By the Dashboard Lights
by Dave Friedli
05/17/01
Mic's Revenge
There are really only two jobs of the announcer at a track meet:
call the competitors to the various events and provide the results.
Contrary to what any person who puts voice behind a 500-watt
amplifier and huge directional horns pointed out over a 20-acre track
facility will tell you, that announcer spends the days leading up to
the event rehearsing how information will be presented.
Asked to announce at the District meet where the first- and
second-place finishers in each event would qualify for the State
meet, a week's thought went into the way I would wrap up each event's
results: "Your State qualifiers are so-and-so from this school and
so-and-so from that school. Congratulations and good luck!" That
went well. After all, I had rehearsed all week.
An announcer doesn't want to make mistakes. People like to have
their names pronounced correctly, and I listen to members of the
crowd who shout corrections toward the loudspeakers, as if they
transmit sound into the booth.
I work at getting it right. Call the events. Give the results.
Simple.
A week ago, things were going well. The day was beautiful, the meet
was running smoothly, and those in attendance had already witnessed
two record-setting performances.
Perhaps I let my guard down for a moment. Or perhaps it was simply
my time, much like at some time in life the fan belt on the family
vehicle will break on while on the Interstate on the hottest day of
summer, 25 miles from an exit.
The two-way radio used by meet officials to stay in contact and
share information crackled to life in the booth above the track.
"Dave, call 'em for the 3200. Let's get it going."
"Right away," I replied. Maybe I should have stopped to think first,
but I grabbed the microphone and spoke as clearly as I could.
"3200 meter READERS please report." I choked. What had I just
said? A ripple of laughter flowed through the crowd. I swallowed,
gave my head a shake and tried again.
"3200 meter readers please report." I had done it again. Like a
bad dream, I was experiencing a nightmare. Like a bad penny, my
speaking sin had returned. The laughter was like floodwaters
reaching the banks of a river. Up and through the windows of the
booth it poured. I was soaked. I felt the blood flood into my
cheeks as I blushed in embarrassment.
I wanted RUNNERS, not readers.
In my mind's eye, I envisioned hundreds of utility workers from
across
surrounding the track like the baseball players in "Field of Dreams."
Thousands of uniform-clad city employees, clip boards and pencils in
hand, arriving directly from their monthly duty of checking the
spinning dials of electricity meters.
Announce it and they will come. This would be some race.
By now, people in the stands were repeating the phrase nudging the
person beside them and saying through their laughter, "Meter readers.
He called for meter readers."
With the mic turned off, I tried again as my co-workers stared in
disbelief or total shock.
"3200 meter readers report," I said aloud. I couldn't do it.
Quickly, I looked for a way to separate meters from readers.
With the microphone on, I tried a different strategy: "If you are in
the 3200--and you know who you are--go. If you are a meter reader,
go to
A few folks laughed, and others clapped. The runners made it to
their race, and the meet was a success.
And as far as I know, utility workers are still on the job.