Harry Kalas

As a metre-long rule, I usually hate these conspicuous, self-promoting "R.I.P." blubfests. But I simply have to say something about the death of Phillies announcer Harry Kalas yesterday.

The trouble is: what exactly? I've been thinking about it for the past twenty-four hours, but what can I say that won't turn this post into the very conspicuous, self-promoting "R.I.P." blubfest that I just said I hate. I've never really had much patience for people who lose control over the loss of public figures, who say they felt as if they "knew them" and that they've "lost a friend".

But I can't really think of anything non-clichéd to say about Harry Kalas. In fact, I've been trying to think of another public figure whose death would have a similar effect on me, and (I'm not sure what this says about me) I'm not sure I can think of one. I guess this is how people felt when Johnners died.

It doesn't matter that there's a hole in my life, I know that. But all the same there is a hole. So just in case anyone is reading this blog and thinking that the death of the voice of the Philadelphia Phillies is hardly going to impact on anyone in Britain, this is proof that it has, that Harry had international appeal, and that I adored listening to him as much in London and in Hertfordshire as I did when I lived in Philly.

I don't think it's a knee-jerk stretch to say that Harry Kalas was a big part of my ever-growing love of baseball. When I lived in Philly I listened to him virtually every night, often just in the background. Back here in England, I would tune in to Phillies games sometimes just to hear his voice (probably the best way to watch the Phillies...). And what with the time difference, with Harry gone, it feels like the guy who reads me my bedtime stories is no longer at my bedside. I know how hokey, how corny that sounds, but it really does feel like that. I'm pretty crap at admitting when I am upset and shocked, but on this occassion I can't be bothered to be crap.

Harry Kalas was the sound of baseball for me, a game which heightens all the senses, which (like only a handful of other things in life) you can feel creating memories in real time, as you watch. Harry had a voice from heaven, no doubt about that. He elongated every word, squeezed out every last syllable, rounded every vowel like he was drinking a perfect glass of beer on the perfect summer's evening.

See? Look what I'm doing. Apologies. But ever since the moment I heard that Harry had collapsed in the commentary booth at Nationals Park before the Phillies game against the Nats, I have had tears in my eyes. Next thing you know I'll be laying wreaths at Kensington Palace. In the shape of the Phanatic's nose.

Let's hope not. I read this on a forum somewhere last night:

Funny the effect that baseball has on our lives even though most describe football as our national past time now. There's a rythem [sic] to the game...sort of like background noise to our lives for 6 months a year, year after year after year.....

That's as true for me nowadays as it is for any American. "Never forget" has become one of the most meaningless promises in the English lexicon. But in this case, I am sure it stands. I plan to continue annoying strangers with overly emotional tales about Harry Kalas. He has brought nothing but goodstuff into my life, and even though I kind of hate myself for blogging this post (not to mention for writing the words "blogging this post" - sheesh!), for whatever reason, I would hate myself more if I didn't admit, somewhere, that like any baseball fan, I am in mourning, and I miss Harry Kalas now as much as I know I will miss him in the years to come.