice. He said in some ways, the injuries that cut his playing career short at age 30 became a blessing because it opened a door to broadcasting.

"I've done this longer than I ever could have played," he said of what became his 34 years on air.
When Score died Tuesday at the age of 75, I thought of his dignity and patience. I thought of the times he signed autograph after autograph. I thought of how he was asked thousands of times, "How's the eye?"

"Fine," Score would say, often with a smile.

Or sometimes, a fan would say, "It's too bad about the eye, you could have been one of the great ones."

The former Indians pitcher would politely thank the fan.

It seemed as if he had separated himself from the injuries, that he didn't realize what was lost. In his first two Tribe seasons, he had a 36-19 record and led the American League in strikeouts.
Yes, Score knew how good he was at age 23, and how he was destined for greatness. But he rarely talked about his own career, except to make fun of his problems as a hitter. If pushed, he'd insist that it was elbow problems -- not the eye injury -- that ended his career. Being a man meant dealing with the cards life dealt.

It meant doing your job and not whining. It meant dressing well, as he always did with sharp suits, and every hair on his head seemed in place and never needed to be cut. It meant being a class act, as men of his generation would say.

On the air, Score seldom criticized players or managers. But he was a close friend of several Tribe managers and front-office types. They felt free to tell him their frustrations and dreams, and Score never broke a confidence, never engaged in trashy gossip.

General managers such as Gabe Paul and Phil Seghi asked his opinions on players, and Score had strong ones. He didn't express them on the air, but he did in private to those with the Indians who wanted to know.

I had a taste of that side of Score just once, when mentioning a Tribe pitcher whom I thought was having a good season.

Score stopped me and said, "Unless your ERA is under 3.00, you really are not doing your job."
He then backed off a bit, saying that was how the great ones from his era performed, and the game had changed.

At the time of this conversation, I was in my middle 20s, a baseball writer for The Plain Dealer. Score supplied the soundtrack for the Indian summers of my youth. My father spoke reverently about how Score would have been a Hall of Fame pitcher.

I was always somewhat awed how Score treated me as a peer, how he always remembered my wife and asked about Roberta by name. I remember how Score could have could have been bitter, but instead, he made all of us who spent time with him better for it

Herb Score Dies at 75

Herb Score's life in baseball was a combination of tragedy and success.

Score died Tuesday morning at age 75 at his home in Rocky River after a lengthy illness, the Indians confirmed.

He was a brilliant Tribe pitcher whose baseball career virtually was ended at age 23 when he was hit in the right eye by a line drive off the bat of Gil McDougald of the New York Yankees on May7, 1957.

Then he became a Cleveland sportscasting institution, calling Indians games on radio and television for 34 years, longer than anybody else in the city's baseball history.
He gained a loyal following, although he did not have the greatest voice or elocution. He was like a favorite uncle who talked baseball.

"For me, broadcasting the game is like sitting in the stands talking to the fellow sitting next to me," he said.

Still, to those who had seen his talent on the mound, it was comparable to Napoleon becoming a war correspondent.

"He was a great pitcher," said his close friend, former Indians right fielder Rocky Colavito from his home in Bernville, Pa. "He had a chance at becoming as good a lefty as there ever was. He had that kind of stuff. He had hard knocks, but he never complained. You had to respect him for that. I loved him like a brother."

"[Hall of Fame hitter] Ted Williams said he had the best fastball of any left-hander he ever faced," the late Ken Coleman, a onetime Indians sportscaster, once said from his home outside Boston.

When Score stepped on the Cleveland Municipal Stadium pitching mound on the night that changed his life, he appeared to be headed for baseball greatness.

ROOKIE OF THE YEAR

The lefty was the American League Rookie of the Year in 1955, when he won 16 and lost 10 for the Indians. Score received 18 of the 24 votes from the voters. "It's the biggest thrill of my life," he said. "I'm deeply honored."

He had struck out 245 batters, a rookie record that stood for 29 years, until Dwight Gooden broke it with the New York Mets in an era of wild swingers. He was the first first-year pitcher to reach 200 since Grover Cleveland Alexander did it 44 years earlier.

The next year he was even better, going 20-9 and leading the league in strikeouts for the second straight year. Some observers said his fastball was the equal of Hall of Famer Bob Feller, the Clevelander who was considered the hardest thrower of his time. He also had a fine curve.
"They didn't have a radar gun then to measure speed," Colavito said. "But I think he threw 100 miles an hour."

Colavito compared Score with Sandy Koufax, considered by many to be the best lefty in modern baseball history. "Koufax didn't win 20 until he was 27," Colavito said. "Herb did it at 23."
Score projected an image of immense force on the mound. He seemed to throw a baseball that was as heavy as a rock.

He was showered with compliments from everywhere and everyone.

"If nothing happens to this kid, he's going to be one of the best who ever pitched," said former Indians hero Tris Speaker, player/manager on Cleveland's 1920 world champions.
"You took one look at him and you had one thought: Hall of Fame," McDougald said.

RED SOX BID
In spring training of 1957, the Boston Red Sox offered to buy Score for $1 million, an astronomical sum at a time when entire ball clubs were being sold for $4 million.

"We wouldn't sell him for $2 million," said then-Indians General Manager Hank Greenberg.
Al Lopez, who managed the Indians in Score's first two seasons, had a frightening prediction for opponents. "Wait until he puts on some weight," he said. "He'll get even better." The 6-2 youngster was still only about 185 pounds.

It all came apart on that fateful night in 1957, when Score pitched against the Yankees. He had beaten the world champions three times in a row dating back to the previous season, making them look like helpless beginners, even with Hall of Famers Mickey Mantle and Yogi Berra in the lineup.

McDougald, the second batter of the game, reached for a low pitch and lined it back at Score. The ball crashed into his face, breaking his nose, cutting his right eyelid and causing swelling and hemorrhaging of the cheekbone and eyebrow.

Third baseman Al Smith picked up the carom and threw McDougald out at first.
Score was knocked to the ground, bleeding profusely. He was immediately surrounded by teammates and Yankees players.

"I didn't see the ball until it was a foot or two from my face," said Score, who threw with an uninhibited motion in which his body turned his back to the batter. Sometimes he turned so hard he expected that he might eventually get hit on the back.

"I could feel the blood," said the pitcher, who never lost consciousness. "People were all around me. Rocky must have set a record getting in from right field." Colavito was Score's roommate and best friend. They had come up through the minor leagues together.

Teammate Vic Wertz, playing first base, rushed over, then retreated when he saw the blood.
"Everybody was shoving towels at me," Score said. "I even got one in the mouth. I almost choked on it."

Score remained surprisingly calm. Minutes after the accident, he joked to good friend Mike "Big Bear" Garcia, an Indians pitcher, "Well, Bear, you can't say I didn't keep my eye on the ball."
Score was sitting on a trainers table in the Indians clubhouse when Colavito peeked in to see how he was doing. "What are you doing here?" the pitcher said. "Get out there and get me a couple of base hits."

HOSPITALIZED

Score was taken to Lakeside Hospital, his head wrapped in bandages as though he had suffered a war wound. He felt numb at the hospital. "I didn't hurt much, but I didn't sleep much," he told The Plain Dealer.

He listened to most of the game on radio as Bob Lemon came in to pitch a 2-1 victory over the Yankees. Lemon had been given as much time as he needed to warm up after the mishap.
It was not the first time Score had suffered a serious injury. When he was 3 years old, he was hit by a bakery truck, and both legs were nearly crushed above the knees. It was feared he might never walk, but he recovered.

He had severe cases of pneumonia, rheumatic fever and appendicitis as a youngster. When he was in the minors he suffered a broken ankle and dislocated collarbone.

Score was kept in a darkened room at the hospital. "He amazes me with his courage," said Greenberg. "His spirits are certainly good."

McDougald, who was in tears after the game, tried to see him the next day, along with teammates Berra and Hank Bauer, but the hospital did not permit visitors.

There were fears Score might be blinded in the right eye. Dr. Charles I. Thomas, a Cleveland eye specialist, offered hope that would not happen. "He has light perception," the doctor said.
From then on, there was constant newspaper speculation on Score's possible return to pitching. One optimistic report said he would be back on July 15. But he still had a problem with depth perception. He could not tell if a ball was three or 30 feet away.

After a few months, the Indians said Score would be out the rest of the year.
He and Nancy had planned to be married at the end of the season. With baseball out of the picture, they wed in midseason. The couple settled in Rocky River and eventually had four children, Judy, Mary, Susan and David.

Score, looking ahead to 1958, exercised to stay in shape. He played racquetball with good friend Coleman, who defeated the pitcher at first. "When he began to beat me, I knew he was over the hump," Coleman said. "He hit the ball so hard he broke one in half."

Score returned to the mound with much fanfare in '58, but he had only a 2-2 record when he was put on the disabled list with a sore elbow on July 18. "There's two years shot," he said ruefully.

CHANGED MOTION

Joe Gordon, the new Indians manager, speculated that Score was unconsciously favoring his arm. In later years, McDougald and Lemon both said that Score had changed his pitching motion. They felt he was recoiling, not following through with the abandon of old.

Score always maintained that the McDougald accident had nothing to do with his decline. He attributed his problem to the sore arm.

He still could summon the old brilliance from time to time. Gordon started him in the 1959 home opener, and Score beat Detroit, 8-1, getting 19 outs in a row and striking out nine.

"He looks like my stopper," Gordon said.

Score managed to win nine games and lose five before the All Star break that year, but he was not pitching with the old dominance. He did not win another game that season, finishing 9-11 as the Indians wound up second.

On April 18, 1960, a day after he traded fan idol Colavito, General Manager Frank Lane sent Score to the Chicago White Sox for pitcher Barry Latman.

Score could not find the answers in Chicago, going 5-10 in 1960. The last victory of his career came in early 1961, when he hurled a magnificent game against the Indians, throwing a two-hitter and striking out 13 at Comiskey Park.

Then, the old problems returned. Lopez, now the White Sox leader, optioned him to San Diego of the Pacific Coast League. "Tell me, Al," said Score. "Do you think I should quit?"

"There's nothing wrong with you," Lopez replied. "You're not as fast as you used to be, but you're still faster than most, and you have a better curve than most pitchers. But you're not getting the ball over." He had 24 walks in 24 innings, along with a 6.66 earned-run average.
In 1963, Score was pitching for Indianapolis, an Indians farm team, when Indians General Manager Gabe Paul told the popular Coleman to choose between working Tribe games or Browns games. Coleman had been calling the games of both teams for 10 years, but Paul disliked seeing Coleman miss an Indians game because the Browns were playing the same day.
Coleman chose the Browns, and an Indians TV job opened up.

Paul presented Indians publicist Nate Wallack with a list of potential candidates to replace Coleman. Wallack looked at the list and said, "There's one fellow you haven't thought of, and I think he'd ring the bell. Herb Score."

Paul immediately agreed.

Late in September 1963, Score teamed with veteran Bob Neal on two Indians telecasts. They were widely regarded as a 1964 tryout for Score, then 30.

"This is a fine opportunity," he said. "I've always wanted to stay in baseball when my playing ended, and I'd like nothing better than to stay in Cleveland."

It was the start of a broadcasting career that made him a Cleveland fixture for more than three decades. Score was paired with Neal on TV in 1964, then with Harry Jones for three years. In 1968, he joined Neal on radio, replacing legendary Jimmy Dudley.

Score worked on radio for the rest of his career, partnering with Neal (1968-72), Joe Tait (1973-79), Nev Chandler (1980-84), Steve Lamar (1985-87), Paul Olden (1988-89) and Tom Hamilton (1990-97.)

"I'm lucky to have worked with pros who never tried to show up my lack of professional polish," Score said. "They fed me the right lines and taught me."

Neal, one of the great sportscasting talents in Cleveland history, advised him, "You're never going to please everybody. If you can please 50 percent, you're in good shape."
Score would get plenty of mail from listeners. "One listener will say you root too much," he said in 1974. "The next one will say you praise the visiting team too much. The main thing is to be myself."

EXCITED ANNOUNCER

Score's assets were his intelligence, good taste and enthusiasm. Even when the Indians were in their depths in the 1970s, he would get excited about games and good plays. "I don't like to make fun of a player or knock a player," he said. "But if I feel he should have made a catch, I'll say so."
Indians infielder Buddy Bell made a classic quote on Score in 1977. "Herb is such a nice guy, he probably makes his bed in his hotel room in the morning," Bell said.

To Score, the games were everything. "I don't like to talk too much," he said. "Fans want to know about the game, not what you did in the afternoon." He listed Cleveland pitcher Lenny Barker's perfect game in 1981 as his most memorable broadcast.

Score liked to joke about himself, recalling that when he first started broadcasting, he took diction lessons to smooth out his New York accent and pronunciation. He was advised to listen to a tape of himself. He did and promptly fell asleep.

He thoroughly enjoyed his job. "When I go to the Happy Hunting Ground, I hope I go from here," he said in 1977. "I hope this job lasts forever."

Score refused to feel sorry for himself and disliked sympathetic articles that pictured him as a victim because of McDougald's liner. "I'm a lucky fellow," he said. "I'm glad God gave me the ability to throw a baseball well for a few years. That drive could have killed me."

The solitude of the road suited him. "If we have an off-day, it's nothing for me to go to my room and read all day," he said. "After a game, I often go to the room and read." His favorite authors were Robert Ludlum and Sidney Sheldon.

He enjoyed the restaurants around the league. "That's why I run," he said. "So I can eat all I want." Score jogged about four miles a day, five times a week. He would usually do his running early in the morning, while others on the team were still asleep.

Until he was in his 40s, he often pitched batting practice to the Indians. "I'm a great BP pitcher," he said. "Now I realize I was throwing BP the last few years of my career."

Score almost lost his job in 1973, when team owner Nick Mileti announced he wanted a complete change of announcers. When it was learned Score might go off the air, Mileti was deluged with angry mail. "I never realized Herb had such a following," Mileti said, signing him to a new contract.

The Plain Dealer said listening to Score was like listening to an old friend

HERB'S ERRORS

As the years went on, his fans savored Score's occasional mistakes, such as the time he shouted, "It's a long drive. Is it fair? Is it foul? It is." When you are speaking a million words a season, you are bound to make an error from time to time

Sometimes he would forget what park he was in. After all, they are basically alike. "Hi, everybody," he said once. "This is Herb Score coming to you from Milwaukee County Stadium." A silence followed, in which it was obvious someone was correcting him.

"What," exclaimed Score, "Oh, Chicago's Comiskey Park. No wait a minute. I'll get this right. Kansas City's Royals Stadium."

Then there was the time he said at the end of an inning, "Two runs, three hits, one error, and after three, we're still scoreless."

Score's youngest daughter, Susan, who had Down syndrome, died in 1994 of heart problems. She had been in supportive living arrangements since infancy, and Score became a strong advocate and fund-raiser for one such facility, Our Lady of the Wayside.

Score retired at 64, after the Indians lost the World Series to Florida in 1997. "It's just time," he said. He almost never came to Jacobs Field, now Progressive Field, after that. He had been with the Indians, as a player or announcer, for almost 6,000 games.

CAR ACCIDENT

On Oct. 8, 1998, Score was almost killed in a car accident. He had been inducted into the Broadcasting Hall of Fame the previous night in Akron, then left the hotel early that morning to drive to Florida. He was alone in his Buick Riviera when he pulled into the path of a tractor-trailer in New Philadelphia, about 80 miles south of Cleveland.

The news report said he suffered bruises to the brain and lungs, face cuts, a broken bone above an eye and three broken ribs. He was unconscious and put on a ventilator. He was pronounced in critical but stable condition at Aultman Hospital, Canton.

Score was inducted into the Press Club of Cleveland Journalism Hall of Fame the next month, but could not attend the ceremony. He recovered in time to throw out the first pitch of the Indians home season in April 1999. He was being treated by a speech therapist at the time. In 2000 he had hip replacement surgery. In 2002 he was still taking physical therapy.

Bud Shaw: Indians broadcaster Herb Score was Cleveland baseball
by Bud Shaw/Plain Dealer Columnist
Tuesday November 11, 2008, 7:22 PM

Herb Score's voice was a whisper the last time I saw him. He needed a walker to get around. His legs were a mosaic of bruises and blotches.

"I'm lucky," he said that July day in 2006, a week before he would make his final public appearance at Jacobs Field.

He didn't mean lucky to have had a brilliant-if-brief major-league career or lucky for 34 years in the Indians' broadcast booth. Or lucky for the coming induction in the Cleveland Indians Hall of Fame with his great friend and old roommate, Rocky Colavito.

He glanced toward the door where his wife, Nancy, was greeting a visitor.
"Lucky to have Nancy?" I asked.
He nodded.

Herb Score's strength was his faith and family, for sure. But it was also his vision. He never looked back, especially not to ask, "Why me?" during a difficult, sometimes hellish, final decade of his life.

The man who symbolized Indians baseball for so many years when everything else about the team changed except its record of futility died at home early Tuesday with his wife and family at his side. He was 75.

"A great example of how to live your life," Tom Hamilton said Tuesday of his friend and former broadcast partner. "When I think of how he treated me -- I mean here was this baseball icon stuck with this dumb farm boy from Wisconsin -- and he made me feel comfortable from Day 1. . . . For 30 years, he was the best thing about Indians baseball."

Score never saw it that way. He didn't understand why showing up every day to do your job was such a big deal, particularly his job.

"I don't look upon this as work," he said when he announced in 1997 that he would retire after the season.

It's why the first spring training game he announced hardly sounded different than the last game he did, the crushing Game 7 loss to the Marlins in the '97 World Series.

He did his first TV game in 1964, moved to radio in 1968, missed one -- one -- game between then and 1994 when the passing of his daughter, Susan, forced his absence from the booth. His motto: Fans should remember what happened in the game, not what he said.

"It was never about him," said Hamilton. "And in our business, that's quite an exception."

Remembering the game and not something Score said wasn't always cut and dried. There were so many nondescript games until the Indians changed the culture of a city beginning in 1994. And, well, he had his memorable broadcast moments, too.

His bloopers became terms of endearment with fans, in a sense strengthening his connection with listeners. With Score, it was easy to forgive a botched call -- "Is it fair? Is it foul? It is!"

So many players came and went. Referring to Indians reliever Efrain Valdez one time as Efrem Zimbalist Jr. (the star of the TV show "The F.B.I."), well, you try keeping them all straight.
The even-keeled Score and the emotional Hamilton made perfect partners for eight seasons.

Everyone, Hamilton included, was rooting for Score as the magic of the 1997 postseason unfolded. He deserved to see a World Series champ. The Indians would return a contender in 1998, no matter what happened. Score would not be back.

"The only time I saw a different Herb was when Tony Fernandez hit that home run against Baltimore," Hamilton said of the 11th-inning home run in the '97 ALCS. "Herb got up out of his chair when he made that call. You knew then how much that must've meant."

Listeners didn't see that. But they heard it in Score's voice when he said, "The Indians are going to the World Series." And they couldn't possibly have minded the pause and the clarification that was necessary since the Orioles had one final at-bat remaining: "Maybe."

They did go. And when that trip ended in disappointment, Score didn't show his. Just like always, he ended his part of the final broadcast by throwing it to Hamilton for the postgame wrapup.

That was that. No sappy remembrances. No suggestion that he had left any bigger tracks behind as an intimate guest in the living room of Indians fans for three decades than a summer temp might've.

We know the difference even if he didn't. Hamilton says he doesn't believe Score ever really understood how much people respected him and adored him. A generation of Indians fans knew him as one of the greatest pitching talents in baseball history, the American League Rookie of the Year in 1955 whose rookie strikeout mark (245) stood until the New York Mets' Dwight Gooden came along in 1984.

The affection came in part from seeing his career viciously interrupted by the line drive off the bat of the New York Yankees' Gil McDougald in 1957 that nearly blinded Score. But it also stemmed from how he never wallowed in self-pity. Not then. Not after a car accident that nearly killed him in 1998.

The last decade of his life was filled with unrelenting challenges.

The accident. A stroke. Surgery. Staph infection. A bout with pneumonia. And the extended hospital stay that preceded his death Tuesday. It was difficult to watch for those who loved him, and everyone who knew him loved him.

Even those who knew the voice better than they knew the man appreciated his understated class and his knowledge of the game.

In 1995, when the Indians were clearly ending decades of ineptitude with a truly special season, legendary Detroit Tigers broadcaster Ernie Harwell said, "Herb deserves this."
"I don't deserve it," Score said when told of Harwell's words. "The city deserves it."
It was a small quibble. Cleveland baseball. Herb Score. Same thing.

Top Five Herb Score Memories - Bill Livingston

Herb was the "Voice of the Indians" on either TV or radio from1964-97. He didn't sing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" like Harry Caray or cry "How about that?" like Mel Allen. He didn't root like Phil Rizzuto and he never quoted from the "Song of Solomon" about the "Song of the Turtle(dove)" like Ernie Harwell. But the Old Lefthander taught us a thing or two about the game and left us with a thousand or two great memories.

5. Listening to Herbie, you never knew if the Indians were winning or losing. He never screamed, "The Indians win the pennant!" (even when they did, twice). He never let the team's 41 years in the wilderness or the losing get him down. Herbie knew you played to win the game, each day, every day, with a purity of effort and tightness of focus, long before Herm Edwards made that a rallying cry in the NFL.

4. He was the voice of summer in Northeast Ohio. Through all the player trades, the failed saviors, the under-funded owners, Score was always there, the soothing voice of a franchise that was fortunate to associate with him.

3. He knew the game. Whenever a controversy arose or a rhubarb broke out, Herbie was quick to tell us what it was all about.

2. He never blamed the end of his career on his eye injury, or the arm he hurt after he came back. "I lost my job because I quit pitching well," he said.

1. Herb never forgot how hard the game is to play. It was a rare and especially egregious blunder that would cause Score to criticize a player on the air.

Ten Inexactly Expressed Sentiments from Herb Score

Then again, he wouldn't be Herbie without the head-scratching malapropisms and endearing vagueness.

10. Herb often had trouble distinguishing between Oakland platoon catchers Mickey Tettleton and Terry Steinbach. During one game when the former was at bat, Herb called him "Mickey Tettlebach."

9. Carl Yastrzemski came to bat in his last game at Fenway Park against the Tribe in 1983, moving Herb to say: "A standing ovation here from the fans in Baltimore for their hero." Then he added: "Yaz played 23 years for the Orioles."

8. Once during the days when Score partnered in the booth with Steve Lamarr, Herb ended a broadcast with: "This is Steve Lamarr, signing off for Herb Score. Good night, Tribe fans."

7. When a player was on a hot hitting streak, Herb said: "He is 24 for his last 49, and even I know that is over .500."

6. With the Indians leading Baltimore, three-games-to-two and the sixth game in extra innings in the 1997 ALCS, Tony Fernandez homered in the top of the 11th inning to give the Tribe a 1-0 lead. Said Score: "And the Indians are going to the World Series - maybe!"

5. When a pitcher was working from the stretch, Score offered: "The pitcher checks the runner on first. I beg your pardon, there is no runner on first."

4. On a double down the line, Herb said: "It's fair. It's foul. It is."

3. With Esteban Yan warming up, Herb identified him as "Ron Jantz" (pronounced, Yontz), a local weekend sports anchor.

2. With Efrain Valdez stalking in from the bullpen, Score identified him as "Efrem Zimbalist Jr."

1. This one requires a little backstory: The Indians, who had played in Kansas City the night before, were in Milwaukee, and next were headed for Boston. After a night of conviviality that included a libation or two with old friends but no sleep, Score arrived in the booth feeling well south of the fair-weather line. Partner Nev Chandler did the first inning, in which the Royals took a 2-0 lead. A game, but outgunned Herbie, called a six-pitch Tribe top of the second, the brevity of which kept him from getting into any rhythm. He then said: "And, after one-and-a-half innings, the score is: Kansas City two, Indians nothing."

A check of the outfield revealed no waterfall behind the center field fence, so Score nimbly recovered and said: "I beg your pardon. We are not in Kansas City. We are in Boston. And the score is: Red Sox two, Tribe nothing." A further check of the surroundings revealed no Green Monster in left.

"What city are we in, Nev?" asked Herbie, amiably.

"Milwaukee, Herb," Chandler replied, sotto voce.

"And the score is: Brewers two, Tribe nothing," Score concluded triumphantly.
When the Indians returned home at the end of the road trip, General Manager Phil Seghi asked Chandler before the game: "Does Herb know he's in Cleveland?"

Cleveland Indians broadcaster Tom Hamilton says Herb Score was "a great partner"
by Paul Hoynes

There were 20 seconds left in the timeout between innings during the 1997 Indians season. Herb Score turned to his partner, Tom Hamilton, and said, 'Oh, by the way, Tom, this is going to be my last year.' "

With that, Herb Score put on his headset, looked down on the field and told the radio audience, "Here's the wind and the pitch. . ."

Hamilton laughed about that because it was so typical of Score, the longtime Indians broadcaster who died Tuesday morning at his Rocky River home. He was 75.

No muss, no fuss, just get on with the game.

"He was the most unpretentious person I've ever known," said Hamilton. "It was never about Herbie. It was always about the game."

Score and Hamilton did the Indians radio broadcasts together from 1990 through 1997, the year Score retired. Hamilton moved into Score's chair after that.

"We couldn't have been more polar opposites," said Hamilton. "He was sophisticated and had been in the big leagues forever. I was a dumb farm boy from Wisconsin, who had worked his way to Columbus. But he treated me as an equal even though I was never on his level.

"I'm sure there were plenty of times he wanted to wring my neck for something I said in the booth, but he never criticized me. He was very subtle when he gave you advice."

When Hamilton went to spring training in Tucson, Ariz., to cover the Indians in 1990, he thought they were going to take the American League by storm. Hard to blame him because he'd never been to a big-league camp before.

Halfway through spring training, Score talked to him.
"Herb tells me, 'Look, this isn't a very good team, but you can't let that affect how you do a ball game,' said Hamilton. "Every game has to be treated equally.' It was the best advice I've ever gotten.

"It's easy to broadcast for a team that's going to win 100 games and go to the World Series. But if you listened to Herb, there was no difference in the way he did games in 1990 than in 1995 when we reached the World Series. Herbie felt that you treated every game as equally as possible because that night you could see something you've never seen before."

The 1990 Indians, for the record, went 77-85.

Four teams now call Tucson home for spring training. When the Indians trained there, they were the only one. It made for a lot of long rides to Phoenix and beyond to play Cactus League games.
Hamilton was a frequent passenger of Score's.

"That's because Herbie got the (rental) car and I didn't," laughed Hamilton.
During the drives, Score listened to Frank Sinatra, much to Hamilton's dismay.

"I think I know every word to every Frank Sinatra song there is," said Hamilton. "I even started to like him. I think Herb may have done that just so he wouldn't have had to listen to me."
Hamilton knew he was working with a Cleveland legend. Score was the AL Rookie of the Year for the Indians in 1955. He just wasn't sure Score knew.

"For so long, until we got good in 1994, Herb was the best thing the Indians had going," said Hamilton. "He was the one constant. Owners, general managers and players all came and went. Herbie never left. He was a star here, and he stayed here. That's why he was such an icon, but he never sought that out.

"He was a great partner. I felt very lucky to get the Indians job, but I never realized how lucky I was to have Herbie as a partner. He was a great teacher and mentor."

Hamilton said he learned something about baseball every day working with Score.
"I can't tell you how many times writers would come into the booth and say, 'What was that all about, Herbie?' " said Hamilton. "He usually knew what was going to happen two innings before it happened.

"He never pontificated about it in the booth, but he knew the game so well. I think he could have been a general manager, or anything he wanted to be in the game."

Hamilton stayed close to Score and his family after his retirement. In 1998, Score was almost killed in a car accident and never fully recovered.

Early Tuesday morning, Hamilton received a call from Score's wife, Nancy, telling him that Herb had died.

"To me, Herb and Nancy epitomized grace and style," said Hamilton. "They'd walk into a room, and every head would turn. Just a tremendous family."

Tuesday November 11, 2008, 5:38 PM