Harry Kalas: Connecting With Fans

In the words of His Whiteness, Richie Ashburn, it's "hard to believe" that we've endured almost two full baseball seasons without the dulcet tones of our life-long friend, Harry Kalas.  Almost impossible to fathom Phillies baseball without him.  And, with all due respect to Tom McCarthy, Phillies baseball just isn't the same on TV or radio, without Harry.

Many people wrote about Harry and what he meant to Phillies baseball back in April of 2009, just after Harry's passing.  And nothing I could say here, almost 18 months later, could really add to the tributes, praise, and anecdotes that were written at the time.  Nothing I could add would give any greater insight to the man, the legend, nor could convince anyone to think the world of Harry.

I do want to mention, however, something that my own father had said, way back on a cold September afternoon in the Fall of 1976.  It was my official introduction into the psychology of sports fans.

I was 13 in the Fall of '76, and had been watching Phillies baseball many evenings with my Dad, since I was eight.  So, when it came to announcers, I didn't know from Adam about what made Harry "special" to Phillies fans.  In fact, if memory serves, Harry wasn't nearly as popular in 1976 as he would be in the years to come.  But the incident that I'm about to recount, and the comment that incident elicited from my father, was probably the start of the special relationship the fans came to have with Harry.

It was Sunday, September 26.  A cold, rainy day greeted the Phils in their final visit to Parc Jarry in Montreal for a double-header.  The opener, delayed by rain that fell intermittently throughout the game, saw Jim Lonborg pitch extremely well, and Greg Luzinski hit a three-run homer in the sixth to propel the Phillies to a 4-1 win.  Because of the late start, word had reached the booth in the seventh inning that the Pirates had lost in St. Louis, 5-2, assuring the Phils of no worse than a tie for the NL East title.

When the last out was recorded, Harry, as excited as we'd ever heard him, proclaimed the news that the Phillies had won the National League Eastern Division.  He and Whitey shared a word or two, then Harry gave his tradtional, "Back with final totals and a recap after this ..."

What Phillies fans witnessed when the telecast resumed for the between-games show was, in my opinion, the start of the love affair that Phillies fans had, and will always have, with Harry Kalas.  What we witnessed in my home, in front of the TV, tuned to Channel 17, prompted my Dad to utter the words that have stayed with me to this day.

When the cameras came back on, Harry was on-camera.  In the background was a black backdrop with the Expos logo on it (remember, the game was being played in Montreal).  As Harry spoke, the camera picked up tiny glimmers on Harry's cheeks.  Tears.  Our announcer was as choked up about the Phillies winning as we were.  He had been crying, just as my Dad had been crying.  Tears of joy.  While Phillies fans had "suffered" though the horrible 1972 season ... Harry witnessed every single game.  He probably wondered, back then, if he'd ever call a playoff game.

But here he was, crying like we were.  My Dad, not given to bouts of sentimentality, said, "He cares as much as we do.  I'll be damned!"  From that day on, my father was a Harry Kalas fan, and so was I. 

Looking back, I've come to realize that, for me, it was important to know that the people who were broadcasting the games that I watched or listened to, were as invested as I was in the outcome.  Prior to that day, I had just thought of Harry as some guy, just doing his job.  But that day, we all discovered that it was more than just a job for Harry (and, for every other broadcaster in the business).  We discovered that he was one of us.  A fan.  Someone who lived and died with wins and losses just like we did.

That Harry Kalas would become a legend and a hero in Philadelphia is something we should have seen coming.  From guys like Lenny Dykstra and Aaron Rowand, Reggie White and Clyde Simmons, Bobby Jones and Steve Mix, Bobby Clarke and Barry Ashbee ... Philadelphians have loved, admired, and made heroes of players who were most like Philadelphians themselves.  People the citizens would be proud to call one of their own.

Harry Kalas was one of those people.  And whether he ever intended it or not, those tears he cried in 1976 would be the cement that created that special bond between broadcaster and fans that can never be broken.

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