Harry Caray had neither cleared his throat nor warmed his chair Friday when he knew he was home again. After a brief sabbatical from the Cubs, he yearned to hear that intoxicating sound of bat against ball.
Kevin Mitchell obliged, launching a rocket of a three-run first-inning homer for the Cincinnati Reds, even before Harry spelled a name backwards, plugged a restaurant or saluted that group of stamp collectors from Peoria.
Welcome back, Harry.
In this era when baseball lives dangerously, the most important position at Wrigley Field is the broadcast booth Caray occupies. This century has not been kind to the Cubs, and Harry has worked half of it. The last few weeks were a struggle, but he’s still having a better year than they are. He always does.
“Harry’s huge,” said Ryne Sandberg, also part of Friday’s gala surroundings. “He was huge wherever we went. There were times my kids would go to the airport when we returned to Chicago on a charter flight. They’d see Harry and run right toward him. When they were done, then they’d come to me and we’d go on home.”
Sandberg smiled. He seems as much at peace with his recent retirement as he was with the notion that Caray, whether on the air or on the streets, is bigger than any athlete. The same could be said for Larry Himes, who generally manages the Cubs but isn’t the least bit offended that this franchise depends mightily on ivy, sunshine and a Hall-of-Fame personality old enough to be his father.
“Right now, they’re our primary assets,” Himes admitted. “Wrigley Field and Harry Caray. He’s unique. Harry’s a cleanup hitter.”
Interesting analogy. When asked what Caray would be worth if he were indeed a player, Himes gave it the eye-roll.
“I don’t know how you’d put a price on him, and I’m glad it’s not my job to figure it out,” Himes said. “But you might be onto something there.”
Surely, it would be Harry Caray, superstar instead of superstation. What he probably wouldn’t be is a welcome, card-carrying member of the union that threatens to strike in mid-August. Start with attitude. Harry has such a zest for his job that he reports to the ballpark each day full of hiss and vinegar. Of course, Caray is show biz, but his love of baseball is not merely for public consumption. See Harry pasting newspaper box scores into his notebook every morning. After all these years, gee whiz has not yet yielded to aw, nuts.
Unfortunately, in the current climate, this energy and enthusiasm might render him an outcast among fellow players who do us a favor to take the field. But, like they say, that’s baseball.
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Also, Caray probably would be one of those weirdos who runs out every groundball, slides hard, takes a pitch in the ribs for the team and maybe even accepts the sign for a sacrifice bunt without whining, calling his agent or demanding the manager be fired.
No, you wouldn’t see Harry being the prototypical mope of the 1990s. He would be the life of the clubhouse and the team bus, and when fans asked for autographs, Harry wouldn’t act like the pen was heavy or that it hurt to sign. You wouldn’t look for Harry on the disabled list, whether he had a hangnail or a hangover, and I can’t fathom Harry ever asking for time off from duty because of mental stress.
He has sold more tickets and beer because he relates to fans, something too many of those millionaire players don’t have time for anymore. He won’t be around forever, of course. Ron Santo and Steve Stone teach as well as they talk, and the Cubs certainly could grow with Thom Brennaman, young and already accomplished at play-by-play.
But Harry’s Harry, he’s singing again at Wrigley Field and it’s not about salary caps or arbitration or revenue sharing. Harry’s just wild about baseball, that’s all, and maybe it’s the owners and players who are reading things backwards.