Most of the fans would settle into the seats along the first-base line to wait for the 1 p.m. memorial tribute planned by the Phillies. Some simply stood in the line, paid their respects, got back in their cars, and left with the sense of an obligation repaid.
Eventually, the family, friends, dignitaries, former players, current players, front-office workers, politicians, and all the members of the official party would arrive, too, and the team produced a wonderful memorial. It was befitting of a real celebrity but remained tasteful as it played out on the wonderful green geometry of the field under the first faultless blue sky of spring.
What transpired during that hour and 45 minutes - and wouldn't Harry have loved the time of game? - was exceptionally well done, but it still paled next to the mute tribute of the fans as they waited their turns and shuffled respectfully through a building built for joy and not sorrow.
In the stands, it was nearly silent, a reflection of the silence that has settled on Philadelphia since Kalas died Monday in the press box at Nationals Park in Washington as he prepared to broadcast the 6,163d regular-season game of his career with the Phillies.
His notes were there on the table when he was found unconscious, the outline of the next story he would tell. The one he never got to tell.
Since then, the city and its citizens have struggled with the finality of his passing at age 73. He was a constant friend, even to those who never met him, a comforting bit of continuity at a time when professional sports teams change with head-spinning regularity. He was a bit of a scamp, a lover of good times, and, beyond that, possessed one of the great and most recognizable broadcasting voices of his generation.
