Remembering Harry Kalas

It's never good news when an anchor breaks in to regularly-scheduled programming with a special report. A major accident, a school shooting, the death of a world leader or a legend. This afternoon, a legend passed away, and of the Phillies organization and it's fans, indeed, the entire Major League Baseball world, took a shot to the stomach that will be difficult - if impossible - to recover from.

Harry Kalas, longtime broadcaster of Phillies games, died in Washington, D.C., after being found collapsed in the broadcast booth before the start of the Washington Nationals home opener against the Phils. For me, it's impossible to write a blog about my memories growing up in Philly and not remember Harry Kalas, as my memories of him and of the Phillies go back almost as long as my lifetime itself.

The year 1971 was a banner year in Philadelphia. It was the year the Phillies moved from their North Philadelphia home of Connie Mack Stadium to their brand-new digs named Veterans Stadium, or The Vet to it's many fans and detractors. Along with their move to the new stadium came the addition of a new broadcaster to the ranks of two other legends in the field, Richie Ashburn and By Saam.

That very same year was the year that I was introduced to the game of baseball, and I've been fascinated with it ever since. Most young boys are made aware of sports by their fathers, but my Dad wasn't a sports fan. The only time he ever got near a game was when someone gave him tickets. Even then, they had to be good seats, no general admission or reserved seating. Dad's only business of going to see the Phils play was just that - business. He'd get tickets from various car dealers and sit an discuss the business of auto loans with them or kick back a few beers, forget that a game was going on before him. When The Vet added deluxe boxes, it was a boom to my brother and I. If Dad got tickets for any other seating, Mark and I would get to see a game and often, those tickets got us down to the Field Box seats along the first base line. That was okay with us, we had no business in the deluxe boxes anyhow. All the action occurred where the regular folks were, down below. So at the age of nine, Mom took us to our first Phillies game, and taught us baseball. Mom's a long-time Phillies fan, and to this day will spend an afternoon telling anyone who will listen about the 1950's Whiz Kids and her experiences at the games. Her favorite still is pitcher Robin Roberts, and it's guaranteed she'll beam a smile whenever she sees him on TV at a Phillies alumni game or some other special event.

I never got to hear Bill Campbell call a game. He was gone just before I started to understand why nine guys on a diamond smacked around a small ball with a wooden stick. I found out later that replacing him was a very unpopular move in this city that treats sports figures as idols, but that man who replaced him, Harry Kalas, didn't take long to endear himself to the fans here. His unmistakable voice and the way he called the games caught on quickly. And that's what hurts, knowing that the news we heard today will impact us forever. No more "struck him out", no more "outta here...!" No one will ever call the games like Harry, but then, that's the way it is with originals. They're sometimes imitated, but never duplicated.

What was great was that Harry called every game with enthusiasm, whether we had a winning team or not. My formative baseball years were during the era of manager Frank Lucchesi, when the home team couldn't seem to buy a win. But Harry kept the fans attention and we saw things improve during the reign of Danny Ozark. It was during his tenure that my brother and I saw the Phils clench their first-ever division title (in our lifetime), and we really started to understand the thrill of baseball. I remember Mark exclaiming, "Hey, Harry Kalas is crying!" when we took the division, not understanding until then how emotional baseball can be, for winners and losers alike. Since that game in 1975, we've shared two World Series victories with Harry and the guys in the booth, and a few attempts as well.

This afternoon, after watching the pre-game show on Comcast SportsNet dedicated to Harry, I watched the first-ever post-Kalas Phillies game. Sure there were other games in the past where he missed broadcasting, like last season when he was out for a few games recovering from eye surgery, but to know that ever game from here on in will be called without him in the booth leaves an awfully big hole that can't be filled. Just like it was eleven years ago with the death of Whitey Ashburn, the Phils lose a legend in broadcasting, and us fans mourn. It was said during the game today that many thought that Harry Kalas never recovered from the loss of Richie Ashburn. Lifelong Phillies fans still miss Whitey. But as much as we do, losing Harry Kalas seems harder still. We know we've been blessed with him calling thirty-eight years worth of games. And we grieve at the thought of him calling them nevermore.

Easter Ducks

Kids have far more fun on holidays than adults do. By the time we've hit our thirties, we've exhausted all of the simple ways of having a good time and we find the burdens of life weighing down on us. Most of you will probably look back on past Christmases, Easters, and other holidays and have a number of memories that will keep you smiling for the rest of your lives.

For a few years, we really looked forward to Easter coming. And that anticipation was for one simple reason - ducks! For a few years, every Easter season, my brother's godmother would bring us a gift of a couple of small ducks for us to have as pets. The birds were past the point of being chicks and were just starting to grow. For not being able to catch a ball or play with certain pet toys, they were really fun to have, especially for kids who still had some time yet before the teen years came upon us, when our interests shifted to different things. Anyway, some kids got rabbit, but we were the only ones who had ducks, which made us unique and all the other kids around the block thought it was cool. They wanted to come by and see them and pet them, and maybe some adults had thoughts of eating them - or not - who knows?

One thing we found out with experience is that ducks get too big for pets when you have only a small concrete patch for a yard and no where to house them. As they grew, the ducks sometimes escaped from the back yard because one of us would leave the gate open and give them their freedom. Once, the lady who ran the variety store around the corner, Mrs. Lenore, came running to our house and had my mom run with her back to the store. The birds made their way down the alley, waddled a few feet down Oregon Avenue, and up the two steps into Mrs. Lenore's store. My mom calmed her down and took the two of them back home and secured them, nervously waiting for us to again leave a gate opened, or give them some other way to get away again.
(See http://phillymemories.blogspot.com/2006/03/remembering-mrs-lenores-old.html)

Because ducks get too big as pets, we never had them longer than mid-summer. As they got too large to keep around, my grandfather would make arrangements for someone to take them "to the farm". We would take my parents word that the birds were going to some nice place to pleasantly live out the rest of their lives, as it would be much better for them than risk seeing them run into traffic or have something else happen to them. What my brother and sister and I wondered secretly is whether they were going to Shady Acres (or whatever nice name you want to give the "farm"), or if they were going to end up as someone';s dinner. Probably they did find a nice home, but we had a curious suspicion of things like this.

After maybe three years of having ducks at Easter, my mom asked that my brother's godmother no longer bring them. As much as we were grateful for them, she knew we were heartbroken because the ducks would be gone in just a few months, and she didn't want to see us disappointed again. And so, that ended having any kind of birds as pets. A few years later, we'd get our first dog, but until then, we'd have to enjoy the memories of these waddling birds running around and pecking us.

Close the Door, You're Letting the Cold Air Out!

Summertime! Admit it. When you were a kid, you couldn't wait for it. If you were like me, you counted down the days before summer vacation, and dreaded the final days of August when our summer came to a close. Not the official summer of the calendar, but the one that left when the school doors opened again. Then it was time to face the yardstick-wielding nuns again for another nine months and wait once again, for June to roll around.

Back in the 60s and 70s, we were fortunate to have air conditioning to cool the living room, but hardly any of our parents had frigid air in their bedrooms. You could forget about the kids rooms being chilled. On the hottest of nights, my father would let us run the air downstairs to stay cool. He slept on the couch, my brother, sister, and I were relegated to the living room floor. Hey, it was carpeted and we spread our bed sheets across it to prevent rug burn. Even my mom slept on the floor. What did we expect? Dad had his chair that no one could sit in when he was home, why would we think we'd sleep on the sofa in his presence?

If the night wasn't too hot, surely Dad wasn't going to spend good money running the AC through all hours. We'd have to do with an old steel fan with openings in the guard large enough to put your hand through. Fans like that would be banned as safety hazards today. The one my brother and I had in our room was dark green, and looked like it was a relic from some military barracks.

Kids don't know how good they have it. I hardly ever hear kids say that it's too hot anymore. Maybe that's because I hardly ever see kids on the streets during the hot weather. Hey, come summer, we were all out from morning until our parents made us come in. We made the most of every minute. It was OUR summer. Even the older folks stayed out late and sat in their beach chairs and talked all night. I remember my parents used to sit with a number of the neighbors across the street and order pizza from DeFabio's (used to be at 12th & Snyder) about twice a week and just sit and talk. Man, that socialization is disappearing from South Philly. No one spends that quality time anymore, or maybe I'm missing it somewhere. If you remember your mom or dad yelling, "Close the door, you're letting the cold air out!", you know what I mean. They used to worry that the "parlor" (another word that seems to have fallen from the lexicon) would get too hot if you kept the front door open for longer than five or six seconds. Now, hey, we all have air, and no one thinks at all about it. Long live the dog days of summer!

AND YOU MAY REMEMBER...
...your parents telling you that it used to be so safe, they could sleep on the step at night, or at least leave the door unlocked. I don't know, I think I'd rather sleep on the living room floor than on the concrete.

...when the weatherMAN used to tell you it was hot, and gave you the temperature and humidity. No "heat index", at least none that I remember. And no weatherbabes, just guys in suits who looked like you and me. Not that I've got something for guys in suits mind you (surely my wife will vouch for me), but as the characters on Saturday Night Live used to say years ago, "That's the way it was, and we liked it!" The weatherman told you about the weather, not leered at you, looking like some today who seem close to lunging into your living room.

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The Old Center City Theatres - Group Participation Time!

Inga Saffron's article in the Inquirer this morning about the Boyd Theater brought back some memories today. If you missed it, you can read the story at the Philly.com site. Most of us remember this place being called the Sameric, both before it became a multiplex and before it's demise. It was a grand place - still is, though without moviegoers and movies - much grander than the sterile boxes that you go to today. Now it sits vacant on Chestnut Street with many hoping that someone will purchase it and save it as is.

I wrote about the South Philly theaters back in May of 2006. That piece is archived here (see the archives list and select May 2006, Going to the Movies...). Let's move a bit farther north now. For those of you forty years of age on up, you'll most likely remember all the movie houses in Center City west of Broad Street that are long gone with the development of skyscrapers like the One and Two Liberty Place complex and others. Many of us spent a lot of time in those theaters. Like so many other things, nothing lasts forever. Now, if you want to see a flick in Center City, your choices are limited to the Ritz Theaters and the Roxy Screening Room. The only place to go for standard fare now for those in South Philly and Center City is the Riverfront on Columbus Blvd.

Doing some mental gymnastics today, I remembered around a dozen of those theaters between Broad Street and 20th, Walnut and Market Streets. And I remembered most - but not all - of their names. So, not being one to pass up on memories or having someone help me refresh those that I've forgotten, you can participate in listing the names of those movie houses. Let's see how many you can name and if y0u can tell me where they were located. No cheating! See if you can do it from freeing up what's in your gray matter. I'll be waiting for your reply. I've named ten of them, I know there were at least a couple more, and I'm wondering if there were some that I had not heard of that you may have. Make it interesting too. Tell us of something fun or interesting that you remember from when you went to the shows.

What's the prize? There is no tangible reward, but you get to share in the memories with me. That should make it worth your while. I'll look forward to your comments.

The Neighborhood Record Stores

"I see you sent my letters back, and my LP records, and they're all scratched..."
From the song "I Can't Stand Losing You" from The Police.

Hey, my first post in almost a year! Sorry, but between writer's block and feeling crappy and other responsibilities, I've been away from this page too long.

One of the things that has constantly evolved is the way we buy our music. If you're as old as I am, you remember buying 45 RPM records as a young kid and then LPs as you became a teen and got older. Hey, you may even remember the first album that you bought - for me it was Stevie Wonder's "Innervisons" album, the one with "Superstition" and "Living for the City" on it (there's a challenge for you, do you remember your first LP? - for those 35 and older, if you're younger than that and can't remember, you're beyond help) . Maybe you were one of those who bought your sounds on 8-track tapes or later on cassette. If you're under 20 years of age, all you'll probably remember are CDs and downloading. You've never had the pleasure of hearing a pop or click or the misfortune of buying and album and having to return it because of a long scratch that made the needle skip as the vinyl record turned to that same spot.

If you're one of those from the CD/download era, that means you probably have no knowledge of neighborhood record stores either. Places where the guys who sold the records knew about the music they sold. And that's what you got there - records. No movies and other stuff, just music. Today you will be hard pressed to find such a store. Now all you have are the places in the mall which have clerks who know nothing about music, big-box stores that sell everything from CDs to washing machines, or book stores that sell music (although those are probably your best bet, the people working there may know more about music than someone at Best Buys. I defy you to get a worthwhile opinion at the big-box or mall stores when asking someone which album they feel is the best of any given artist.

...AND YOU MAY REMEMBER...
...The local record stores here in South Philly. One actually seems to still exist. Every once in a while driving up East Passyunk Avenue, I see that the Record Bar still stands. I don't know if they're still busy or what they sell, but it looks like they've survived.

Remember Nick Petrella's on Snyder Avenue? My aunt used to tell me he was a talent scout, but I don't know if that was true. The Mario Lanza Museum was housed in the back of the store, and Mr. Petrella could often be seen sitting outside the store during the warmer months. Talent scout or no, from what I'm told he did know music.

There was another store up on Passyunk that I used to go to ever few weeks, but I can't remember the name of it to save my life. If you remember, tell me by dropping me a note in the comments to this post. I remember that's where I bought my first Bob Seger album back in 1978, "Stranger in Town" and became a long-time Seger fan.

You may remember the chains and independents that are long-gone too. Remember Platters Ltd. on Chestnut St. near 10th? There were always punk rockers sitting outside that place, maybe employees, but probably just music fans. Wall to Wall Sound and Listening Booth were to of the major chains back in the 70s, names now committed to record store history. I think even Sam Goody is now gone, at least most of their stores. Then again, they're one of the mall stores where you usually wound up paying a few bucks more for an album than at the neighborhood joints.

There was a big record store called Jerry's Records on Market St that went bust in the late 70's. I remember they had this blowout sale which was more of a teaser to get you in the door. They had a weekend where they sold albums for I think it was a buck, but when you got there it looked like they broke out the stock of albums from artists that no one heard of or wouldn't care to listen to. Shortly afterward, they were gone.

But the granddaddy of them was not a neighborhood store, but close enough to hop a bus or train to get to. Third Street Jazz & Rock stood on - you guessed it - 3rd Street just north of Market Street. You had to go to the basement if you were into rock music, and it was by no means like your mall or big box store with promotional displays and whatever. You f0und your artists records by thumbing through racks with signs written in magic marker (kids, those are what you call Sharpies today). If you wanted to know something about music, you asked and got an opinion. When I was 18, I worked loading trucks and packing cartons at the slipper factory above the old Stanley Hardware store on Market at Bank Street. Every Friday, almost without fail, my friend Professor and I would head to the bank at lunch time to cash our measly pay checks. That meant that when quitting time came, we headed right over to Third Street Jazz and bought a few albums. Imports, bootlegs, hard to find artists, they had it all.

Speaking of Professor, there's someone whose antics deserve a post here at PhillyMemories. His "Burn the Pope's Picture" or "Beat the Skunk" parties were legendary, at least for those who called in sick from work to hang out at his house for those events. I could only imagine what went through his dad's mind when the house filled with young guys and girls with their minds bent on senseless things. Stay tuned.

The Day the Music Died?

Here we go, another cold February, hoping that it won't last too much longer and spring will come. Many remember February 2nd as "The Day the Music Died" because of Don McLean's hit from the 1970's titled "American Pie". On that date, Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, and the Big Bopper died in a plane crash at Clear Lake, IA, ending the promising recording careers of those artists.

Just a few days before that remembered another anniversary, where one man's death could be seen as signifying death for music locally and nationally. Ed Sciacky, long time Philly DJ, died that day after collapsing and falling in NYC. Sciacky was a pioneer in the radio industry, and we lost another local legend with his passing.

But the truth is, Philly radio started dying long before Ed Sciacky did. If you've been around long enough, you remember the days of free-form radio, where DJs could bring their own records to play on the air as long as they conformed to the station's format - or not. You could hear a track, or a whole album, of an artist you may never otherwise get a chance to listen to. Free-form FM radio opened doors for artists and listeners alike.

There's only one station locally that plays anything like this now, and that's WXPN out of the University of Pennsylvania. The death knell sounded in the early 80's when radio station WIOQ changed to Q102 and started playing the junk that you hear now. Before that, they were known as a "progressive rock" station and you could hear anyone from Bruce Springsteen to Steeleye Span, from Bob Seger to Renaissance. Now that was eclectic.

Today, just about every station programs with the information they get from focus groups, and program managers stick to a meager list of songs. Play lists are rigid, not free-form. And it doesn't matter what the format, whether classic rock, hip-hop, whatever. The worst thing that ever happened to music on the radio was that the corporate guys took hold of the stations. Forget art, forget what the people want. Money talks, and we get rubbish.

And you may remember...
...Michael Tearson's Gorilla Theater - The program started one night when Mr. Tearson locked himself in the studio at radio station WMMR and wouldn't allow anyone to come in and get him out. It was a stunt that should have gotten him fired. Maybe really a publicity stunt. Tearson is still on the radio today with Saturday Morning Sixties on WMGK.

...For Headphones Only. I believe this was also a Tearson show. All the music was heavy on stereo separation, so you got a treat when you had your phones on.

...Full albums played - A few of the local rock stations played full albums on schedule, so you could tape them rather than run out and buy them. Great for people who were either on a budget, or just cheap. I don't think that the record companies would allow it now, especially since their push a few decades ago that told us that taping was killing music.

...When local stations made the bands who they are - Many local bands thrived because of stations like WMMR and WIOQ promoted them. The Hooters, Beru Review, The Alan Mann Band, and others got noticed because local talent was more important than sticking to a play list. And places like the Khyber Pass and JC Dobbs packed out with fans wanting to hear the locals play.

King for a Moment

Kids have a strange way of treating their friends. Sometimes when we were young, we didn't always make ourselves friendly, it only seemed we did. Once in a while we'd find ourselves playing tricks on friends that were good for a laugh. They guy getting tricked didn't always appreciate it though. And some had no idea at all what it was all about.

Once in a while we'd play a "game" called "King". Some poor jerk got to be the king, and he thought it was a good thing until the game was over. The object of the game was that you'd set your victim up to be the king, and he'd pick two loyal guards to defend him. The king would sit on the top step of someone's home with his guards standing on either side. Once the players were set, two other guys would approach and verbally abuse the king. Sometimes the abuse was mild, but if the guy wasn't that well liked, it could be somewhat severe. When the unsuspecting king told his guards to seize the offenders, they took off after them, but rang the doorbell while the king sat there. He had no idea that the man or lady of the house would come out screaming at him for ringing the bell.

Most kids would get the idea after just one shot. Some guys weren't that sharp. We had one kid named Johnny who hung out with us when he visited his grandparents every few months. He was always king, and he thought it was a big deal to be the royal. He wanted to be king every time we played on a given day. So any Sunday afternoon he could have seven older people screaming at him when we left him behind, not understanding that we set him up at each door step. It was funny then to hear him ask something quizzically like, "why do you chase after they guys and the old people come out and holler at me?" It's still funny, but also sad. You understand it a little better when you realize the kid grew up his whole life in the suburbs around Lansdale. No street smarts. Sometimes you wonder, would the kids from the 'burbs take a stroll through North Philly's Badlands and ask a gunman why there's not an orange plastic cap at the end of his barrel? "Hey, I wanna play too, but your gun looks too real, especially those bullets." No suburban kid without street experience should be allowed to hang out without suitable orientation to the streets.

My brother now lives in Blackwood, NJ and wonders what kids in his neighborhood do for fun when they're bored. I can't say the things we did when younger were really edifying, but they were fun for us. It would have been more fun for us to play King with Johnny if he got upset with us a few times for it. Had we known that he'd let us set him up so many times, we could have compiled a Christmas Card list for him. "Merry Christmas from the Kid Who Keeps Ringing Your Doorbell." It's enough to get someone 302'd (what the police call someone who is being committed to the psych ward).

AND YOU MAY REMEMBER...
...A pin in your doorbell. This was a super-annoying version of "ring & run". The usual mischief was to just be a stupid kid and ring a neighbors door bell and run away. But if you wanted to really get under someone's skin and he had a bell that constantly rang when you held down the button, you could shove a long pin in the button and it would ring incessantly. But you had better had been quick. If you took too long, you'd get snagged before your feet got off the step. Not a good thing when getting caught, especially if you had an old-time dad who would whack you for disrespecting your neighbor.

...Being really nasty and doing things with a cup of urine or with a flaming bag of dog doo. There was a guy on Bancroft St. across from St. Monica's school in the 70's who would come to the door in his briefs and yell at kids for no good reason. We returned the favor on a few occassions. Once we did the fiery poop trick and lit up a bag on his door step. We hid behind the cars and waited for him to answer the door. Instead, a priest from the church came around the corner and decided to be a good citizen. We laughed so hard I'm surprised we didn't get caught.

Another time we pee'd into an old paper cup and tilted it against his door and rang. Again we hid behind the cars. When he answered, his feet got soaked and he came out in his underwear screaming. Best for him that we didn't have 7-11s in the neighborhood yet, and there were no cups as big as the Big Gulp. He would have really had been p.o'd.