Hits and Misses: It’s not a book about music. It’s not a book about dogs. It’s not a book about radio. It’s not a book about baseball. It’s not a book about television. It’s not a book about women. It’s not a book about Hollywood. It’s a book about all those things!

By Brad Pierce

Brad Pierce has been “talking the words good” since the 20th Century. A native of Cranston, RI, he carved out a rewarding career in broadcasting and voice work leading to his induction into The Rhode Island Radio and Television Hall of Fame. An on-air DJ in Providence for 17 years, his second phase behind the microphone took root in Hollywood as host of a daily nationwide radio show.
In Hits and Misses, he recounts his unique journey with numerous takes on life as a performer and the unique experiences he enjoyed along the way. From introducing weekly NFL games and NCAA football and basketball games, voicing promos for stations like WPLJ and WOR in New York and WDRC-FM in Hartford, Brad has that familiar voice that you have probably heard between the hits and promos.
Kick back and enjoy the stories that go with being an invisible entertainer on the radio as well as some invaluable life lessons learned along the way. They’re all here in Brad Pierce’s story, Hits and Misses.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Jul 29, 2025
• ISBN: 9781977284914

Brad Pierce

Brad Pierce, using the nom de plume Jack Russell Terrier, has written many books for young and old but not one for anyone middle-aged. Previous bestsellers include Cooking with Cheetos, Ventriloquism for Dummies, and Let’s Swap Out Your Car’s Transmission Again Today! Pierce also penned the screenplay for Night of the Redundant Dead Zombies At Night. The author hails from a small, very poor village in New England. The town was so poor that on many Halloween nights the neighborhood children only got Two Musketeers. Pierce’s pet peeves include solar systems and warm blankets. He boasts a collection of fast-food napkins with coffee stains in the shapes of celebrities and hopes to one day create a WALK-DON’T WALK button that explodes if pressed successively more than 10 times in a row. Fluent in three languages—English, American, and Rhode Island—his broadcasting career zenith came as the co-host of Good Morning Manitoba with legendary TV anchor Brie Caribou on UHF channel 83 each Monday-Friday from 4:30-6. Pierce is a regular on the hiking trails north of Los Angeles, where his dog is also quite regular. Cleo is his Belgian Malinois. Pierce also enjoys Belgian waffles and Belgian beer. But, ironically, no brussels sprouts. Ever.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

DIAMOND CZAR FOREVER

"God, I love baseball."

It’s my favorite movie quote. Spoken by the humble Roy Hobbs, a player of mythical ability in the film The Natural, its simplicity is what resonates most for me. But God knows I didn’t always love baseball.

My dad made sure I joined a league when I was old enough. It wasn’t even Little League. Instead, they called it the Farm Team. Truth be told, it was a league of extraordinarily talentless gentlemen.

Proudly sporting the royal blue cap of our team sponsor, Oak Lawn Pharmacy, I patrolled right field for the hometown nine. Right field is the least likely place for a ball to be hit in youth baseball. In other words, the manager placed me where I could do the least amount of damage, defensively. Unaware of this at the time, I thought my position was as vital as any of the other eight. It soon became clear that I rarely saw a baseball in right field, except for the ones I had to chase all the way to the fence. I knew I should have bought a bigger glove!

While the games were interesting and worthwhile, the practice drills leading up to the regular season were mundane, repetitive, and nowhere near as entertaining as The Three Stooges, which was what I was missing by not being home those Saturday mornings. Most New England weekends in March were cloudy, windy, and raw so there was little fun to be had sitting around waiting for your next plate appearance. And if you were lucky enough to make contact, even foul one off, the wooden club would punish every single nerve all the way up both arms. With me possessing little talent and even less self-confidence, there was nary a chance of bat striking ball. The neighborhood kids started to call me The Louisville Slug.

Not only was my baseball career nothing to write home about, it also wouldn’t be worth the postage. Part of the problem was a cringe-worthy batting average that was so small, it wouldn’t make the last line of an eye chart. When I did occasionally get some wood on the ball, the shortstop was waiting right in front of it for the start of a double play. I was a one tool player; I had a uniform. There were a couple of futile seasons of Farm Team baseball before one magical Rhode Island Saturday.

The warm sun of late spring was our call to play ball that postcard morning. The air was clear as a mild breeze drifted out to right center. And on this day, the pitching ability of both teams was but a rumor. The manual scoreboard keeper had to be on his toes, as well as his ladder, most every inning of the game. This was due in no small measure to me. Don’t think of this as boasting so much as a lingering disbelief on my part. All these years later, I still can’t believe that I got to be a natural. For one day, anyway.

My first at bat that morning was typical. A foul ball followed by a grounder to third base. Sheesh! Out on two pitches. I had to learn to wait for my pitch. Trouble is, I didn’t know what my pitch was. Luckily, that mystery would be solved in my very next turn at bat.

The bases were loaded in the 4th inning as I approached the plate. All eyes were on me. Great, I thought sarcastically, Might as well try out my new plan for success. It was a time-tested strategy that I thought up in the 10 seconds it took me to walk from the on-deck circle to home plate. This time, I wasn’t going to swing just because that crafty 9-year-old on the mound was aiming in my general direction. Uh-uh. Instead, I’d let him throw a couple of pitches by me, without swinging, just to be more selective at the plate. But sometimes even a good strategy doesn’t work out.

Just like that, the hurler for Del’s Lemonade had me in the hole; no balls and two strikes. Now I had to bear down! I couldn’t afford to take a called third strike. The bases were loaded with Oak Lawn Pharmacists (Isn’t that what we were?) I made up my mind! Good pitch or not, I was going to swing hard at the next one. Better to at least show a mighty whiff than to stand and watch another blur streak past me into the catcher’s mitt.

An elementary law of physics states that two solids cannot occupy the same space at the same time. As a 4th grader, I wasn’t even aware of such advanced high school curriculum. But it didn’t stop me from utilizing that principle when my club got in the way of that cowhide sphere. I walloped it! It was over the right center field fence before I reached first base. The crowd wasn’t just cheering. They were cheering for me! Me and my four runs batted in! I ran fast around those bases. I didn’t need to. The ball was gone! But my new friend, Adrenaline, didn’t want to hear it. Besides, the other base runners were all waiting for me! They had just been converted to runs and we all smiled at our team’s success when I jumped on home plate. A grand slam home run! My first ever home run came with the bases loaded! This game is more fun than the Three Stooges!

I knew I would always remember this day, even before my next at-bat in the 6th inning. The bases were loaded again. I was up. The excitement had dwindled, but some politely applauded my 4th inning heroics one more time. Pumped up by my big hit and forgetting all that hard-to-muster plate discipline displayed two innings earlier, I swung at the first pitch. It was hit hard and high over the pitcher’s head. And misplayed by the center fielder! I ran as fast as I could, watching as several Del’s Lemons chased after it. I could tell that the ball would never get back to home plate in time! I was going to claim my second grand slam home run of the game!

Until 2nd base got in the way of my churning feet, that is.

I was sprawled on my gut, just beyond 2nd, as the opposing outfielders continued their pursuit of my eventual souvenir. Scrambling to my feet, I had to settle for a triple. Three more RBIs were added to my personal one game slugfest. Both pitching staffs were touched up that day. Often, the final tally of a Little League or Farm Team baseball game resembles a football score. Our final that morning:

My seven runs batted in did, indeed, count for something!

Normalcy returned to that western Cranston baseball diamond the following weekend as my Farm Team legacy reverted to chasing down other kids’ wallops and grounding out to 3rd base. I often think about that one magical Saturday morning from long ago when I got to be a natural for one game. Roy Hobbs would have loved it.

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN YOU WISH UPON A CAR

There were two iconic American sports cars in the 1960s. They were the Ford Mustang and the Chevrolet Corvette.

As my kid odometer was hitting double digits, the inevitable conclusion was dawning on me; one cannot love two.

It’s either Red Sox or Yankees.

Kennedy or Nixon.

Ginger or Maryann.

I loved the Corvette Stingray which, by default, made the Ford Mustang a hated rival. It was destined to occupy a permanent spot in my personal Junkyard of