Hear the voice, and you might know you’re shirking an errand, and you might not care.

“He’s going for the cornerrrr! He’s got it! (Long pause.) Vince. (Short pause.) Young. (Short pause.) Scores.”

Hear the eternally pleasing voice of Jackson, who died at 89 vivid years Friday night, and you might close your eyes and see the leaves turning outdoors even while remaining upon the sofa. Hear the voice of Jackson, and you might know the football situation on the television called for gravitas, even if the unpretentious voice did manage to arrive at gravitas without trying. Hear that voice, and every American region seemed contained somewhere within it, from the boyhood on a Georgia farm near the Alabama line, to the longtime residence in Los Angeles, to all the chronic alighting everywhere in between.

“That thumping sound was the doorrrrr, closing.”

“Phil Fulmer went to see George Cafego, who was an absolute legend in Tennessee football history, two days before he passed away,” Jackson then said, referring to the Tennessee coach and Cafego’s death the previous February. Continuing: “And George said to Phil, ‘Good luck. I’ll be watching.’ ”

Then, in a turn only Jackson would make, he continued, “Good night, George. And thanks.”

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