The Awesome Lethality of Jim Abbott
My friend Matt Mentone likes to tell the story of how he first met Jim. He walked into the WNHU studios, down in the bowels of dingy Maxcy Hall, one day back in 1995. The man extended his hand and said, "Hi. Jim Abbott, like the pitcher."
I suppose there could have been more than one Jim Abbott in this world, but the one we would come to know and love was one-of-a-kind. This made it all the more sad when Matt texted me last night. He'd heard from a mutual friend that Jim Abbott passed away on June 11th at the age of 59. I later found out that he'd suffered a stroke in January and never fully recovered.
When I walked into my first sports department meeting in 1994, I was a little punk with long hair who loved alternative music and sports. I'd previously met Jay McEnaney, WNHU's Sports Director and play-by-play man at the time. Next to him was a young Scott Criscuolo, whom I would later bond with over anything Mets and wrestling-related. Then, there was this large older man with unkempt brown hair and thick Brad Majors spectacles that reminded me of my father's old glasses. We talked about our first football broadcast of the season. The only thing I remember from that meeting was when this mystery man popped in a "CART" - basically an 8-track used specifically for radio back in the day - and said 'Here's the opening.' I then heard a familiar instrumental.
"Hey, that's Ricky 'The Dragon' Steamboat's song!," I exclaimed. "The one that the Chicago Bulls use..."
My only contribution to the meeting went almost unnoticed until we adjourned. This mountain of a man reached out to me and said 'Hold on, I've got something for you.' He wrote something down on a piece of ripped-off notebook paper and handed it to me. "Sirius by The Alan Parsons Project." Then he introduced himself to me. "Jim Abbott, like the pitcher." Thus began my education on the awesome lethality of The Alan Parsons Project and my apprenticeship under Jim Abbott.
He began teaching me everything I needed to know about radio. He had a looming yet calming presence and that unmistakable, classic radio disc jockey voice. My confidence grew in my first year as I fancied myself to be the next Brent Musberger, hosting the UNH Charger Football Pregame and Postgame Shows.
Jim mainly stayed on the sidelines because of a recurring back condition. He would step in as a replacement as needed. He was already a legend at WNHU, having attended UNH some twenty years prior and hosting the popular 60's show on Thursday nights. Before his back issues, he was known to the masses as "Jim McNeill," a 80's mainstay at a real FM radio station, Connecticut's KC101. The more we got to know each other, the more he took a liking to me. We shared a birthday, August 6th. He was amazed at my knowledge of obscure Neil Diamond songs like "Be Mine Tonight," which was one of my first 45's. It was then that I discovered Jim Abbott's vast knowledge of popular music and his even bigger collection of records. There was an entire room within WNHU's studios, roughly the size of my house, solely occupied by Jim's music library.
He carried around Joel Whitburn's massive Top Pop Singles book, though he rarely had to rely on it. He was a walking "Behind the Music" before it existed and would routinely tell stories, such as the making of Joe Cocker's You Are So Beautiful. Apparently, Joe was so strung out on alcohol and drugs during the recording process that he was barely conscious when he sang his greatest hit. He forgot the second verse and couldn't be bothered to sing it again, so they repeated the first verse. The liner notes for the album included a special thanks to Joe Cocker as a sarcastic rib for his lack of contributions to his own record. Anyway, the point is Jim Abbott knew everything about music!
Jim would walk through hellfire and brimstone to help you, and in some cases, a torrential downpour. In my sophomore year, Scott and I were planning to do the annual UNH-Southern rivalry game from Southern. We had this crazy idea of bringing the antenna equipment used for home games with us just a few miles up the road. That way, the broadcast would come in clear, as opposed to the usual road game setup where we had to talk into a phone line and put it over the airwaves. It was a rare Friday night game and the forecast called for heavy rain. Between the weather and the distance from their field to our studio, the results were near-disastrous.
We couldn't hear the feed back at WNHU so we assumed all was well. Midway through the first quarter, a drenched and winded Jim Abbott came barreling into the press box at Jess Dow Field to inform us that we were never actually on the air. We had to resort to the old telephone line setup where Scott would call the action into the receiver and hand it over to me in between plays for my "expert analysis." A lesser and less-caring man would have left the broadcast to die, but not Jim Abbott.
When I became Sports Director, I had little experience actually broadcasting a game. After Scott graduated, I was the only one left in the department until Matt came along. Jim basically held my hand that entire sophomore year while Matt worked the studio as I did the year before. He took time out for me to do a practice run one day in the top corner of the bleachers at Charger Gymnasium. Jim took over play-by-play for basketball while I did color. That spring, Jim, Matt and I rotated duties for baseball games. Jim and I spoke about every little thing once or twice a week. It's no exaggeration to say that Jim was the real sports director during my semester-long tenure.
With his health issues, he could no longer handle doing both the 60's show and sports regularly. Jim passed the 60's torch over to a man named Bob Muise. When he and Bob had a falling out, he took over the show again on a interim basis. When the schedule became too much for him, Jim called me and asked if I'd be interested in subbing for him once a month. I jumped at the chance. I relished the opportunity to play some of my mom's favorites and songs that I'd just learned about in music history class. When the Austin Powers movie came out, my first thought was 'This will be great research material for the show.'
In my senior year of college, Jim was coaxed out of retirement at KC101 to do Sunday Night at the 80's. I needed an internship credit, so I became Jim's assistant behind the scenes, pulling songs and cueing listener requests to play on-air. As fate would have it, Scott was now working at WELI in the adjacent studio at Radio Towers Park and Matt became his intern. They'd both pop into our studio to shoot the breeze on a weekly basis. It was good times.
The one remotely-negative thing I could say is that Jim didn't have a filter. When I began seeing someone, I'd tell Jim stories that weren't meant for public consumption. I figured he knew it was just between us guys. One day, I asked Jim if he'd would allow my girlfriend to be a fly on the wall in the studio to observe us in action. Surprisingly, he said yes. About halfway through the show, as one of those "Big 80's" songs was glistening over the airwaves, Jim privately turned to my girlfriend and asked her about an embarrassing story that I'd told him in confidence. She laughed and turned beet red. I couldn't believe it. I told Jim that was supposed to be just between us. He just grinned as he put his headset back on and sarcastically replied, "Oh, I see. That was just Guy Talk."
As many of my generation mistakenly assumed, I figured I'd have a job waiting for me upon graduation. That wasn't the case as Jim tried to warn me. I made some bad decisions after leaving UNH. One thing led to another. The next thing I know, I'm in Arizona working for Chase and it's been two years since Jim and I have spoken. I eventually returned to New York. A few years later, I saw Jim at Homecoming. We said hello. I apologized for not heeding his advice and following the proper radio career path. He brushed it off and we left it at that.
He always called me "The Boy Wonder." I appreciated the nickname, but deep down, it made me feel uneasy, like I had certain expectations to live up to. I didn't really understand it at the time, but I do now. I've always been my own worst critic. I really was good at that radio thing and Jim saw that. It must have bothered him to see all that wasted potential being parlayed into a nine-to-five job. Sometimes I feel guilty because I didn't make an effort to call him after graduation for advice or just to talk about life in general.
Two years ago, Matt and I saw him again at Homecoming. We couldn't believe our eyes. Jim had lost a whole person in body weight. His back issues were seemingly behind him. He was vibrant as ever, playfully fighting with us. He was honored to meet my wife. It warmed my heart seeing Jim Abbott looking better and healthier than ever. It would be the last time I'd see him alive. This Saturday, I'll see him again at his memorial service (not a funeral, as Jim didn't do weddings or funerals) to tell him all those juicy stories that aren't meant for public consumption.
When I wrote Being Made, I had only one person in mind when I created Black Swan's manager, Jim Cornell. By any name, in my head, I always see Jim Abbott, like the pitcher. Not a day goes by that I don't wish I could do it all over again, if only to enjoy one last moment or one last phone call with my friend and mentor. I've long since mastered imitating his distinct voice. When it comes to imitating the man however, I am still the learner, the boy wonder.
I suppose there could have been more than one Jim Abbott in this world, but the one we would come to know and love was one-of-a-kind. This made it all the more sad when Matt texted me last night. He'd heard from a mutual friend that Jim Abbott passed away on June 11th at the age of 59. I later found out that he'd suffered a stroke in January and never fully recovered.
When I walked into my first sports department meeting in 1994, I was a little punk with long hair who loved alternative music and sports. I'd previously met Jay McEnaney, WNHU's Sports Director and play-by-play man at the time. Next to him was a young Scott Criscuolo, whom I would later bond with over anything Mets and wrestling-related. Then, there was this large older man with unkempt brown hair and thick Brad Majors spectacles that reminded me of my father's old glasses. We talked about our first football broadcast of the season. The only thing I remember from that meeting was when this mystery man popped in a "CART" - basically an 8-track used specifically for radio back in the day - and said 'Here's the opening.' I then heard a familiar instrumental.
"Hey, that's Ricky 'The Dragon' Steamboat's song!," I exclaimed. "The one that the Chicago Bulls use..."
My only contribution to the meeting went almost unnoticed until we adjourned. This mountain of a man reached out to me and said 'Hold on, I've got something for you.' He wrote something down on a piece of ripped-off notebook paper and handed it to me. "Sirius by The Alan Parsons Project." Then he introduced himself to me. "Jim Abbott, like the pitcher." Thus began my education on the awesome lethality of The Alan Parsons Project and my apprenticeship under Jim Abbott.
He began teaching me everything I needed to know about radio. He had a looming yet calming presence and that unmistakable, classic radio disc jockey voice. My confidence grew in my first year as I fancied myself to be the next Brent Musberger, hosting the UNH Charger Football Pregame and Postgame Shows.
Jim mainly stayed on the sidelines because of a recurring back condition. He would step in as a replacement as needed. He was already a legend at WNHU, having attended UNH some twenty years prior and hosting the popular 60's show on Thursday nights. Before his back issues, he was known to the masses as "Jim McNeill," a 80's mainstay at a real FM radio station, Connecticut's KC101. The more we got to know each other, the more he took a liking to me. We shared a birthday, August 6th. He was amazed at my knowledge of obscure Neil Diamond songs like "Be Mine Tonight," which was one of my first 45's. It was then that I discovered Jim Abbott's vast knowledge of popular music and his even bigger collection of records. There was an entire room within WNHU's studios, roughly the size of my house, solely occupied by Jim's music library.
He carried around Joel Whitburn's massive Top Pop Singles book, though he rarely had to rely on it. He was a walking "Behind the Music" before it existed and would routinely tell stories, such as the making of Joe Cocker's You Are So Beautiful. Apparently, Joe was so strung out on alcohol and drugs during the recording process that he was barely conscious when he sang his greatest hit. He forgot the second verse and couldn't be bothered to sing it again, so they repeated the first verse. The liner notes for the album included a special thanks to Joe Cocker as a sarcastic rib for his lack of contributions to his own record. Anyway, the point is Jim Abbott knew everything about music!
Jim would walk through hellfire and brimstone to help you, and in some cases, a torrential downpour. In my sophomore year, Scott and I were planning to do the annual UNH-Southern rivalry game from Southern. We had this crazy idea of bringing the antenna equipment used for home games with us just a few miles up the road. That way, the broadcast would come in clear, as opposed to the usual road game setup where we had to talk into a phone line and put it over the airwaves. It was a rare Friday night game and the forecast called for heavy rain. Between the weather and the distance from their field to our studio, the results were near-disastrous.
We couldn't hear the feed back at WNHU so we assumed all was well. Midway through the first quarter, a drenched and winded Jim Abbott came barreling into the press box at Jess Dow Field to inform us that we were never actually on the air. We had to resort to the old telephone line setup where Scott would call the action into the receiver and hand it over to me in between plays for my "expert analysis." A lesser and less-caring man would have left the broadcast to die, but not Jim Abbott.
When I became Sports Director, I had little experience actually broadcasting a game. After Scott graduated, I was the only one left in the department until Matt came along. Jim basically held my hand that entire sophomore year while Matt worked the studio as I did the year before. He took time out for me to do a practice run one day in the top corner of the bleachers at Charger Gymnasium. Jim took over play-by-play for basketball while I did color. That spring, Jim, Matt and I rotated duties for baseball games. Jim and I spoke about every little thing once or twice a week. It's no exaggeration to say that Jim was the real sports director during my semester-long tenure.
With his health issues, he could no longer handle doing both the 60's show and sports regularly. Jim passed the 60's torch over to a man named Bob Muise. When he and Bob had a falling out, he took over the show again on a interim basis. When the schedule became too much for him, Jim called me and asked if I'd be interested in subbing for him once a month. I jumped at the chance. I relished the opportunity to play some of my mom's favorites and songs that I'd just learned about in music history class. When the Austin Powers movie came out, my first thought was 'This will be great research material for the show.'
In my senior year of college, Jim was coaxed out of retirement at KC101 to do Sunday Night at the 80's. I needed an internship credit, so I became Jim's assistant behind the scenes, pulling songs and cueing listener requests to play on-air. As fate would have it, Scott was now working at WELI in the adjacent studio at Radio Towers Park and Matt became his intern. They'd both pop into our studio to shoot the breeze on a weekly basis. It was good times.
The one remotely-negative thing I could say is that Jim didn't have a filter. When I began seeing someone, I'd tell Jim stories that weren't meant for public consumption. I figured he knew it was just between us guys. One day, I asked Jim if he'd would allow my girlfriend to be a fly on the wall in the studio to observe us in action. Surprisingly, he said yes. About halfway through the show, as one of those "Big 80's" songs was glistening over the airwaves, Jim privately turned to my girlfriend and asked her about an embarrassing story that I'd told him in confidence. She laughed and turned beet red. I couldn't believe it. I told Jim that was supposed to be just between us. He just grinned as he put his headset back on and sarcastically replied, "Oh, I see. That was just Guy Talk."
As many of my generation mistakenly assumed, I figured I'd have a job waiting for me upon graduation. That wasn't the case as Jim tried to warn me. I made some bad decisions after leaving UNH. One thing led to another. The next thing I know, I'm in Arizona working for Chase and it's been two years since Jim and I have spoken. I eventually returned to New York. A few years later, I saw Jim at Homecoming. We said hello. I apologized for not heeding his advice and following the proper radio career path. He brushed it off and we left it at that.
He always called me "The Boy Wonder." I appreciated the nickname, but deep down, it made me feel uneasy, like I had certain expectations to live up to. I didn't really understand it at the time, but I do now. I've always been my own worst critic. I really was good at that radio thing and Jim saw that. It must have bothered him to see all that wasted potential being parlayed into a nine-to-five job. Sometimes I feel guilty because I didn't make an effort to call him after graduation for advice or just to talk about life in general.
Two years ago, Matt and I saw him again at Homecoming. We couldn't believe our eyes. Jim had lost a whole person in body weight. His back issues were seemingly behind him. He was vibrant as ever, playfully fighting with us. He was honored to meet my wife. It warmed my heart seeing Jim Abbott looking better and healthier than ever. It would be the last time I'd see him alive. This Saturday, I'll see him again at his memorial service (not a funeral, as Jim didn't do weddings or funerals) to tell him all those juicy stories that aren't meant for public consumption.
When I wrote Being Made, I had only one person in mind when I created Black Swan's manager, Jim Cornell. By any name, in my head, I always see Jim Abbott, like the pitcher. Not a day goes by that I don't wish I could do it all over again, if only to enjoy one last moment or one last phone call with my friend and mentor. I've long since mastered imitating his distinct voice. When it comes to imitating the man however, I am still the learner, the boy wonder.
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