More than a voice, Harry the K was Philly

By Jeff Glauser
The Phanatic Magazine

Another piece of my childhood was taken away today.

My first love of baseball combined with my first legitimate career aspiration of sports broadcasting. My favorite announcer from my favorite team.

Harry the K wasn’t supposed to die. He was supposed to be immortal. Can anyone really picture a Phillies season taking place without him? Can we really picture a history that moves forward without that silky smooth baritone being a part of it?

Can we ever hear the song “High Hopes” again without getting emotional?

Like the late great Richie “Whitey” Ashburn before him, their life and death spark many similarities. One of the most distinct voices of all time, Kalas, like Whitey – although not a native to the area – became Philadelphia. And, like Whitey, he died while on the road with the team. And, like Whitey, he became a long overdue inductee into the Hall of Fame, years after he should have been.

Harry and Whitey also bring me back to some of my earliest childhood memories: Watching a game with my dad on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Or putting my ear by my clock radio in bed, listening to the witty banter of them both on a soft, crackling broadcast during a west coast trip, long after bedtime had passed.

But he was more than just Phillies’ baseball. That voice was ubiquitous. Whether it was the highlights on NFL films, a Campbell’s Soup commercial or a football play-by-play on Westwood One Radio (where he was sorely underrated), hearing him brought us an air of familiarity and comfort.

Harry’s legend lives far past the Delaware Valley. There are only a handful of baseball voices that will stand the test of time, and Kalas stands near the top of the list: Carey, Scully, Uecker, Buck, Harwell… Kalas fits in there, easy.

He was far more than just a voice, too. He was family. And based on everything I’ve heard, he was an even better human being than he was a broadcaster.

So when the Phillies won the World Series last year, you had to feel especially prideful for Harry. In 1980, when the team won its first championship, Kalas was benched because of an asinine rule – mercifully changed three years later – that local broadcasters were forbidden to call World Series games. Therefore, a Brad Lidge strikeout provided him his one and only opportunity to make the pinnacle call in sports after 38 years with the club.

As I type this, my mind is going through a historical chronology of the voice that will never die with him:

- “Long drive, deep center field… could it be… that ball’s…. OUTTA HERE!”
- “Swing and a miss, struck-im-out!”
- “Can you believe it?!”

Or how he made players’ names his own:

- “Michael-Jack-Schmidt.”
- “Mick-ee Mor-an-dee-nee” (In fact, the more syllables, the better he drew out the name)
- “Wahn Sahm-well” (AKA: Juan Samuel)

Or his playfull nicknames:

- “Inky-Dinky-Doo”
- “Mitchy-Poo”

It was also fitting that he died in his sanctuary – the broadcast booth – poised to do once more, like 6,000-plus times before, what he loved most and did best: Call a Phillies game.

Today, the microphone went silent. And another part of my childhood has ceased to exist. But although Harry Kalas has passed away, his voice will live forever.

Rest in peace, Harry the K. And send Whitey our regards.