Riley Corcoran would like to tell you a story

Riley Corcoran has a story to tell. Like this one.

When he was growing up, his parents, Brian and Leslie, would take Corcoran and his younger sister, Ashley, to Maui each March for a spring-break trip, a chance to escape another Billings winter.

On their visit to the Islands in 2001, when Corcoran was 11, his family happened to be staying at the same place as Chris Berman, then the face and voice of ESPN, and his family.

Despite Berman's imposing stature -- both literally, as one of the country's best-known sportscasters, and figuratively, "he's a huge, huge guy, bigger than you'd think seeing him on TV," says Corcoran -- the 11-year-old knew this was his big chance.

So he made his move.

"I go up to him and introduce myself and say, 'Hey, I want your job one day.' He goes, 'You can have it,' " recalls Corcoran, who was then invited by Berman to join him for a dip in the ocean. The titan of ESPN wanted to talk NCAA tournament brackets.

And there they were, the 6-foot-5 Berman, the 11-year-old Corcoran, talking No. 1 seeds and debating which high-ranked team was ripe for an upset. "He was so welcoming," says Corcoran.

They bumped into each other throughout the week, and on the final day of the Corcorans' vacation, he said the same thing to Berman: he wanted his job one day.

Having been told the same thing probably hundreds, maybe thousands, of times by other wanna-be's, Berman told Corcoran he'd make him a deal. If Corcoran sent him one letter a year and he still wanted to get into broadcasting when he was done with high school, Berman would help him out.

So Corcoran did. He sent one letter a year. And he never heard back from Berman ... until he graduated from high school. Just as he promised, Berman sent him a hat and a picture inscribed with one of Berman's signature lines.

Hey Riley, You ... could ... go ... all ... the ... way. Sincerely, Chris Berman

No one, not even Corcoran, knows what his "all the way" is at this point in his still nascent career, or where it might land him. But he's on an upward career trajectory.

Earlier this month he was named the Montana Sportscaster of the Year for the second consecutive time by the National Sports Media Association.

Corcoran wishes he had a better origin story, how broadcasting was in his DNA, how he assembled a make-shift studio desk out of a cardboard box, turned on a game and turned down the volume, then grabbed one of his mom's wooden spoons to use as a microphone, play-by-play guy in training.

It wasn't like that. But it was his DNA that led him to broadcasting. Like most of us, he reached his athletic ceiling in high school, possessor of an athletic career that would peak well before the pros or even college.

"I played sports, football, basketball, baseball, golf, everything in between. I realized I wasn't going to play professionally but I knew from a young age I wanted to work in sports," he says.

So he went about looking for other avenues that would deliver him to his dream world. And it happened without his even realizing it.

A warm summer day filled with games and practices. A late arrival home. A welcoming couch after a late dinner. Another game to watch on TV, the usual sports addict's nightly hit of the good stuff.

And it always seemed to be the Dodgers, their home games filling the late-night time slot. Corcoran thought he was getting pulled in by the classic uniforms, the shots of the stadium nestled into Chavez Ravine, the appropriately named Elysian Park just past center field.

But it wasn't the players on the field or the action taking place that was drawing him in. It was Vin Scully, the team's broadcaster.

His voice seemed to do the impossible. It made his listeners feel welcome, like you were there with him, in the stadium if not seated right there next to him in the press box, not 1,200 miles away in Billings.

He made Dodgers games different than any other, like he wasn't doing play-by-play as much as he was telling a new story each night, one on top of the other, the next chapter in a greater, months-long saga, one that lasts 162 games, more if things go well.

And not to millions of listeners but to you, just you and Vin, his delivery as gentle and comforting as a bedtime story, perfect for baseball after dark.

"I was so drawn in. I was fascinated by the way he had obviously prepped and spoke so eloquently and was able to weave things in and out," says Corcoran.

"That was my introduction. I thought, this could be something I could do long term." His entry into a career in sports had begun.

It's the power of the sports broadcaster, at least the best of them. They provide the soundtrack to the indelible sporting moments that give us goosebumps, not just in the moment but in the re-watching, again and again.

Russ Hodges' 1951 call: "The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant!" Al Michaels' "Do you believe in miracles? Yes!" at Lake Placid in 1980.

When Jack Nicklaus rolled his birdie putt toward the cup on No. 17 on Sunday at the 1986 Masters, we remember his pants, a TV test screen put to fabric, and the way he lifted his putter before the ball had even dropped.

But it's Verne Lundquist's call that makes a guy's short hairs stand at attention, even more than three decades later. "Maybe. Yes, sir!"

To be followed a few months later by Game 6 of the World Series, with Scully doing the national television broadcast. "A roller up along first, behind the bag. It gets through Buckner. Here comes Knight, and the Mets win it!"

And two years later, a broken-down Kirk Gibson facing the untouchable Dennis Eckersley in Game 1 of the 1988 World Series, the Dodgers trailing the heavily favored A's by a run in the bottom of the ninth, the calls by two legends nearly as memorable as the ball landing in the right-field stands.

Scully: "High fly ball to right. She is ... GONE! In a year that has been so improbable, the impossible has happened!"

And Jack Buck: "This is going to be a home run. Unbelievable! A home run for Gibson. And the Dodgers have won the game 5-4. I don't believe what I just saw!"

"For me, it's the goosebumps," Corcoran says. "Or when my hair rises up. That's when I know you can feel the call."

They can also be the narrators of our nightmares, these voices, possessing the power to haunt our dreams. Me? My first memory of a broadcaster's call occurred on Jan. 2, 1984, when I was 13 and sports were everything.

On that night, Nebraska was playing Miami in the Orange Bowl. With 50-some seconds to go, in the days before overtime, the Cornhuskers scored to pull within a point at 31-30. Tom Osborne opted to go for two, when a tie likely would have been good enough to give the coach his first title.

As Turner Gill lined up behind center, Don Criqui let everyone know what was at stake. "This is for the national championship for Nebraska." Before Gill's batted-down pass had even reached the turf in south Florida, the first of many tears would land in my lap in northern Wisconsin.

The outcome was softened by later Nebraska championships, but Criqui's call, simply and conclusively spelling out what the next few moments -- and history -- had riding on them, will torture me for life, eight words that have the ability to transport me back even now to the emotions of that moment.

It's the path Corcoran set out on when he started joining Rocky Erickson on his broadcasts of Billings prep sports when Corcoran was in high school, even if it was just reading the stats at halftime. It was a start.

"I was able to get into it a little bit there. I knew it was what I wanted to do," says Corcoran, who packed up his dreams after graduation -- and that note from Berman -- and headed to Pullman. He would pursue a degree in broadcasting from Washington State.

He arrived in a sweet spot in time, when schools were beginning to stream their games but before the mushrooming of regional sports outlets that would later swoop in and pick up all the programing they could to fill their schedules.

He worked for KUGR, the radio station on campus. Eventually he became sports director, with his own weekly sports-talk radio show. His position gave him the first crack at calling games for the Cougars through the athletic department's video streaming service.

"Before the Pac-12 Network started, sports other than football and most men's basketball games were streamed through Washington State video, and they would use student broadcasters," he says.

"You're talking women's basketball games with Stanford, when they were No. 1. Some games under (then men's basketball coach) Tony Bennett when they were in the top 10. At the time we didn't realize how big it was. It was basically like it was on TV."

He won the Keith Jackson Award, given to the school's top sports broadcaster. And, yes, you have every right to ask yourself just how many people he was going up against. Corcoran doesn't care.

"I'm not sure what the pool was. Probably not that many. Just a few of us, but they were my peers so to stand out was a big honor," he says.

An even bigger deal was to have his name, even by distant association, connected to the guy who had called the 2006 Rose Bowl between Texas and USC, when Vince Young's dash to the pylon won it for the Longhorns. "He's going for the corner. He's got it! Vince Young scores. It ... is ... over!"

"More than anything, just having anything associated with Keith Jackson's name. It was pretty cool to be associated with his name," Corcoran says.

After graduating in 2011, he got his start in Boise, as the sports director at a local radio station. Then it was off to North Carolina to be pretty much everything -- media relations, social media, play-by-play -- for the Wilson Tobs baseball team.

By 2013 he was back in his home state, calling women's basketball games at Montana State, working as a sideline reporter for Bobcat football games and hosting coaches' shows.

It's when he started the what-if phase of his career. What if he was the voice of a school's athletic department? What if he had more say in the areas of content creation? What if he had the time and access to really dig in?

It would probably look a lot like this week for Corcoran. He hosted the basketball coaches' show on Tuesday, then recorded the segments for his new Inside the Den podcast.

He met with SWX to go over the specifics of Saturday afternoon's Montana-Montana State women's basketball game he'll be calling for television. On Wednesday it was off to Portland with the men's basketball team.

He'll return Friday morning and later that night host the Griz softball program's Meet the Team dinner. On Saturday: a women's-men's basketball doubleheader. In other words, he's living his dream.

"When you're waiting for your moment, so to speak, you wonder, how would I do it if I was the voice of a school?" he says.

"This is the vision I had. The role has grown to how I wanted it. It feels in Year 4 that it has come full circle. It feels natural at this point to host the coaches' show on Tuesday, do the podcast on Wednesday, go to Portland, host the softball dinner on Friday, with a doubleheader on Saturday."

But before he was named Voice of the Griz in the summer of 2016, he had a decision to make. North Dakota wanted him as well. That meant hockey. Big-time college hockey in a professional-level facility. Ralph Engelstad Arena isn't just a lure that attracts the nation's top hockey talent.

The Fighting Hawks were coming off a national championship as well, their eighth in program history, that spring, and that pulls at a guy, just like the Grizzlies were tempting in their own way, the teams he'd grown up following.

He was at a career crossroads and knew who to reach out to. He had Chris Berman's phone number, so he called and left a message. If there is any way in the next 24 hours you could call me back, I have a decision to make.

"Sure enough, a couple hours later he called and we talked for an hour," Corcoran says. "That was a crazy, crazy summer.

"He said, 'Montana sounds like a place you could absolutely thrive.' Then he said, 'You know the band Boston? They have a song, Don't Look Back. Same advice to you. Make your decision and don't look back."

He hasn't. Instead Corcoran looks ahead. He continues to evolve, continues to find ways to improve. He's not a player or a coach, but there are some parallels between their career arcs and his.

"When they say you have to be a student of the game as a player? Same thing in broadcasting. You listen to other broadcasters and take bits and pieces," he says.

As for coaches, as much as they may look up to the Krzyzewski's, the Geno's, those established coaches would tell aspiring coaches the same thing: be true to yourself. Don't be someone you're not. Don't try to be me.

Corcoran may idolize Billings' own Brent Musberger -- And don't we all? His signature You are looking live sign-on was like Pavlov ringing his bell. It heightened our senses and quickened our pulses. You knew: It was on. -- but he knows he can't copy him.

Just like he doesn't want to imitate another favorite, Gus Johnson, who is sui generis in his own right, his level of excitement rising with each passing minute to match what's happening on the court, so much so that it feels like we've missed out, we've been cheated, if he calls a game that lacks any drama.

"You can love what other broadcasters do, but you can't just copy them," Corcoran says. "You have to be yourself and you have to have confidence in yourself. If you try to mimic someone, it's not genuine and you can really tell the difference.

"I try to have some of the passion of Gus Johnson without saying something the way he'd say it. And what I take away from Brent Musberger and his you are looking live is how he commands the broadcast and locks you in right away. So I try to have a strong start to the broadcast."

His first opportunity as the Voice of the Griz: the football team's home game against Saint Francis to open the 2016 season.

If going from Washington State's KUGR to a full-time position in Boise was a step up, if going from there to North Carolina was the next rung and going to Montana State and Division I athletics was the next logical move, that late-summer day was something else entirely.

"I'm very calculated with my pregame routine. I got done interviewing (coach Bobby Hauck) and got to the booth at noon for a 7 p.m. game," he says.

"I just sat in the press box and looked over Hellgate Canyon, the stadium, and it just felt surreal. It felt like it was the next level. It felt different, with nerves and butterflies, but it also felt like everything I'd done up to then in my career was preparing me for that one game."

His greatest fear as a broadcaster? For anyone who has seen his game sheets, meticulously prepared and color-coded, information for any possible scenario at his fingertips, they know it's the idea of being unprepared.

If a game's a blowout and the last guy on the bench for the opponent, the one with the Scrabble-draw name, gets in, you can bet Corcoran has his pronunciation dialed in.

And that 3-pointer by the seven-footer, the one who has no business shooting from there? Did you know he has actually drained another, in the third game of his freshman year? Corcoran does and will tell you about it if he feels it will add to the broadcast.

You could say the fear of being unprepared is what keeps him up at night, but his work does that. Literally. After a day's commitments are done, those late-night hours of 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. -- a grinder's hours -- are when he does his best work, his game prep, when a matchup comes to life in his mind.

The storylines, the things to watch and what's at stake for both sides, the milestones that might be approaching.

Doesn't matter if he's calling a Griz volleyball game for what might be a few dozen viewers in the fall, an FCS playoff game in December, an NCAA tournament game in March or a Montana softball game in April.

There is only one way to go about it. It's just how sportscasters of the year roll. Or why those who think the job is so easy tend to fail so spectacularly when given the chance. Corcoran? He takes chance out of the equation.

"I can honestly say I have never gone into a game unprepared, because I don't know any other way," he says. "I never want to cheat a game. Every time I put on a headset, there is a story to be told. The sport and the circumstances may change, but every game has its own unique story."

He calls the Montana men's basketball team's run to the NCAA tournament in 2018, following an improbable victory over Northern Colorado in the semifinals in Reno and overcoming a 40-29 halftime deficit against Eastern Washington in the title game, a cherished memory.

Same with the football team's 35-16 demolition of Weber State at Washington-Grizzly Stadium this past November.

But those will be replaced over time, put in boxes and packed away in his memory, surpassed by bigger improbabilities, bigger wins, perhaps national championships.

If you want him to declare his fealty to Montana and Griz Nation for life, he's willing to meet you halfway. He would love to be doing what he's doing for a long, long time.

But he has other interests, other goals, particularly when it comes to the television side. Because so many of the memorable broadcast moments that we remember so easily, our joys and our heartbreaks both, came on that medium, in sold-out venues, sports at their highest level.

"I'd be lying if I didn't admit my future goals didn't have TV in the mix. When you start to dream at 10, 11, 12 years old, you watch the guys on TV and see the sold-out crowds and think, okay, that's the goal," he says.

"In a perfect world, I can keep this job, because I love it here. But to add TV would be a perfect match. To do this job and maybe fly out once a week and do a game on regional television would be my goal, to weave the two."

For now he'll keep doing what he does best: preparing for whatever his next Montana event is, sporting or otherwise, to tell you the best story possible. He learned it long ago, sitting there listening to Vin Scully, wondering what it was he was being called to do. And there it was, sitting right in front of him.

He hopes you enjoy the broadcast and that he's able to get a little something out of it as well, that he ... could ... go ... all ... the ... way. Tonight and every night, winning his own game while calling a victory as well.

"I can walk away from a game knowing I was prepared and executed my job, but it doesn't feel complete without a Grizzly win," he says. "You don't feel whole. That's what makes this job so special. You're invested.

"I can have a good broadcast, but I don't feel complete unless it's the full package. The Grizzlies win and I call a good game."

University of Montana Athletics

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