CLEVELAND — There’s a round, hazelnut brown table in the back of Booth 3 at Progressive Field with four black office chairs, though it’s common for guests to pull up more.
For every visiting broadcaster, this is the sanctuary. This is where a planned 90-second visit turns into 90 minutes, and you wish you had 90 more to spare. This is where a late-afternoon hello blurs into a sprint back to the microphone to detail the game’s first pitch. This is where time flies, conversations flow and bellowing laughter booms.
This is where Cleveland radio broadcaster Tom Hamilton holds court, where he sits each afternoon to scribble the lineups and prepare his notes before a visitor knocks on the door. He makes every colleague feel like there’s nowhere on the planet he’d rather be than in that moment, at that table, talking to them.
He does the same thing on the mic.
Hamilton is everyone’s friend, whether you know him from decades of interactions or you only know him through your car radio or MLB app or the dust-covered stereo that still sort of catches the signal if you point the antenna in the right direction.
You feel like he’s talking directly to you, one on one, painting vivid brushstrokes with his descriptions of an outfield wall’s quirky dimensions or a pitcher’s funky delivery, telling gripping stories about players’ backgrounds, filling time with casual chatter about college baseball or razzing his longtime partner in the booth, Jim Rosenhaus.
Hamilton will head into the Baseball Hall of Fame this Saturday as the recipient of the Ford C. Frick Award, the pinnacle achievement in the sport’s broadcasting realm. He has lost sleep in recent weeks over his speech, the attention and the fact that the humble guy who narrates everyone else’s stories for a living now has no choice but to relay his own.
He’s looking forward to the ceremony and the pomp and circumstance. He’s eager to watch CC Sabathia — whose outings he detailed for eight years — receive his own honor the following day. He’s also looking forward to exhaling when it’s all done, when he can return to Progressive Field for another ballgame and retreat to that cherished table in the back of his booth, where he’s everyone’s best friend.
“It’s like a holiday,” said Detroit Tigers broadcaster Jason Benetti. “I get to sit at the table and talk to my friend Tom, who laughs at everything and has a witty comment for everything. You lose an hour and a half in an instant.”
How did Hamilton land a spot in Cooperstown?
There’s that distinct inflection in his voice that reminds you he’s from rural Wisconsin, where he was raised on a 150-acre dairy farm. There’s that consistent enthusiasm that stems from the advice Herb Score rattled him with on his first day in 1990, when he naively thought the Cleveland Indians were a pennant contender.
No, they were the sorry bunch depicted in “Major League,” a group that lost a franchise-record 105 games the following year. As Score stressed, he couldn’t allow their shortcomings to dampen the spirit in his voice.
There’s the self-deprecation. He says he rented an apartment in Bay Village, Ohio, upon landing the job in 1990 because he didn’t think he’d last long in the business. He says Rosenhaus will “go straight to heaven” for having to deal with him for nearly two decades. He says players must see him and think, “Grandpa’s still here with us. I didn’t know he made it through the night.”
And he says, his voice trembling and tears ready to spill down his cheeks, on joining the most estimable voices in the history of the sport: “I don’t belong.”
For years, instead of suggesting he had a chance to win the Frick Award, he’d compare himself to actress Susan Lucci of “All My Children” fame. Lucci had become a perennial Daytime Emmy candidate until she finally won after 18 nominations.
When Hamilton received the call in December — he thought the window had passed, so he went to work out — the man who has filled tens of thousands of hours of airtime with his carefully manicured words had no words left to offer.
Hamilton, 70, would much rather wax poetic about Earl Gillespie and Eddie Doucette and Merle Harmon and Gary Bender, the idols he grew up listening to on his front porch, than indulge in any conversation about his legacy. Hamilton and Rick Manning are Cleveland’s longest-tenured broadcasters, at 36 seasons and counting. Hamilton joins Jimmy Dudley and Jack Graney, who broadcast in Cleveland in the early- and mid-1900s, as the franchise’s only Frick Award winners.
“He’s the best baseball announcer in the history of Cleveland,” said Chicago Cubs broadcaster Pat Hughes, the 2023 Frick Award winner. “I don’t think anybody’s even close.”
https://static01.nyt.com/athletic/uploads/wp/2025/07/22171545/Rajai-Davis-World-Series-Game-7-HR-to-tie-it-2017.mp3Hamilton’s call of Rajai Davis’ home run in Game 7 of the 2016 World Series
Benetti said whenever the two connect, Hamilton won’t talk about himself. He’ll instead steer the conversation to how he watched a regional baseball game at Kent State or caught up with former Cleveland manager Terry Francona or a Big Ten basketball coach, such as Purdue’s Matt Painter.
“It’s always through the lens of what the other person experienced,” Benetti said. “I think that’s the epitome of the job we do. He’s so good at telling other people’s stories that even in life, he tells other people’s stories. It’s fascinating. Ninety-eight percent of the industry, I feel like, start stories, even accidentally, with ‘I.’
“I don’t think he does that. I really don’t.”
One of the greatest compliments anyone can pay Hamilton, then, is to place him on the pedestal he puts those Milwaukee luminaries. So, it speaks volumes that longtime Reds broadcaster Marty Brennaman, the 2000 Frick Award winner, would sometimes search for a Cleveland game on the radio on his 25-minute drive home from the ballpark in Cincinnati. Or that Benetti and Hughes and Blue Jays broadcaster Dan Schulman seek out his calls.
“His energy and enthusiasm never wane,” Schulman said. “He makes you feel like every single moment of every single game is the most important moment there is. He’s an absolute treasure.”
https://static01.nyt.com/athletic/uploads/wp/2025/07/22172051/JHONKENSY-NOEL-2-RUN-HR-in-9TH-TIES-GAME-AT-5-ALCS-GM3-2024.mp3Hamilton’s call of Jhonkensy Noel’s home run in Game 3 of the 2024 ALCS
Even manager Stephen Vogt, before he ever joined the Guardians, would seek out Hamilton’s broadcasts three time zones away during a long drive.
“He has the talent, the voice, the calls, the moments,” said Guardians pitcher Shane Bieber. “As a player, listening to him, you appreciate his kindness, his stories, how he gets to know you. We don’t take that for granted.”
Hamilton knows he’s not the main character; he’s there to elevate whomever is.
“That’s what it’s supposed to sound like,” said Guardians catcher Austin Hedges, who grew up listening to Vin Scully, the 1982 Frick Award winner.
“His voice sounds like baseball,” said Guardians outfielder Steven Kwan, who grew up listening to San Francisco Giants staples Duane Kuiper and Mike Krukow.
https://static01.nyt.com/athletic/uploads/wp/2025/07/22172200/DAVID-FRY-2-RUN-HR-WALK-OFF-WINNER-in-10TH-7-5-Guards-take-ALCS-Game-3-2024.mp3Hamilton’s call of David Fry’s walk-off homer in Game 3 of the 2024 ALCS
When David Fry’s toddler points at the TV and says, “Dada, home run,” he’ll find video of his postseason homers, and the dramatic ones Lane Thomas and Jhonkensy Noel slugged in 2024.
“You know exactly what’s going to happen,” Fry said, “and you still get chills as (Hamilton) says, ‘Deep drive…’”
“When I first came over here,” Francona said, “I didn’t realize how good he was. I talked to him every day and loved him. And then one day I called in the winter, and they put me on hold. And it was Hammy’s call. I’m like, ‘Goddamn, he’s good.’”
“You can tell the great ones from the not-so-great,” Fry said, “or in his case, the Hall of Famers from the rest.”
“The best home run calls in all of baseball,” said Blue Jays president Mark Shapiro, who worked in Cleveland for nearly a quarter-century. “I feel that bar none.”
Shapiro grew up listening to longtime Baltimore broadcasters Chuck Thompson and Jon Miller, both Frick Award winners. He even attended Miller’s Hall of Fame induction.
“And then I listened to Hammy for 24 years,” Shapiro said, “and I was like, ‘This guy is as good as anybody ever.’”
https://static01.nyt.com/athletic/uploads/wp/2025/07/22172309/Jason-Giambi-Huge-Walk-Off-HR-9-24-13-vs-White-Sox.mp3Hamilton’s call of Jason Giambi’s 2013 walk-off
Hamilton has provided the soundtrack to every memorable Cleveland moment over the last 35 years, from Rajai Davis’ Game 7 home run in the 2016 World Series to the team’s playoff clinch in September 1995, in which he proclaimed the city would have “an October to remember.” An unscientific poll revealed his call of the José Ramírez-Tim Anderson duel near second base in August 2023 as the consensus favorite.
“Down goes Anderson!” he shouted after Ramírez landed a right jab.
“It’s like he had been doing boxing for 30 years,” said Benetti, who was on location, detailing the brawl on the Chicago White Sox broadcast.
Of course, Hamilton downplays the call. He felt uncomfortable when reporters and radio shows called him to relive the scene in the days that followed. Hamilton insists the moment is never about the person describing it.
“Oh, ya know,” Benetti said, impersonating his friend. “I just say what I see. Oh, ya get lucky, ya know.”
Hamilton attributed his call to having, fortunately, the best angle to the play from his perch.
“He’s on every big moment,” Benetti said. “I’ve never heard him miss.”
https://static01.nyt.com/athletic/uploads/wp/2025/07/22172337/Jose-Ramirez-RBI-DBL-in-6th-FIGHT-BREAKS-OUT-Down-goes-Anderson.mp3Hamilton’s call of the fight between José Ramírez and Tim Anderson from 2023
Hamilton addressing the crowd during the Cleveland Guardians Hall of Fame induction ceremony in 2023. (Photo by Frank Jansky / Icon Sportswire via Getty Images)
It’s not as simple as a farmer’s kid being gifted a magical voice.
“People think you show up at 5:30,” Brennaman said. “They have no idea what we do.”
Hamilton arrives in time to make the rounds in the clubhouse each afternoon. He checks in with players nursing injuries, reviews certain at-bats or pitch sequences, catches up with coaches and interviews the manager for the pregame show. He heads to the field to collect more intel or find another conversation he might be able to file away for later if the score gets out of hand.
“He’s like the perfect golf partner or lunch partner,” Benetti said. “He’s a genuinely curious soul with an enormous voice.”
The afternoon preparation stocks him with plenty of anecdotes and details to weave into the broadcast. You’re never at risk for tuning in to a yawn-inducing at-bat.
“The most important thing we have in our business is credibility,” Brennaman said. “If a fan turns on the radio every night and can’t trust you to be credible on the air, I don’t think you have a whole lot working for you. Fans can pick up on insincerity or phoniness. What he’s delivering is the same thing he’d be delivering to a fan if they were sitting at a bar drinking and talking baseball.
“Tom wrote the book on sincerity. He cares about the people who listen to him. I truly believe he has a love affair with the Cleveland baseball fans that’s true to him and true to his personality.”
In early July, Jon and Robin Stang drove two hours to an airport in Bismarck, N.D., flew to Minneapolis and then boarded another flight to Cleveland. They have no ties to the Colorado Rockies or Minnesota Twins, the closest teams to their residence in Regent, N.D., a town of about 450 people. Years ago, they randomly chose the Guardians as their team, and Hamilton as their tour guide through each season.
They spend their days on tractors, spreaders and lawnmowers on a grain farm that has been in the Stang family for 111 years. The fastest, most enjoyable two or three hours of their day from April until at least September is when they get lost in a Hamilton soliloquy.
“I listen to you all the time,” Jon said upon meeting him in July. “You usually make my day.”
“Well, I’ve been disappointing people my whole life,” Hamilton countered, in his typical, self-deprecating nature.
During a recent road trip, Rosenhaus passed Hamilton a note about a Cleveland fan who was celebrating his 100th birthday. Hamilton seamlessly wove him into the fabric of the broadcast for a half-inning.
“He made it seem like he knew the guy,” Rosenhaus said.
The broadcast partners occasionally grab a meal on the road. By the time the check arrives, Hamilton has learned the server’s hometown and career goals, along with a list of sites to view in that particular city.
“There’s nobody in baseball I look forward to BSing with for 10 minutes before the game more than him,” Schulman said.
When he finishes his work on the field and in the clubhouse each day, Hamilton returns to his booth and sits at that round table. He studies packets of statistics and jots down notes for each player on both sides.
And he entertains.
“Once I got all my business taken care of in the clubhouse and at field level,” Brennaman said, “one of the first things I did was go see him and Rosey.”
“If I don’t stop in (on) the first day,” Benetti said, “he’ll say, ‘Oh, I don’t know! You’ve changed!’”
“You know if you’re a friend of his,” Brennaman said.
That’s the case if you’ve swapped stories while sitting at that table, in his booth or if you’ve listened to his broadcast.
“That,” Benetti said, “is the best kind of friend anybody can want.”
(Top photo of Tom Hamilton: Nick Cammett / Diamond Images via Getty Images; Audio courtesy of Brian Motsay / Cleveland Guardians)