Tim McCarver is broadcasting’s Mr. October, credited with covering more World Series than any announcer in history.

More than Mel Allen. More than Curt Gowdy. More than Vin Scully. More than anybody.

And those other guys didn’t get to catch Bob Gibson or Steve Carlton. McCarver was ready to match Yogi Berra’s records this weekend, working his 14th World Series and 75th game behind the microphone. Berra’s games came in a chest protector and shin guards, equipment with which McCarver also is familiar.

This World Series journey began in 1985. ABC had just fired Howard Cosell, and 10 days before the Series between Kansas City and St. Louis, McCarver was drafted.

He had been involved in October baseball before, starting with the 1964 World Series, when, as a 22-year-old catcher, he batted .478 for the Cardinals. That was nothing, McCarver said, compared with explaining to an audience of millions what was happening on the field.

“I was nervous, very nervous,” he said. “Broadcasting a World Series was not even close to playing in one. As a player, you have a chance to do something about the outcome.”

In the booth, you’re at the mercy of the action, responding to plays, explaining what happened and why it happened. No one is better at it than McCarver, who has won three straight Emmys at Fox as TV’s best game analyst.

“I never realized what the game looked like two stories higher,” he said. “It opens up more to me because of my position as a player. It’s so much more expansive. It shocked me how open the game appeared.

“From a player’s standpoint, you think you know maybe 85 percent of the game. Then you go upstairs and find out that you’re wrong about that.”

McCarver has an uncanny knack for insight and letting listeners know what to expect. His perspective comes from a lifetime spent behind the plate, much of it cajoling Hall of Fame pitchers like Gibson and Carlton.

He caught each of them for about 10 years, including 1968 when Gibson had a 1.12 earned run average with St. Louis, and 1972 when Carlton won 27 games on a Philadelphia team that won a total of only 59.

“In some ways, I was fortunate to catch them,” he said. “In other ways, not so fortunate.”

The evidence is in McCarver’s left hand, his glove hand. His thumb curves backward, permanently hyperextended, and the index and middle finger don’t work very well.

“I have a lot of problems with the hand,” he said. “It swells up. There’s some arthritis.”

McCarver remembers the sound, a thud, that Gibson’s fastball and Carlton’s slider made when he caught them. And he remembers sometimes coming to bat, unable to close the hand around the handle, swinging with what amounted to a hand-and-a-half. For a catcher, that’s a good test for how hard his pitcher is throwing.

“Gibson was the most relentless competitor I ever saw in any sport,” McCarver said. “Carlton was different.

“He was relentless in his own way, sort of impassive. He was totally opposite from Gibson.”

For Gibson’s part, he never cared much about McCarver’s opinion. There is an often-told story about the catcher trudging out to the mound one day only to find Gibson scowling at him, chasing his catcher away with the advice that the only thing he knew about pitching was that it was tough to hit.

Their paths crossed again in Cooperstown at Carlton’s Hall of Fame induction.

Asked to speak at a private dinner the night before the induction, McCarver saluted his longtime batterymate, closing by calling him “the man with the best slider I ever caught.”

As the dinner broke up, he saw Gibson moving purposefully through the crowd, coming directly toward him, the familiar scowl back in place.

Finally, when they were about a foot apart, Gibson confronted McCarver.

“You meant the best left-handed slider, right?” he said.