He was 73, and in those 73 years achieved the status of legend, a word that is tossed about far too frivolously but which, in his case, fit like a batting glove.
In his twilight, not every game, nor every inning, was as seamless and flawless as it once had been, but his body of work is absolutely staggering. The Voice is in the Hall of Fame on richly deserved merit.
His signature line, mimicked by a million imitators over the years, will live on long after. For we all know the lyrics by heart. Cue the chorus, children:
"Long drive. Watch that baby. Outta here. Home run. Michael Jack Schmidt.
Close your eyes, and it's a muggy summer evening, and on the TV in your den and on the radio in your car, and you've just tuned into the Fightin's, and all you need hear is The Voice and from the sound of it, without knowing the score, you can tell instantly whether they're winning or losing.
"I always felt it was a privilege," he said. "It was like the people were inviting me into their homes. That's quite an honor."
And so it is, and so it was that he treated it that way, with respect and reverence. Harry the K did play-by-play, and he not only did it uncommonly well, he spared us the histrionics and the shrieking and the rudeness that pollutes far too many airways these days.
Harry the K was an oasis of calm in a roiling sea of nastiness and raging negativity.
He was, of course, the property of the Phillies, but he never played the role of fawning company shill. It was the Fightin's he wanted to win, but he credited the opponent when it was deserved.
