The youngster that I am, I was about 8 years old on that fateful night in October of 1992. I slept in my tattered and worn Atlanta Braves t-shirt, or at least tried to. My nerves were shot.

“You have to go to sleep, honey,” my mother told me. “We promise, we’ll wake you up if something happens.”

I trudged to the bedroom head down, forlorn. My Braves were down 2-0 in Game 7 of the NLCS. It was late (way past bedtime), and sensing the boys from hot ‘Lanta might not be able to muster much the next few innings, my parents sent me on my way with their promise of waking me from my slumber if it appeared that my heroes were coming back. My brother accompanied me to the bedroom, where we shut the door and both stared into the darkness, hoping for a miracle, and submitted to sleep.

“Boys!” my mom said shaking us awake. “Come on. Look!”

I ran past her into the living room, skidding ably across the hardwood floor and immediately crossed my legs in front of me as I sat in front of the television.

David Justice on. Sid Bream on. Francisco Cabrera at bat. 2-1 count. I had made it just in time. And then Skip Caray talked to me.

“Lotta room in right-center, if he hits one there we can dance in the streets,” Caray said in a nasal, matter-of-fact delivery I had grown to love. “The 2-1. Swung, line drive left field! One run is in! Here comes Bream! Here's the throw to the plate! He is….”

Skip Caray died Sunday, and with him, so did a part of many of us who grew up listening to him. Like many who enjoyed Caray’s wit, sarcasm and undeniable love for the Braves organization, I felt like I knew him without having ever met the man.

He was the voice of my childhood heroes. He was the clever grandfather figure who brought a smile to my face when he said “and there’s a couple from Greenville, South Carolina getting a souvenir” when a foul ball flew into the stands.

He crafted his calls with a combination of curtness, wit, sarcasm and eloquence that yielded a style truly distinct, and solely his.

I’m going to miss you, Skip. You were my introduction to baseball. And like so many others who enjoyed you while they were still young, I can tell you that you made momentous calls you never knew about. You were the narrator of every adolescent baseball fantasy I ever had. When I was a skinny 6-year-old awkwardly swinging a metal bat in the back yard, playing out my wildest baseball dreams in the heat of idle summer days, you were the one calling. When I looked around to make sure nobody was watching me as I hit the game-winning homerun, you were there. Your voice has made more calls than you could ever know, and that voice still echoes in the minds of many a young man who heard you provide analysis of their imaginary athletic conquests.

And every now and then, that matter-of-fact tone transformed into one of uncontainable excitement, and when it did, we all knew it was time to get thrilled ourselves. He commanded so many people’s emotions, and because of that, managed to make one of the most iconic calls in baseball history by saying the same two words over and over and over again that cool October night nearly 16 years ago.

I remember it clearly as he finished the call, my unblinking eyes fixed on the screen as Sid slid. That voice powered through the signals, the wires, the electricity and the speakers into the living room and told me all I needed to know.

“Braves win!”

I don’t need to watch the recording of the game. I won’t be looking online for audio clips.

I can still hear it.