R.I.P., Harry

There is a fair chance that you don't know the name Harry Kalas. Even if that's the case, there is still a fair chance that you know his voice. You may have heard it in commercials, such as ones for Chunky soup or his beloved Coors Light, or as the voice of NFL Films, or as the voiceover for the highlights on HBO's "Inside the NFL," or as the voice of Animal Planet's annual "Puppy Bowl." For me, Harry Kalas always was, and always will be, the voice of Philadelphia Phillies baseball.

I grew up in the Philadelphia area, and am a lifelong Phillies fan. Harry did play-by-play for Phillies games on TV and radio for literally my whole life - he started as Phillies' broadcaster in 1971; I was born the next year. From youth, through adolescence, to adulthood, Harry's smooth, resonant voice has been a constant presence. Even since I moved to Minnesota, I've been able to watch some Phillies broadcasts on our cable package, and still have Harry around some.

Usually, when sports fans talk about our team, we talk about the players. But really, the broadcasters are a closer, if not bigger, part of the game for us. Players and coaches come and go, but Harry was always there.

There's a clear separation between the fans and players, in every sense. They're the spectacle, the ones on stage. I can't do what they do. And I certainly don't live in their multi-million dollar, fame-and-celebrity world. It's different, somehow, with the broadcasters - at least with the good ones. It's like they're watching the game with you. The broadcast is like a conversation. Though they very rarely answer my questions ;-). The players are very much on TV. But Harry was in my living room, my kitchen, my car. Just talking baseball with me.

Harry Kalas died today. It seems fitting that he died doing what he loved so much, getting ready to call a Phillies game. It was a couple hours before game time. He had made his regular visit to the Phillies' locker room, and was in the broadcast booth when he collapsed. He died at a local hospital about an hour later.

Most of my memories of Phillies baseball are as much about Harry's descriptions of what happened as they are about what actually happened. Not just the big moments, but thousands of little ones. A home run just wasn't the same without his trademark, "Outta here... home run!" call. A strikeout wasn't the same without his, "Swing and a miss. Struck... him... out!" As I said to the co-worker who first told me that Harry had died, "Harry WAS the soundtrack of Philles baseball for me."

It's hard to imagine that the next walk-off home run, the next no-hitter, the next World Series championship (if you're a Philly fan like me, you can't read - or type, trust me - that phrase without inserting a mental "if") will happen without the backdrop of Harry's words and voice. It was hard for me just to get my mind around the fact that today's game would have to go on without him.

When the Phillies won the World Series (and the series before it) last year, as excited as I was watching the celebrations, I couldn't wait till the national TV broadcasts played the clip of Harry's call of the last out on Philadelphia radio. (If I still lived around Philly, I'd have had the sound on my TV off, and my radio on.) I was excited that they won because, as a fan, I wanted them to win. Duh. But I was also glad that Harry got to call the World Series win. The only other time the Philles won the World Series was in 1980. Baseball's broadcast rules then didn't allow for any local broadcasts, so Harry didn't get to call that one. He very obviously loved the game and the team every bit as much as we fans do, and I know it was a proud moment for him to be part of the championship last year. I was happy for him to have the opportunity, and that the team came through for him. Because, I thought, he won't be around forever. Little did I know...

I'll miss Harry, talking to me about my Phillies. I never met him, but it feels like I've lost a friend - someone who was always around, and someone with whom I had at least one thing... one thing we both enjoyed very much... in common. It'll never be quite the same again without him.