For many of a certain age, Keith Jackson’s velvet, staccato voice and folksy insights weren’t merely synonymous with college football.
His unique touch conjured the game to life, in this moment reminiscent to me of Michelangelo’s “Creation of Adam.”
And his style and perspectives dominated and animated the soundtrack of our youth and love for sports – a wide world of them that included the nooks and crannies of that long-ago panoramic show and the Olympics and “Monday Night Football.”
So it was one of the great joys of my life when an indulgence of fate connected me with Jackson in the late 1990s to write his autobiography with him.
Through 20 hours of phone interviews and a memorable dinner in California with Jackson and his elegant wife, Turi Ann, we put together the underpinnings of a proposal.
But before we went any further, the idea unraveled because of Jackson’s frustration with a new middleman inserted into the mix.
At least that’s what he told me, and we had a few nice conversations after that.