On the afternoon of October 16, 1985, I was at a stoplight in North St. Louis County, at the wheel of my green 1971 Dodge Coronet, late as usual for my shift as a clerk in the toy department at Best Products, when Jack Clark took Tom Niedenfuer deep in the ninth inning to clinch the National League Championship Series for the Cardinals in Game 6. Like the drivers around me, I began honking my horn in celebration. It was one of the greatest baseball moments I never saw, because, as usual, Jack Buck was nice enough to ride along and tell me about it. He was a thousand miles away in a ballpark and a city a 16-year-old St. Louis kid had never seen. But thanks to Jack, like all those people at that light on Howdershell Road, I was in on the fun.

I lost a significant part of my childhood Tuesday when Jack died. He was a constant to all my summers in St. Louis. Whether I was shooting baskets behind the garage, or just sitting around, giving in to the heat, Jack was with me, sharing his insight, his wit, and the games.

I lost a significant part of my childhood Tuesday when Jack died. He was a constant to all my summers in St. Louis. Whether I was shooting baskets behind the garage, or just sitting around, giving in to the heat, Jack was with me, sharing his insight, his wit, and the games.

It wasn't just me, of course. For that matter, it wasn't even just people around St. Louis who lived the games through Jack's melodic growl. Jack began broadcasting long before the games were regularly on television, let alone cable. When Jack started his run with the Redbirds in 1954, St. Louis was still the western-most city in the bigs, and the 100,000 watt behometh KMOX radio spread the gospel of Cardinals baseball well beyond St. Louis, even beyond the Midwest.

The Cardinals' radio network brought Stan the Man and Louuuuuuuuuu to Sioux City, Little Rock and hundreds of other towns. When my career took me to Mississippi, I met dozens of second-generation Cardinals fans whose parents had gotten hooked by listening to Jack two states away, just as I had 20 miles from the ballpark. You'd hear Jack mention the stations in Cape Girardeau or Tupelo during the games. And for the hundreds of thousands of us listening around the middle of the country, the afternoon or evening wasn't complete until Jack announced, "That's a winner!"

I first met Jack by happenstance in the airport. My girlfriend (now wife) and I stepped into the security line immediately behind him. With nothing intelligent to say at such a moment, I blurted out, "It's Jack Buck!" He turned around, smiled, and choked out a sincere "Hi, how are ya?" It was 7:30 in the morning. He had done the Cardinals game the night before, and was on his way to Cincinnati, or Pittsburgh or someplace for the CBS game of the week. It was 1990, which means Jack was 65 then, and he was obviously tired, and he couldn't have been more gracious.

I'm in broadcasting because I grew up wanting to be Jack Buck. As a journalist, I first met Jack when I was in college -- to this day I've never been more nervous for an interview. Years later, when I returned to St. Louis as a professional reporter, I was fortunate enough to meet and become friendly with many of my childhood heroes, but I could never shake my reverence for Jack.

I regret not striking up more conversations with him, but the fact is I became an adoring, star-struck kid whenever I saw him. I settled for watching him work batting practice at Busch Stadium with awe. While mortal media members were trying to get a few minutes with the stars, the players went out of their way to greet Jack. In his later years, Jack was obviously in the grips of Parkinson's Disease -- looking frail, often shaking noticeably, and on bad days walking feebly -- but even at his physically weakest, Jack Buck was the man.

He owned whatever room he was in -- even if that room sat 5 thousand miles away. He'd seen it all, from Musial to McGwire -- and that was just his Cardinals gig. Those of you outside Cardinals Nation will remember the Hall-of-Famer's call of Kirk Gibson's historic home run in Game 1 of the 1988 World Series, his pregame speech on baseball's place in a post 9/11 world, or his work on Monday Night Football. But some of us were lucky enough to get daily doses of Jack.

Whip-smart on topics well outside the scope of the ballgames he so expertly called, Jack used that versatility to help pioneer talk radio as we know it now back in the '60s. He was wickedly funny, the best emcee in town. And Jack was compassionate, often mentioning the loyal fans who turned to him because they couldn't leave their homes or hospital beds to actually visit the ballpark.

But despite his vast talent, one of Jack's most endearing qualities was his obvious humility. As a Depression-era kid and winner of a purple heart in World War II, he was keenly aware how great a life he had as he was living it. I'm sure Jack himself would be the first to declare his time "a winner."

Selfishly, I just wish I could hear him say it one more time.

Matt Winer is an anchor on SportsCenter.