 |
| Jack Whitaker / 1924-2019 |
I spent some quiet time Monday morning reflecting upon the life of legendary sports broadcaster Jack Whitaker, known for his eloquent commentaries, who passed away Sunday at age 95. What a wonderful life Whitaker lived crafting broadcast essays about sports, inspired by writers he admired like Alastair Cooke and Heywood Hale Broun. You have to be of a certain age to remember these masters of the writing craft – and I am of that certain age.
Born and raised in Philadelphia, where he got his broadcasting start after graduating from St. Joseph’s College, Whitaker was a decorated veteran of World War II, fighting in the Normandy Campaign and was wounded by an artillery strike. He went on to a career as a sportscaster with both CBS and ABC.
Whitaker was regarded as “The Talking Head” of sports – long before David Byrne ran with the moniker and named his American rock band The Talking Heads. He broadcast football, golf and horse racing, among many sports. “I know that I’m regarded as The Talking Head,” he once told Sports Illustrated during a 1977 interview. “I’d like to be exactly that and say something that people will remember or get excited about. I’d like to bring sports into the thinking process.”
 |
| Jack Whitaker |
On the eve of the Kentucky Derby horse race one year, Whitaker waxed poetically about the mood and feeling of one of America’s most iconic sporting events: “America never looks better than on a spring afternoon at the horse farms around Lexington.
“The bluegrass fields and limestone-permeated water has given strength to 81 Derby winners. Just up the road is Churchill Downs in the city of Louisville. In Louisville, America thrives. It was here that Americans discovered how to blend golden corn, barley, malt and rye into bourbon whiskey. It was here that baseball’s National League was founded and where they still make the famous Louisville sluggers. And it was in Louisville that the Kentucky Derby thrived and grew into something beyond a horse race.”
In perusing Whitaker’s obituary in Monday’s print edition of The New York Times, I learned that he “reserved his greatest passion for golf,“ and loved to weave historical imagery into his accounts.
For instance, in commenting about the British Open at Troon, Scotland, for ABC’s World News Tonight in 1982, he spoke:
“Through all the years, the British Open has changed very little. The biggest addition has been the tented city, looking like Henry V’s camp at the Battle of Agincourt. Here you can buy among other things lawn mowers, cashmere sweaters and Champagne, which is replacing tea as Britain’s national beverage. But basically the British Open is the same as it was in 1860 when they first played it down the road at Prestwick. Playing in the British Open is like reading American history at Independence Hall or studying opera at La Scala. It’s golf at its most simple, its most pure, its most magnificent.“
Rest in peace, Jack Whitaker. You shared a marvelous passion for sports with us for many years. I’ll remember what you said once about the sport of golf that you loved so much: “Golf accommodates itself anywhere. It travels better than Beaujolais. Golf is the most moveable feast of all.”
