During the summer of 1988, I was 20 years old, very fresh in the business, where confidence came much more easily than wisdom. The news director at the time, Keith Edwards, for WAXX and WAYY radio in Eau Claire, Wisc. assigned me to cover a story that sounded simple: cover the Blind Masters golf tournament at Princeton Valley golf course.
I didn't have a strong sense of anticipation driving to the golf course; I expected polite swings and a human-interest feature. Instead, I learned a lesson that's stayed with me for nearly four decades.
The first tee shot stopped me cold. My opening line, "The sounds are the same ..." contained those words and describing what we were all listening to: the sharp crack of the driver, followed by the rising hum of a ball climbing into the Wisconsin sky, the silence as it descended, and the applause that followed.
"... but the players are different."
Blind golfers stepped to the ball with cold precision. Behind each player stood the most important figure on the course: the spotter.
The spotter described what he saw: distance, wind, slope, the fairway's shape, the bunker left, and the pin tucked right. The golfer, listening, adjusted and swung. The shots weren't symbolic; they were, more often than not, solid drives down the fairway, struck clean and with confidence.
The United States Blind Golf Association had long-established national competition, and in 1988, Gerry Barousse captured the national championship in the B-1 division (pdf) for totally blind golfers. There were already elite performances, already structured, already earned.
I spent the afternoon listening and asking questions, holding a Marantz recorder, and trying to translate what I was watching into words. Later, my news director told me the story came off beautifully on air. I also remember locking my keys in my car that day and calling mom for help, who drove the short distance to deliver the spare key, so I wouldn't have to use a coat hanger in a swanky golf parking lot.
I felt humbled twice in a single afternoon.
The golf course is gone now, replaced by houses, but the lessons remain.
Beep baseball carries that same association.
The National Beep Baseball Association oversees structured competition across the country, including regional tournaments and a World Series that draws around 20 teams.
The baseball emits a steady beep, padded bases buzz, and all players wear blindfolds to level the field. Pitchers deliver underhand tosses from their own team while spotters call out numbered defensive zones to guide fielders. Each play demands timing, reaction, and, most importantly, trust.
Indy Thunder, based in Indianapolis, has built one of the most dominant programs in modern beep baseball. General Manager and Coach Darnell Booker, who also serves as first vice president of the National Beep Baseball Association, has forged a culture rooted in repetition and accountability. Drill reaction speed is practiced alongside base recognition and communication until instinct replaces hesitation.
Under Booker's leadership, Indy Thunder has won multiple World Series titles and completed a perfect 26-0 season in 2025.
That undefeated run didn't unfold in calm conditions; tight elimination games tested composure, defensive stops required split-second dives guided only by sound, and, in championship moments, pressure sharpened focus instead of breaking it.
Corey White's walk-off homer in a previous title game stands out as one of those moments. He locked in on the pitch cadence, drove the beeping ball deep into the outfield, and sprinted toward each buzzing base as teammates tracked the sounds, then celebrated. Their victory came from thousands of swings, not chance.
Tracey Jackson, who designs accessibility experiences at U.S. Bank, competes at the World Series level while building digital tools that expand independence for others. Excellence in the field and in the workplace reinforce each other rather than compete for attention.
Cooperstown, the location of the National Baseball's Hall of Fame, has displayed artifacts from beep baseball, recognizing the sport's place within the broader American game.
Organizations like the United States Association of Blind Athletes continue building clinics and club programs, expanding nationwide opportunities.
The thread running from that Wisconsin tee box in 1988 to modern beep baseball fields isn't a novelty; it's preparation, discipline, a partnership, and trust in a voice.
Back then, I assumed limitations and instead recorded precision. I stood with my Marantz in my hand, trying to describe a strength that didn't fit my narrow expectations. What I captured that day wasn't charity or accommodation; it was a competition.
Today, when a beeping ball splits the air and a runner charges toward a buzzing base without hesitation, it's a return to the same clarity: The rhythm of the swing, the steady instruction by a spotter, and the dive toward a sound in the grass all carry the same message.
I was a cub reporter in 1988, who drove home from Princeton Valley, humbled and a little embarrassed by my assumptions. Years later, I was watching videos of professional athletes train their ears like muscles and build trust with teammates without hesitation. A lesson that still rings true.
The sounds are the same, and the excellence is undeniable.
And once you've listened closely, you'll never hear the game the same way again.
