Venerated Forbes Field in Pittsburgh housed the 1960 World Series, Yanks vs. Bucs. One of the greatest ever.

By CURT SMITH

Your average eight-year-old likes baseball’s soul-crushing poke—the homer. Announcers like it, too. Mel Allen cried, “Going, going . . . gone!” Harry Kalas yelped, “It’s outta here!”  Harry Caray closed a million bars. “It might be . . . it could be . . . It is!” In Pittsburgh, Albert K. “Rosey” Rowswell invented a fictive fanatic to help interest soar.

One day in 1938, the Pirates’ play-by-play man unveiled his trademark. Of a drive toward the Forbes Field scoreboard, Rowswell yapped, “Get upstairs, Aunt Minnie, and raise the window! Here she comes!” An aide then dropped a pane of glass: to listeners, a window. “Too bad,” Rosey sobbed. “Aunt Minnie tripped over a garden hose. She never made it!” True, but she was never known to grouse.

Rowswell was a humorist, poet, and banquet speaker—“a 112-pound toothpick,” said successor Bob Prince. From 1909 to 1929, Rosey was secretary of Pittsburgh’s Third Presbyterian Church.  Many thought his true religion baseball, worshipping at Forbes and at Pirates game on the road. In 1936, Rosey became the Bucs’ radio Voice—said Prince, “the logical, really only, choice.”

Most play-by-play is local: a scout sets the style. At Yankee Stadium and Fenway Park, for instance, Mel Allen and Fred Hoey, respectively, became the way baseball should be covered. In western Pennsylvania, eastern Ohio, and West Virginia, America’s “[self-styled] most partial baseball broadcaster“ set a daily alarm clock: housewives began dinner when Rowswell signed off.

Once 5,000 women listeners stormed WWSW to see him re-create. The Pirates were “Picaroonies.” Like the Dodgers’ Red Barber, his bases were “FOB: [Full of Brooklyns/Bucs].” A “doozie marooney” (extra-baser) might clear the sacks, a “dipsy doodle” (strikeout) fan the side. “Oh, my aching back,” he said, losing. Winning was yummier. “I’ll be home soon. Put on the lamb chops now,”” Rosey said on air to wife Gyp. Dead air often meant he was busy walking around a chair to bring Pittsburgh luck.

In 1938, Rosey broadcast NBC’s World Series. A listener learned why Ripley’s “Believe or Not” hailed him speaking 400 words a minute. Next year Aunt Minnie debuted at Forbes, in an Austin car, at a KDKA TV exhibit. “Later people claimed to be her,” said Prince. “Actually, she was invented,” Rosey airing Lloyd and Paul Waner’s hitting, Rip Sewell’s blooper or “Eephus” pitch, and Ralph Kiner’s yearly leading the National League in homers from1946 to 1952. After his last at-bat, half the home crowd would leave.

One day Bucs part-owner Bing Crosby shared the mic, saying, “I’d like to see Ralph improve a little on his showing so far. Maybe [this at-bat] he can do a little better. And he did!” Rosey, interrupting: “There goes a long one—open the—it may go in there! Boy, it goes clear out over the scoreboard!” Bing, barely audible: “Oh, what a blast . . .” Rowswell: “Over into Schenley Park, a long homer for Ralph Kiner—his first of the 1948 season!’’ Der Bingle: “Oh, did he . . .” Rosey: “Let’s hope that it’s the first of 61!”

Crosby seemed obtuse. “Sounds great,” Prince laughed, “but you haven’t had the mic for ten seconds.” He told Rowswell, “My Lord, do you know who you just stole the mic from?” Years later Bob shook his head: “When you upstage Bing Crosby, you’ve really pulled the cork.” Another Bucs part-owner midwifed Prince’s 1948 hiring, prompting Rosey to say, “I’m  afraid of him, he’s brash’” and banish Bob to reading ads.

Finally, Prince asked, “What do you have against me?” Rosey: “You’re nothing but a fresh punk.” Bob: “Look, I’m not after your job. All I want to do is succeed you when you retire.” In time, Prince embraced the “Rosey Ramble,” chatting about poetry, cooking, and other miscellany. “It’s not just play-by-by-play that matters,” Rowswell said. “It’s what said between the pitches that counts.”

Any pitch might produce Aune Minnie. At first aides dropped glass. “Too messy,” Rosey said, “So we switched to a dumbwaiter’s tray with bells, nuts, and bolts—anything for noise.” Prince dropped the tray on command. “It sounded like an earthquake,” he said. “All the time you’re hearing Rowswell’s ‘Poor Aunt Minnie. She didn’t make it.’” On all fours, Bob retrieved material “in case the next guy hit one, too.”

In 1954, the Picaroonies added weekend road TV to radio’s 20-station network. Next year Rosey died of a heart attack. Today a plaque at the Bucs’ PNC Park hails the “Pittsburgh Pirates’ first announcer.” Memory ties the dipsy doodle, doozie marooney, and putting lamb chops on the stove. Open the window, Aunt Minnie, and don’t forget that garden hose.

Next: Philadelphia’s two-team Master of the Malapropism, Byrum Saam.