Say it ain't so, Mike Krukow

When Mike Krukow left the pitcher’s mound and became a broadcaster for the Giants, one smart ass (OK, it was me) wrote that he sounded like he was still wearing his uniform.

And because I was a smart ass, I added that the uniform included pom-poms and a little pleated skirt.

A cheerleader.

Which is fine. You get it. Guys finish their playing days and go to the broadcast booth. They understand the assignment. They’re the home team announcer. Missed ground balls just took a bad hop. Pitchers that give up three-run homers got a bad break. Umpires miss calls that coulda gone the Giants’ way.

You’ve heard them. Right here in the Bay Area.

My guess is that there wasn’t a conscious decision by Krukow to change. It happened, I bet, because he’s an honest intelligent guy and it seemed silly to pretend not to be honest and straight with us.

For starters he took us inside the game.

I learned more about professional baseball pitching from listening to Krukow than for 20 years in interviews in MLB dugouts. He took us inside the mind of the pitcher.

And every time he said the hitter was “Set up for a slider away,” and we watched the batter flail helplessly at the next pitch, a breaking ball down and so far outside you wonder why he would ever swing at that, we had a private moment. And we had a smile when he told us the guy was going back to the dugout with nothing more than “What the little bird left on the rock.”

But then, gradually again, Krukow became the conscience of the franchise. He’d call out the bonehead plays, the lack of hustle. When something happened in the night game you wanted to hear what Kruk was going to say on his regular KNBR morning appearance.

You might be surprised how many professional sports pundits actively seek out Krukow when they want something explained or clarified. Sports columnists, beat writers, electronic media. I know I did.

As we have learned, speaking your mind is tricky. It is very easy to put your foot in it. And you have to remember that you are still the home team representative. Sports teams will tell you they are all for candor and bracing opinions.

But in their heart of hearts what they really want is lots of credit for good things and a little cheerful gloss on the bad.

And that’s where Krukow — and let’s be sure to credit partner Duane Kuiper too — took it to the next level. He’s called out the Giants, and Major League Baseball and frankly, culture.

And he managed to do it in a way that was decisive, definitive and important. At a time when he easily could have stayed silent, or changed the subject, he’s stepped up.

We need to go no further than this year’s Pride Night debacle. It’s been discussed to death, but to review, three pitchers wrote Bible verses on their baseball caps to protest the longtime Giants event. A fourth wore his regular Giants’ cap but made a point to say he didn’t support “it,” apparently meaning the celebration of inclusion for LBGT members.

It was epically mishandled and you had to wonder what Krukow, who has a gay son, would say.

And he let the pitchers have it.

“I think when you’re a player and you come into this environment, it’s your responsibility to know just how sensitive this city is in regards to that cultural freedom and religious freedom, and just the way that you live your life,” Krukow said on KNBR.

“And I think they were in for a rude awakening with the response, and it wasn’t just from the gay community; it was from the Northern California community that supports the gay community.”

From this viewpoint that is just about perfect.

While the Giants franchise was still fumbling around trying to find an off-ramp as consternation and ticket-cancellations rose — Giants president Buster Posey refused to answer questions about the pride controversy in an arranged interview — Krukow nailed it.

And by the way, did it without making matters worse or insulting anyone for their views.

That is how it is done.

But back in 2014, during the season, there were some disturbing rumors. Krukow was having trouble getting around. He was taking a golf cart to the ballpark.

We shrugged it off. The guy is 6-5, 200+ pounds, pitched 14 seasons in the Big Leagues. He’s fine.

One day I got a tip from an insider. It’s serious, he said. This isn’t something you take lightly.

I went to the sports editor of the Chronicle. I said I was writing a city politics column at this point and wasn’t covering sports any more, but he oughta have somebody look into this. See what’s wrong with Kruk.

And he did what I used to do when somebody gave a random tip. He said, oh yeah, great, thanks a lot. We will totally check that out.

And nothing happened.

So I texted Krukow. And I said in so many words, this story of your illness is getting out. And my advice would be to find a way to tell your own story, in your own way, rather than let it leak out in bits and pieces.

And he texted back to ask, what had I heard about what was bothering him?

I said I wasn’t sure what it was, but I was told it was a degenerative muscle disease that would only get worse.

The phone rang minutes later.

I’ve always been grateful that he gave me that story first. But it is one of the most heartbreaking things I’ve ever written.

As always, he was perfectly candid. His biggest fear, he said, was falling.

“There is nothing more humiliating than falling in front of people,” he said. “The biggest, most stressful thing is thinking about being on the field and falling in front of 40,000 people.”

Then 62 years old, he revealed that he was suffering from a degenerative muscle disease called inclusion-body myositis. IBM causes progressive weakness in the muscles of the wrist and fingers, the front of the thigh, and the muscles that lift the front of the foot. There's no cure and no solid theory for what causes it.

As promised when he was diagnosed, the condition only became worse. The slightest nudge could send him sprawling. Even a slight downslope “is Mount Everest” he said.

He cut back on his travel to away games. Then quit going altogether.

"You are talking about a guy who used to run the steps at every major-league ballpark," Kuiper said at the time. "Now he can't even go up steps.”

The disease wouldn’t even spare him simple pleasures. One thing I didn’t know about him was that he was a gifted musician.

"I play guitar, mandolin, banjo, ukulele," he said. "I can play anything with strings. I'm worried that I am going to lose that."

He did.

He went to a walking stick. Then did broadcasts remotely with a video monitor.

And I defy anyone to say he’s lost even half a step.

He’s as sharp as ever, witty and pithy. His catchphrases, from “Grab some pine, meat,” to “gamer babes,” continue to be Bay Area standards. (Personally I’d rather he didn’t say the catcher is in a “squaaaaaaaat,” but that’s just me.)

He’s been so impressive, such an example, that after several years I felt like we ought to recognize it. A few years ago I decided to write a column celebrating the courage, inner strength and overall example for us all.

But my wife said, you can’t do it without asking him first. So I did.

And he said no. Didn’t want it.

“I think he just wants his life to be as normal as possible," Kuiper said at one point. "I can assure you that he doesn't want to be treated any different. If people stop him and say how sorry they are, he doesn't want that.”

Well tough luck. We’re doing this anyhow.

You know, baseball isn’t one of those sports where people gush with praise. A high five is about as giddy as they get.

But they have little phrases that mean a lot. Krukow uses one to end his KNBR morning interviews. It’s an acknowledgement of something done well.

And we offer it here. Because it has been an honor and privilege.

Atta-babe.

Contact C.W. Nevius at cwnevius@gmail.com. Threads and Twitter @cwnevius