"Right now," Mike Lange told me one day in Toronto, back in 2001, "I feel like a turkey trying to hide out on Thanksgiving Day."
This was on the eve of his being honored with the Foster Hewitt Memorial Award for outstanding work as an NHL broadcaster, as well as permanent placement within the Hockey Hall of Fame. He was humbled in the truest sense. He couldn't believe what was about to bestowed upon him.
A little later, he had to be fitted for the blue blazer he'd get to wear forever in the figurative sense.
"It's a very special moment, isn't it?" he'd say in looking up my way once the shoulders were unruffled. "Obviously, I'll cherish this for the rest of my life."
Yeah. We know the feeling. Today, upon the passing of this legitimate Pittsburgh legend, those of us who grew up with his play-by-play, his personality, his passion and -- never forget this part -- his unparalleled brilliance at being able to bring you the action on radio at a level that'd have you turning off the TV to attain a better feel -- we'll have all that to cherish.
And it's not that he'll be missed so much as he already was. Because he belonged at the microphone. And even more so because there really shouldn't be a world with Pittsburgh's beloved hockey franchise ... but without that iconic, eclectic voice.
It's not the catchphrases, though they were fun ...
... and he loved them and, as noted atop this piece, he'd find himself crafting them all the time. Never, ever reduce his impact to the catchphrases.
It's about the action. It's about the moment. And then the next moment. And then the next. Because in the world's fastest team sport, the real talent's not being able to keep up ... it's about being ahead. Those of us who grew up with Mr. Lange's work, back when only a handful of the Penguins' games were televised, back before Mario Lemieux, back when Mr. Lange himself was the team's star, can agree, I'll bet, that no one was better at conveying the event, the scenery, the momentum switches and, in turn, being able to parlay that into what'd come next.
"Watch out here ... "
"Here come the Flyers now ... "
"This could be one of those nights for 66 ... "
And my personal favorite, reminding us of the potential perils when the Penguins dared to skate or pass in front of their net once the goaltender's been pulled. Every. Single. Time.
No one was at his level, not that I've ever heard. Not in Pittsburgh. Not anywhere. And it didn't come by accident. Sure, hockey coursed through his veins, but he'd prepare all day, deep into his later days when he was visibly too ill to have been working. He'd take notes at the morning skate and, invariably, bring up maybe one small observation in the main broadcast that night about how so-and-so had been "really flying" that morning. He'd show up hours before the actual faceoff, taking more notes in the media lounge with an old-school ballpoint pen and index-paper tablet, alone at his own table and locked in as if he were preparing to be behind the bench, not up in the booth.
That's how a call like this occurred, the one that'll always stand out to me:
I was in the Civic Arena for that Game 1 in 1992, up in Section E-32. But if I'd been watching on TV, I'd have known Mario scored not by Mr. Lange's eventual call of the rebound being buried past Ed Belfour ... but by the pause that preceded it. The call went rapid-fire, rapid-fire, rapid-fire, delivering each detail ... then delivering that masterful, magical pause.
Right then and there, he was one of us. He saw it. He couldn't believe it. And once he fully absorbed it, he let it all out. He was our voice.
My God, that's missed. As one of so many who love hockey here, that's the soundtrack of our lives.
He'll be missed, too.
Mr. Lange was a giving, generous soul. He understood who he was, but he'd apply that toward others. There'll be a billion stories like this over the next little while, but add mine to the pile: When I began on the Penguins' beat for the Post-Gazette in 1997, he was helpful and supporting. When I drove to Toronto to cover his Hall induction, he responded with a full-page handwritten letter thanking me. When he'd see me in Winnipeg, a place he didn't exactly embrace the way I do, he'd mutter all kinds of unprintables in my direction to the amusement of everyone around us. When we were walking out of Nashville's Bridgestone Arena on that historic summer night in 2017, he first asked me how I'd fared in writing my column, as if I somehow mattered. And in turn, when I asked how he felt he did with the call of Patric Hornqvist's goal, he answered in a transparently frustrated tone, "I'll do better with next year's."
He did just fine:
Good man. Loyal man. Pittsburgh man. Could've had any job at any level of hockey anywhere across North America and stayed right here.
Which was our gift.
I could condense all this to my early childhood, when I'd sneak a dictionary-sized transistor radio under my pillow to keep up with Mr. Lange in Los Angeles or Vancouver and smile like an infant when he'd welcome me -- and me alone, in my head -- to the "Night Owl Club" once the clock struck midnight in Pittsburgh.
I could condense all this to Mr. Lange, on that amazing night in 1991 at the old Greater Pittsburgh International Airport, literally sticking his head out of that back of that school bus that was carrying the team after the overnight flight from Minneapolis, surrounded by tens of thousands who'd clogged up the Parkway West in the wrong direction at around 3 a.m. The man had his head out the window. One of those small, rectangular windows.
I could condense all this to a call. Or a catchphrase. Or an interaction I'd observed with a fan who was far more starstruck at meeting him than any athlete.
But I'm not going to do any of that.
There's no Penguins if not for Mr. Lange. I've been convinced of that forever, and I'd shared that with the man himself. Bless Jean Pronovost and Pierre Larouche and Rick Kehoe, but they weren't about to preserve what we enjoy now. They weren't the most identifiable figures of the franchise. They weren't what lent it immediate credibility in a place where, if we're all being honest about the past, the bulk of the older generation treated hockey the same we'd treat an indoor lacrosse team right about now. Mr. Lange was elite, and it'd take no more than a minute of his broadcast to sense that. As such, the product was real, too.
Mr. Lange got the Penguins to 1984, when a tall, lanky teen from Laval, Quebec, showed up, and the two of them -- plus Sidney Crosby, Evgeni Malkin and so many more -- took us through one, two, three, four, FIVE Stanley Cup celebrations.
All five with one man emceeing those events, with one man at the mic.
A part of all of us has left the building.
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THE ASYLUM
Dejan Kovacevic
5:39 am - 02.20.2025DowntownDK: Our city's lost a treasure
"Right now," Mike Lange told me one day in Toronto, back in 2001, "I feel like a turkey trying to hide out on Thanksgiving Day."
This was on the eve of his being honored with the Foster Hewitt Memorial Award for outstanding work as an NHL broadcaster, as well as permanent placement within the Hockey Hall of Fame. He was humbled in the truest sense. He couldn't believe what was about to bestowed upon him.
A little later, he had to be fitted for the blue blazer he'd get to wear forever in the figurative sense.
"It's a very special moment, isn't it?" he'd say in looking up my way once the shoulders were unruffled. "Obviously, I'll cherish this for the rest of my life."
Yeah. We know the feeling. Today, upon the passing of this legitimate Pittsburgh legend, those of us who grew up with his play-by-play, his personality, his passion and -- never forget this part -- his unparalleled brilliance at being able to bring you the action on radio at a level that'd have you turning off the TV to attain a better feel -- we'll have all that to cherish.
Mr. Lange passed away Wednesday night at 76.
And it's not that he'll be missed so much as he already was. Because he belonged at the microphone. And even more so because there really shouldn't be a world with Pittsburgh's beloved hockey franchise ... but without that iconic, eclectic voice.
It's not the catchphrases, though they were fun ...
... and he loved them and, as noted atop this piece, he'd find himself crafting them all the time. Never, ever reduce his impact to the catchphrases.
It's about the action. It's about the moment. And then the next moment. And then the next. Because in the world's fastest team sport, the real talent's not being able to keep up ... it's about being ahead. Those of us who grew up with Mr. Lange's work, back when only a handful of the Penguins' games were televised, back before Mario Lemieux, back when Mr. Lange himself was the team's star, can agree, I'll bet, that no one was better at conveying the event, the scenery, the momentum switches and, in turn, being able to parlay that into what'd come next.
"Watch out here ... "
"Here come the Flyers now ... "
"This could be one of those nights for 66 ... "
And my personal favorite, reminding us of the potential perils when the Penguins dared to skate or pass in front of their net once the goaltender's been pulled. Every. Single. Time.
No one was at his level, not that I've ever heard. Not in Pittsburgh. Not anywhere. And it didn't come by accident. Sure, hockey coursed through his veins, but he'd prepare all day, deep into his later days when he was visibly too ill to have been working. He'd take notes at the morning skate and, invariably, bring up maybe one small observation in the main broadcast that night about how so-and-so had been "really flying" that morning. He'd show up hours before the actual faceoff, taking more notes in the media lounge with an old-school ballpoint pen and index-paper tablet, alone at his own table and locked in as if he were preparing to be behind the bench, not up in the booth.
That's how a call like this occurred, the one that'll always stand out to me:
I was in the Civic Arena for that Game 1 in 1992, up in Section E-32. But if I'd been watching on TV, I'd have known Mario scored not by Mr. Lange's eventual call of the rebound being buried past Ed Belfour ... but by the pause that preceded it. The call went rapid-fire, rapid-fire, rapid-fire, delivering each detail ... then delivering that masterful, magical pause.
Right then and there, he was one of us. He saw it. He couldn't believe it. And once he fully absorbed it, he let it all out. He was our voice.
My God, that's missed. As one of so many who love hockey here, that's the soundtrack of our lives.
He'll be missed, too.
Mr. Lange was a giving, generous soul. He understood who he was, but he'd apply that toward others. There'll be a billion stories like this over the next little while, but add mine to the pile: When I began on the Penguins' beat for the Post-Gazette in 1997, he was helpful and supporting. When I drove to Toronto to cover his Hall induction, he responded with a full-page handwritten letter thanking me. When he'd see me in Winnipeg, a place he didn't exactly embrace the way I do, he'd mutter all kinds of unprintables in my direction to the amusement of everyone around us. When we were walking out of Nashville's Bridgestone Arena on that historic summer night in 2017, he first asked me how I'd fared in writing my column, as if I somehow mattered. And in turn, when I asked how he felt he did with the call of Patric Hornqvist's goal, he answered in a transparently frustrated tone, "I'll do better with next year's."
He did just fine:
Good man. Loyal man. Pittsburgh man. Could've had any job at any level of hockey anywhere across North America and stayed right here.
Which was our gift.
I could condense all this to my early childhood, when I'd sneak a dictionary-sized transistor radio under my pillow to keep up with Mr. Lange in Los Angeles or Vancouver and smile like an infant when he'd welcome me -- and me alone, in my head -- to the "Night Owl Club" once the clock struck midnight in Pittsburgh.
I could condense all this to Mr. Lange, on that amazing night in 1991 at the old Greater Pittsburgh International Airport, literally sticking his head out of that back of that school bus that was carrying the team after the overnight flight from Minneapolis, surrounded by tens of thousands who'd clogged up the Parkway West in the wrong direction at around 3 a.m. The man had his head out the window. One of those small, rectangular windows.
I could condense all this to a call. Or a catchphrase. Or an interaction I'd observed with a fan who was far more starstruck at meeting him than any athlete.
But I'm not going to do any of that.
There's no Penguins if not for Mr. Lange. I've been convinced of that forever, and I'd shared that with the man himself. Bless Jean Pronovost and Pierre Larouche and Rick Kehoe, but they weren't about to preserve what we enjoy now. They weren't the most identifiable figures of the franchise. They weren't what lent it immediate credibility in a place where, if we're all being honest about the past, the bulk of the older generation treated hockey the same we'd treat an indoor lacrosse team right about now. Mr. Lange was elite, and it'd take no more than a minute of his broadcast to sense that. As such, the product was real, too.
Mr. Lange got the Penguins to 1984, when a tall, lanky teen from Laval, Quebec, showed up, and the two of them -- plus Sidney Crosby, Evgeni Malkin and so many more -- took us through one, two, three, four, FIVE Stanley Cup celebrations.
All five with one man emceeing those events, with one man at the mic.
A part of all of us has left the building.
Want to participate in our comments?
Want an ad-free experience?
Become a member, and enjoy premium benefits! Make your voice heard on the Steelers, Penguins and Pirates, and hear right back from tens of thousands of fellow Pittsburgh sports fans worldwide! Plus, access all our premium content, including Dejan Kovacevic columns, Friday Insider, daily Live Qs with the staff, more! And yeah, that's right, no ads at all!
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