Before I heard the Beatles and Rock'n'Roll on the radio, I heard Ernie, who joined the Detroit Tigers in 1960. He was the voice of the Tigers and yet so much more: the voice of reason, the voice of non-judgement, the voice of kindness.
I feel like a big chunk of my life has faded with Ernie gone. I treasured his play-by-play work, and although he was paired with other announcers over the course of his career, Ernie didn't need anyone to do "color commentary." The stories he could tell about baseball players from virtually any era were works of art.
He was a religious man but didn't beat you over the head with his convictions. He promoted peace and unity just by being himself. When some were outraged over Jose Feliciano's interpretation of "The Star Spangled Banner" at the 1968 World Series, Ernie said he thought it was beautiful. It was Harwell who chose Feliciano to sing at the game.
Ernie wrote fun songs about the game he loved, including that April day in 1974 when Hank Aaron hit home run #715 to surpass Babe Ruth's all-time record. There were hateful folks who dreaded that approaching milestone but Ernie nailed it: "Move Over Babe (Here Comes Henry)." And tell Tchaikovsky the news! (If Chuck Berry hadn't already written that lyric, Ernie would have.)
His skills were ravishing for so many years, filled with imagination and respect for the game, and I'll never forget his work...or him. How many times did I hear Ernie say something like, "Here's a ball hit sharply to Rollins at third--over to Killebrew for the out." I mention this because most announcers, especially today, will say "third baseman" before the name of the player on a team they might not be that familiar with. Lesser announcers need a second or two to come up with a player's name--they might even quickly look at the roster before stating it. Ernie knew the game through and through, and he knew who was on the field.
The atmosphere he tapped into at the ballpark, saying that a foul ball was caught by someone from "Paw Paw, Michigan" or "Toledo, Ohio" always made me smile. Ernie never felt the need to give you a million statistics or continually talk. He'd pause and you'd hear what was going on at the ballpark: sounds from the diamond, the chanting vendors, the mood of the crowd. I love baseball because it's just like life: lots of reflection and nonaction, and then suddenly, a huge moment. Ernie Harwell, just like my Dad, taught me how to appreciate life, and how to appreciate baseball. They're one in the same.
And, yes, he had a terrific home run call ("That one is loooooooong gone!") but when you think about it, any announcer or even baseball's most casual fan can get excited about a homer. I preferred how he described a hitter taking a called third strike.
The casual fan might say, "there's no action in a called strike three." But Ernie brought it all to the forefront: the batter's embarrassment, the disappointment of half of the players, the elation of the other half. Ernie's schtick was so country, and a stroke of genius: "He stood there like the house by the side of the road and watched it go by!" Hank Williams--make that Tennessee Williams--couldn't have said it better.
Thank you Ernie Harwell, for being my friend from age five to 55.