Posted by chicagomedia.org on February 29, 2008 at 10:40:28:
Cubs announcer's big voice, low profile
But -- quick quiz -- who is Len Kasper?
Meet the most famous man in the room. That guy. Wait ... who?
On this Saturday night at Double Door, where 550 rabid fans of the rock trio Buffalo Tom claim every last pocket of free air and space, the man occupying one of the most hallowed thrones of sports broadcasting goes undisturbed and unrecognized.
Here stands Len Joseph Kasper amongst the people, in blue thermal fleece vest, jeans and regular-Joe sneakers, the Cubs' television play-by-play man, the voice of One Nation Under Wrigleyville. The audience couldn't be more oblivious.
Fret not, because he's fine with it.
"I didn't take this job to be a star," Kasper says. "I almost prefer it that way."
Unlike his predecessors (the Jack Brickhouse-Harry Caray-Chip Caray broadcasting lineage), Kasper hasn't enjoyed the name recognition that comes with the job. Perhaps this comes with time. Brickhouse was here for four decades. Kasper, 37, begins his fourth season with the Cubs on Saturday at spring training.
So what to make of Kasper and his on-screen partner, Bob Brenly?
The duo known as Len and Bob is arguably the most pop culture-savvy broadcasting team Chicago sports has seen. There have been more references to obscure, some say hip, bands than in all the Brickhouse-Carays years combined.
Whereas other sporting broadcasts might return from commercials with, say, the jock rock standbys of "Bad to the Bone" and "Takin' Care of Business," Kasper and Brenly often play the role of deejay, dropping local bands such as The Redwalls or The Handcuffs into the game.
Find Kasper -- with his icy blue eyes, reddish tidal-wave coif and a face that 30 years ago would have befitted the Sears Young Men Collection -- at any local club with live music: Schubas, Double Door, Beat Kitchen. He's walked across the street from Wrigley Field following a game to catch a show at the Metro. He trades iPods with players and colleagues on long plane trips.
Then there's that voice: If Jack Brickhouse sounded like a tall glass of sarsaparilla, and Harry Caray's voice was a shot of whiskey with a beer chaser and Chip Caray a straight gin martini, then a Len Kasper broadcast is like sipping amaretto -- smooth and pleasant, with just enough authority.
That guy was born 37 years ago in Mt. Pleasant, Mich., in the heart of Lions football country. Yet he was named for Kansas City Chiefs quarterback Len Dawson because his parents liked Dawson's performance in Super Bowl IV ("I could have been named for Fran Tarkenton," Kasper said).
Growing up, the Detroit Tigers were his life. Alan Trammell was his hero. But there was another man in Detroit he idolized: Kasper would return from school, jump on his bed, throw himself under the covers and emulate Ernie Harwell, the legendary Tigers announcer.
He dabbled in basketball, football, played hockey on a frozen pond, but baseball was the one sport Kasper stuck with through high school. His best year was his sophomore season: a forgettable 2-6 record, though in his two wins, he pitched a no-hitter and a one-hitter. More impressively, he was valedictorian of his high school class.
After graduating from Marquette University in 1993 with a degree in public relations, Kasper joined WTMJ-AM in Milwaukee, first as a producer, then working up to be the "sports guy" on an afternoon drive-time show.
Kasper, who then sported John Lennon-style glasses, settled into a job that was largely scoreboard reading -- but also, like any drive-time show, required comedic chops.
"He would do a drop-dead coughing Keith Richards," said Phil Cianciola, his broadcast partner at WTMJ. "He's very professional, he's very thorough, very button-down, but there's a side of Lennie that's this little smartass, subtle, funny that comes out."
The Milwaukee Brewers took notice and made Kasper a fill-in TV announcer in 1999. It was a rare leap for a broadcaster to do big league games with zero minor league experience. Over the next three years, he worked a couple dozen games a year, filling in when the regular broadcasters were sick or on vacation.
After the 2001 season, Kasper applied for two openings but was rejected for both: the Anaheim Angels were hiring a radio broadcaster, but the team thought he was better suited for television; his hometown Milwaukee Brewers were hiring for their television team -- a job Kasper thought he had a chance to get -- but the team thought he was better suited for radio.
The turnover for baseball broadcasting jobs was not high, and Kasper thought his best opportunity had passed. Plus, he and his wife, Pam, just had had their first son, Leo.
A few weeks after Kasper lost out on the jobs, the Kasper family took a trip to Sanibel Island in Florida. After lunch one day, he remembers, he took a walk along the beach.
Kasper started walking and thinking. The what if's came one after another. What if this doesn't happen? What if he wasn't meant to be a baseball broadcaster?
Back at the rented condo, hours passed and Pam got worried. It was so unlike her husband to disappear without notice. He hadn't brought his cell phone.
He returned in the evening, some five hours later, having walked nearly 15 miles around the beach. Pam was angry and relieved. He told her he had come to a conclusion: If it's meant to be, it's meant to be. Kasper was at peace.
Two weeks later, right before spring training, the Florida Marlins called.
His interview with the club's broadcasting brass was impressive enough. But what won the Marlins over, said then- FSN Florida general manager Jeff Genthner, was the 3-inch-thick dossier Kasper presented -- filled with stats, figures, trivia and nuggets about every major league player, manager and coach. (Example: Most broadcasters pronounce Dodgers pitcher Rudy Seanez's name SEE-ah-nez. It's SEE-nez, Kasper learned after asking him.)
"He's a very sincere broadcaster. You're listening to nine innings of storytelling and good pacing," Genthner said.
After spending three seasons as the lead play-by-play announcer with the Marlins, including their World Series run in 2003 (as if we need to remind Chicagoans), the Cubs job presented itself. Chip Caray had joined the Atlanta Braves broadcast team and Steve Stone had left. More than 150 people applied for the opening, from seasoned baseball announcers to accountants who sent in homemade CDs.
"I thought [Len would] be the perfect guy to sit at the chair for the next 30 years," said Bob Vorwald, executive producer of WGN Sports. "Every time he opens his mouth, I get a little smarter."
(Full disclosure: the Cubs, WGN -- Kasper's employer -- and this newspaper are all owned by the same folks, the Tribune Company.)
With Kasper and Brenly being a new, unfamiliar broadcast team for Cubs fans, the inevitable criticism came early. A month into their first season, Kasper woke up to his radio and heard WSCR-AM sports talk host Mike North blast the duo for lacking chemistry.
"It just crushed us," Kasper said. (North has since come around: "With Cubs fans, we can sense an outsider," North said. "That's no longer the case. Lennie is definitely identified now as a Cubs announcer. I'd be disappointed if he left now.")
After three seasons, Kasper has earned a reputation as a broadcaster who does his homework, visiting both clubhouses, notepad in hand, to prepare for a game. Colleagues say Kasper is organized and detail-oriented. Visit his broadcast booth and you'll find papers meticulously arranged and more than a dozen different-colored pens.
"He's the most prepared broadcaster I've ever seen. He works the clubhouse just like the beat writers do, if not more so," said Carrie Muskat, the Cubs beat writer for MLB.com who has covered the team for 20 years. "And he doesn't seek out the spotlight. He doesn't take it for granted."
Beyond baseball, Kasper and Brenly discovered another mutual love: music.
They've met up at Lollapalooza. The two would make mix tapes for each other. Kasper introduced Brenly to the Brian Jonestown Massacre and Son Volt; Brenly got Kasper into Ryan Adams, The Black Keys and Cold War Kids.
"You've got 2 1/2 hours of airtime and a lot of games during the course of a season," Brenly said. "We both appreciate it can't be baseball all the time."
And now, the two have taken their music appreciation on stage. For the last two years, The Len & Bob Band has performed at the House of Blues for charity. Clips of the show circulate on YouTube, including a punk version of Patsy Cline's "Crazy," and "Love Stinks" by the J. Geils Band.
In the band, Brenly plays guitar and Kasper sings lead vocals. It raises the follow-up question, if Kasper could be the lead singer of any band in the world, whom would he trade places with?
"I wouldn't want to be a frontman," he said. "Nobody wants to hear me. I'd want to play bass."
He is Len Kasper.
The most famous guy in the room is standing there at the Double Door, wedged in the crowd that looks like straws in a package, 10 rows of humans from the stage. He's singing to his favorite Buffalo Tom song, a pop-punk burner called "Sodajerk." His eyes are closed, shaking his head to the thump of the bass, as if telling the back of the man's head no, no, no.
During the show, the lead singer polls the audience: Any Sox fans out there? About 45 percent of the crowd cheers.
Cubs fans? The rest of the audience erupts. It's a tricky position. He could whoop and holler and bring unwanted attention to himself. Or remain silent and risk being accused of disloyalty.
And what does Kasper do?
He cracks a smile and claps exactly twice.