As Bulls voice Chuck Swirsky sees it, there's always something worth saying

Have a blessed day, everyone. But don’t thank the messenger. I’m just passing it along from the longtime voice of Bulls radio, Chuck Swirsky.

‘‘Whatever you do today,’’ Swirsky tweeted Sunday, ‘‘I sincerely hope it includes love, kindness and respect to ALL.’’

If you follow Swirsky on Twitter, as I do, you’ve likely noticed by now that he uses the platform not for self-aggrandizement, not as a bully pulpit, but rather as a warm, heartfelt hug. And we all need as many of those as we can get these days.

Swirsky has stepped up his game during the coronavirus pandemic and a concurrent period of widespread demonstrations and social unrest, determined to ‘‘be a light,’’ as it says in his Twitter profile, ‘‘in someone’s storm.’’

In June alone, his tweets were a master class in TLC. Every morning, he wished his followers a good day. He encouraged them to be positive, selfless, compassionate and empathetic. He quoted Gandhi, Lincoln, Maya Angelou, Colin Powell, John Wooden.

When the Bulls’ season officially was declared over, Swirsky singled out members of the radio and TV broadcast teams with thanks and praise. In a tweet to his ‘‘Bulls family,’’ he simply told them all how much he missed them. A staunch supporter of local journalism, he shared links to stories he had enjoyed and extolled the virtues of newspapers.

If Twitter is a cesspool, no one told the nicest guy with an ‘‘@’’ in front of his name. I had to find out what had gotten into him.

‘‘I think a lot of it comes from my mom,’’ Swirsky said. ‘‘She’s the one who used to say, ‘Be a light in someone’s storm.’ Because we all have storms. We had our storms, but I saw how selfless she was for myself and my two sisters. The way I was raised was to always put others above yourself.’’

Arthur Swirsky, a career naval officer, died suddenly of a heart attack at 50. His only son, the baby of the family, was in sixth grade. A teacher found Chuck in the lunchroom of his school in Bellevue, Washington, and delivered the devastating news. What was a boy to do?

It was May. Paula Swirsky was strong, a teacher herself who would take on two part-time jobs — as a clerk in a hospital gift shop and as an actor in a small theater company — to make ends meet. June arrived, and Father’s Day came. A boy bought his mother a card and wrote a promise inside: She always would be enough.

‘‘Up until the day she died, at 66, she got a Mother’s Day card and a Father’s Day card every year from me,’’ Swirsky said.

For Paula, the end came in late January of 1987. It was cancer and leukemia. Swirsky’s career had taken him to Chicago by then, and he was watching the Giants trounce the Broncos in the Super Bowl when he received the call from a hospital in Berea, Ohio, just outside Cleveland: Paula had taken a hard turn for the worse.

Chuck was there by morning. One of his sisters, Jane, was pregnant in Oregon; the other, Mary, a flight attendant, was in the air. In that moment, an only son would have to be enough. He climbed into bed with his mother and held her for 15 minutes, weeping, until she passed.

‘‘It was very hard,’’ Swirsky said. ‘‘But it was beautiful.’’

It was a few days before his 33rd birthday. He’s 66 now, same as Paula was, and in robust health, hoping to continue calling Bulls games, as he has done since 2008, deep into the future.

Meanwhile, this voice he’s using? It’s her voice, too. This drumbeat of TLC? It’s her drumbeat, too.

‘‘She went through a lot, yet she never complained,’’ Swirsky said. ‘‘She never wanted me to make excuses. She was so loving and so caring for others. She stressed volunteerism. I guess I saw her as a role model. I promised myself that if I ever got into a position to have a platform, I would make an impact by using it.’’

Arthur was Polish. Paula was Sicilian. As a boy, Chuck did laundry, folded clothes and — mangia, baby — learned to cook. Cooking is a joy he shares with wife Ann, whom he married last year. Each brought three children to their blessed union; they range in age from 17 to 35.

‘‘All these things in my life, the chapters of my life, keep me young,’’ Swirsky said.

When Swirsky was 5, he broke his mother’s broomstick and used the tip as a microphone. That’s how long he has known what he wanted to do with his life. But there’s more to it than calling sports, isn’t there?

Lately, there’s so much more.

‘‘As a society, what has transpired the past two, three weeks should not be just a fleeting moment of awareness in a news cycle,’’ he said. ‘‘It should be a continuing process of understanding, listening, growth and impactful action to eradicate injustice, racial discrimination and prejudice. This should be 24-7-365. Black lives matter — period.’’

Swirsky is soup for the soul, radio partner Bill Wennington believes. Just the other day, the pair met at a Starbucks near the United Center to catch up. It had been too long since they had talked in person — since the Bulls’ last game in March.

‘‘I missed him,’’ Wennington said.

Wennington took Swirsky’s giving nature to heart a long time ago.

‘‘What stands out to me is how much he’s done for young people, helping them with their broadcasting, meeting them for lunch, asking, ‘What are you doing next?’ ’’ the former Bulls center said. ‘‘He wants to be there for everybody, and this is just one example. But it’s amazing to me how much Chuck loves what he does and how he really wants to pass the torch.’’

Oh, yes: It’s Mom’s torch, too.