Poor Hot Rod Hundley. He sounds so lonely during his Jazz radio broadcasts. For about 100 years, he had the ever-hopeful Ron Boone by his side. Without that lovable homer sitting next to him, offering his occasional pro-Jazz remark, Hot Rod just sounds lost.
Now that the dinosaur days of simulcasts are over, Hot Rod and Boone have been cruelly separated — ripped apart like post-op Siamese twins.
Now that the Booner does his analysis on TV next to the dimpled wonder boy that is Craig Bolerjack, Hot Rod is left to call Jazz games all by his lonesome.
While the Booner continues to bask in the glow of TV lights and receive the ego boost that such a career offers his “talent,” Hot Rod is left to inform distracted I-15 commuters of “yo-yo dribbles” and other on-court happenings on 1320 KFAN. No wonder he’s lost some of his pizzazz.
Maybe it’s because Hot Rod no longer has anyone to cut off when he or she tries to offer an insight. Maybe it’s because he’s old enough to be John McCain’s older, drunker brother. Or maybe it’s because it’s just plumb difficult to talk to yourself and an imaginary radio audience for three hours.
Whatever it is, all I have to say is: Get this man a sidekick!
Not that Hot Rod and the Booner ever had a great rapport. Charles Barkley and Kenny Smith they were not.
The two men sat shoulder to shoulder for years, gushing over Stockton and Malone and paying tribute to Jerry Sloan, and yet they didn’t seem to notice each other. They rarely addressed each other, unlike the more modern style of today’s top commentators and analysts, who have a personality-based approach.
Hot Rod and Boone’s style was as follows: Hot Rod talked a mile a minute while Boone waited patiently for a lull in Hot Rod’s ongoing commentary. Such openings occurred rarely, when Hot Rod needed to pause for a breath. I’m sure Boone’s strategy was to watch Hot Rod’s face closely and, when it appeared that the oxygen had drained from Hot Rod’s cheeks and that inhalation would be required, Boone got ready to pounce. It was during these breaks in the action that Boone offered his lovably biased critiques.
I remember a time six years ago when the Jazz were in the first round of the playoffs playing the Sacramento Kings. It was an elimination game and it was slipping away. Boone was beginning to see Stockton and Malone’s hopes of ever winning a championship go painfully down the tubes. This saddened the loyal Jazz fan. As Sacramento pulled ahead by a few possessions with time winding down, Hot Rod accepted that the Jazz would not be able to pull out the win. It would take a miracle for the Jazz to keep the series alive. Sure enough, the die-hard fan to his left had not given up hope. Boone was nervously explaining extremely unlikely scenarios in which the Jazz could still come out on top.
But the realistic Hot Rod knew it wouldn’t happen. There wasn’t enough time.
Stockton and Malone had lost a step and so had the Jazz. Sure, it hurt, but it was reality. As Boone continued to hang on to hope, Hot Rod gently explained to him — and to heartbroken Jazz fans watching and listening — that it was over, and Boone slowly and reluctantly had to accept it.
Sure enough, Sacramento beat Utah 91-86, and Malone and Sloan were sent back to their farms for the summer while Stockton headed home to Washington.
Now, whenever I listen to Hot Rod on the radio, I just wonder what Booner is up to. Sure, he’s probably sitting about 10 feet away, but it’s just not the same without the two veterans talking hoops together.
Hot Rod is like the lonely old codger who dies shortly after his wife kicks off because of his sudden lack of companionship. Let’s save Hot Rod’s life. Get this man a sidekick!
p.s. If anyone’s listening, I’m available.
