Reflecting on Harwell's Importance in Detroit

It takes an extraordinarily long-lived person to have lived through a retirement brouhaha 20 years in the past, and former Detroit Tigers broadcaster Ernie Harwell is that. He's old enough that he seems a natural landmark, not a man.

If you grew up in the Detroit area, you could be forgiven for thinking that AM radio and maybe even baseball itself were merely vessels via which to experience Harwell. He was and is such a beloved figure in the state of Michigan that when Michigan State fans are really looking to twist the knife in a Michigan fan, they bring up the 1990 fiasco during which Bo Schembechler, then the team president, and various other Tigers and WJR folk replaced Harwell to the outrage of all. Here's a spittle-flecked Mitch Albom column on the decision that's as righteous 20 years later as it was back then. (Michigan fans will insist that Schembechler was just the fall guy for the owner's insane decision. Since I am a Michigan fan, I will vouch for this take 100%. That and Rose Bowls are about the only flecks on Schembechler's resume.) With the outrage palpable, Harwell idled a few years before being restored by new owner Mike Ilitch; he remained the Tigers play-by-play guy until his voluntary retirement in 2002, when he was 84.

Harwell is 91 now, and has terminal cancer.

This may be a thing peculiar to myself, but the aging and passing of sports announcers are amongst the most harrowing ways to experience mortality. I remember sitting in a dorm room watching John Cooper pull off his second and last victory over Michigan amongst a crowd of Michigan undergraduates. We listened to Keith Jackson stumble his way through the broadcast, confused about what down it was, where the ball was, and who was doing what with it. For me, it was Johnny Cash's cover of "Hurt": the devastating assurance that you will wilt someday sooner than you'd like to. The painful experience was made worse by one particular kid who kept sneering at the old, old Jackson as if he were worthy of nothing but contempt. I still hate that guy.

Harwell never fell so hard. He had the good fortune to work in a more leisurely sport, one concerned less with drama and instant accuracy than the slow winding of time through summers that seemed endless when you were a kid and still do, sometimes, in the third inning of a sleepy weekday game. When he retired he still had it, mostly. Given his previous Lazarus deal, the possibility he might drop in from time time time wasn't out of the question.

I don't actually like the Tigers much -- I like baseball in the abstract and am usually happier at a minor league game -- and Harwell's been retired for seven years. But this summer, like every summer, I was periodically struck by the desire to flip on the radio and hear a Tigers game. When I remembered Harwell was no longer the voice I'd here, desire was replaced by disappointment. In six months or a year, the door that was left open a crack will close; I hope I get a chance to sneak through it a final time before it does.

This post originally appeared on the Sporting Blog. For more, see The Sporting Blog Archives.