The Voice Is Silent

I figure this is a good post to start with. I'll have others up in the coming days, most of which are older posts on previous sporting events, but this should go up first.

I was born on June 22, 1984. The first voices I heard were more than likely my mom's and dad's, along with the doctor's. I'd be willing to bet that one of the first after that was Harry Kalas. It was a voice that you would know the second that you heard it, that smooth, calming voice. For almost 38 years, Harry called Phillies games, and while there were many more bad times than good, one thing always stayed the same.

Harry Kalas was always there. He would ride the same wave of emotions that the fans would. You could turn on a game and no matter what inning it was, you would know within a second whether or not the Phillies were winning and how close the game was, and that was just with the sound of his voice. In this day and age, where most broadcasters constantly talk through every second of every at bat, Harry was willing to sit back and let the game play out. I'm sure most of the people reading this that are Phillies fans will certainly testify to turning down the volume whenever the Phils were on national TV, and just turning up Harry.

I never actually met Harry for more than a few seconds, but it didn't matter. I tell people that I decided to be a broadcaster after watching The Sandlot. That's only partially true. My love for broadcasting, and for baseball, came from listening to Harry call game after came for the Phillies, and me hoping that one day, I could be like him. I shook his hand once, at the last Picture Day at Veterans Stadium in 2003, and I'll never forget that moment. I also won't forget the two times he said my name, on air, for winning the Stump the Fans question twice. Sure, it was just for a second, but to hear my name come out of his mouth...it just sounded special.

Now, the voice is silent. At 1:20 this afternoon, Harry Kalas passed away in Washington, D.C. He apparently passed out in the broadcast booth, which is where I think he would have wanted to go. Sure, there were signs before this year that he was starting to slip. Cracks had been showing for a while, but he was still ours, just like every other Philadelphia landmark. We'd heard the reports of surgery to his eye, and then something else this spring, but we all assumed he would be ok. No one thought that this day would come. We all assumed Harry would be here forever, calling games until people my age could sit their grandkids down and have them share a moment, listening to his voice.

Harry Kalas, in my mind and the minds of a lot of Phillies fans, was baseball. We rode the wave of emotions with every inflection of his voice. We stood, ready to cheer with every "looong drive!" We roared until our throats were sore with each "outta here!" This past season, we finally got to hear him call a World Series championship. The 1980 championship didn't actually have him in the booth. Three years, and many angry letters from Phillie fans later, regional broadcasters could call the World Series games for their teams. It's at least nice to know that he went out on top with the Phillies. While I don't remember much of their pairing, I know he and Richie Ashburn are sharing all kinds of stories right now with a nice drink and a fine cigar.

I'm not going to lie, I didn't cry when my grandfather died, but I damn near lost it at the end of the game today, another typical nail biting Phillies win. When they signed off, I could hear Larry Andersen trying not to cry in the background, and they added Harry's name into the final send off, it hit me. The voice, one of the few constants in my life for 24 years, is gone. Baseball has become a lesser game without Harry Kalas, and Phillie fans have lost a very good friend.

Rest in peace Harry.