Ernie Harwell died yesterday at 92 years old.
Much will be written, and stories will be told.
"I remember when ____," or "Do you remember his nickname for so-and-so?"
His smooth and steady call of thousands of Detroit Tiger baseball games were as much a part of my youth as Grandpa and chasing the ice cream man. Later in life he connected me to family I hadn't seen in awhile, or kept me awake as I traveled to visit family to be. Players moved on, games were won and lost, but you could always count on Ernie.
He had his "Ernie-isms." He had his stories of players he met early in his career with the Atlanta Crackers. He had his nicknames and his trademark "Looooonnnng Goooonnnnee!" But above all that, Ernie knew when it was time to be quiet.
It would happen once a game or so, usually in the middle innings when a game had found its identity. Sure, he'd give bullet points, but he'd mostly let the game breath. The sound of the hot dog vendor's bark, laughter from men seated near the field microphone, and maybe a fire engine roaring near the corner of Michigan and Trumball would tell the story of life in Detroit that night. For a kid looking through his baseball card collection up in a second story bedroom, that was as good as being there.
The lesson I guess is often you need to paint the picture, but sometimes the picture has already been painted and you just need to let it speak.
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