Posted by chicagomedia.org on February 17, 2008 at 17:05:07:
In Reply to: Remembering Harry Caray posted by chicagomedia.org on February 15, 2008 at 14:33:04:
It says something about a man when, a decade after he left us, people still imitate him, toast him and yearn for one more mention of a slugger who swings at summer air with the bases loaded and hits a ball so meekly, it wouldn't be a home run in a phone booth.
It says we still miss Harry Caray, who is more than a restaurant or a statue or a voice from the distant past. He died 10 years ago Monday at age 78 which, spelled backward, is 87, so maybe he was somewhere in between, maybe not. Doesn't matter.
Caray began his career in the day when radio baseball was being recreated via Western Union with fake crowd noise a studio prop. Yet, despite those plaid pants and uncool eyeglasses that dominated his cheeky face, Harry cut through generational gaps because energy has no expiration date. Good for Harry, and us, that he treated every assignment like Game 7 of the World Series because he never drew one of those with the Cubs. Or White Sox. But this never distilled his joy about being around the ballpark, as witnessed by daily appearances at spring training games that were not even being broadcast.
Announcers tell you it is infinitely more rewarding and admittedly easier to do play-by-play during a marathon season when the team is winning. Well, Harry unabashedly rooted, but his zeal had little to do with the scoreboard. He was box office, even when the product he described wasn't.
Harry's candor often infuriated players, yet they refrained from confronting him for various reasons. He was more popular, he really cared, he was right.
Harry had critics, but even they stopped short of doubting his knowledge of the game. He might call a trapped ball a catch, and if the second baseman's name was heavy on syllables or consonants, you knew you weren't listening to Vin Scully.
But you did know that the gravelly tones were there for you. He just happened to be a fan with the best seat in the house, a microphone before him, and if he could have reached for the cough switch more often or waited until between innings to take a bite out of that sausage sandwich, so what? Harry was must-see and must-hear.
What is he really like in person? That question arose often, and the response was simple. A lot of celebrities vanish when they're off the air and the camera's red light goes dark, but Harry thoroughly enjoyed being Harry. Whether lifting a few with friends, or at a table with wife Dutchie—an unofficial saint—Harry was comfortable in a crowd.
An orphan who dreaded Christmas, Harry reversed his sad childhood in no uncertain fashion. But he didn't do games from the bleachers by day or pound the streets at night because he was bored or lonely. He never was too talked out to discuss the Cubs' bullpen over a cold one with a stranger. That wasn't part of his job; it was part of his life. But so, presumably, was sleeping, and in all the years of weird hours requisite to brutal travel schedules, I never heard him say he was tired or wish for a nap. Heck, I never saw him yawn.
Could Harry get a job today? Perhaps not, but it would have been our loss if he had been denied his calling in St. Louis, where some station manager possessed an ear for passion. No way Harry could have been a drivers' education teacher. With him at the wheel en route to dinner, colorblind and yakking about a one-run defeat, you imagined yourself heading toward the last supper.
But it surely would be a hoot, 10 years later, to fasten our seat belts again.