They were lazy days, those summers in Detroit, sitting with Big Daddy on the porch on Humphrey, his pipe, filled with Prince Albert tabacco, dangling between his lips. Big Daddy was my grandfather, a large man, more than six feet, four inches tall. Even when he sat on the porch swing he looked larger than life, his brawny right hand grasping the bowl of his pipe as white smoke haloed his head. Prince Albert had a wonderful smell, soft and fruity. Whenever I remember Big Daddy, I remember that tobacco, the way its aroma permeated the area around him. It was as if he and the Prince were one, sharing the same aura.
At the time, I was a young child, looking up into the pecan-colored face of my mother's father. Sitting next to Big Daddy was my favorite way to spend summer days. He wouldn't say much, except to occasionally warn me when Big Mama, my grandmother, was stalking around the house, looking for someone to blame for treading through her flower bed or leaving popsicle sticks in the grass. In that way he was my protector. Big Daddy, a son of the late 19th Century, died decades ago, and I still miss him, particularly on those days when a death reminds me of the times he and I spent together.
That happened Wednesday when I read the news that Ernie Harwell, the longtime radio voice of the Detroit Tigers, died the night before. Ernie Harwell was a big part of those summer days with Big Daddy. Harwell's voice carried us through those moments on the porch swing, when the Tigers were battling through 1968 and we were on Humphrey. I am not alone in such feelings. Harwell's voice carried many a person through the season, first introducing them to baseball, then solidifying their love of the game.
For me, he will always be the silky voice that came through my grandfather's black transistor radio as we sat in the shade of the awning, on a porch on Humphrey, on the west side of Detroit.
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2 comments:
Harwell was one of a generation of sportscasters thta knew how to paint pictures through the radio. Guys like Bob Prince, Vin Scully, Harry Kalas and Marty Glickman. Often "folksy" but never talked down to their listeners.
Sad to see Ernie go. I remember listening to him as a teenager in Ohio. Muggy summer nights shooting hoops and listening to him call the '84 season. His voice was a true source of comfort. (During a trip to the funeral for my own grandfather I was somehow able to pick up WJR in Branson, MO) I can still hear him on a called third strike..."And he stood there like the house by the side of the road and watched that one go by..."
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