His finger went in my ear. It's been nearly 25 years and I can still feel that damn finger in my ear. But more on that finger later.
Steve Somers would step around the corner, wearing all black, sipping a styrofoam cup of coffee. Those 12 ounces of joe would seemingly last forever, perpetually brimming with his night fuel. He was the self-titled Captain Midnight, the voice of New York's evening airwaves, and he just looked like darkfall in Manhattan. Black turtleneck in winter. Black tee in summer. Black pants. Black shoes. I assume, black coffee.
I worked overnights at the beginning of CBS Sports Radio's existence in 2013, and moved to evenings two years later. We shared a floor and neighboring studios with WFAN. For those four-plus years, I got to stand around and kibitz with Steve before shows. Sure, we could've talked sports, but we'd be doing that anyway, as soon as the red light turned on. So, we usually chatted about radio; the headaches, the beauty, and what makes the medium so imperfectly perfect.
We appreciated the expertly timed drop, or a clever turn of phrase. I'd laugh at his constant lament over the little things, and he'd laugh when I poked fun at something ridiculous. He was kind, warm, and self-deprecating. He was an easy audience. He listened, and he cared. And those qualities poured out over the WFAN airwaves for 34 years like spring fog rolling over the West Side Highway. It's what people talked most about after his retirement this week.
Better known as "The Schmooze," Steve's voice is like New York rain dripping off an awning. When you flipped on the FAN at night, it sounded like a guy chatting at Katz's over a pile of pastrami on rye. He has that Big Apple hybrid dialect of a thousand ethnic backgrounds -- his "awls" and "tawk" and "WHAT IS IT ALREADY?" punctuating every sentence. If Batman was Gotham, he'd be Commissioner Gordon's sounding board at the Gotham Diner. "Oy, the Bane and the Riddler and the noise and the chaos... WHAT IS IT ALREADY?" There's Steve, grabbing a pack of Camels and the New York Post from the corner bodega, lamenting over another Mets calamity.
Steve's nickname was comic-bookish in its own right: Captain Midnight. In an era of emojis and iPhone alerts, he's charmingly analog. He'd handwrite his monologues on classic yellow legal pads, erasing and scribbling and editing. They were his performance, like the opening act at the Comedy Cellar or appetizer hour at Cafe Carlyle. He pulled and twisted the English language like taffy, sculpting a recap of the last 24 hours in New York sports with a smirk and some well-timed sarcasm. "Me here, you there... overnight, under the covers... good evening to you, and how you be?"
I first saw how kind and wonderfully mischievous Steve could be when I was still a teenager. My high school communications course allowed me and three of my classmates to spend a morning at WFAN studios -- the old Kaufman-Astoria bunker hundreds of miles below the earth. No windows. No natural light. Just stained carpets, fluorescent bulbs, and old tape decks. It had none of the glamour we imagined, but Steve added his child-like color when I got to interview him. I asked him about the Rangers' chances that spring of 1997, and he was skeptical.
"Show me the heart, show me the skill," he told me. "Show me the fire. Show me also when this interview is over, a nice corned beef sandwich. I'm hungry."
"It's on me," I added.
"That would be a nice cut right there. 'It's on me,' we cut, and then we have lunch." As I signed off on the interview, Steve poked his fingers in my eyes, and then stuck his index finger in my left ear. You can watch it at the very end of this video clip.
Amazingly, it felt genuine, as though he'd really like to have lunch with a group of high school kids. We were giddy on the drive home with how much fun Steve was. Wow, a distinctive voice of New York sports talk not only gave us an interview, but he actually seemed to enjoy it! We felt big time. I now realize in retrospect that magic was what made Steve cherished. He made everyone else feel important, because who he was and what he did, was never that important to him. He certainly cared about his show, watching games, and crafting interesting opinions. But it was only sports, so why not have fun -- WHAT IS IT?
In a world where too many talking heads take themselves far too seriously, Steve was the opposite. Everything was delivered with a smirk. It was almost as though we were all in on the joke, and everything was a joke. New York sports talk is too often a street brawl, but never with Steve. He was patient with every caller -- even the most nonsensical or meandering take was respected. He was there to listen, instead of forcing you to listen to him. It's what made him so endearing.
Steve treated his listeners like gold, as though he couldn't believe they would even care enough to call. He knew not to take himself too seriously. And he realized this is only sports, so don't get too worked up over being right. I wish our industry did all of those things better. Thirty-four years on the air in one place is an extraordinary accomplishment unto itself, but also leaving everyone you ever spoke to feeling appreciated? Man, that's some legacy.
I remember studying so hard the night before coming up with questions for the WFAN hosts. I looked at the pictures of the sportscasters I admired on my wall. I scanned the books of legends like Howard Cosell, Bob Costas, and Marv Albert on my shelves. I just wanted to fit in, and not seem like a silly high school kid when I met them. And as I wrapped up that interview with Steve, I was desperately trying to end it without flubbing so we had a clean edit for our project. Act professional! But there was Steve, trying to get me to mess up. There's that finger in my ear.
Appreciate the audience. You don't have to be right. And hey, kid, don't take yourself too seriously. It's only sports. And I never forgot it.