But on warm summer nights in 1969, that’s about all that the kids in my neighborhood did — listen to the radio. Specifically, listen to the Atlanta Braves broadcasts on the radio.

The Braves came in loud and clear that year, courtesy of WSOC-FM in Charlotte. FMradio, where you could actually hear every word of a baseball game without straining an eardrum, was a revolutionary new concept.

Many of us spent — my mom would say misspent —large portions of our boyhood, vainly trying to hear the AM broadcasts from faraway KMOX in St. Louis or WJR in Detroit.

There was precious little TV baseball in those days, so we jammed an ear against our tiny transistor and hoped for the best. But the garbled sounds we heard were often like transmissions from some distant planet.

And Kaline swings .... static ... static ... and Cash is out at third base and the side is retired.

“Huh,” we’d plead. But Jack Buck and Ernie Harwell couldn’t hear us, and they never answered.

But the quality of life of a whole neighborhood of boys soared the day that the Braves came into our lives through the wonders of FM. The Braves arrived via the voices of a bombastic wild man named Milo Hamilton, who did play- by -play, and a mellow cornball named Ernie Johnson, who provided color.

We’d play wiffleball or softball or baseball all day, then gather at someone’s patio and listen to the Braves games at night.

On Mondays and Thursdays when the Braves traveled, we suddenly discovered a severe void existed in our social lives. But the other five days, Milo and Ernie more than earned their money. They made us baseball fans for life.

Milo was an odd one. His role was to scream and to get alternately excited and exasperated with the Braves.

He treated the second inning like it was the ninth and treated a contest in June like it was the seventh game of the World Series.

“We’ve got to go get’em Braves!” he’d yell at the top of his lungs any time Atlanta trailed.

“And how about that!” he’d roar, if the Braves rallied.

If the Braves won, they were the greatest team in history. If they lost they were bums. For Milo, who lived and died with each pitch, there was no happy medium.

Ernie was there for two reasons. One, to let us know what was really happening while Milo was throwing tantrums, and two, to calm Milo down.

Ernie did not rattle. His voice was the same whether the Braves led by 11 or were down by a dozen. He was calm, win or lose. And he was so square, that he was somehow cool.

He tried, for instance, to corral any foul ball that ventured near his broadcast booth, with of all things — a fishing net.

When Milo would exclaim, “That’s one’s coming back our way!” we’d all cheer for Ernie to net it. We weren’t particularly concerned if a foul ball connected with Milo’s anatomy or not.

Ernie was an ex-big leaguer, who played on a couple of World Series teams when the Braves were in Milwaukee, but he handled his small degree of fame just right. He never bragged about how great he used to be.

There was none of that, “Now, whenever I hit that home run off Nolan Ryan” crap that we are subjected to so often these days.

Ernie’s anecdotes always poked fun at Ernie, and no one else. They always made him out to be just some lucky stiff who woke up one day and happened to find himself in the majors.

Actually though, Ernie was a darned good player. He was 40-23 over nine solid seasons.

And he was a better broadcaster.

He looked 60 in 1969 when he was only 45, but he turned out to age more gracefully than any of his listeners.

We watched him successfully made the transition to TV broadcasts (where you didn’t talk as much and told fewer war stories) for WTBS, and finally Fox.

Milo, who was supposed to be the star of the show, parted ways with the Braves decades ago. But Ernie, the sidekick, wasn’t going anywhere. He simply loved his Braves too much.

Through the years, Ernie actually tried to retire a couple of times, but he didn’t really want to, and Braves fans and the organization and the networks didn’t want him to, either. He’s may not have had an enemy in the world.

Everything changed on Wednesday night, though. That’s when Ernie — now 75 — called his last Braves game. And this time, he’s calling it quits for keeps.

The voice, though — that smooth, never-gets-rattled voice —lingers with all of us whom he transported to the ballpark through the magic of radio when the Braves won their first-ever division title that sweet summer of ‘69.

The mythical names of that long ago summer — Bob “The Kid” Didier and Rico “Beeg Boy” Carty and Pat “Little Jabbo”Jarvis — will remain with us for many years to come.