A bulldozer rumbled down the parkway during the lunch traffic and it took out the steps at the Art Museum. Putting in elevators or some such refinement. No more running up the steps, no more lounging on the steps. No more steps at the Art Museum and we always intended to take one more jog to the top and turn and see the city.
They filled in the Schuylkill River and razed the boathouses, closed the pretzel factories and turned off the cheesesteak grills. They closed Forbidden Drive, paved Fairmount Park and made people stop parking in the middle of Broad Street.
It all happened yesterday.
The day Harry Kalas died at the ballpark.
"We lost Harry," team president Dave Montgomery said. "We lost our voice."
We lost Harry on the road, which is very nearly home to the baseball lifers like Kalas. We lost Harry as he was preparing for another game, this one in Washington, D.C. He would have had his scorebook and his notes in the booth with him, and the statistical numbers and columns that supply the canvas of a game for which artists like Kalas can add the brushstrokes.
He didn't get to see this game, but, probably, he had seen it before. He had seen them all.
The Phillies will do their best to honor him, but there is no statue that can be erected more impressive or lasting than the indelible body of Kalas' work. He was a comfort in time of need - and Phils' fans know all about that - and a friend in the darkness of a drive through the night. He was the narrator of a city's soundtrack, the background conversation at countless events in millions of lives.
People asked Harry to put his voice on their answering machines. They handed him telephones and asked him to wish their wives a happy birthday. They spun the radio dials, caught just a word, perhaps just a name - WAAAH-rin Cro-MAAAHR-tee - and knew where they were. They were at the corner of Kalas and Baseball, and there was no finer intersection at which to spend time.
