Inside the Phillies: Return to D.C. brings memories of Kalas

WASHINGTON - That final vista from the lofty visitors' TV booth inside Nationals Park must have delighted a man as intensely devoted to his country and its sporting pastime as Harry Kalas.

On April 13, 2009, as the Phillies' broadcaster unpacked his briefcase in that spacious, seventh-level aerie, he could see the gleaming dome of the Capitol on the near horizon. Below, far below, workers carefully tended the pristine baseball diamond for the Nationals' 3:05 p.m. home opener, less than three hours away.

Minutes later, the EMTs who rushed into the booth were met by a far less majestic view. Ashen and unmoving, Kalas lay prone on the carpet, a pool of blood beneath him, his scorecard for that day's Nationals-Phillies game unfinished on the counter above.

Not long afterward, Kalas, the iconic 73-year-old broadcaster, was pronounced dead at George Washington University Hospital.

On Monday, because the Phillies were back at the D.C. ballpark for another Nationals opener, the team's traveling party was reminded of that painful day, nearly one year earlier, when Kalas collapsed and died.

"It's crossed my mind a couple of times," said Rob Brooks, the Phils' manager of broadcasting and the man who discovered Kalas' unconscious body that afternoon.

Brooks still finds it difficult to discuss those events and won't talk at all about the sight that greeted him just before 12:30 on that tragic afternoon. But conversations with him and others, plus details in both a new biography of Kalas and a memoir by broadcast partner Chris Wheeler paint a clear picture of the beloved announcer's last moments.

"To think that it happened right here," said Wheeler. "Every time you walk into this booth it's kind of spooky."

After one of those grueling travel episodes so typical in a relentless baseball season - day game in Denver, bus to airport, flight to Washington, bus to Arlington hotel, check-in at 1:30 a.m., bus to Nationals Park at 11:30 a.m. - Kalas arrived at the ballpark alongside the Anacostia River sometime before noon.

"I was 39 at the time and I knew that that Monday morning was going to hurt," recalled Brooks. "But then you look at a guy like Harry, older and with some health problems, and you say, 'Damn, that's really going to hurt him.' "

Kalas had experienced chest pains the night before. The heart ailment he would have preferred to ignore was taking its toll. In the final weeks of spring training, it had altered his appearance, if not his spirit. He'd lost weight, and his fair complexion had gone sallow.

"He would tell me, 'I've just got a bad boiler, Brooksie.' So I'd say, 'Go home. Rest up,' " Brooks said. "But those things weren't in his vocabulary. Not being at the yard really wasn't anything he was interested in."

As part of a ritual he'd performed thousands of times in his 44 years in the business, Kalas made his way to the visitors' clubhouse. There, he copied the day's lineups, made some inquiries about tickets and the following day's planned visit to the White House, then headed for the elevator.

He exited at level seven, greeted the security guard, made two right turns and entered the empty visitors' TV booth.

"In that regard," said Brooks, "it was just another day. The unusual thing about it is that the stage manager would normally have been there. But she got stuck in traffic coming from Virginia. It's the only day she's ever been late. Otherwise, she probably would have been in there with Harry, and who knows what might have happened."

Majestic by the cramped standards of the booths Kalas had worked in, this one was about 25x30 feet, carpeted, and equipped with all the electronic gizmos a modern broadcaster could imagine.

"It's a palace," said Wheeler.

At the front were three chairs, a work counter, a control board, and a TV monitor. Various cameras and lights were scattered around the cubicle, and a red, white and blue Phillies banner - background for in-booth shots - hung from its ceiling.

Kalas pulled out the middle chair, sat down, and opened his well-worn briefcase. He removed pencils, glasses, and media guides, and set them down alongside the scorecard and the packets of statistics he'd just collected.

According to Harry the K, a biography by Bucks County Courier-Times beat writer Randy Miller, the broadcaster filled in the Phillies' lineup and got as far as Nationals cleanup hitter Adam Dunn.

That's apparently when he collapsed, though no one noticed until, sometime near 12:30, Brooks, who had some information about the White House visit for Kalas, entered.

Others who were there described the stricken broadcaster as on his back, a puddle of blood beneath him.

"It wasn't total shock," Brooks said of his initial reaction to the grim scene. "It was more fear realized."

Brooks dialed 911 and ballpark security on his cell. He attempted CPR, then ran next door to the visitors' radio booth to get help. Larry Andersen accompanied him back and also tried CPR on his fallen friend.

Soon the EMTs arrived. They began frantically working on Kalas, unwrapping tubes and gauze and connecting the victim to various monitors and devices. After a few minutes, they put him on a stretcher and carried him to a waiting ambulance.

Later, when Wheeler entered the booth, it looked as if it had been ransacked. Paper, tubes and syringes were strewed across the floor.

Meanwhile, on the field below, the Phillies were called away from batting practice and informed of Kalas' collapse. They returned to the field only to be summoned a second time.

This time they were told by general partner Dave Montgomery that Kalas had died. They were stunned. Not only had they lost a traveling companion and friend, but their worst fears about a life spent largely on the road had been realized.

"With Whitey [broadcaster Richie Ashburn, who'd died in a New York hotel room 12 years earlier], the one thing he always said he didn't want to happen was what happened. He always said, 'Please don't let me go somewhere on the road in a hotel room.'

"But Harry was maybe the one human being on the planet who said if it's going to happen anywhere, let it happen in the ballpark."

The game went on that day. So did the broadcast. The TV booth was cleaned up, a patch of fresh carpet set atop the bloodstained area.

Now there is no visible reminder of what transpired inside. Memorializing it likely would serve only to remind all those who spend so much time on the road of their greatest nightmare.

The Phillies visited D.C. twice more in the '09 season. But those trips here would not dredge up the painful reminders that this Monday's game - their 2010 opener - did.

If there was one consolation amid the red-hued grief that day it was that Kalas had died doing what he loved, in a ballpark.

"That was a very strange, weird day," said Brooks. "I got home that night at 1 or 2 in the morning, and at that point I started to review the day and realize the enormity of what happened. I think I did OK. I don't know if there was something I could have done to create a different outcome.

"But I talked to [Kalas' son] Todd that evening, and we both came to the conclusion that had the efforts to revive him worked, he probably would have been angry because he would have been away from the yard for three or four months. That probably would have been unacceptable to him. For Harry, if you can't do what you love, why be here?"