Just about everyone in Philadelphia has a Harry Kalas story. In the nearly week that has passed since his death, many have talked--in print, on the air, to friends--about personal experiences with the man, the special calls that touched their lives, the soundtrack he provided during endless summers at the Shore. My appreciation of Harry and my mourning are similarly based, but there is more as well, another reason he'll always be with me as long as I follow baseball.
My boyhood in Upper Darby in the 1970s featured long days playing kickball in the street and hot, humid nights hanging out on the steps that fronted our row house and others on Radbourne Road. This was long, long before the media explosion, before every ballgame was televised, before mlb.tv, before fantasy baseball forced you to pay attention to players on other teams. If you wanted to follow the Phillies, mostly you tuned in to games on the radio (back then they aired on KYW NewsRadio (!)).
And that forced you to listen--really listen to the action and the descriptions. And that's how I learned the language of the game. From my father I learned how to throw and hit and keep score--and, most important, how to fall in love with baseball. From Harry Kalas (and Rich Ashburn and, yes, Andy Musser) I learned the game's vernacular and its rhythms, the important yet indescribable things that you just can't get watching on TV or following ballgames online. Those things have nurtured my lifelong affair with our great game, our treasured national pastime.
So thank you, Harry, from the bottom of my baseball-loving heart, and rest in peace. | PRS
Amen. Wonderful words beautifully written. You can't imagine how many times Dad and I say, "hard to believe, Harry".
Posted by: Mom | April 19, 2009 at 02:34 PM