ERNIE HARWELL: "YOPTERIFKE"

I had to do better justice to the man, the broadcasting legend, the human legend, Ernie Harwell, who died a few days ago after a bout with cancer at the ripe young age of 92.

Here, in Detroit, we think we own him but, no, his career had started a good time before his time as a Tigers' broadcaster. Good ole Southern comfort, his voice was unique: raspy, high-strung, crackly, deep, melodious. Other adjectives may be out there, but I can't pin his voice down. And I believe that was a part of what made him great. Let alone the over-half century of broadcasting which (deservedly-so) sat his bony ass down in baseball's Hall of Fame...his interviewing of the fucking monoliths of baseball, his writing for the Sporting News at a ridiculously-young age of 16...but, no.

What is/was he to me?

He was a Constant. His is a voice of Memory.

Listen: I remember lying in bed, well past my bed-time, listening to Harwell's soothing voice from the West Coast trips, while, in the back of my mind, I had my parents' arguments still fresh. I remember eating baked beans and scorched hot dogs and walking in the lush green grass of my grandparents' house as Ernie's voice crackled and smooooothed through air.

I remember his "go-to's": "Stood like the house by the side of the road and watched that [one] go by". Or, when a Tiger hit a home run (Lance Parrish? Chet Lemon?): "And that one's...looooooooonggg gone!"

Baby memories, right?

Apparently not.

Those outside our fine metropolis may not give a whit or a damn about Ernie's passing. Here, in the Motor-Town Skyscape, people care. There was a public viewing of his body in Gate A of Comerica Park (against his wishes, methinks) and thousands of people stutter-stepped or rolled past to see the Body of the Dead Great-Man. And, you know what? I wish I had, too.

Harwell's voice speaks to History and...Memories.

I was between 10 or 93 when his voice started to register with me. His was a voice that could sweep across the Major League Baseball world and affect both young and old. The older simply had a head-start.

I was 11 when the Tigers won the World Series in 1984. I can't say that I really heard the man's call of when Larry Herdon caught the fly ball in left field. I can say, though, that my love of baseball was borne from that year. Who was I? I was an 11-year-old who had caught on, finally, to the beauty of baseball. The absolute beauty of baseball.

The Beauty that Ernie helped let people...see.

And, to top it off, he was a great guy.

I am certainly not (just 'cause I'm not) an overly-Christian guy, but I get the basic premise--Be good to one another, love one another, try to have a kind word for a person, help a stranger when you can--the premise that Ernie spread wherever he went. He was a great guy, more times than not having an ear for a person, a story to tell, a signature.

Through his years, he had always seemed to be self-effacing, giving the glory to God rather than himself.

I believe that he was as he projected, instead of what seems to happen more often in these recent years: A man (or woman) who is snidely disingenuous.

Ernie seemed real. And my gut feeling says he was real.

But, so what. Right? Let's not deify him. Let's not put him on God's right hand side. Let's not shove Hey-Zeus over for Ernie's place. He was "just" a broadcaster. He was "just" a man.

I agree. No Jesus-pushing, please. (Yahweh would never accept...nor would I.) But here's my point: In an ever-increasing world of booty-booty-booty and scandalous breasts and intermittent heroes, can't we please please please just accept one who actually is?

Sure, for those non-sports fans out there--and there are many, I know--the passing of a dude who called baseball games might seem minuscule, even irrelevant. (I had to force myself to type that.) Well, it's fucking not. He was just a man--a slight, balding, vain, self-conscious, melodically-voiced man--who was the voice of and to about four generations. Not a deity. Just a man.

But....

But nothing. This is as about as close as I can bring to you all understanding Harwell like I did and have. There is really nothing more I can say. (There is a book out there, Adam-scribe.) Really, nothing more....

Oh. Wait.

A relatively short time after hearing that he had acquired terminal cancer, our man Ernie was out on the grass of downtown Detroit's Comerica Field saying this, ever-melodiously:

Thank you very much. We don't want to be penalized now for the delay of the game, but I do want to express my feelings here. It's a wonderful night for me. I really feel lucky to be here, and I want to thank you for that warm welcome.

I want to express my deep appreciation to Mike Ilitch, Dave Dombrowski and the Tigers for that video salute and also for the many great things they've done for me and my family throughout my career here with the Tigers.

In my almost 92 years on this earth, the good Lord has blessed me with a great journey. And the blessed part of that journey is that it's going to end here in the great state of Michigan.

I deeply appreciate the people of Michigan. I love their grit. I love the way they face life. I love the family values they have. And you Tiger fans are the greatest fans of all. No question about that. And I certainly want to thank you from the depth of my heart for your devotion, your support, your loyalty and your love. Thank you very much, and God bless you.

Here.

Wonderful night. Any time he spoke, it was a wonderful night.

We Tiger fans? I'm sure other cities have had their broadcasters and feel the same. Most do. The difference? We had Ernie Harwell for about three decades.

It should have been a complete four decades: 1960-2000. But there was some fucked up kind of Detroit Tiger management Snah-Fih-Zoo in the early-90s that deemed that Ern was kaput. No-uh-uh. The only thing that could finish William Earnest "Ernie" Harwell was God calling him Home.

All this writing and talking and hyperbole aside, I really need to pass along my understanding of Ernie Harwell to you (three). It helped that he was a (assumed) great guy, but what really clicked with me was the way in which he would put me to bed, with his sweet Southern drawl, when the Tiges played the California Angels. Some pitcher would throw to Lance Parrish or Chet Lemon or Marty-fucking-Castillo, and the bed would melt away and I'd be...there.

God love and bless you, Ernie.