Like everybody else in this region, I knew Harry Kalas before I knew him. His voice was in my head from the moment I started listening to Phillies games at the age of 8.
Unlike most, I won the baseball lottery and eventually became friends with Kalas.
There's not enough room here to tell all the stories about the man I was fortunate to see and hear during my 15 years of covering baseball for three different newspapers. Some of them aren't fit for print anyway. I will share only a few.
I once saw him bark at some pit bulls in Queens just to get the friendly little critters riled up. The pit bulls were caged behind a 20-foot fence, so Harry had no fear. Kalas, a connoisseur of piano bars, lamented on that same road trip that a Manhattan man had slit his wrists "in the middle of one of my best renditions ever of 'High Hopes.' "
The man had the ability to seamlessly weld humor and class together.
My most personal memory is one that I think is a perfect portrayal of Harry the K. as a human being. A dozen years ago, I invited Kalas to my wedding. Knowing he's a busy man, I wasn't sure if he'd be able to attend. About a week before the wedding, my phone rang, and it was Harry. He was ecstatic because he had just learned that he was broadcasting a game for Westwood One at Giants Stadium the following week, which meant he could attend my wedding.
My wife and I were no longer the headliners at our own wedding, but that was OK. Harry was gracious enough to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Brookover at the reception. "Brookie, you're bachelorhood is outta here!" he screamed into the microphone. Afterward, he signed autographs and sang, "Thank heavens for little girls" to my niece.
I was lucky enough a few years later to be in Cooperstown when Harry Kalas was inducted into the broadcasting wing of the Hall of Fame. The photo with Harry standing between my wife and me is one of the priceless items in our home.
Since I moved to football, Harry and I had kept in touch. I'd show up at a baseball game a couple times a year, and he'd show up to announce some Eagles games for Westwood One. The last time I saw him was at the Eagles' game against the Ravens down in Baltimore. He told me about the special ride the Phillies took him on last season.
Since then, I had heard Harry's voice in my head a few more times and his voice on the air many times, most recently Sunday as I watched the final out of the Phillies' game against the Colorado Rockies.
Hard to believe Harry is gone. Hard to imagine he'll be forgotten in my lifetime.
Frank Fitzpatrick, 1992-1995
It was June of 1971, and Harry Kalas was so new in his role as a Phillies broadcaster that he could wander through the U.S. Open crowds at Merion Golf Club virtually unnoticed.
I was a 21-year-old sports intern at the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin at the time, and I happened to recognize the newest announcer for baseball's worst team. At the risk of being the kind of pest baseball people term "green flies," I introduced myself.
"A future sportswriter, huh?" Kalas said. "What do you hope to cover? And where would you like to work?"
His sincere interest was the kind of thoughtfulness I would see him exhibit countless times throughout the next four decades, even after his face and voice became instantly identifiable.
Kalas had time for anyone who wanted it. He'd speak with fans during spring-training rain delays, sign the papers they pushed through his window, talk with the friends they had on the phone, sing "High Hopes" whenever they requested it.
At the 2008 World Series, Kalas, suffering from the circulation woes that led to off-season surgery, made his way patiently down a long line of TV interviewers several hours before Game 1.
