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null  Tom Singer Hall of Famer Bob Murphy was part of a generation of broadcasters that no longer exists. (Ed Betz/AP)

Generations of New York baseball fans have lost the narrator of their youth. The lullaby of their nights. The distinctive voice that came out of transistors tucked under blankets.

Bob Murphy was the eyewitness to Mets history. All the miracles, all the mishaps, all the Amazin' stuff ... they were his daily unscripted drama. He sat behind the microphone in the booth that will forever bear his name, and held listeners in the grip of his voice.

He belonged to a class of storytellers we shall never hear again, men who painted word pictures for people unable to be at the ole ballyard, making it possible for them to see through their ears.

A confession, one that tonight hurts: Not having lived in this area until very recently, I never heard Bob Murphy call a game. And, yet, I have, because I've heard him through all the other masters who turned a baseball game into a magic carpet ride.

Vin Scully. Bob Prince. Harry Caray. Red Barber. Ernie Harwell. And Bob Murphy. They all kept you on the edge of your seat, although only Murphy cautioned you to "fasten your seat belt."

Country singer Terry Cashman, who "Saw It On The Radio," got it right in his wonderful paean to broadcasters, in which Murphy was accorded his just place of honor.

He received other honors in his 79 years, the most enduring one his inclusion in the Hall of Fame as the 1994 recipient of the Ford Frick Award.

Murphy shared The Storytellers' ability to make the game he called more compelling, more exciting than the game he was watching. Passing through the sieve of his microphone, the most mundane play could get you to leap off your bed in joy.

Listeners of The Storytellers did not go gently into the video age. They railed against imagination being removed from the equation. No wonder Mets fans routinely hit the mute buttons on their remote controls, and turned to Murphy to enhance what they were watching.

For more than a half-century, Murphy called baseball, warming up in Boston and Baltimore. For 42 seasons, Murphy called the Mets. He called it a privilege.

"The Mets have provided me with a way of life," he said last Sept. 25, minutes before sitting behind his Shea Stadium mike for the last time. "And I have enjoyed it so much. Just can't believe how much I love it. I just hate to say goodbye.

"It was a lot easier saying hello the first day I came to New York 42 years ago," he had added.

Hardest of all was saying goodbye Tuesday afternoon.

But his listeners did, instantly and in droves, compelled to bare their souls of how much Murphy had meant to them for so long.

Internet chat rooms filled with homages to the "Voice of Summer" within minutes of the news of his departure. Reading between the lines, you could almost hear wistful pleas for a return to simpler times, when the only thing between homework and bedtime was Bob Murphy on the radio ...

David M., Houston: "The soundtrack of my childhood summers in NY has been silenced. Bob Murphy could read the phone book and convey the drama of a hard-fought World Series showdown. May he find peace in that beautiful broadcast booth in the sky."

McComedy: "I grew up listening to Bob Murphy. His description of the game made you always feel like you were there at the game, no matter if you were listening at home or in the car. A classy gentleman and a great announcer. He will be missed."

Ray A.: "Bob was the voice of my childhood. He was the voice when school was done and my game of baseball was to begin. He was a part of my life and I will never forget him. Thanks for the happy recap. See ya later."

He was a part of the lives of countless people, who in their minds will continue to hear his voice call every Mets play they watch.

Gary Cohen will continue to sit in the Bob Murphy Booth, grateful for the 15 years they had together, owing a debt that can never be repaid, aspiring to dip into Murphy's verbal palette.

"When it's 3-2 in the ninth inning and the bases are loaded, he has a way of drawing you to the edge of your seat and making you feel like you're in the ballpark," Cohen said in September, when Murphy announced his retirement. "You can see it and feel it and smell it and that's what Murph has always been about."

He was always about lazy summer nights, the fireflies flitting about the radio, droplets running down the side of the ice chest. He was about friends freezing as he described an arching drive toward the fence, waiting breathlessly for the outcome, leaping off their lounge chairs as Murphy called the ball gone.

Now he is gone, and the sound of this summer has become a sob.

Tom Singer is a reporter for MLB.com. This story was not subject to the approval of Major League Baseball or its clubs.

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