Barry was a longtime sports anchor for KFOR, Oklahoma City's NBC affiliate, but was probably best recognized as the play-by-play announcer for University of Oklahoma football and men's basketball (and to a lesser extent Oklahoma State's football and men's hoops as well as University of Tulsa basketball). He was hand-picked by legendary OU football coach Bud Wilkinson to be the team's announcer in 1961, and continued covering the state's collegiate sports scene until retiring this past spring, following a 50 year career.
His son, Bob Barry, Jr., also a veteran Oklahoma sportscaster, was driving home from Manhattan, KS Saturday evening after having covered the Sooners' 58-17 rout of previously unbeaten Kansas State. He tried several times to reach his father by phone to discuss the game, something that had long been a tradition for them. After not getting an answer by midnight, Barry, Jr. decided the conversation would wait until the next morning.
When that morning came, Barry, Sr.'s neighbors noticed his paper was still in the driveway, his mail not yet collected. A couple of hours later, he was found by his oldest son, Frank, having apparently passed-away in his sleep. The television was still tuned to the same station on which the OU football game had been broadcast.
I heard the news not long after I got up and around, on Facebook, from one of my friends back home. At first it didn't hit me much harder than most other 'notable' deaths. I had the usual "that sucks" reaction and went about dealing with the day.
A few hours ago I was sitting outside my apartment, smoking a cigarette and watching the world slouch by lonely and grey. Something about how memory works by association, something about this chilly Fall Sunday brought back so many chilly Fall Saturdays, and suddenly it hit me. A part of my happiness was gone, irrevocably. How many times had I listened to Mr. Barry's dead-on calling of another Sooners matchup on my boombox while I played football in the backyard, developing my own quarterbacking skills, with trees, shrubs, clothesline posts, or maybe that strangely darker bit of siding as my "receivers"? How often had his voice been in the background as my mother made me a grilled cheese sandwich while I waited eagerly for the beginning of the second half? How many nights had I waited until my mom fell asleep then watched 'Bob Barry Sports' on channel 4 just loud enough to hear without getting caught? With a bit of figuring, a rough estimate could be reached. But, in my world, the number seems innocently, inestimably high.
This is often how, and likely why, something reveals its true worth. I am reminded of how such things are so hugely a part of our happiness while seemingly just running in the background. What matters here, now? How much is it worth to me to recognize these things, these people? It makes me want to pay far more attention, to see things for their true worth in the moment. Maybe, if I do, fifty years from now I can look back and smile.
Bob Barry, Sr. passed away happy and loved and respected. He was 80.
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