Bill Conlin: Remembering Kalas, a heavenly voice

CLEARWATER, Fla. - On black-armband days like this, you think dark thoughts of loss, the sudden taking of comrades with whom you shared days, weeks, months, years, decades and generations, traveling with a ballclub as many intertwined lives were weathered like driftwood on a tropical beach that suddenly became storm-tossed and gray.

Rich Ashburn was taken from us after a Phillies victory in Shea Stadium Sept. 9, 1997. We all know where we were and what we were doing when news of his death in a Manhattan hotel room broke on Angelo Cataldi's WIP morning show.

Harry Kalas was taken from us after collapsing in the broadcast booth of a ballpark, Nationals Park, hours before the Phillies he loved so much for so many years were to oppose the Nats in their home opener. We will remember where we were and what we were doing when the news he had been rushed to George Washington University Hospital was overridden by club president Dave Montgomery's announcement of his death.

I am certain that Rich Ashburn was lining up a putt on the 18th green of some perfect golf course, muttering over the cruel injustices of the only game to ever beat him when his best friend materialized, still wearing the windbreaker the broadcast crew was issued for raw, windy days.

"Hard to believe, Harry . . . "

"Believe, Whitey, believe . . . Hard to believe you were gone almost 12 years. And I missed you terribly, pal, every day of those years . . .

"Well, now we're back together. Think you've got nine holes in you?"

Two imperfect men, so perfect together for 26 years. Two Hall of Famers.

One a brilliant athlete ravaged by diabetes.

The other a brilliant oral poet ravaged by the two Surgeon General warnings he chose to ignore.

Both socially scarred by the heavy imposition of taking on a major league baseball team as a surrogate wife.

"You didn't drink or smoke, Whitey, but you beat me to the finish line."

"Hard to believe, Harry. Shut up and putt . . . "

I heard of Harry's collapse from my son, Bill, who is approaching middle age. He was a little boy so long ago when the Conlins and Kalases were spring-training neighbors . . .