The Voice of Summer to millions of Philadelphians since 1971 was silenced yesterday. Harry Kalas beckoned us to listen, to watch, and to love the Phillies even in the meaningless games at the tail end of another frustrating season. I can’t put into words fairly what Harry meant to me. It is a strange combination of meaning childhood, home, sports, and summer that I can’t express other than to say that a big part of all of our lives passed on.

But it wasn’t just his voice or delivery, it was the man himself. Harry was never too big for the game or for the city. When people would stop him at the ball park, the movies, or even in the streets of Center City, Harry would always stop and chat, snap a picture, or just sign an autograph, it was just his way. When I met him, it was with a combination of awe and reverence with which I approached him as we passed near 18th and Market. He saw the apprehension in approaching/interrupting him and laughed in that deep baritone and stuck out his hand. We talked for a little while and I was truly humbled that he remembered me when we would see each other after that. There aren’t enough good cigars to send upstairs to thank him for what he has meant to me as a Philadelphia sports fan.