Chip Caray
You think you’ve heard every baseball story until you talk to Chip Caray. He’s seen the game from every booth imaginable—Wrigley, Busch, Truist—and still talks about them like a kid walking through the turnstile for the first time. I asked him why St. Louis fans cheer a sac fly, what makes Wrigley feel alive, and what it’s like to share the mic with your son. His answers reminded me that baseball isn’t just a sport—it’s a heartbeat, a family business, a sanctuary built out of grass, brick, and memory. Chip Caray doesn’t just call games. He carries generations.
Chip, you’ve been in ballparks your whole life. Where did your love of baseball begin?
People think I was born with a golden microphone in my hand, but that’s not true. Baseball has just always been part of our family’s rhythm—the season starts, we go away for six months, then we come home and try not to mess things up. My sons grew up with that cycle. The game’s part of who we are, even though it costs us a lot: we miss weddings, funerals, kids’ plays. But it’s still a life we love.
Fans think you got here because of your last name, but you’ve all worked your tails off.
Sure, my dad’s connections helped, but this is no different than a family law firm or grocery. You still have to earn your way. I was an intern coiling cables at three in the morning, learning how the real pros did it. The last name gets the door open, but you have to perform or you’re gone.
How do you describe the connection between St. Louis and its baseball team?
The Cardinals are a civic institution. People there feel represented by the name on the front of the shirt. The KMOX radio signal connected generations before TV or the internet. Fans could hear Harry Caray and Jack Buck from the Rockies to the Atlantic. For decades, the Cardinals were all that was left—the Rams left, the Hawks left—but the Redbirds stayed. Players lived there, sold insurance in the offseason, shopped at the same grocery stores. That built civic pride.
What makes the fans so special?
They’re educated and passionate. They grew up listening to games on the radio and playing Legion ball. They appreciate the sport itself. When Paul Skenes struck out fourteen Cardinals this year, they gave him a standing ovation. That’s not about rivalry—it’s about love of the game. In St. Louis, people celebrate baseball itself.
What’s it like broadcasting from Busch Stadium?
It’s historic. Harry Caray, Jack Buck, Dizzy Dean—all sat in that booth. I look out and see the Gateway Arch, the old courthouse where the Dred Scott decision happened, the red brick of the city. There’s so much history in view—baseball and American. Inside that ballpark, with the red seats and emerald grass, it’s an escape from everything happening outside. You feel the weight of those names—Musial, Molina, Pujols, La Russa—and realize you’re part of a continuum.
Tell me about that day you called a game with your dad and grandfather at Wrigley Field.
I didn’t realize how special it was until later. It was the first time three generations ever broadcast a game together. My dad joked he felt like John Gotti walking out of the courthouse with all those cameras. For my grandfather Harry, it meant the world. He didn’t have much family growing up, so seeing his son and grandson follow him—that filled him with pride. I wish I’d asked him more about his life, his travels with Stan Musial and Jackie Robinson. Those stories are gone now.
And then this year you got to share the booth with your own son in Oakland.
That was incredible. It’s different when you’re the one passing the torch—you realize you’re the old guy. My wife and youngest son were there, and we were all emotional. Watching your kid chase his dream, seeing him on that path—it’s the best feeling in the world.
What about Atlanta and Truist Park?
Truist Park changed the industry. It proved that a ballpark could be the anchor of an entertainment district. The Battery keeps fans connected even when the team’s away. The Braves’ success—Acuña, Olson, Riley—feeds the energy, and the ballpark design puts fans right on top of the action. When that place gets loud, it’s electric.
And Wrigley Field?
Wrigley is magic. It’s the heartbeat of the city—right in the middle of a neighborhood. Getting there early, seeing the ivy sway, the flags snap, the organ start up—it’s like watching life unfold. Fans stream in, the game happens, the crowd spills out into Wrigleyville. Every day there mirrors the cycle of life—birth, life, death, renewal. It’s a sacred rhythm. Even after all the modern updates, it still feels timeless. It’s my favorite place.
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More from Chip Caray
NOTE: The above was edited for clarity and length.
You can read the full transcript here.