The trouble with Harry is we can’t let him go. Elvis. The Beatles. Harry Caray. Holy Cow. Wouldn’t he get a good laugh?
The best way to honor ol’ Harry would be just to have fun at the ol’ ballpark, and that includes the players as well as the fans. Live well. Play hard. The players, especially.
A gesture is needed. We all understand that. A gesture of closure. Simple silence will not do. Not for Harry. Noise is necessary.
So, singing along in the seventh inning with the widow on Opening Day seems just the right touch. And then, that ought to be it.
No guest conductors for “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” Don’t drag this thing from tribute to gimmick. Though maybe ol’ Harry would get a laugh about that too.
The enormous affection shown for Harry after his death was splendid and, more important, spontaneous. His memory does not now need a tour director. It does not need to be exploited.
Why not offer oversized spectacles to the first 25,000 fans? Or have the players wear their names backward on their shirts? These things have been suggested as well.
Harry once asked a Harry question. How can a Mexican lose a ball in the sun?
Maybe the Cubs could run an essay contest. Best answer gets a season ticket.
Or gets to sing from the press box.
Do we have permission to make Harry a bigger cartoon in death than he was in life? I want to see the deed to Harry’s dignity.
Offering singing proxies for Harry is the worst musical idea since Woody Harrelson sang goodbye to Michael Jordan at Jordan’s staged retirement party.
Harry, like Michael, was ours, not theirs.
Repetition diminishes distinction. Shooting fireworks off after home runs was a Bill Veeck idea that lives on after him at Comiskey Park, but no one connects it to Veeck anymore.
Eddie Gaedel remains Veeck’s most memorable stunt because it happened only once.
The best way to honor Harry is never to sing in the seventh inning again.
The important legacy from Harry that the Cubs and baseball, especially, should not ignore is the reminder that the guy behind the microphone, this guy at least, was more prominent than any of the guys at bat.
More Top Picks Causes
No one should miss the lesson of Harry Caray. How did he become bigger than the game he was presenting?
He was the midway barker, he was not the show. He was not Elvis. He was the guy who introduced Elvis.
So. How did it happen? How did Harry become the attraction, more appealing than the best player, more interesting than the biggest inning, more memorable than the longest home run?
A simple answer. Harry was more fun.
Giving the Cubs the benefit of the doubt, what they are trying to do is duplicate Harry’s joy. But the effect is artificial and contrived. The best memorial to Harry Caray would be winning. Everything else is just so much schtick, another Cub distraction.
It’s the park. Wrigley Field. It’s the ivy. The brick. The stubbornly indecipherable scoreboard. The sunshine, still, if less often.
And it was Harry. Almost an equal part of the whole package. Players come. Players go. Managers might as well sit on piano stools. Around and around they go, and not one since Leo Durocher worth arguing over.
Well, maybe Don Zimmer. Zim was OK, full of the same fun as Harry. Fans know. Fans choose to enjoy what is enjoyable.
Why is Ernie Banks Mr. Cub? Will always be Mr. Cub? He had more fun being Mr. Cub than anyone else.
It was always left to Harry to ask the first question at one of the inevitable restarts for the Cubs, another press conference for another new regime. And he always asked the same one.
When are the Cubs going to get some pitching?
Get some pitching, not a Harry substitute.