Tuesday, I asked. No, he said, which means he truly is a blase kid. Or another example of what's been lost to a generation as the great voices of sports leave us, one-by-one. Harry Kalas, who brought the Philadelphia Phillies to life, whether they were winning or losing, is the most recent.

What child of New England didn't play basketball with the rasp of Johnny Most in his ear? Who didn't make a throw across a Little League diamond without hearing Ned Martin's call during the continual mental replays after the bedroom light went out?

Mercy.

Every time my buddy stopped a shot in suburban New York's version of street hockey the rest of us chorused, "kick save and a beauty." If we took the basketball into the school gym, every fall-away jumper was met with Marv Albert's "yessssss." Every elbow in the ribs was followed by "it counts, AND the foul!"

Thank heavens we were all adults years later, when Albert played vampire with a woman and found himself in a courtroom.

I was Lindsey Nelson, minus the wild sports coats, when I went through the Mets' lineup while playing stoop ball. "Marv Throneberry reaches down for the ground ball ... oh, it went under his glove!"

Former Phillie Doug Glanville told ESPN he hit an inside-the-park homer in 2002 and wondered as he crossed home plate how Harry Kalas was describing it.

I never did appreciate Yankees' broadcaster Mel Allen -- who I thought owned Ballantine Beer because he talked about it so much -- or Red Barber. Phil "Holy Cow" Rizzuto was OK, especially to 9-year-old ears.

It didn't matter where you grew up, only that there was a team to follow. Listening to Curt Gowdy or Joe Castiglione or Kalas was like listening to a favorite teacher or uncle. They knew everything about the players you wanted to be.

My son's favorites, if they can be called that, are Derek Rae and Tommy Smyth, who call Champions League soccer games for ESPN. He's familiar with Smyth's "bulge in the old onion bag" when a goal is scored and like many soccer fans, not particularly thrilled with it. I've exposed him to Sean Grande and Cedric Maxwell and urge him to turn off the television sound and put on the radio when he watches Celtics games. That hasn't happened.

Grande keeps every game fresh and Maxwell's "quack, quack, quack" when he sees a great play may irritate some but I think it's original and together they're less intrusive than the other circus acts that pass for broadcast teams.

But then, my son wouldn't know. He can pop in and out of a couple of basketball games and a baseball game quicker than I can protest. He doesn't need to become friends with the commentators. He wants the score, the highlight of the moment, so he can move on.

Andy Young, the first Portland Sea Dogs play-by-play man, moved into a high school classroom about five years ago. One of his classes is Reading, Writing and Thinking in Sports. I asked how many of his Kennebunk students listen or watch enough to copy the calls made. "None at all," said Young.

Too bad. No one used the words disgusting and despicable better than Johnny Most, especially when Bill Laimbeer and Rick Mahorn came to the Boston Garden with Detroit. My son has heard a recording of Most's most famous call at the end of Game 7 of the 1965 NBA Eastern Division finals.

"Havlicek steals it! Over to Sam Jones. Havlicek stole the ball! It's over. It's all over!"

And soon, so may an era of great voices witnessing the moments of sports history end. To take Red Sox's Castiglione out of context: Can you believe it?