A few words about Mike Shannon

The legendary Cardinals player/radio voice died at the age of 83.

All I can say is there better be a cold, frosty Budweiser up in heaven, because the Moon Man will be thirsty. Mike Shannon, a St. Louis Cardinals legend, passed away at the graceful age of 83 over the weekend. He had retired from the airwaves before the 2022 season, but his effect will never be lost on fans of so many generations.

The word “legend” isn’t used lightly. Before he called games with Jack Buck and a collection of other radio voices, Shannon was a pretty good player. A fine third baseman who hit the first home run at Busch Stadium 2.0, he never really left town from the moment he met the Major Leagues.

Who can forget him wishing that the listening audiences in other cities and towns could see the gorgeous moon above the field? He would say that on so many broadcasts. Shannon had his own language on the air, one that would include labeling every player with a part of his last name and attaching “man” to it. Izzy-Man! Simo-Man! Vina-Man! Okay, the last one is made up, but the point is made.

He had his own way of doing things. One of the best memories I have from working at Busch Memorial Stadium (aka 2.0) was seeing Shannon, dressed from head to toe in black, coming into the press box on a 95-degree July afternoon game for a cup of black coffee. Forget Johnny Cash. Shannon was the man in black around here.

Like his former on-air partner, Buck, Shannon had a killer smile. It lifted the fog over Busch as well as thousands of moods. If you happen to see him and/or exchange a few words, the rest of the day was riding easy. One time he said to me, “you guys putting those numbers in up there, woo-hoo!” Priceless. That was Shannon.

He was memorable and unforgettable. The man made a ninth inning save situation as suspenseful as an episode of 24 on Fox. Jason Isringhausen would be a pitch or two away from closing down a game, and Shannon elevated the event for people who weren’t in attendance and couldn’t be in front of a television.

“Izzy toes the rubber, looks in for his sign. He’s got it, and comes set. He checks the runners, and delivers… swing and a miss! That’s a Redbird winner. Hehehehe!”

Shannon belted out “99/99” after every Cardinal double-play turn, reminding listeners that Cardinals Care was getting a donation. Minutes later, he’d go into an inning-long story about the old days of baseball. Every 30 seconds, the count and score would be read. Every game was one long story with him. Any complainers were missing the magic.

Radio commentators have to build a world for the listener, but they have to make it interesting. Informational for sure, but add some juice. Shannon added ounces. If you need a measure of how great he was and how legendary his name will be for decades, ask any fan about him at the next home game. Mention his name, and see where it goes.

There will be a memory, highlight, moment, or time capsule where Shannon’s words and the way he dispensed them had a big enough effect to be remembered forever. That’s baseball. The people who do it right never leave the ballpark. Like Jack and Harry Caray, his voice will echo around our heads.

His death came only as a surprise to the people who don’t understand old age and how vulnerable it is. Shannon dealt with an early round of COVID-19, before vaccines were made and the virus was kicking asses. He survived it for the time being, but it wasn’t hard to tell in his final year of broadcasting that the illness had put up a crooked number. He sounded weaker, describing the game with less energy and merely trying to keep up.

I’ll choose to remember his golden years. The days where the opponent and first pitch temperature wasn’t going to stop him from doing things his way.

Rest easy, Moon Man.