We all knew it was a matter of time, after the news broke last fall that Ernie Harwell had terminal cancer. For that matter, he was already past 90, and living forever was unfortunately not an option.
But the announcement this evening that he died today has my fiance and me in tears. I thought he should write this diary, since he actually met Ernie, but he said it was for me to write, since listening to him for all those years of my childhood I knew him better. I'm not convinced, but I do feel deeply bereft.
I am not alone in this feeling. In connection with the farewell ceremony held at Tiger Stadium for him last September, people commented over and over on the local Detroit Free Press blogs: Thank you, Ernie, for being a constant in my childhood. Thank you, Ernie, for your great good humor, unfailing courtesy, and genuine kindness. Thank you, Ernie, for your mysterious ability to know the home town of everyone who caught a foul ball. (I must have been in my late teens before I figured that one out.) He was the broadcaster's broadcaster, knowing just what to say when he spoke, and just when to be silent. There is no one on air now who comes anywhere close.
Listening on my transistor radio under the covers late at night, when the Tigers played on the West Coast, I could hear the sizzling lights of the stadium in counterpoint to the crickets chirping outside my window, although the ballpark was thousands of miles away. I could not count how many nights I fell asleep to the even rhythm and intonation of his resonant voice. Didn't matter in some ways whether the Tigers won or lost. Ernie was unquestionably more gratified when they won, but it mattered more how each play happened, what each batter did with each pitch.
During the 1968 World Series, when I was a very obedient sixth-grader, I sneaked my radio into my desk to be able to catch some of the game broadcast in the afternoon. Of course I was caught, my radio was confiscated, and I was sent to the library as punishment. Fortunately, my teacher did not know that the baseball game was already on the TV in the library, several innings ahead of when my class was going to be permitted to watch. When the Tigers unexpectedly won--in the seventh game, absolutely down to the wire--Ernie called the winning play. Later, there was an LP released that included some of the best plays of the season; I insisted my parents buy it, and then I wore the record out.
His wife, children, and grandchildren will be mourning him in a private service later this week. I can only imagine their grief, and also their good fortune to have had him in their daily lives; my sincere condolences go to them. But apparently the family plans to permit his fans to pay respects at Comerica Park on Thursday. I am not at all sure how we can arrange it, given our work and family commitments, but my fiance and I are trying to figure out how to get there ourselves.
I wanted to include a link to a recording of his traditional opening-day recital of "The Song of the Turtle" (from the Song of Solomon), and along the way I came across this engaging personal reminiscence by a restaurateur from the Windsor (Ontario) area. The focus is not exclusively on Ernie, but it is clear from Nick Pontikis' Ode what a generous spirit Ernie had. Here's one version of the opening-day turtle recitation.
Rest in peace, Ernie. You will be sorely missed, and long remembered.