Every place with a team has a special link to its broadcasters, because broadcasters are ultimately artists, and sports is nothing if not art.
Thus, the passing of Hank Greenwald, longtime Giants, Warriors and A’s broadcaster and part of the microphone’s golden age in these parts, evokes memories of the artistry not only of athletes but of the people who described their exploits.
Greenwald, 83, was a man of his time, using fewer words than would be considered normal today to trust a scene to describe itself, as was the fashion of the day. His work with Bill King on the Warriors in the ‘60s and ‘70s was exemplary for its knowledge, pacing, literacy and humor, and their ability to play off each other seamlessly. King once described a situation in a Warriors game as one in which “They have to get a basket here, they absolutely have to!” to which Greenwald drily returned, “Well, they don’t have to, but it would be a good idea.”
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But he made his reputation in his time with the Giants from 1979 to 1986 and then, after a brief hiatus, with the George Steinbrenner Era Yankees, from 1989 through 1996. His was the voice that described Will Clark’s single that won the 1989 NL Championship Series and sent the Giants to their first World Series in 27 years, and by that time he had been placed atop the plinth of great Bay Area announcers that included King and longtime Giants, 49ers and A’s broadcaster Lon Simmons.
Greenwald, who changed his name from Howard to honor Detroit Tiger Hall of Famer Hank Greenberg, was the defining feature of a series of mediocre Giants seasons, making the broadcasts must-listen affairs even when the quality of the play did not match the elegance of the descriptions. Such is often the way, with the best broadcasters making the unpalatable pleasant and the palatable electric.
Greenwald was fiercely objective on air at a time when the business was slowly giving itself over to home-slanted broadcasters, and he jousted with both radio and club management in his time. It was that objectivity that most linked him to his audience, which knew they would not only get a game and some laughs but a square count about the on-field performances of those he was paid to detail. He regarded himself as the public trustee for the trivial pursuit we call sport, and he went out as honestly as he came in from Syracuse, New York, 60 years ago.
Greenwald is survived by his wife Carla, son Doug, himself a broadcaster, and daughter Kellie.