Harry Kalas: A Young Boy’s Version of a Philadelphia Story

Three years ago today, a significant number of Philadelphians cried themselves to sleep.  Ninety-nine miles up I-95, I cried right along with them.

I was born and raised in New York City.  But my father was born and raised on Morris Park Road in the Overbrook section of Philly, and from a very young age, he instilled in me a love of Philadelphia sports.

Of all those sports, baseball—and the Phillies—were my true love.  

The parallels between his love of baseball and my own are fun.  The first ballgame my grandfather took him to was at Connie Mack Stadium, between the Phillies and the Brooklyn Dodgers.  The first game I went to was between the Phillies and the Los Angeles Dodgers at Dodger Stadium during my family’s brief move to the L.A. area.

As my love of the Phillies grew, so too did my consciousness of the voice that went with them.  The deep baritone of Harry Kalas was something I could only hear when I visited my grandparents in Philly, which, for me, elevated it beyond even the level of reverence it received in Philly.  

It was a precious commodity to me, something to be treasured when I heard it.

I distinctly remember a day in Philly when Kalas was either ill or on some other business and wasn’t calling the Phillies game that day.  My grandfather—who had been crippled by a stroke when I was five and would spend most of his day in the armchair in the living room at his home—looked up at my grandmother, demanding that she put on the game.  

When Nana responded that she just had, he looked at her incredulously and said, “But that’s not Harry Kalas!”  It was a sentiment that was likely shared by many Philadelphians: if it wasn’t Harry, it wasn’t real.

When I was 10 years old, I did a research report in school about baseball (at least, as much of a “research report” as could be expected of a fifth-grader; you know how it was back then).  It was a pretty darn good piece of fifth-grade writing, if I do say so myself.  

In it, it had a brief segment about the time I met Richie Ashburn at Shea Stadium while I was autograph hunting after the game, back when you could do that sort of thing without security guards descending on you.  

It was a great moment.  I’d gotten his autograph, and my dad, who had idolized Richie growing up, had a five-minute conversation with him that was probably one of the most thrilling moments of his life.

Richie died later on that season, and we Phans all know the effect that Whitey’s death had on Kalas.  Ashburn had been his best friend, and he was never truly the same after he passed.  My father, conscious of the relationship between the two, sent Harry a copy of my report, thinking that he’d enjoy the bit about his friend.

A few weeks later, we came home from a family night out and saw a message on our answering machine.  Of all the things we could have been expecting as we hit the playback button, we were certainly not expecting to hear that voice leaving my father a message.

“Tony, this is Harry Kalas…”

We were stunned.  I don’t remember the message exactly, but the gist of it was that he had loved my report, and that he’d love to meet me the next time the Phillies were at Shea.

We were over the moon.  

Several weeks later, we had seats in the Loge level of Shea Stadium.  During the sixth inning—Harry’s inning off—we made our way to the old Diamond Club and were ushered to the corridor leading to the broadcast booths.  

Harry was waiting for us.

After presenting me a ball signed by the entire 2000 team (which I still have, safely in a ball case), he ushered me into the radio booth, where Scott Graham was doing play-by-play for the top of the sixth.  A few batters in, a rookie named Pat Burrell crushed a long home run to left field, the first of many, many home runs he would hit in that ballpark against that team.  

Harry turned to me with a huge smile on his face and said, “Looks like you’re our good luck charm, Sam!”

I stayed in the booth for the rest of the inning before taking a few pictures and saying goodbye.  Burrell hit another homer—a grand slam off Armando Benitez, which started the feud between those two—in the ninth inning, and my dad and I watched the Phillies win in person for the first time in a while.  

It remains one of the best days of my life.

I met Harry several more times over the years.  The next year, he greeted me with a ball signed by rookie and All-Star Jimmy Rollins.  In 2003, when I entered a guest broadcaster contest held by the Mets, I sent him my audition tape, and he sent me a letter back with a wonderful critique.  

Over the years, it got more and more difficult to see him, because of his advancing age, my workload as I went through school and the heightened security at the New York ballparks that accompanied the post-9/11 era.  

The last time I saw him was in the summer of 2007, the year I graduated from high school.  A few months later, we all got to hear him call the Phillies’ remarkable division title—the first time that I could remember the Phils in the playoffs.  A year later, we got to hear something we’d all wanted to hear: Harry calling a Phillies world championship.  

My father and I cried tears of joy that night, and for days afterward, we replayed those words on our computers…

The 0-2 pitch…SWING AND A MISS!  STRUCK HIM OUT!!!  THE PHILADELPHIA PHILLIES ARE 2008 WORLD CHAMPIONS OF BASEBALL!  Brad Lidge does it again, 48 for 48 in save opportunities, and let the city celebrate!!

No one in Philly knew on that cold October night just how bad Harry’s health truly was.  A week into the 2009 season, while he was preparing in the booth for the Phillies’ next game against Washington at Nationals Park, he had a heart attack and passed away.  

It wasn’t just a broadcaster who died that day.  It was the Voice, the beating heart of a city with a long baseball history.

But more important, losing Harry was like each one of us losing one of our best friends.  A friend who would come into our living rooms every night for more than 30 years, bringing with him the greatest gift he could possibly bring—the gift of a night at the ballpark.

I’m sure there are hundreds of stories similar to mine.  But on this anniversary of his death—the first since I’ve been a writer for this site—I felt compelled to share mine.

Please do the same in the comments if you wish.  And let us remember this man we all loved—a man who may be gone, but will never be ‘outta here.

Long live the K.

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