I’m Philly, born and bred – it’s my cultural identity.  A huge part of that cultural core of my being is a passion about sports – Philadelphia is simply the greatest sports town in the nation.  End of story.  Every generation of Philadelphians has a set of characters which drew them into the sports lore of our beloved city (many of whom we booed at one point, they deserved it).  To say that my generation is no different than those of our parents would be to tell a lie.

We had Harry Kalas.

It’s difficult to describe just how deeply the voice of Harry Kalas is ingrained into the psyche of this city.  Most Philadelphians will do two impersonations.  The first is Rocky.  The second is Harry Kalas.  His voice was perfect, grace poured from his lips like fine wine from a bottle.  If you say the phrase “outta here” anywhere in the Delaware Valley people immediately know who you’re referencing.

As I was growing up, much of my summer was spent with my cousins splashing around in our grandfather’s pool.  We’d play whiffle-ball, have “biggest splash contests,” shuck corn, and play jailbreak for hours on end.  The soundtrack for our summer fun was the voice of Harry Kalas.  I can’t number how many times my head broke the surface of the water only to hear Harry utter something along the lines of, “The three-two pitch to Schmidt.”  It was like he was just another member of our family.  If Harry wasn’t calling a game when we were out playing around, it just didn’t seem right.

I actually remember the first time I consciously realized just how deeply Harry Kalas’ voice was implanted in my head.  Prism was running a movie entitled Running on Empty that starred Judd Hirsch from Taxi.  It was a movie about a couple who were on the run from the FBI for actions they’d taken to protest the Vietnam War, and it took place in the Philly area.  Towards the end of the movie a radio was playing in the background and, as it was summer, the film-makers rightly made sure that it was Harry Kalas’ voice emmenating from the speakers.  I remember realizing at that moment that not everyone got to listen to Harry Kalas call a baseball game over the course of the summer months, and I felt fortunate that Harry really belonged to us.

Today, that wonderful voice fell silent.  The voice that defined professional baseball for at least two generations of Philadelphia fans will never call another game, will never shout “outta here” with the excitement and energy that belonged to an eight year old, will never narrate another summer drama.  He is gone.  I got the call from a friend around 2:00 and all he could say was, “Harry Kalas.”  He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence, but he didn’t have to, I knew – and I couldn’t believe it.  It takes a while for the emotional force of the finality of death to hit me, part of that is probably the frequent pastoral call to be present for people following a death, but I was immediately stunned.  It was during the broadcast of today’s game where the finality of Harry Kalas’ death hit me. There’s just no words to describe how your brain wants to re-insert Harry’s voice into the play by play.  His voice simply belongs there.  I shed my first tears this evening when I watched our local PBS station play a “local legend” special about Harry Kalas.  It really started to hit home.

I feel privileged to have had him define a sport for me, and I’m so very glad that Harry got to finally call a Phillies World Championship live, since in 1980 the local guys were shut down for the Fall Classic.  I’m glad we got to chant his name during the parade, and that he lived long enough to see the players get their due at the ring ceremony on opening week.  It’s almost as though his mission was complete, and so he was called away.  The poetry of the timing fits that thought anyway.

So we have a city in mourning, and Harry leaves behind a wife and grown children who lost more than a phantom family-member.  As the city grieves, don’t forget those he held dearest in his heart.  They feel  the truest grief.

The Phillies did the right thing in playing their game today, and the broadcast team showed them selves to be true professionals both in how they paid tribute to Harry and how they expressed their emotions (Larry Anderson, you have a huge heart).  You guys are class all the way.  Churches (like the one I pastor) often experience grief like this and use it to lock themselves down in order to hold on to the dead and gone.  The Phillies chose the better route, they chose to carry on Harry’s work – rather than give up and say, “It’s not the same.”    When they played today, the Phillies helped an entire city grieve – and I thank them for it.

Goodbye Harry, I’ll always hear you calling the last out in 2008 in my head – you declared us winners again.