All that remains is static

My grandfather had this great radio that he kept in his bathroom. It followed him from a shelf in the bathroom to an end table right next to his favorite chair, in the living room of my grandparents' rowhouse on 10th and Oregon.

I thought about that radio as I reflected on the news that Harry Kalas had passed away. I don't remember ever hearing music come out of that radio.

Unlike the other major sports, baseball works on radio. My 8-year-old son is a huge baseball fan. For the last three years, he has had to be in bed long before the end of most Phillies games. To avoid 162 arguments, my wife and I agreed to let him listen to the game on his clock radio while lying in bed. Most nights, I'd jump in bed with him and listen to an inning or two. I thought about his radio as I reflected on the news that Harry Kalas had passed away.

I used to spend my summers on the beach in Wildwood Crest. If the sun was out, I found time for the beach.

Every Sunday, my buddy's father could be found on that beach, too, sitting on an old folding chair, holding a small transistor radio. He would sit there for hours, watching the game unfold through Harry's eyes. I thought about that radio as I reflected on the news that Harry Kalas had passed away. I don't remember ever hearing music come out of that radio.

My first Phillies game was at the Vet. I sat there in relative silence as the pitchers pitched, the catchers caught, and the batters swung at what appeared to be a speck of white light flashing by. I can remember being awe-struck at seeing the field and the players.

But the relative silence was painful. Sure, there were cheers and boos, and of course there were expletives that no 10-year-old should repeat. But for the most part, it was quiet.

I expected to hear Harry's voice; I wanted to hear Harry's voice. I felt that way every time I went to a game. Now, I'll feel that way every time I hear a game on the radio or watch one on television.

No matter how high our high-definition gets, or how flat our flat-screens, nothing will be able to compare to the sounds of a Phillies game on an old radio.

For me and so many other Philadelphians, listening to the Phils on the radio was like no other experience in sports. We didn't invite Harry to our homes, our picnics, and our parties; Harry invited us to share a day at the ballpark with him. And for 38 years, we gladly accepted his invitation. And no matter where we were or what we were doing, we were there with Harry, watching every pitch, every out, and every home run.

Comcast SportsNet was replaying Harry's last game this week. My son and I watched on a 14-inch television while lying on my bed.

We had watched the game the night before, while at my in-laws' for Easter dinner. We knew what was going to happen when Matt Stairs walked up to the plate. We closed our eyes and listened. We heard a familiar voice call the long drive to deep right field. At the same time, with his best Harry imitation, my son echoed: "It's outta here."

There's a radio on my desk at work that has been there for more than 10 years. I'm thinking about that radio as I reflect on the news that Harry Kalas passed away. I don't remember ever hearing music come out of that radio.