By my calculations, Ernie Harwell hadn't been gone a full hour before I got the first text from my friend: "Ernie's gone home, D."I can't even begin to accurately explain the profound feeling of loss I've experienced tonight. Ernie was a broadcasting legend, the voice every Tigers fan equates to summer and baseball but above that, he was the truest Christian gentleman I've ever been privileged enough to know.
I've spent most of my evening reading through various columns written by other sports writers blessed enough to have been graced with Ernie's presence, however intimate or fleeting. They all have touched me in different ways and, at the risk of sounding pretentious, I'd like to share with you all a few stories of my own. At any rate, it helps with the loss to relive my encounters. Read on if you'd like, be sure to comment at the end if you do: I'd love to hear how this wonderful man touched you, too.
-Sportsgal
As far back as I can remember, there has been baseball in my life. As as far back as I can remember baseball, there was Ernie. He not only drew me into the sport I love so much, but eventually "helped" me get my foot in the door of my dream job. What follows is the essay I was asked to write when I first applied to MLB.com: "What baseball means to me."
“Obstructed view.”
These were the first two baseball words I learned, and I learned them the hard way. I had just turned 3, and instead of bearing witness to what should have been the greatest event of my then-young life, I was planted squarely behind a gigantic, ugly, blue pole, in right field at Tiger Stadium. Covered from head to toe in Detroit apparel, I leaned left. I leaned right. I stood on my seat. I scowled. I pouted.
The pole showed no mercy.
Appealing to a higher power, I jabbed my giant foam finger in my dad’s face.
“Can’t see,” I grumbled.
And then he did something that changed my life.
He took off his headphones and placed them on my head.
In poured the sweet, southern accent of a Georgian-born announcer, allowing me the opportunity to “see” right through that nasty pole. My view was no longer obstructed. Courtesy of Ernie Harwell, on Oct. 13, 1984, baseball stole my heart.
Fast forward 18 years, past successful softball careers as a player and coach in high school and college. I’m now in my third semester as a copy editor at Michigan State University’s student newspaper. It’s summertime, the Class-A Lugnuts are in town, and our sports writer has called in sick. Again.
“Anyone know anything about baseball?” my editor yelled from the front room.
I was out of my seat before he finished.
Forty minutes later, I’m jammed into a tiny press box, still trying to sort out what had happened. I’ve never written a news article in my life, much less interviewed anyone. To put it bluntly, I was in a full-blown panic. A perfectionist to the letter, I wanted this to be the best story in the history of 8-inch Web-only gamers, except I had no idea how to begin. I closed my eyes and thought of Ernie. I heard his voice, and remembered how he made me see through his eyes. Soon enough the words were flowing faster than my fingers could type. I went down to the locker room, conducted a few interviews and after 20 careful re-reads, I submitted my first story.
My editor called me in the next day. I was the new baseball writer.
I won’t pretend it was a glamorous affair. Since the team had no affiliation with the university, my stories only ran in the paper when we had extra room. There was no travel budget, so I traveled to the away games on my own dime. When the new school year began in September, I was promoted to the sports desk permanently, which meant I had to balance a full load of classes with my college sports beat and the Lugnuts playoffs.
Through 120-plus games that season though, it was never, ever difficult for me to go into work. I met every morning with a smile and felt like a criminal. Surely I’d pulled the wool over someone’s eyes, because there was no way I should be paid for doing something I loved so much.
In the offseason, I polished my writing skills. Frustrated with my lack of rapport with the Latino players on the team, I taught myself enough Spanish so that I might be able to interview them after the games as well. I kept a countdown until spring training, bought a plane ticket to Mesa, Ariz. and established myself with the new players. When baseball hit Lansing that spring, I was readier than anyone for that 140-game season.
As I write this, opening day is 111 days away. If you’re looking for a devoted professional who attacks every day with the same enthusiasm as the day they got into the business, I’m your woman.
And I hope to be on your team come April 3.
And so began my "relationship" with Ernie. It wasn't until years later that I finally got to meet him in person. The following story, which my buddy Eric LOVES to tell to this day, details that encounter, which was quite possibly the most mortifying moment of my life...Enjoy!
I suppose I have the Tigers to thank, however inadvertently, for my career in sports journalism. As a then-directionless sophomore in my second stint at Michigan State University, I took a job as a copy editor at the school’s student-run newspaper, The State News. It was more that I was desperate for a job than anything; I’d neither read a newspaper since I graduated high school, nor knew what “copy editing” entailed, but I desperately needed some sort of income so I signed on for fall semester 2001.
It was while working my shift one night that I overheard a conversation between a fellow who would later become my roommate and dear friend, and his editor. His journalism class was making a trip to Detroit to see Comerica Park behind the scenes. I cast aside any reservations I had about eavesdropping and butted head-first into the conversation, and pestered Eric until he gave me the class number and professor’s e-mail.
I wrote what must’ve been a rambling account of my baseball passion, as if that would woo said professor into completing all the extra paperwork that would admit me, a no-preference major on academic probation, into her junior- and senior-level sports journalism class six weeks into the semester. When I hadn’t heard from her the next morning, I tagged along to the class with Eric, followed the professor back to her office afterward and cornered her.
I can only smile now as I recall the look of horror on the poor woman’s face as I went into painful detail about the number of Tigers games I’d seen in person, amount of hours I’d spent driving to and from the park, and the tragic death with which I would certainly meet should I miss out on this insider’s trip with her class. I faintly remember dropping my books to claw at my shirt, lifting it so she could see the Tigers logo branded on my lower back.
Please. I begged. I’ll never get this chance again.
She laughed nervously and backed away from my upraised shirt, and began to ask all the right questions. I, in turn, provided her with all the wrong answers:
Are you a Journalism major? (No.)
Junior or senior? (No.)
Ever taken any writing classes? (No.)
Have you ever written at all before? (No.)
Just as tears began to well up in my eyes as I realized the feebleness of my request, she conceded. If I promised to make up the work I’d missed and attend class regularly, she would talk to the dean and have me admitted.
Aha! I’m in! Comerica Park, here I come.
The class turned out to be my favorite in the 6 ½ years I blessed the school with my parents’ tuition money. I learned how to write with excitement and made all the right connections in the journalism world, but mostly, I got my first insider’s look at a place I’d dreamed of all my life.
Comerica Park. Where the magic happens.
I got up early that day, taking extra care to iron out the wrinkles in my Bobby Higginson home jersey and adjust the collector’s pins on my size 7 ¾ fitted navy Tigers cap. I clipped on my gold, Olde English D necklace, tossed in the matching gold earrings and set off to pick up Eric for the journey to Comerica Park.
The ride from Lansing to Detroit was in and of itself forgettable, except that it was the first experience Eric had with just how deep my Detroit obsession ran. He made no reserves poking fun at the chrome Olde English ‘D’ decal on the back of my red 1996 Chevy Blazer, and rolled his eyes in silent protest when I insisted that we listen to Kid Rock’s “Heaven” every 10 miles.
I’d found out about the song a few years prior, and to this day it serves as a mainstay on all Tigers road trips. On the way to each game, I take special care to time the song so that Kid Rock and Uncle Kracker are beginning the verse “If they ain’t got no 8 Mile, like they do up in the D… .” just as we pass the highway exit sign for 8 Mile road. I told Eric that timing it perfectly assured a Tigers win that day. He quipped I must have bad timing. Being that it was 2001 and Detroit was in the midst of its 96-loss season, I really had no place to argue.
The first thing I noticed when we joined up with our group outside the press entrance was that everyone else in my class had on dress clothes. As the lone non-journalism major in the bunch and therefore uninformed about proper dress etiquette on field trips, I merely assumed I was the biggest fan in the group, and therefore superior to everyone. All snickers went unnoticed.
A security guard led us upstairs to the press box where our professor, L.A. Dickerson, met us with a smile. Her husband, Dan, teamed up with Ernie Harwell on the radio as the Tigers’ broadcasting duo, which is how we became privileged enough to enjoy the early-afternoon tour. Dan came in and said a few words to us, taking questions from everyone but me, as I was clearly already overwhelmed at this point of the day, and then led us on a short tour of the dining area and various offices before he dropped us off in a conference room.
It was there that I had my first encounter with a real Tiger. Right-hander Jose Lima had offered his time to us, and just as we were getting situated he sauntered in the room in street clothes, commandeered a chair and sat in it backwards, his eyes bright as he told us about himself. He answered our questions – I again remained silent except maybe for a few short gasps for air – and then invited us to see his band, Lima Time, play that weekend at a local club.
I can only relate this experience to catching your grade school teacher at the supermarket as she rushes in to pick up milk for dinner. She’s human? She drinks milk? Jose Lima has a band? I sat in shocked silence as he winked at one of my classmates, extended a personal invitation for her to see him play and whisked out of the room.
Clearly, I surmised, he must not have seen that I was the one in full Tigers regalia.
L.A. reappeared soon after and led us into the radio booth, where Dan and an older man sat facing the window that looked out onto the field. The older man turned and left his seat to welcome us, and I immediately felt as if the bottom had dropped out of the room.
It was Ernie Harwell.
I became more lightheaded with each step he took to close the gap between us, and when he let out a friendly, “Hi there!” I had to lean on Eric for support.
Everyone else in the group remained nonplussed. He might’ve been nameless to them for all I know. What I did know with absolute certainty at that point, however, was this was as close to Heaven as I was ever going to get.
Dawn, you’re hurting me. Eric hissed.
I looked down and noticed that his arm was beginning to discolor where I had applied my death grip. I let up reluctantly, and slumped to a chair.
Ernie sat with us for maybe 10 minutes, but it felt like seconds. I don’t remember a single thing he said, only that I wished he’d keep on talking forever: His words spilled forth like liquid gold to my ears, and with each polite answer he gave to whoever posed him a question, I became more and more aware of the irregular beating of my heart.
Dawn, do you have a question?
That was L.A. Smart, sweet, wonderful L.A.; by passer of school laws, admitter to paradise and now, permitter of speech. Except that I could find none.
I stuttered. Had I any Journalism training whatsoever, I might’ve thrown Ernie a lob, asking about his favorite baseball player, his love for the sport or the most memorable game he had called.
Instead, I spewed forth the only thing on my mind, the sentence that will forever entomb me in the hallowed halls of the inept, the one thing that, beyond the jersey, earrings and necklace, could possibly make me appear any more foolish in front of my peers.
Can you say, ‘Loooooong gone!’ for me?
He laughed, and then obliged. The air left my lungs in one, giant whooooosh, and I burst into tears and left the room.
For someone revered as having the best memory in baseball, let’s hope he’s forgotten all about our first encounter.
Many years have since passed, and with them change has come: I made my foray into the baseball-writing world. I received a bachelor's degree. I learned how to dress "appropriately" for work (no jerseys, no matter how much you love the team). I found it pretty interesting to meet all of the players I had grown up watching but after a week or so, the excitement of working around "famous" people wore off, and the nerves left right with it. No one, not Barry Bonds or Greg Maddux or Al Kaline or Derek Jeter, could make me nervous. No one, of course, except Ernie. That never did wear off. To me, he was always larger than life. Talking to him would always make me stutter.
I interviewed Ernie a few years ago for a piece I was writing on Lou Gehrig for the Baseball Hall of Fame. The interview couldn't have been better: It just so happened that the first professional baseball game that Ernie attended in person featured Lou, and Ernie detailed Gehrig's every at-bat like it was happening right before our eyes. Looking back, that was always something he was good at - remembering things - and yes, it came back to bite me.
After I'd finished the interview we made small talk for a bit; he acting as though he had all the time in the world to get to know me and me unable to keep the quiver from my voice for the excitement the conversation caused. I was in the midst of telling him how I had taken a college class that allowed me to meet him at Comerica Park when he interrupted me - the only time he EVER did such a thing, no matter how I rambled - and said, "Dawn, I remember you. You cried. I was just tickled, and I hope you don't take that the wrong way." How many people has this man met in his lifetime? More importantly, how many of us come away thinking we've found a friend, and he never does anything to dispel that fantasy? What a man
...When my dad called to tell me Ernie had "the cancer," I immediately sat down and handwrote a 4-page letter telling him how much he meant to me, my career, baseball and everyone. I told him thank you for obliging every random interview I threw his way and for never calling me out on the fact that sometimes when I phoned, all I really wanted was just to chat with him. I told him I loved him, that I'd pray every day for he and Lulu - and I have - and that, when the end came, it was peaceful and painless. I read later on he had some 10,000 letters and cards piled up in his house, so I don't know if he ever got to mine. I'm pretty sure, though, that the other 9,999 well-wishers said the same things I did. We loved you. You were a wonderful man. Thanks for making our lives better. Thank you for making us fall in love with baseball.
So thank you, Ernie, one last time. You were truly one-of-a-kind and the gifts that you have given me will last a lifetime. I've rambled on now for nearly three hours, and still my tribute does no justice to the type of man you were. My heart hurts, but I'm so happy your suffering is over. It makes me smile to imagine you calling games from upstairs, doing what you do best.
Do me one last favor though, will ya? When you mention the next foul ball hit into the stands, can it be a girl from Saginaw who goes home with it?
You can probably guess from the title of this entry that I'm back in Tampa covering the Yankees. It's only been three years since I've lived here but it seems I've already forgotten how to properly handle the traffic without blowing a gasket, gah. I hate me some traffic. The upside to hitting 4 p.m. traffic for a 7 p.m. game is that I finally managed to get a seat in the Yankees press box that offers a view of the field. (I'm usually sitting facing either, a) a photo of Babe Ruth, or b) a grey wall with no electrical outlet and no hope of knowing what's going on the in the game. Today I'm in the second row with a view of the field and, more importantly a great view of the TV which is tuned to March Madness games. Epic win.)
So I was out and about the other night and came across a gentleman who asked what I did for a living. Normally, if they react at all, most people will say, "Cool," or "What do you want to do for a career when you grow up, then?" This guy asked me why I chose baseball.
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