Remembering the Day I was the Public Address Announcer for the Red Sox

Doesn’t seem possible that it was twelve years ago today when I took the elevator to the top floor of Fenway Park.

On the ride up, I asked myself, “What are you doing here? Are you crazy? What if you fall flat on your face? Who will take over for you if you have to run, kicking and screaming, down Landsdowne Street, because you’re a fraud?”

Somehow, I didn’t have to run out after the first inning.

I was the “guest in the chair,” the Red Sox public address announcer for a day.

For me, it was almost like the old TV show from the 1950s, “Queen for A Day.” I was the queen of baseball for nine innings.

And let me tell you, the Red Sox treated me like royalty that day.

August 5, 2012.

Here’s the background story.

Carl Beane, the longtime Red Sox PA announcer for many years, had tragically died in a car accident earlier that year. The Red Sox decided not to hire anyone to take his place. They didn’t want to make any quick decisions in mid-season. Instead, they set up a “Guest-in-the-Chair” program, inviting local broadcasters and play-by-play people to fill in until the season was over so that they could spend time to find the right person to take over for the beloved Carl.

I heard about this and called them. “I want to do this,” I told their public relations people. “I have more than thirty years of broadcasting experience, including four in Worcester, and I’ve been a Red Sox fan since I was eight years old.”

The person on the phone responded, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, just contact us in the fall when we’re having tryouts to replace Carl.”

“You don’t understand,” I protested. “I’m a serious broadcaster. Just because I don’t live there anymore–my name is Wanda Fischer and I’m a Red Sox fan…”

He cut me off. “I’ll take your name but you can come down in the fall and audition…”

A couple of weeks later, I was seeing my physician for a routine visit. My phone rang. I looked down and saw “Boston Red Sox” on the caller ID. “I have to take this,” I told the doctor. She raised her eyebrows and agreed.

“We Googled you,” the person said, “and you are legitimate. We’d like you to do a game. Are you still interested?”

Interested? I almost jumped off the exam table. “Of course I am.” They then offered me a Tuesday-evening game–the week before our daughter was getting married.

“Ummm–I can’t do that date. Our daughter’s getting married that week.”

“Then you pick a date and let us know.”

“August 5. I have tickets for that game. That way my family can attend.”

“August 5 it is. We’ll get back in touch with more details.”

When I told the doctor about it, her response was, “Yes, you had to take it.”

I was working in a governor-appointed position for New York State and would not have been able to receive free tickets for my family for any other date. Since I’d already purchased tickets for August 5, it was no problem. (Note: I subscribe to ethics, unlike some Supreme Court justices, I could name–but I digress…)

Off we went to Fenway. I had permission to park in the PLAYERS PARKING LOT! My little Subaru, among the fancy cars owned by the players…The little car must have been impressed to be overshadowed by Hummers, BMWs, Mercedes Benzes. and more.

Greeted by Jack Lanzillotti, a young, capable producer, I was led to the elevator with imposter-like thought rattling in my head. I didn’t say much as he led me to the booth, past the TV cameras and the radio broadcasting booth. He showed me the chair I’d use and how to manipulate the microphone. We did a sound check in the echo chamber that was Fenway Park.

That’s when it all became real. I heard my voice bounce back at me off the famous Fenway Green Monster.

Jack showed me the script. He said something to the effect of, “I’ll point to the line you need to read when it’s time for you to read it. If you make a mistake, just go back and say, ‘Correction,’ repeat the right thing, and move on.”

I’m used to live radio. On the air, you cannot pull out your Time Machine and fix mistakes. What Jack said made so much sense to me. He asked if this was equivalent to what my producer did when I did my radio show in Albany.

“Producer? I don’t have a producer,” I explained. “I’m my own producer, announcer, and even enter my own playlists into the computer,” I told him. “I log in all new music for my show as well.”

He seemed shocked. “Okay, then this should be easy for you.”

I looked over the script. It was straightforward. Introduce the sponsors, the National Anthem singer (he was from Vermont and was very good!), the person throwing out the first ball, that kind of thing. The script was many pages long, but I figured, with Jack there to help me. I’d be fine.

I made one mistake in nine innings. I announced the wrong on-deck player for the Minnesota Twins. “Correction,” I said, and fixed it.

When the game was over, my then-only grandson said, “Grandma, where were you? I could hear you but I couldn’t see you!”

I wasn’t an imposter anymore. I had done a Major League Baseball game from the booth on a hot August day.

It wasn’t the Field of Dreams, but, for a broadcaster, it was the booth of my dreams.