Harry Kalas

There are people who say life isn't fair. People who would rather rue the bane than praise the blessing. The same folks who would turn over every stone to find the blame and hold it high over their heads, like an Olympic torch, than give grudging credit. Then, there are those who not only bring the sunshine - they bring the sun; and they bring it from the most amazing place: from within our very selves.

Harry Kalas died today. Typing it out like that does not make it any more real. Harry Kalas died today. No, it still does not register. For, as much as his passing hurts, his living heals. The rapid sobs, the runny noses, the chapped corners of our eyes stand as a tribute to the man who was more than just a local sports announcer - he was just as much responsible for those very same feelings for Phillies fans the world over when he finally - after 39 years in the booth - announced the final pitch of the 2008 World Series. We hugged, we cried, we celebrated into the night. We did it for ourselves, our team, our city. We did it for our children, our older relatives and to put in escrow to help us cope with the hard times ahead. But we also did it for Harry. In 1980, when the Phillies won their first World Series Championship, Major League Baseball did not allow the local broadcasting teams to announce the games on either radio or television. By 2008, it almost seemed incredulous to not have Harry Kalas at the microphone, lighting the fuse for millions of fans worldwide, to help send our city and our heroes into a legendary eruption of joy.

A lot has been said about Harry's technical abilities in letting the game play out. Like a virtuoso jazz trumpeter, it wasn't the notes he threw into the program, it was what he left out which made him special. His voice - that classic voice - calmed and mellowed even the most pessimistic fan. It was well-seasoned and smoky, like a fine single-malt scotch and it mesmerized the audience, who unconsciously kept the beat along with him; and then, in the blink of an eye, he would bring everyone to their feet. People would run in from their kitchens with the pots boiling over, scream into the telephone or even waddle with all their might with their pants by their ankles from the bathroom to see another strike out, a spectacular catch or game-winning hit. But it was his home run calls which will always echo in our memories when we think of Harry Kalas. His "Long drive!..." and "Outta here!" exaltations captured the attention and adoration of even the most casual fans as well as his staccato pronunciations of the players's names. Who, among the long time fans can't see the names Mickey Morandini, Mariano Duncan or even Bobby Abreu and not hear Harry's mellifluous voice smiling those very words? I know I can't.

Harry, and his best friend and former partner, Richie Ashburn, virtually brought baseball to entire generations of fans. He arrived in 1971, with the opening of Veterans Stadium, and with the advent of promotions, an increasing number of games on television and, finally, a very good team, brought us all along for the ride. For those fans who remembered the crushing heartache of the collapse of the 1964 Phillies, this version of the team in the 1970s provided hope and Harry and Richie brought us the cool and the color. I've always believed that when you played Penn State in football, you weren't playing against the Nittany Lions - you were playing Joe Paterno; with the Phillies, you weren't going to see the team as you knew it. You were seeing the team as Harry Kalas explained it to you. Through the good years and the bad, the one constant was Harry, as reliable as a comfortable pair of shoes - the very shoes he would lift you out of.

By all reports, Harry was an elegant man. To be sure, he was no saint, but how many among us can say we are? He knew how to treat the fans because he was a fan himself. And yet, in a town known for beating up others as readily as it would beat up itself, we always had Harry to let us know there was always another game, another season, another hope. Today, I am beating up myself for not watching or listening to a meaningless game in 1988, 1995 or 2002. To listen to Harry Kalas was to treat yourself to an extra slice of pizza, extra cheese on your steak sandwich or order the milkshake instead of the Diet Coke. He gave us a reason for tuning in. He gave us High Hopes.

I realize I am but one of hundreds of people who have, or will, write tributes to a great man who was great without trying to be. Harry was humble, gracious and always fan-friendly. From the garage mechanic to the CEO to the short order cook to the housewife to the young and the old to the rich and the poor, regardless of your race, heritage or religion, Harry Kalas belonged to everyone who heard his voice. For many, this is a day of sadness, a day to shed tears and call friends and family to share grief and try to support it with as many shoulders as you possible. It is unifying in its mourning of his death as it is the celebration of his life. After the pain eventually passes to fond recollection, we will still mourn - maybe not for ourselves, but for those too young to have known him. I feel sorry for those fans - living, deceased and those not yet born - who never had the chance to hear Harry Kalas call a baseball game. For those people, maybe life isn't fair.

As for me, having been a fan since Harry's early days with the Phillies, life will always be fair. The bad times will be countered by the good, and when I look back over my life many years from now, it will be the good times which will get me through the bad. One of those good times was having the Phillies win the World Series in 1980 and 2008. Sure, the team did it on the field, but Harry was the valet who chauffeured it to our hearts.

For Harry Kalas, that lovable uncle who always pulled a silver dollar from behind our ears, thank you. For all that you've given us over the years, we will never be able to pay you back, but knowing you, you feel the same way towards us.