Everyone thinks he does a killer imitation of Dave Johnson's signature line. The guy at your Preakness party with four Heinekens under his belt and an attractive dab of onion dip on his chin, he'll try it. But he couldn't even get a Ritz cracker to his mouth, so you know he'll screw it up.
The key is to hit the word "down" hard. And the rest needs to have a singular urgency to it, like the Joint Chiefs of Staff announcing a troop movement. Only then does it come out just right, the dramatic, haunting cry that has become one of the most famous in all of sports: "And down the stretch they come!"
"It's gotta be in my obituary," Johnson says, relaxing at a picnic table in the sunshine of Pimlico Race Course. The veteran race caller is in town to announce tomorrow's Preakness Stakes for ABC-TV, as he has for the past 17 years.
Only now he's talking about his own modest share of celebrity, what it means to be linked to a phrase that has become as instantly recognizable as NBA announcer Marv Albert's "Yessss!" and ring announcer Michael Buffer's "Let's get ready to rrrr-umble!"
"I got one of the biggest thrills five or 10 years ago," Johnson says. "I'm driving down Reisterstown Road from the airport to Pimlico and I see one of The Sun's [newspaper] boxes. And there's this big cardboard insert in the box that says: "And down the stretch they come!"
"The box was near a McDonald's. So I pulled in and bought a diet soda. And I stole the sign."
At this point in the conversation, the reporter is about to suggest that the statute of limitations for this particular offense might not have expired and that Sun management, along with the police, will have to be notified.
But Johnson is already off on another anecdote about how the line follows him everywhere, like a bad cough. This one is about the time he was in a shopping mall in Atlanta with his sister.
As the two descended to a lower level, they were eyeballed by this fellow who, if he wasn't the Unabomber, was the Unabomber's Georgia cousin.
Suddenly, amid the din from the Hickory Farm store and Thom McCan and the rest, the man could be heard shouting: "And down the stairs he comes!"
"And that's all he said," Johnson says, marveling at the memory. " But I get stuff like that from people all the time. 'And through the barns he comes!' 'And down the elevator he comes.' It never ends."
Not that he's complaining.
Johnson, 54, a handsome man with a thatch of surfer-blond hair, has been calling races for 32 years and says: "I make a living going to the racetrack and identifying animals as they go around an oval. And I love it!"
How he got his start in the business is one of the very best stories you will ever hear, "like the script for a B-movie," Johnson says.
The year is 1964. The place is Cahokia Downs, a homely little track in Illinois across the river from St. Louis. Johnson is a 23-year-old clerk in a law firm, out for a night at the track with a few bucks to burn.
At the end of the first race, word comes over the PA system that the track announcer is ill and that the rest of the races will not be called. This prompts young Dave Johnson to go to the track's general manager, a woman known as "Miss Ann," and volunteer his services.
"I knew I could do this," Johnson says now. "I have one of those memories. I mean, I got through college memorizing the 10 points of the Yalta Agreement the same way I memorized the 19 horses in the Kentucky Derby."
But Miss Ann, she's not impressed with someone who has the Yalta Agreement down cold. She needs an announcer, dammit. In short order, it is decided that the ill announcer's 17-year-old son will take over for his dad, aided by two spotters.
One is the track electrician. The other is the guy who blows the bugle before each race. And the bugler, Dave Johnson notes, is about 134 years old.
So the second race goes off. And over the sound system, the call sounds like this:
First voice: "It's Seabiscuit going to the front "
Second voice: "Nah, that's not Seabiscuit "
Third voice: "Y'know, I think it's the seven horse. Or maybe the five "
"Oh, it was a riot!" Johnson says, laughing. "It was a 'Saturday Night Live' skit long before there was a 'Saturday Night Live.'"
Anyway, at the end of the second race, Miss Ann, no fool, marches up to Dave Johnson's box. Then she whispers the fateful words that will change his life: "You're next."
So Mr. Yalta Agreement calls the third race, practically catatonic. ("I was scared out of my mind -- out of my mind!" ) His hands are shaking so violently that he can't hold the program -- they have to tape it to the window.
But he calls the race well enough, and eventually takes over as the track's announcer. He moves to Hialeah in '71, and then the New York tracks (Aqueduct, Belmont and Saratoga) and then Santa Anita in '77, a career in steady, if not meteoric, ascent.
Had to 'really pump it'
It was at Santa Anita that he first used the distinctive "And down the stretch they come!" and noticed the adrenalized effect it had on the crowd.
It would be nice to report that this was an artistic flourish thought up by a confident, daring young announcer.
Instead, it was a move necessitated by the track's antiquated sound system, complete with cone-shaped speakers that, Johnson says, were straight out of the old Marx Brothers movie "A Day at the Races."
"Trying to call a race there was maddening!" he recalls. "So when there were big crowds, the only way to be heard was to project into the microphone like crazy. I mean, really pump it, underline it, give it a rumble."
"And down the stretch they come!" he'd thunder into the mike, the words floating clear and hard into the California night.
The crowds loved it. And pretty soon, he sensed the phrase had taken on a life of its own.
Not only were people running up to him and repeating the phrase like goofy kindergarteners vying for attention. But "it seemed that no matter when [in the race] I said it, that was when the TV news would pick up my call."
That was years ago, and now he's a big name in his sport, but Dave Johnson wants never to forget where he came from.
"My father was a steelworker who never made more than $11,000 a year and had a tough road," he says.
Working a Triple Crown race, Johnson tries to get the name of each horse into his call, because people in office pools all over the country -- the $2 bettor, the guy with 100 bucks on the race -- want to hear their horse mentioned at least once.
And he says he still feels "enormous pressure" in the scant three minutes or so that he has before a Triple Crown race to memorize the horses. He does this by associating the horses with certain images in his mind.
"It's the same system I used to memorize the 10 points of the Yalta Agreement," he explains.
We're back to the Yalta Agreement?
"For instance, with Unbridled's Song, I picture a black music staff with red notes. He wears black with a red cap. With Grindstone, I actually pictured a horse's nose to the grindstone, white with this green thing on top. With Victory Speech, I pictured John Kennedy making a victory speech in orange and blue colors.
"That said, I forget to bring dog food home," he notes dryly.
In addition to his racing work for ABC-TV and ESPN, he does voice-overs for commercials: Jif peanut butter, Bold detergent,
TC Kraft cheese singles, Uncle Ben's rice.
He also does some acting and appeared on Broadway three years ago in "Three Men on a Horse" with Tony Randall and Jack Klugman. He played a race-track announcer. Yeah, it was a real stretch.
F: "I was not nominated for any awards," Johnson recalls.
'I love horse-racing'
But his main love is calling the races. And as he leans on the rail near the home stretch at Pimlico, warmed by the late afternoon sun, he wears the look of a man perfectly content with his environment.
"I go to the track on my day off, you know that?" he says. "I love horse-racing! I like to bet on it. I don't like slots or video games or any of that crap.
"Look at this," he says, as a colt canters past gracefully in preparation for the day's last race. "He's noble. These are such noble animals."
Ten minutes later, after Primal River wins the last race and the track announcer thanks everyone for coming, Johnson picks up his briefcase and stands up to leave. But first he talks about the rich sense of history he feels in his work.
"One hundred years from now," he says softly, "somebody is going to press a button somewhere in the universe, and out of it is going to come the call of the 1996 Preakness.
"One hundred years from now, when you and I are dead, that call will still be there. And that's a wonderful thing."
Pub Date: 5/17/96