Best in Booth

During a break between innings of a late-season loss to the lowly Washington Nationals, Phillies radio broadcaster Larry "L.A." Andersen pinches open a sunflower seed and attaches it to his face. Then he does it again. Methodically, using the same pinpoint control that characterized his 25 seasons as a pitcher, Andersen fastens the seeds to his cheeks, nose, ears and eyelids.

"You look ridiculous," says Andersen's on-air partner, play-by-play announcer Scott Franzke.

Andersen takes a few seconds to ponder Franzke's observation. Then he says, "You talking about my shirt?"

Franzke concedes that of all the sunflower seeds dangling from Andersen's face, he is "particularly impressed" by the single seed clinging to the tip of his partner's nose.

"That," Andersen says proudly, "was the hardest one."

They segue back to the game with the grace of Rollins tossing to Utley to start a doubleplay. Since the duo began their baseball-on-wry broadcasts, Franzke and Andersen have worked as smoothly together as Harry Kalas and Richie Ashburn once did. Like their predecessors, they seem destined to become the voices on the soundtrack of springs and summers (and Red Octobers) for the post-Harry/Whitey generation of Phillies fans. And considering that the two are following in the footsteps of Philadelphia radio gods, this wholehearted embrace by diehards is breathtaking.

"People will come up to us in a restaurant and tells us that Scott and Larry will be their children's Harry and Whitey," Franzke's wife, Lori, says. "And that's the sweetest thing to hear because Harry was such a big part of our lives. Scott and I will always treasure the time we spent with him. We miss him."

Together, Franzke and Andersen pair geek knowledge and unabashed love and respect for the game with their unabashed love and respect for mercilessly busting on each other.

"I figure I can get along with just about any dork," says Andersen, looking directly at Franzke. "I'm the screw-up. He's the straight guy. I once tried doing play-by-play, but I stopped for the benefit of our listeners."

Franzke remembers the job description when he was hired.

"They said to me, 'You're going to work with this guy who we think is funny but stinks on the air,' " Franzke deadpans.

Andersen replies: "Scott can adjust to anything except for maybe when he hands me a card to read and, a minute after he hands it to me, I forget to read it. You know how when you're little and you leave butterbeans on your plate and you get that look? I get that look."

Andersen considers his role in their on-air partnership. "I think where I help Scott out the most is with my memory," he says.

"It's what we call a steel trap," Franzke says.

"We're friends outside of the ballpark, too," Andersen says. "We'll have lunch together, play golf together, especially when we're on the road."

"A lot of that," Franzke says, "has to do with very limited choices."

Franzke and Andersen have been busting each other's chops since they started doing the middle innings together in 2006, then became the regular broadcast team in 2007. "I don't think either of us have thin skin," Franzke says.

Andersen says the key to their appeal is that they allow themselves to be vulnerable. "It lets people in. When the fans tell us, 'I feel like I'm sitting out on the patio with you and Scott, talking about the game,' that's the biggest compliment they could give us."

Andersen's fiancee, Kristi Marnie, says fans feel the same bond when they meet Andersen on the street, which they do often since he moved to South Philly a few years ago.

"He's very comfortable talking to fans because he's a fan himself," Marnie says. "People are feeling what he's feeling. He won't even watch the World Series."

In the offseason, Marnie says, Andersen spends his days redoing his garage, hanging drapes, cooking "a great roast pork," hanging out with her stepfather at the Quaker City String Band clubhouse, fighting with her stepfather over her mom's homemade potato salad, savoring the hoagies at Cosmi's Deli, watching Eagles and Flyers games, and talking baseball with the neighbors. You'd never guess he's a native of Oregon the state, not Oregon Avenue.

"I'm born and raised in South Philly," Marnie says, "and Larry's like a real South Philadelphian to me."

Andersen's friendship with Franzke doesn't end with the Phillies season.They play golf with their fellow Phillies broadcasters. And recently, Franzke asked Marnie, a hairstylist at Salon Europa on 2nd Street near South, to give his young son, Gus, his first haircut. When Andersen and Marnie get hitched next Nov. 9, the Franzkes will dance at their wedding.

That their friendship is genuine is another reason why Lori Franzke thinks fans have taken to the pair so quickly.