COLUMN: End of the Freeway

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Shoot, then.

When the game is ended, I detest it.

Dave Nitz, the legendary commentator, enjoyed being near a microphone and a scorebook, loved being around the ballpark, and loved being among the boys.

More than any individual I’ve ever encountered.

He also enjoyed the company of a chocolate Frosty and a Wendy’s single.

More than any individual I’ve ever encountered.

The French fries, too. The French fries were forgotten. typically consumed them first.

That is simply Dave being himself.

I don’t know many people who have loved being themselves as much as Dave did. Leon Barmore gave him the nickname “Freeway Dave” because he loved it. In the late 1970s, Barmore, the Lady Techsters, and Dave went on a road trip to Los Angeles, where Dave hired a car with unlimited mileage and managed to go over it.

Freeway is just Freeway.

Dave. The Voice of the Louisiana Tech Bulldogs for fifty years.

Dave Nitz, a man who would fit right in at any ballyard, was born on July 10, 1942, in the midst of baseball season, and he passed away tragically on a Tuesday at around 1 a.m. on June 24, 2025, the first week of summer.

The death of a professional whose catchphrase was You Gotta Love It! is a complete shock to everyone who knew Dave, either in person or through his thousands of broadcasts.

You must detest it.

Tuesday was the same all day. Sad.

Old ballplayers calling.

Sad.

calls from coworkers.

Sad.

calls from relatives and friends.

Sad.

But that was Dave, and Dave was entertaining for all those years, just being Dave, so there was this or that anecdote about his being obstinate, gifted, from West Virginia, or a man who could add the most embellishment to a story.

When we were younger, I recall taking road trips in his old van, a VAN. Concerts featuring country music (hey, Mr. Merle Haggard!) Dave gasped up, checked into hotels, strapped on press passes, and then stopped laughing. Instead, he straightened his earpiece, sipped some Crystal Light lemonade, and said, “Okay.” Let’s get started.

Dave being himself.

His death serves as yet another sobering reminder that time is on our side, that we aren’t truly suited for life here, that reality is inevitable, and that taste is learned.

This month marked his official retirement, but the cause was diabetes. Time, too. All those excursions by car. A calender covering college ball and nearly 40 years of professional play. That will never be done again.

One of a kind.

Thus, diabetes, followed by arthritis and the onset of dementia. We simply lacked the momentum to make things better.

However, it was a different story in his heyday. He could broadcast as well as anyone, even with one vocal cord tied behind his back. He was a Shirts vs. Skins regular and a force that never slept.

One of a kind.

Stud Alert.

As he grew older, his reflexes slowed and his gifts diminished, but his voice remained the same—the voice of two generations—and deep within his Dave heart, there was still a young boy who loved ball. I will always be thankful that he faithfully shared that little-boy Dave with the rest of us until time robbed him and he was no longer able to do it.

Believe me when I say that if Dave had been broadcasting to you from a radio booth or press row, he would have preferred to be with you more than with anyone else at that precise moment.

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