Memories and mementos at Kalas sendoff

Sean O'Brien of Philadelphia, 26, left a cigarette on top of the white steel coffin as a tribute to the heavy smoker with the smoky voice, who died of heart disease Monday at age 73.

"I knew his voice better than my father's," said O'Brien, who was 11 when his father died. "He was the dad I never had."

Appropriately for the occasion, O'Brien wore his black Phillies hat.

The stadium was solemn, with soft Mozart flute concertos floating over the public address system. Nearly a hundred fans had waited all night, and when the ballpark opened at 7:15, throngs entered through the third-base gate and were greeted by club president David Montgomery, who shook many hands and thanked fans for coming.

They thanked him for giving them this public farewell.

It was only the third time in history that a baseball team had held a memorial tribute at the ballpark: The first was for Babe Ruth in 1948, the second for St. Louis announcer Jack Buck in 2002.

Benjamin Thomas, 36, came from West Philadelphia, where as a boy he played Wiffle ball in the streets all night, to the endless complaints of noise from neighbors. But he was undeterred because he loved baseball, the Phillies, and Kalas, which was why he was fourth in line yesterday. "He's just a fan, like I am," Thomas said.

Bill Clancy, 49, of Port Richmond, came with his Harry Kalas cloth doll, given away for the Harry Kalas 30th Anniversary Tribute on July 29, 2000. It used to say, "Outta here," but the doll wore out, just like Kalas did.

Ann Knopka, 38, of Quakertown, touched the coffin with her pink Phillies hat. "One last goodbye," she said.

Jim Graham, 71, a former Philadelphia police officer, drove up from Ocean City, N.J., and stopped to have his friend take his photo in front of the casket.

"This guy is Philly," Graham said. "You don't realize what you got. You just get so used to it."

Michael Aldridge, 45, from Blackwood, was the second man in line. He proposed to his wife at Veterans Stadium in 1992 on Phanavision with a poem, which he had written on signs:

Happy birthday, Kelly.

You mean the world to me.

That is why I'm asking,

Will you marry me?

Kalas saw the proposal from the press box, and went down to the stands to find Aldridge and buy him a beer. Aldridge couldn't believe it, and Kalas made a special day even more special. That's why Aldridge spent the night in line and carried another sign with him yesterday: "There's no crying in baseball . . . until now."

James McAdams, 29, of Wilmington, listened to Kalas on radio long before he could get the games on cable television. He had his own tribute planned: "I might watch the Phillies on mute all season."

By 11 a.m., mourners could walk right down to the field without a wait.

Ed James, 59, lives within walking distance of the ballpark and walked in with his grandchildren. When he reached the casket, he gave it a little fist bump.

"Summer won't be the same," he said. "I feel like I lost my best friend, even though we never met."

For many fans, this was their first opportunity to get down to the stadium's field.

Nick Stoyer, 27, of South Philadelphia, stopped at the infield ribbon by third base. He reached under the yellow rope restricting access to the field and pulled out several blades of perfectly pruned grass. He put them in a plastic bag, and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Then he put a tulip on the casket.

By the time the tribute began around 1, about 5,000 fans had stayed and turned the ballpark into an open-air church, with the Phillies flag in center field flying at half-staff.

The fans sat in silence, still, in Sections 113 through 125 along the first-base line. No screaming for the beer man, no talking, not even a cell phone ringing.

Fans did sound familiar cheers when beloved Phillies past and present paid their respects to Kalas and when special guests rose to speak. They loved it when Gov. Rendell reminded them how we all would duck out of wedding receptions to catch Kalas and the game, or listen from beach chairs at the Jersey Shore.

Fans nodded and cheered when Michael Jack Schmidt, the greatest of all Phillies, said the best word to describe his friend's life was bountiful.

They smiled when Mayor Nutter called them out, all of them, and told them to admit it: All of us have tried to imitate Harry the K.

At the end, when the Phillies lined up and passed the casket down the line to a hearse, fans like Bob Thomas, 41, of Secane, openly cried. Hundreds waved their ballcaps in one last gesture of farewell as the hearse drove away, down the right-field line.

And then their Harry was gone for good.

Contact staff writer Michael Vitez at 215-854-5639 or mvitez@phillynews.com.