Harry, Whitey, and the Pizza Twins

Someone once told me that if you are born in Philadelphia, you will most likely die here. While I'm not sure if statistics can actually prove this, the thought of dying in Philadelphia led me to compile a list of things to do here before I die, a "Fuck it!" list. While I was actually born in Waterbury, CT, my visiting friends that were born in and will most likely die in Waterbury have described Philly as "Waterbury South" and "just a better Waterbury". Plus, I don't feel like I'm leaving any time soon.

So far, I've checked off a number of things on the list, none of which involve running up the Rocky steps or braving the lines at Pat's or Geno's - although, I've accidentally (drunkenly) done the latter in the past year. Twice.

While that first Sixers game I went to ended in over 100 points for Philly and free Big Macs for all, it will never beat my bike ride from my apartment in West Philly to Harry Kalas's grave site in Laurel Hill Cemetery. It wasn't the anniversary of HK's call of Matt Stairs' moon shot or the day the Phillies won the World Series. It was just a perfect kind of Sunday morning and the Phillies would be on later.

My favorite thing in the Harry Kalas Museum Exhibit, which is just one tiny room in a rickety house at the cemetery's entrance, was a Celebre's pizza box. Next to it was its story which is best summed up here in the speech HK gave when he was inducted into the Hall of Fame:

This is the ultimate honor in a game that I have loved since I was 10 years old thanks to Mickey Vernon. It’s very special to be inducted with the most acrobatic shortstop I ever saw play this beautiful game, Ozzie Smith, and the legendary Joe Falls from the Motor City. I now join my two partners with whom I worked when I first came to Philadelphia in 1971, By Saam and Richie Ashburn.

People ask me what it was like working with Richie. His Whiteness and I were together for 27 years, and it was such a joy. He not only brought to the booth baseball expertise, but also laughter. Whitey had a marvelous sense of humor. I remember doing games with him, and it would be getting late in the game, late in the evening, and Whitey would say on the air, “I wonder if the people at Celebre's Pizza are listening tonight?” Well, within 15 minutes, bang, pizzas are delivered to the radio booth.

This went on for a little while, and pretty soon Phillies management called him in, and they said, “Richie, Celebre's Pizza is not one of our sponsors. We can’t be giving them free plugs.” Now, we do do birthday and anniversary announcements on the air. So shortly after his meeting with the Philadelphia brass, it’s getting late again in the evening, and he’s getting hungry, he said. “Well, I have very special birthday wishes to send out tonight to the Celebre's twins, plain and pepperoni.”

I want to thank the Phillies for their undying support for the last 32 years. Especially to Bill Giles, who brought me to Philadelphia in 1971, the best professional move I ever made. To the players, coaches and managers over the years, one of the many beauties of this game is no matter how long you’ve been in it, you learn more about it every year, every day. Every year I see things on the field that I’ve never seen before. A feel for the game was learned from so many men in uniform I could not possibly name them all. But you know who you are, and I love you.

To the members of the media who have been so supportive over the years — my colleagues, the beat writers and columnists, the radio/TV productions staff and crews across the USA. To the scouts and general managers over the years who have shared their baseball knowledge and experience in hundreds of press rooms across America.

The love of my life, my wife, Eileen. My sons Todd, Brad and Kane. My stepdaughter, Kiki, my stepson, Travis, my stepgrandson, Cole. My brother, Jim, and his wife, Mary, and my nieces and nephews. Families sacrifice when their man is a baseball man. For seven months a year, we spend more time with our team than we do with our families. I thank you for being so understanding and supportive.

We come here to Cooperstown to laud our baseball heroes each year. But all of us laud America’s heroes from all walks of life whose selflessness is on display daily. Those that lay their lives on the line for our safety, you are in our hearts. There are some loved ones in heaven looking down on us today. Mom, Dad, Celia, Byrum, Whitey, Ray Shore, Art Perkins, Mike Capredo, I thank you. And to the most passionate sports fans in America, the Philadelphia fans. I have written a brief poem to you beautiful fans.

This is to the Philadelphia fan.
To laud your passion as best I can.

Your loyalty is unsurpassed.Be the Fightins in first or last. 

We come to the park each day,looking forward to another fray. 

Because we know you’ll be there,we know you really care. 

You give the opposing pitcher fitsbecause as one loyalist shouts, everybody hits.

To be sure in Philly, there might be some boos.Because you passionate fans, like the manager, hate to lose. 

Your reaction to the action on the field that you impart,spurs as broadcasters to call the game with enthusiasm and heart.

We feel your passion through and through.
Philadelphia fans, I love you.

And thank you all for sharing in a day that I will never forget. I love you. Thank you.

What a class act. Even though Harry Kalas passed away three years ago today, it's the retold stories, like that one about the pizza twins or where you heard that final out of the World Series called, that will keep this city thinking about him until the end. Thanks for all of the memories, HK.

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Phillies Fan

It was on my mind this morning as my mouse hovered over the "Buy Now" button on the MLB.TV Premium subscription page. About to drop a benjamin on a season-long subscription, I wondered why there isn't another way for me to watch the Phillies play from my home in New York City—a place to gather with fellow fans, a place with seats and without judgment or fake Yankee fans or creepy waiters accusing me of being straight edge for no reason. A place to fill the hole in my life that opened up when I moved here and stopped watching every single Phillies game of the season. But so far, it's been a struggle.

The answer should be easy. There's my first favorite bar in New York, the one that felt most instantly like home, primarily because the owner is a Phillies fan from Atlantic City. Sadly, profits are more crucial to him than loyalties and—come the 2009 World Series—he instantly jumped ship to the Yanks, telling me "the best thing that could happen to me would be for this to go seven games and the Phillies to win." That way, he could show his heart at the very last minute without alienating any customers (except me) before. Understandable? From a financial point of view, yes, almost. Acceptable? Definitely not.

I did have some good times there before the Phils faced the Yankees. Like when a creepy old man told me I was emasculating him with my baseball knowledge, then asked to buy me a beer to celebrate the Phils' win in the 2009 NLCS. "I should be buying you champagne," he said, as we watched Ryan Howard pop a bottle of it. "Well," I raised my bottle of Miller High Life to him and said, "it is the Champagne of Beers."

We also have what should be an easy option in the form of Wogies, the semi-official Phillies bar here in NYC. Unfortunately, my experiences with it have generally sucked. It says a lot that the best time I've ever had there was standing outside on the sidewalk, not being let into the bar. There was the time, soon after I moved to Brooklyn in 2009, when I went there alone to watch Game 3 of the World Series. I remember hopping off the F train, running around, getting lost in the West Village like I got lost all over my new city then, running some more, finding the bar and getting turned away by the doorman. The place was full. They sent me to a non-Phillies bar across the street where the Red Hot Chili Peppers were drowning out the sound of the game that no one else was watching anyway.

Then there was the time I went to see a taping of the Daily Show, itching in my seat for the show to be over so I could check the score of NLDS Game 1. Roy Halladay was pitching. I had a broken foot. Immediately after the show ended, I hopped outside and checked the headlines on my phone. "Phillies' Roy Halladay Takes No-Hitter Into 6th Inning of NLDS." How I felt in that moment was pretty much inexpressible, so let me just say: !!!!!!!!!

I jumped into a cab and was in the West Village quicker than should've been possible. But again, Wogies was full. Rather than pay for drinks somewhere else, we decided to watch the rest of game through the window, me standing on one foot. A crowd of broke misfits gathered on the street, including a girl I went to high school with and had barely seen since. Which just goes to show that, when you're born and raised in Philadelphia, the entire world is a surreal small town populated by rapid sports fans. In the end, it was a magical night on the street in New York City and a magical night for baseball, too. But I really would've liked to sit down.

Because I am seemingly incapable of learning my lesson when it comes to the place, I gave Wogies one last try at the opening of the 2010 NLCS. A pal and I got there early and snagged a booth. A waiter quickly swooped on us and said that we needed to find at least two more people to maintain occupancy of the booth and, furthermore, we couldn't sit there since we "weren't planning to drink." As he continued to ramble, it became clear he'd made the weird assumption that we were straight edge, or at the very least, that we inexplicably didn't drink beer. Haven't you ever, um, read this blog, dude? "Uh, no, we're into drinking," I told him. While that did convince him to let us sit there long enough to drink some Lager and eat some garbage bread, the judgment issued upon the two of us sitting alone in that large, comfy booth was thick in the air. And, eventually, K. told me he wasn't planning to hang out for the whole game anyway.

I don't know who my friends even are sometimes.

See, the thing I miss most about Philadelphia on the occasional days when I get deeply homesick for it is the lack of distinction between total weirdos and people who like sports. While in New York it seems people still suffer from an irrational fear that anyone who knows what ERA stands for will beat them up and break their glasses, in Philadelphia it's basically assumed that, if you have a pulse (and even if you don't), you're a raging baseball fan. That's why the Ramones may be from Queens, but my Ramones t-shirt says PHILLIES on it. METS would look lame, and not really make sense. Plus they don't have four names worth putting on it (zing!).

I don't think it's too much to ask to be able to watch baseball without being surrounded by investment banker bros eating cheesesteaks and fist-pumping to that Black Eyed Peas song that makes me want to kill myself. And maybe for a friend or two who would care to watch with me without being forced or going home before it's over (and it's not over until it's over). And, please baseball gods, maybe it could be walking distance from my building?

So here's a note to East Village bar owners: maybe you should invest in a TV and start showing some baseball. Really, you don't have to choose between playing sports and playing music that doesn't totally blow. I promise you a certain cadre of Philly ex-pats will love you for it. I mean: if you build it, we will come. Until then, I'll be sitting home with a six-pack, laptop, and my MLB.TV subscription, waving a rally towel, judgment-free.