The Big Wind In Chicago

Howard Cosell, in a typical flash of false insight, once identified Harry as a "cheerleader." He is not that at all. Fans are not cheerleaders; they are cheerers—and booers. That is what Harry is. His is the language of the paying customer. This is not to say he is above show business. Catch phrases are part of his act—"You can't beat fun at the old ball park.... Well, that's baseball.... Listen to the crowd.... Hol-lee Cow!" But Harry is more than a disembodied voice to White Sox fans; he is a physical presence in the ball park. He leans out of the broadcast booth to shout at friends or to join the crowd in cheers and song. He thrusts his butterfly net out in quest of foul balls. He strides through the stands before the game, shaking hands, signing autographs, slapping backs, embracing comely women. After the game, Harry is out among them, talking baseball in his favorite saloons. Four in the morning often arrives too soon for "the Mayor of Rush Street."

Harry was immensely successful as a Cardinal broadcaster from 1945 through 1969, but it is unlikely he ever had an audience more' empathetic than the one he now enjoys. "Harry fits in with our group," says Sox President Bill Veeck. "He fits in with our philosophy and style, which is casual, even raucous. Our audience is not at all like the Cubs', which is mostly youngsters and people over 50. Ours comes from the 16-to-40 age bracket. They are as exuberant as any I've ever seen, and a great part of that is Harry. Can you envision Dodger fans standing up in the middle of a game to cheer Vin Scully the way they cheer Harry here? He says what he believes on the air, and the fans identify directly with him.

"Frankly, I hate to listen to him when we're losing because he can put the greatest degree of contempt in what he's saying. It's more than popularity. It's a matter of texture. Harry is basically one of the fans. He drinks beer with them or whatever else is available. He talks to them in saloons, which is good. But he's also a professional who does his homework. He's not merely flamboyant."

No one knows his audience better than Harry does. While interviewing Chicago Tribune sportswriter Bill Jauss recently, Harry took it upon himself to define the quintessential Sox fan: "He is a working-class guy, a guy who picks up a six-pack at a tavern before coming to the game. He's my kind of person." Comiskey Park itself has the look and feel of a neighborhood tavern. It is dark and wooden and musty and cozy. There is the aroma of beer and peanuts. It is noisy, and many nights there are fights in the stands. If the stadium is a saloon, Harry is the guy sitting down at the end of the bar telling funny stories.

"The announcer is the only liaison between the people and the ball club," says Harry. "The trouble with announcers today—and heck, I can't even think of most of their names—is that they're in it just for the money. Baseball has the advantage of having a lot of games. Because of the frequency of it, it pays better than the other sports. These guys would rather be out playing golf than doing play-by-play, and the boredom comes through in their voices. My enthusiasm is just me. I'm just expressing myself, and I do have opinions. I get in trouble with players and managers that way—like the Zisk thing. The trouble with the players is they feel the fan is so dumb he won't notice their shortcomings unless an announcer calls attention to them. Well, the fan isn't that stupid. The announcer doesn't create a player's weaknesses. The only thing I ask of a player is that he complain to me personally. I always ask, 'Did you hear it?' They rarely do, you know. They get it from a wife, a girl friend, a groupie. All secondhand stuff."

Harry can become as quickly disenchanted with a player as a fan can, and the miscreant can be as easily restored to his affections with good deeds. These shifts in attitude do not always sit well with players, who prefer to think of the announcers as part of the team, not part of its following. Harry's relations with former White Sox Manager Chuck Tanner also were frequently strained. Tanner not only disapproved of Harry's gibes on the air, but he also apparently chafed at the broadcaster's popularity, which far exceeded that of the manager or any of his players. In truth, a player or manager might be forgiven pangs of envy over Harry's special relationship with the fans. How often, after all, is the play-by-play announcer more popular than those whose play he is describing? In his business, Harry is an original.

He was born Harry Carabina in St. Louis and orphaned at nine. An aspiring athlete, he turned to broadcasting games instead of playing them after high school and survived for 25 years as the voice of the Cardinals. Then, after the 1969 season, his contract was not renewed by team owner August A. Busch Jr. It was a shocker, and unseemly rumor followed Harry's fall from grace. It was said he was playing fast and loose with a young woman who had married into the Busch clan, thereby imperiling the marriage. Rakehell Harry declined to comment on such tawdry allegations, except to say, "I'd rather have people believing the rumor and have my middle-aged ego inflated than deny it and keep my job."

Harry's popularity in St. Louis was scarcely diminished by the scandal. If anything, it achieved its apex that very year, in large part because of a comeback from a near-crippling injury as melodramatic as any ever made by a Cardinal player. On the rainy early morning of Nov. 3, 1968, Harry was struck down by a speeding auto as he crossed the street to his car, which was parked opposite the Chase-Park Plaza, site of so many of his adventures, amatory and otherwise. A woman friend was seated in the car, primping herself for the evening ahead, and Harry yet entertains himself with the thought of his companion watching him fly by the window, howling, "Holy Cow!"

There was, however, nothing amusing about the accident. Harry suffered broken legs, a broken shoulder and a broken nose. He nearly died in the street when rain and blood congested his lungs. And he almost lost one of his shattered limbs in the hospital. But after some months, he was as whole and hearty as ever.

His entrance into Busch Stadium on Opening Day of the 1969 season was terrific theater. Sensing the dramatic possibilities. Harry stepped out of the Cardinal dugout after his introduction, hobbling on two canes. As he crossed the foul line, he tossed one cane aside. Nearing the field microphone, he threw the other away and raised his arms over his head in triumph. As the crowd stood and cheered and chanted. "Har-ree...Har-ree," he limped unaided the rest of the way. "Well, it's all show business," Harry explained later. "I hadn't needed those canes in weeks."