Putting the 'ahhh' in analysis

By WILL GRAVES
Naples Daily News

The Fort Myers Miracle dubbed it "Awful Night," an evening to celebrate the worst of everything.

Signs on the concourse at Hammond Stadium during the Miracle's game against the Sarasota Reds on Thursday night highlighted things like "the 10 worst television shows for children." A couple of Miracle employees made like your Uncle Burt, wearing Bermuda shorts, black socks and sandals. A seventh-inning promotion gave away a trip to the Museum of Bad Art in Boston, airfare and accommodations not included.

No wonder I fit right in.

To be honest, I thought I was doing Miracle play-by-play announcer Sean Aronson a favor when I convinced him to let me sit in for a night and add a little harmony to his one-man show.

Sean's in his third season calling all 140 games for the Minnesota Twins' Florida State League affiliate, and I figured talking to yourself for 1,260 innings a year would drive you crazy after a while. Look what it's done to Lou Pinella.

Besides, I promised Sean I'd fawn over him constantly during the broadcast so he'd look good. After all, he is the greatest baseball announcer of all time.

I did my homework. I checked on Thursday morning to see if the Miracle actually had a game that night (they did) and if I could use my press pass to get out of paying the $3 parking fee (I could).

I can't say I actually studied the teams themselves. I mean, what's the point? The lineup cards are right in front of you, and besides, don't the Miracle still have that Joe Mauer kid?

To be polite, I asked Miracle manager Riccardo Ingram for some advice. He told me not to panic if things started happening too quickly.

"Just go 'Ahhhh'," Ingram said.

If only I were that eloquent.

Over the course of my nearly five hours on the air, I produced a mind-boggling array of "Oohs," "Whoas" and "Uhhs" that probably made the audience wonder when Rain Man had stumbled into the booth.

If I wasn't talking over Sean, I was butchering a player's name or offending the people listening over the Internet with semi-profane rants between innings.

Despite my bumblings, Sean was great. He told me to "paint a picture" of the game. I did.

Only I was finger-painting.

My play-by-play sounded something like this: "here's the 2-1. Swing and uh, ahh, fly to deep, I mean shallow right. The right fielder, whose name I don't know, is under it to make the catch. There goes the uh, side. Heading to the top of the sixth, er, seventh and the Miracle trail 6-2. I want my mommy."

And when I wasn't stammering, plugging my column or just making up statistics — did you know Sarasota's Javon Moran already has 50 steals this year? Neither did he — I was, and this might be the worst part of it, a "homer."

I may as well have had a Miracle cap on my head and been curled up in assistant general manager Andrew Seymour's lap. Down to the last strike, I kept hoping for that late rally that would end with a dramatic walk-off blast.

I can just hear my call now:

"Ahhhhhhh!!!!"