I am watching the Twins/Royals game tonight on the KC feed and an unfamiliar voice is doing the color. Denny Matthews is doing the game and throws it to Paul and it does not even sound close to what he sounded like before. Very weird.
Splittorff hopes infection won’t keep his voice off the air much longer
By BILL REITER
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Splittorff hopes infection won’t keep his voice off the air much longer
By BILL REITER
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<TABLE><TBODY></TBODY></TABLE>Paul Splittorff found a seat in the empty broadcast booth and, lowering himself into it, allowed a thin smile to cross his lips.
Yes, this sure felt right.
Having been sidelined since opening day because of an infection that has robbed him of his announcer’s voice, the 62-year-old former pitcher and longtime Royals television analyst found himself just where he belonged Thursday: in the booth, looking down on a bursting Kauffman Stadium and a Royals team about to extend its winning streak to six games, even if he wasn’t yet able to announce again.
That moment, he hopes, will happen around June 1.
“The biggest problem is, I don’t want to be detached from the team,” he said.
That’s not quite true. Although Splittorff is quick to deflect any attention away from his illness, which has distorted his speech, and his subsequent absence from the booth, the very fact he hasn’t lent his voice to the Royals’ hot start is very much an issue in Kansas City.
Friends and fans who have grown accustomed to listening to his voice feel a sense of anxiety as they wonder when Splittorff will return and why he has been gone so long.
“I want him back,” Chris Gross, 31, said before the game. “Frank (White)’s been doing a good job, but Splitt’s Splitt. It’s not the same without him. Tell him to get better and get back soon. We miss him.”
This is just what Splittorff hoped to avoid. It’s why, when he realized what he says is a viral infection was affecting his voice, his first instinct was to step away from broadcasting. It’s why it took countless strangers cornering him at gas stations and grocery stores to convince him to talk.
It’s why, even here, sitting in the comfort of the K, he’s uneasy elaborating about how it feels to be forced into silence after spending the past 22 years as one of the voices of his team.
“I didn’t want to be the story, or a story,” he said. “I wanted to cover the story — this team.”
It all started at Christmas with a tickle in his throat, and it turned out the virus that had found him was stronger than most. It made his voice heavy and thick, with a sick sound so amplified by an announcer’s microphone that his voice is nearly inaudible on the air.
He says the virus — with a name he says he can’t remember or pronounce — is just that: Something keeping him from being on air, yes, but nothing life-threatening or all that worrisome.
Whatever it is, it grew worse in mid-March, when he had a setback, one he could feel inside him. A specialist told him another infection — this one bacterial — had set in.
“I asked her, ‘Is this normal?’ ” he said. “She said, ‘It happens.’ She didn’t say it happens a lot.”
Still, he hoped to carry on as if nothing were wrong. He loves the booth, loves the game it keeps him connected to, loves the team he’s spent much of his adult life either playing or calling games for.
But the moment he showed up in Chicago to broadcast opening day, it was clear something was wrong.
“When I first saw him, and all the weight he’d lost, I was really concerned,” said Ryan Lefebvre, the Royals’ play-by-play announcer and Splittorff’s partner. “He assured me he was fine, so we did the game on opening day.”
He wasn’t fine. Though it was hard for Lefebvre to hear sitting next to him — as it was hard to hear in Splittorff’s voice Thursday — the microphone picked up and amplified the problem. By the time the game was over, it was clear this wasn’t going to work.
Splittorff decided to step aside until his voice was better.
“I was disappointed,” he said.
For 24 hours he wanted to be alone. He drove home from Chicago to Kansas City, the long trip offering what he needed.
He hoped his departure would be a quiet one. He wanted none of the worry or attention that comes with the voice of a team going mute. He wanted to drift into anonymity until he could step back in just as unnoticed.
Fat chance.
People did worry, the way they do when they’ve grown attached to your voice over 22 years. It is an intimate thing, being broadcast into folks’ homes and lives game after game, year after year, a fact only compounded by the fact Splittorff pitched for the Royals for more than 13 years before heading to the booth.
“He’s the winningest pitcher in Royals history, and he has a tremendous baseball mind,” Royals general manager Dayton Moore said. “He’s being a part of the Royals his entire life.”
So cards were sent and prayers were offered and worried glances followed him everywhere.
“I wish they wouldn’t,” he says. “Send them (cards) to your servicemen. Maybe send them some articles about how well the Royals are doing.”
Splittorff just wants to go about his business, to keep playing golf — he has done that a lot. He’s not on medication, not going through any kind of rigorous rehab.
Even today, in the serene spot overlooking a ballpark on a beautiful day, this attention ruffles him.
“I’m healthy. I’m fine,” he says. “The biggest thing is to convince people I’m OK. I love it (in the booth). Love it. It allows me to be involved with the team, to be involved with the game.”
A pause. “I do miss it.”
A short time later, Willie Bloomquist singles to center, Miguel Olivo bunts him over and then, bringing the crowd to a roar, Mike Aviles drives him in. The Royals go up 2-0.
In that empty broadcast booth, his blue eyes taking it all in, Paul Splittorff says nothing during all this excitement. It feels wrong not having his voice accompany the action.
“Don’t worry,” he says later. “I’m fine. I am. I’m healthy. And I’m going to be back.”
