Do you know what I'm really missing about baseball these days?

The voices.

The voices of those who in normal times would be bringing us the play-by-play action and color commentary of the games on television and radio. I miss the professionalism of Dave O'Brien, the insights of Jerry Remy and Dennis Eckersley, and the familiarity of Joe Castiglione, whose lack of a classic broadcaster's dulcet tones is more than made up for by his expertise and by his hours of preparation.

The rhythm of the broadcasters' voices has seen me through all the summers of my life, and I miss hearing them more than I thought I would. Like a lot of things these days, that void is going to get worse before it gets better. God, I hope it doesn't last too long.

I clearly recall, more than 30 years ago, reading a local writer's description of then Red Sox announcer Ken Coleman. He called him "the voice of summer," and so he was; so were others in the long line of exceptional baseball announcers whose voices have been heard through the years across New England, relaying to us the triumphs and the tragedies, the joys and the heartbreaks, of the Red Sox as they've played their way through the seasons of our lives.

Coleman, Ned Martin, and Curt Gowdy have all been dead for some years now, but I can still clearly hear their voices in my mind, just as I could hear them on the long ago nights when I'd have a portable radio tucked under my pillow to catch the final innings of a late night game.

I can even hear the silky smooth voice of Jim Britt, who back in the '40s called the home games of both the Red Sox and Braves. Neither team aired road games back then.

In the late '80s, when I was based in Washington, D.C., I used to make the nine-hour drive to Wellfleet on Cape Cod every Friday in July and August to spend weekends with my family who were ensconced there for the summer. On one particular Friday, the Baltimore Orioles were playing an afternoon game at home, the New York Mets had a late afternoon game on the west coast, and the Red Sox were at Fenway Park for a 7:00 p.m. game. As I left the Federal City, I tuned into Jon Miller and the Orioles game. His was a very familiar voice since he'd worked alongside Ken Coleman doing Sox games in the '70s. He kept me company all the way through Maryland, across the Delaware Memorial Bridge and onto the New Jersey Turnpike. When the Orioles game ended, I punched up the Mets game, which was just starting out west. There was the voice of Bob Murphy, who had been Curt Gowdy's sidekick back in the '50s. When I got onto the Merritt Parkway, I tuned into Ken Coleman and Ned Martin, first on the Connecticut outlet of the Red Sox network, then, when I crossed into Massachusetts, on their flagship station, finally flipping on the Cape Cod outlet when I crossed over the canal. The Sox game ended just about the time I was pulling into the driveway.

I have no memory of the outcome of those games, or even who the opponents were, but I clearly recall being kept company for the entire ride by the games and by the familiar voices coming from the car radio. The drive along the northeast corridor of Washington and Boston is normally a stressful one, filled with traffic, trucks, and impatient travellers, but I remember the drive that day as the most enjoyable nine-hour trip I ever took.

About a year ago, I was out running errands one Sunday afternoon and turned to the Sox game on the car radio. I was pleasantly surprised when I heard the voice of Sean McDonough doing the play by play. He hadn't done Red Sox baseball for 15 years, but I instantly recognized his voice, just as comfortable as an old pair of slippers. He's slated to partner with Joe Castiglione on a regular basis this year, and I, for one, can't wait.

Baseball play-by-play men are often singled out for iconic calls: Dave O'Brien's dramatic call of Big Papi's grand slam in Game Two of the 2013 ALCS; Curt Gowdy's picturesque description of Ted Williams's last at bat; but even more than those calls it is the fingerprint of their voices and the rhythm of their speech as they describe for us the day by day happenings on the field of play that become the musical score of a baseball season.

Ten years ago was, for me, a time that had a lot of similarities to this year. I had been through a winter and early spring of chemotherapy, radiation, and various operations to treat throat cancer and was embarking on a long, slow healing process, a virtual shut-in. Thank goodness I had the Red Sox and their announcers to lean on and to distract me from myself during those dark days and nights.

I also had the example of Jerry Remy. He had been treated for his first bout with cancer the year before and had attempted to return to the broadcast booth before he was fully recovered. It resulted in depression and forced him to step back again. He openly talked about his condition which was not an easy thing for an old jock to do. Locker room culture, then as now, is to deny or even belittle depression. "Waddaya mean, you're depressed? Deal with it!" That didn't deter Remy from calling attention to the issue, and his frankness helped me greatly in dealing with my own condition. I am forever grateful to him.

I am happy to report that, 10 years out, I am fully recovered from the cancer I had and I feel fine, other than the fact that, without baseball and the Red Sox, and without the announcers that are its messengers, there is an emptiness to life that I hope and pray will soon be filled.

- Dick Flavin is a New York Times bestselling author; the Boston Red Sox "Poet Laureate" and The Pilot's recently minted Sports' columnist.