I suspect the passing of Keith Jackson is such a generational thing. That probably saddens me as much as anything does about his death.
For example, this seems almost quaint:
Even after decades in the job, Mr. Jackson retained an old-fashioned, wide-eyed love for the college game.
“The N.C.A.A. can make anybody cynical,” Mr. Jackson once told Sports Illustrated. “But I’m not. It’s still fun to see new generations enjoy the game peaceably. I get there an hour and a half before the game and watch the bands rehearse, the people carry on. You let it seep into you.”
I said “almost”, because damned if I don’t feel the exact same way every time I step inside a college football stadium. (Although I have to admit it gets harder to capture that feeling with every passing year of greed.)
If that sentiment seems a touch out of place, this part is downright alien to today’s broadcasting standards.
He prided himself on being concise and loath to steal the spotlight from the players.
“This is not my stage,” he said. “The stage belongs to the athletes and coaches who play the game. People don’t throw down 1,000 bucks for a TV to hear me talk.”
That’s the real generational thing that’s dying off — hell, dead already. He’s the anti-Jesse Palmer. I miss that approach more than anything these days. If that solidifies my being an old fart, I’ll wear that badge with pride in this case.
Make sure you read this remembrance, too. The man was college football.