Between the lines, it's still the best game in the world

By Don Wade, Columnist

Harry Kalas would have found regular work without baseball.

The fact he makes his living describing each pitch of the Philadelphia Phillies' games - no matter how painful that sometimes has been for all involved - is the fan's blessing. And, as Harry is quick to say in his naturally megaphonic voice, his blessing, too.

Does he have the best job in the world? "Yes," he says with his friendly boom. "No question." Harry Kalas is 61 years old. He first thought he might want to spend his life talking baseball over the radio when he was 10. Already, he had figured out his talents as a player were "limited." He grew up outside Chicago in a then- sleepy town called Naperville. He listened to the Cubs and White Sox and imagined the games unfolding in the splendor of green grass, brown dirt and the magical white lines that give the world just the right amount of order.

Then one day Harry's dad took him to Comiskey Park to see the White Sox play the Washington Senators. They had box seats behind the Senators' dugout. But it rained and batting practice was canceled. Harry was sitting there, hoping against hope, there would be a game.

"Mickey Vernon popped his head out of the dugout, saw me sitting there, picked me up, took me into the dugout, gave me a ball and introduced me to his teammates. Thus began my love affair with baseball and the Washington Senators." That single story tells all that was once right with baseball, all that is now wrong with baseball. Harry has lived through the game's rise and fall.

Funny, though, when the National Anthem is done, and the pitcher goes into his windup for the first time, it's all grass, dirt and white lines - even at Philly's Veterans Stadium, which is covered with that awful artificial turf.

"This is such a business now, and the autograph thing is totally out of control," Kalas says, his voice so strong you believe him capable of speaking baseball back to the way it used to be.

"But once the games starts between the white lines, I still love the game, and do not think of the problems and the money. I still get involved in the game." Even this year, when the Phillies again promise to be bad all summer long. But, that's OK. If you're in love with baseball, part of the charm is making it through the bad years - enjoying what little good there is in it - and projecting into the next great season.

"Like this year, we're not going anywhere," Kalas says. "But it will be interesting to watch the development of Scott Rolen. "He's already been compared to Mike Schmidt, which isn't fair, but he's probably going to be a Gold Glove third baseman. And he's probably the best base runner we have, and he's a big man." So, Harry puffs another Parliament and thinks this Rolen kid might be part of something special one day.

Like in 1980, when the Phillies finally won a National League Championship Series - beating Houston's Nolan Ryan in the final game. Or like in 1993, when the gritty Phillies - Lenny Dykstra, John Kruk, Darren Daullton - beat the grand Atlanta Braves to reach the World Series.

"Harry K. became like one of the guys on that team, putting his uniform on right along with us," says Daulton, still a Phillie. "Harry enjoyed that so much, and we enjoyed it, too. After games, he'd come down and tell stories and sing." Stories. Harry likes his stories. Like the one when he was a teen-ager and went to Comiskey Park with some buddies. He was lucky enough to get Hall-of-Fame pitcher Bob Feller's autograph. He and his friends were sitting in the upper deck when he showed one of them the piece of paper Feller had signed.

"Yeah, you wrote that yourself," the kid said, air-mailing the autograph out of the upper deck. Had Harry been able to peer into his future, he no doubt would have given it his signature home run call: "Outta here!" "I was standing around the batting cage one day and (Greg) Luzinski launched one into the upper deck. (Larry) Bowa said, 'That's way outta here.' And I thought, 'That has a nice ring to it.' " Says Daulton: "That's Harry K. He's got that flair. He's your stopper." You're tempted to think Harry's seen it all in this game. Like when he was broadcasting for the Astros and San Francisco's Willie Mays scored from first base on a ground-ball single to left field. Seems the left fielder "lollygagged" after the ball, allowing Mays to reach third when he should have had to stop at second.

When the ball finally came into the third baseman, he was so angry he stood and glared at the left fielder. Mays kept going.

"The next day, Willie Mays wouldn't talk about it, because he didn't want to show up the other team. You see things on a baseball field ... I don't care how many years you've been in it, you see things you've never seen before." In non-strike seasons, you get at least 162 chances to see something you've never seen before. Once the National Anthem is done and the pitcher's into his windup, it's the best job in the world.

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