It happened on December 1, 1995, on a Friday afternoon. Canal + debuted its recent agreement with the NBA and the weekly broadcasts started with a spectacular match between the Houston Rockets and the Utah Jazz, finalists of the previous season. The commentaries of the shock were carried out by Santiago Segurola, prestigious firm and fervent follower of culture yankee, while the weight of the retransmission fell on a journalist of wide trajectory but a true stranger for the great public. It was called Andrés Montes, had the most unorthodox style that had ever been seen in the sports broadcasts of this country and, after the narrative, received a call from Alfredo Relaño, head of sports of the private channel in those days: "Everything perfect, magnificent broadcast; That is the way, Andrés. The only downside is that the general manager has called me and told me that he did not like anything but you do not worry about that. "
It has been nine years since Montes left us a little orphans all: those who were lucky enough to have him close but also those who left a window open at night so that Andrés can go to the kitchen with his variety show . Since then, every new basketball course that begins requires us to look back with a great dose of nostalgia, knowing that the NBA is still the biggest sporting event in the world but accused by two great lamenesses, two gigantic absences: the 23rd the Bulls and that wonderful crazy bird, the round glasses and the voice of legend. "But is it white or is it black?" My father used to ask when I saw him appear on the screen. There is only another character capable of raising that kind of biological doubt in the viewer: Larry Bird.
"Today I love you more than yesterday but less than tomorrow", shouted the scintillating speaker when John Stockton and Karl Malone appeared on the scene, perhaps the only couple who could compete in my particular imaginary with that formed by Andrés himself and Antoni Daimiel. "Although we had been working together for a couple of months we had never spoken more than ten minutes in a row outside the microphone", recalls the manchego in his book 'The dream of my sleeplessness' (Corner editorial). Then came that first All-Star in San Antonio, the races for the American airports, the walks on Riverwalk, the crush and the first confidences. "I have the three diseases that are the main causes of death in Spain: I have had a heart attack, I am diabetic and I had cancer in an adrenal gland." His hypochondria, like all the vertices that formed that complex, sharp and overwhelming personality, was well-founded.
Much has been said and written about his death, perhaps too much, nothing that could interest those of us who still imagine the parties in his throat, to whom we look towards the bench when the game provokes us yawns and we only see a solution: that between 'the Black'. His voice went out in solitude, they tell, disenchanted with the profession and surrounded by his mammoth collection of music, a private garden in which Andres Montes was secluded when life was not all that he told us. Little matters now, your faithful strangers are still willing to believe.