The voice of my childhood has gone silent

I almost didn’t write this blog. Just last week my boss showed me a break down of our Facebook followers and according to the stats this the type of topic that would interest few of you. After all most of you are women, and hardly anyone of you are from the upper Midwest.

And yet, something tells me you’ll understand. You really don’t need to be baseball fan to follow along, or to have grown up in the same part of the country that I call home. For Heaven sakes you certainly don’t need to be a man. All it takes is to have admired someone from afar in your life, someone who never let you down.

That’s not an easy task. If you’re a child of the 70’s and 80’s you came of age in an era when virtually no one lived up to their image and billing. Politicians were always being exposed in corruption, television preachers were constantly caught breaking one of the commandments. Athletes and celebrities alike were either being arrested for drugs, or wrapped up in an ugly personal crisis.

You know their names; you can still see their faces. And after all these years I am betting that the feeling of disillusionment continues to haunt you a little.

 I also hope you had someone like Ernie Harwell to look up to.

 He was just a baseball announcer. Just a guy who made his living by describing the actions of others. And still the news of his death, on Tuesday night, hit me with an emotion that couldn’t  have been equaled by the passing of any of the high paid athletes he covered. There was something about this man that you just loved. Millions loved him.

 Maybe it was the way he called a strikeout. Players never went “down” or “back to the bench.” That was too harsh for Ernie. Instead they “stood their like the house on the side of the road and watched it go by.”

 Maybe it was the folksy way he called a foul ball. “That one was snagged by a man from St. Clair Shores.” Growing up I always wondered how Ernie personally knew the name, seat location, and suburban hometown of all 40 thousand fans packed into the stadium. Of course he didn’t. But even when I got old enough, even when that fantasy wore off, I wasn’t left with a feeling of bitterness (like when the secret of Christmas was revealed.) Instead you just chalked it up to his charm and kindness. It was like he wanted you to know that people in the seats mattered every bit as much as the ballplayer.

 Maybe, perhaps above all else, it was the fact that you just knew that he was who he claimed to be. He was not the product of image handlers or public relations firms. He was authentic. That seems so rare these days. In fact I am not even sure if I know what the word means any more.

 In 1990 the team failed to renew Ernie’s contract. The ball club was not prepared for the public backlash that followed. Fans boycotted Dominos Pizza (which owned the team). On one summer day, towards the end of his final season, thousands even stood outside the stadium refusing to use their tickets. They choose instead to form a circle around the building and turn on their transistor radios and listen one last time to this man.

 A year later, with attendance and ratings down, the team had no choice but to bring him back.

 None of us wanted to lose him. Not then and certainly not now. He was part of our home, the voice of our dreams. You knew a long distance road trip came to an end, even before you crossed state lines, because through the static of the AM radio station you could hear his voice…and suddenly you were home.

 Playing backyard ball you didn’t just fantasize about hitting the homerun  in the 7^th game of the World Series, you also dreamt that it was Ernie describing your every move: “Now here comes Doug Wahl to the plate- with the fate of his team on his back.”

 Who knows, maybe you won’t understand. I am not even sure I totally get it either. I haven’t heard his voice in years, and all things considered it’s really not sad news. He lived a good, long life. He was 92 years-old when he died. His passing is the type that should be celebrated not mourned.

 But it’s not losing Ernie that makes me sad. It’s bigger than that. It’s like a part of my childhood died with him.