High Hopes

After days of rumination and quiet contemplation, I have reached the undeniable and inalienable conclusion that life as we know it is just not fair.

Why didn't anybody tell me?

It isn't fair that after weeks of preparation, multiple pep talks and even Pedro Alvarez doing a few extra push-ups, Hadouken Griffey Jr. still got thoroughly waxed in Week 1.

It isn't fair that we have a 1-10 record and sit in last place, getting an ache in our collective neck from staring up at the rest of the league.

It isn't fair that Pat Burrell has twice as many World Series rings as Chase Utley.

And it isn't fair that after years of practice, I can still never remember if the soda or ice cream goes first in my root beer float.

(Soda, right? I knew it.)

Yes, friend: The universe is a cold, random abyss and we are all nothing more than an assortment of cells, given this curse of consciousness so that we may lay awake at night weeping over Ian Desmond's batting average.

And oh, how you careen through the universe in elegant ignorance, each wandering soul a blip on your life's radar.

Literally every person you see changes your life, if you think about it.

Even passing a stranger on the street changes you, because ten seconds ago you had yet to see that stranger.

Be kind to them all, friend.

Every single one is fighting a tough battle, more than a few of them pertaining directly to Ian Desmond and his awful, awful batting average.

And while all souls are special...some are just a little more special than others.

Harry Kalas is the greatest baseball broadcaster that ever lived, and let me tell you why.

No, it's not just the way he screamed "...outta heeere!!," his raspy voice whipping Philadelphia fans into a frenzy for over thirty years.

And it wasn't just that he knew all the words to "High Hopes," a fact that became embarrassingly clear the day the Phillies won the NL East title in 2007.

I still remember seeing Harry drenched in champagne and more than a little tipsy, effortlessly rattling off what felt like seven different verses, a handful of remaining fans mumbling politely until the chorus.

(What, you're gonna cut the Hall of Famer's mic off? Please.)

The truth is, it was all of these things and more that made Harry Kalas the best ever. When the Phillies won the World Series in 2008, nothing about it felt official until I heard his voice.

I remember Eric Hinske flailing at strike three, but everything after was a little hazy until about ten minutes later.

After games upon games of Joe Buck's monotone drivel, FOX mercifully gave us Philly fans what we really wanted:

They replayed the final out, only this time it was Harry making the call.

"Swing and a miss! Struck him out! The Philadelphia Phillies are 2008 World Champions of baseball!"

And then everything made sense.

I remembered Shane Victorino belly-flopping onto the victory pile. I remembered Eric Bruntlett jumping around, dying for someone to hug him.

I even remembered Brad Lidge dropping to his knees, incredulously screaming, "Oh my god! We did it!"

(Because, let's be honest here: Even Brad Lidge didn't think Brad Lidge could do that.)

The problem is, reminiscing about the past makes me think about the present...a world where Chase Utley has bad knees, Jayson Werth is a National and Brad Lidge is back to being awful.

Then here's the other problem: Think about your favorite player, and there's a 97.6% chance he plays for your favorite team.

We root for whoever is wearing our team's colors, only the men wearing those colors changes all the time.

If Brian Roberts played for the Mariners, would the fine people of Baltimore still give a damn about him? Do they even give a damn about him now?

Free agents sign on, trades happen, players retire and the revolving door keeps spinning.

The constant shuffle can't help but dilute my memory as fewer and fewer players truly feel like dyed-in-the-wool Phillies.

But that was never a problem with Harry.

Players came and went, but Kalas was as constant as the northern star. That's what made him different.

That's why Harry Kalas is the greatest Phillie of all time: Because he really did belong to us.

He really was ours.


Two years ago today, Harry passed away. On a completely related note, two years ago today was one of the last times I openly wept.

I hopped on Internet message boards and saw a tremendous outpouring of emotion from die hard fans, then excused myself to the little boy's room because I needed to be alone.

It's a verified fact that Kalas is not the Phillies all-time wins leader, nor does he lead the franchise in stolen bases.

He's never thrown a complete game, never hit a grand slam and never closed out Game 7.

It's unlikely he'll ascend the career doubles list, and a shot at the ERA crown seems altogether out of the question.

But he was the best.

And I'm pretty sure you, too, have a guy on your favorite team that you love a little too much for reasons that transcend baseball and border on legitimate emotional connection.

My guy just happened to have spent his glory days in the booth and not on the field.

And in a perfect world he'd still be around, chuckling with delight at the sight of Roy Halladay mowing down the National League.

But that's not the case, because this big, dumb rock hurtling through this cold, random universe is just not fair.

Seriously, you guys: A little heads up would have been nice.