Jeez, when did all sports announcers turn into fourteen year old girls screaming like Bieber just walked in? The guy with his legs and his johnson stuck in the rear wheel of his competitor’s bike was a lot calmer than those two.

Let’s drift back in time, kids. Have a get off my lawn moment. Sports announcers used to be calm. 

Of course, they drank whiskey out of a tumbler while broadcasting football games back then. They never pointed the camera at the announcers, because they only had one camera, and it was busy, so they did what they pleased. Oh, those college football games were announced like bowling tournaments. Both the play-by-play man and the color guy had eyes pinker than Bob Costas could ever dream of, but nobody cared. No one would know if they were wearing pants, either. You’d just hear these sonorous tones announcing that he’s just a soffamoor, with an occasional whoah nellie thrown in there when things got really wild. The dulcet tones of Cutty Sark and Lucky Strike, and not much blather.

You’d watch Monday Night Football and the 49ers or the Cowboys would be trampling some punching bag team into the turf on the way to their fifth touchdown, Emmit Smith’s jersey still clean, Jerry Rice’s uniform still as immaculate as the team photo, and the announcer would just say: touchdown. Just like that. He didn’t get excited, because he was betting on the favorite, and there was no way whatever New Jersey Generals the NFL had trotted out to get slaughtered were going to win, so it was the sound of a guy simply counting his money aloud like an accountant. There would have been a frenzy if the underdog got within two scores, maybe.

Bring back the low-key, stodgy, listless, phlegmatic, whiskey-soaked stentors!

(Thanks to Charles Schneider for sending that one along)