Through Tear-Stained Eyes…

There is just something about a baseball announcer that is unlike anyone else in the life of a sports fan.  It is different than a favorite player or coach.  It is even different than announcers of other sports because, well, there is just something about baseball.  Something with which you live your life.  I think it has to do with its omnipotence, its daily presence in our lives.  Football is, arguably, a more popular sport in America these days, and, the big college sports may have more die-hard followings, but there is nothing like a baseball season and its 162 games.  You live your life with a baseball team.  Every night there is another game; a game much like the game last night and almost blurrily similar to the game tomorrow night, but, in many ways, so unique, so totally different, so independent. There is a game played whether you have had a tough day at work, a relaxing day on the beach, or just another day doing whatever it is you do with your life.  Each game is a paradox in that it is rendered almost meaningless by the grueling, interminable 162-game schedule, yet so timelessly meaningful for everyone invested in those 25 men who just happen to wear the colors of your city.   For the sports fan, baseball is the background music to all of life’s events that take place from April to October.

And, if the game itself is the background music of your life, your home team’s announcer is your narrator.  Well, I lost the narrator of the first 30 years of my life on Monday afternoon, and though I have never met or even been in the same room as Harry Kalas, my life will never be the same.

When Michael Jack Schmidt hit his 500th home run off Don Robinson of the Pittsburgh Pirates, I was eight years old and waiting in a car for my mom, outside of a hardware store in Phoenixville, listening on the radio.  Harry was right there with me.

When Mitch Williams struck out Bill Pecota to clinch the 1993 National League Championship Series, I was 14 years old in the living room of the Havertown house in which I grew up, watching the television with my mom, my dad, and my brother.  Harry was right there with me.

When Chase Utley made his major league debut, I was 22 years old at Veteran’s Stadium, listening on a walkman and cracking peanuts with a couple of my long-time childhood friends.  Harry was right there with me.

When Brett Myers froze Wily Mo Pena with a curveball to clinch the 2007 NL East title, I was 28 years old in the upscale New York City apartment of one of my college fraternity brothers, watching the game on a desktop computer with my future wife, my cousin, and one of my best friends.  Harry was right there with me.

When Brad Lidge struck out Eric Hinske to win the 2008 World Series, I was five months shy of 30 years old, in the garage of my brother’s apartment in Media (100 miles from my Baltimore home on a Wednesday night) with the TV muted, listening to the radio with my wife of three weeks, my parents, my brother, and my cousin.  Harry was right there with me.

Yesterday, when Ryan Howard spoiled the home opener for the Washington Nationals, I was three days into my 30’s and sitting at my office desk in Washington, DC, listening to the game’s radio broadcast on the internet, as I did my work by myself in my little cubicle.  For the first time in my life, the Phillies were playing, but Harry was not there with me.

It is hard to come to grips with the grief I am feeling for the passing of a man whom I have never met, yet has colored my life with his subtle paintbrush for all of my 30 years.  I am dressed in black today, as Harry Kalas, the narrator of my world, has passed on.  He has left an indelible imprint on my soul, always in the background of the events that have shaped the man I am today.

Thank you, Harry, and may you rest in peace knowing that your life’s work has been worth even more than the joy with which you approached each and every one of your living days.  So, with a heavy heart, but vivid and loving memories, I say goodbye to the voice of my life; goodbye to My Narrator.