Dash: Well done, Sir. I would like to add a few thoughts of my own in reflection on the passing of an institution…

I am a child of Philadelphia. Born on Broad Street, raised on 11th. (until my parents moved us out to the ‘burbs when I was six, but still…). My earliest memories include sitting with my mom, dad and little sister in beach chairs up on the tar-paper roof of our tiny apartment and watching the fireworks display from Veteran’s Stadium, literally right down our street, where the very first baseball game in that lovable old ratbox took place exactly one year after the Beatles broke up and two years before I was born.

For the entirety of my 36 years of existence on this planet, the only voice I’ve ever known which regaled me with the simple beauty of a day at the ballpark was one Harold Norbert Kalas, from Naperville, Illinois. His growly bass, with the remnants of a Houston drawl, entangled itself permanently with the team I would always love, and thus a part of my affection was reserved just for him (and Whitey, without question).

There are certain sounds that I associate with summer. Usually they happen to be musical in nature. Take, for instance, songs like the Grateful Dead’s “Touch of Grey” and the Rolling Stones’ “Waiting on A Friend” or “Gimme Shelter.” Whenever I hear these classics, regardless of time or temperature in my mind it immediately becomes 88 degrees, humid and bright with sun.

Harry’s voice, easy like Sunday morning and soothing as a back rub, made me feel the same way. In a sense, his play-by-play announcing was music, with rests and crescendos that hit just the right rhythm, the way an accomplished jazz musician knows that it isn’t how much you play, but when.

Now that wonderful instrument is silenced, forever. Speaking on a strictly selfish note, to whose voice will my own son listen, when he’s old enough to appreciate how therapeutic for the soul a game of baseball can be?

We’ll always have the audio clips, the photographs and the TV footage to go back to whenever we’re jonesing for a fix of Mr. K.’s unique croon. But without him along for the ride, it just won’t be the same. And for that, we are diminished. Godspeed, Harry. Thank you so much.

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