My Evening With Ernie

Sometime in January of 1997, I don’t remember the exact date, I played hooky from work to go to Spectadium in Troy, Michigan to watch a live broadcast of the Fabulous Sports Babe show. While I was never a fervent fan of the program her special guest that day was Ernie Harwell. I had met Ernie numerous times in my childhood at autograph signings but had bigger aspirations this time. I was 21 years old, beginning work on a book about baseball, and hoping to have a chance to talk with Ernie on the subject. That particular book never came to fruition, but if it ever does I’ll have Ernie Harwell to thank for it in large part.

I was very nervous. I had two beers in succession while watching the segment, constantly rehearsing in my head what I would say to him afterwards when I approached him.

“Mr. Harwell, I’m a big fan of your work…..no, that’s not right”

“Mr. Harwell, I’m writing a book about baseball and would love to talk with you – Jesus, he’s going to be thinking who is this kid?”

“Ernie….no, I can’t call him by his first name, we’re not old friends”

I don’t recall exactly what I said to him when I cornered him by the mens room, although it’s a safe bet it was some sloppy introduction unfit for such a request. What I do remember is the kindness he showed in response to my weak effort. I somehow managed to get the relevant points into words he could understand, offering to take him to lunch, speak with him on the phone or whatever he was comfortable with in the hopes of accomplishing my original goal of interviewing him. I half expected him to brush me off politely or refer me to a publicist or agent to submit my request. I felt reasonably certain whatever reply he gave would leave me short of a chance to speak with him candidly. After all, I was a 21 year old kid who had written nothing anyone had ever read, outside of my professors and family, and he was the greatest voice of baseball I knew, with a lifetime resume never to be equaled.

He shook my hand, smiled, and told me he would be flattered. Ernie Harwell was flattered to talk baseball with me. I damn near passed out. He asked for my business card, which I certainly did not have. This surely would be the end of this thing. He would smirk at my unprofessional nature and dismiss me. No. Instead he grabbed a napkin from a nearby table, pulled a pen from his pocket and wrote down his home phone number, and handed it to me. He told me to call him the following Monday and we would set something up. He shook my hand again, smiled, and we went our seperate ways. My feet didn’t touch the ground for many hours afterwards.

The following Monday I called Ernie, fearing he would not answer or remember me. He answered. He remembered. We spoke for a moment or two about the book, a loosely outlined history of the game with no real prospects for being published. He suggested I come to his home, it would be a comfortable place to have such a discussion. He gave me his address, took my phone number, and we set a time to talk for Friday evening of that week. A hammer and chisel could not have knocked the smile from my naive little face. I was going to interview Ernie Harwell, in his home, for a book I was writing. It was a good day to say the least.

That Friday, the day we had planned to speak, got off to a less than stellar start to say the very least.

Somewhere between our original meeting, our conversation where I wrote down his address and directions, and that night – I lost both the napkin with his phone number and the piece of paper on which I had written down his address and directions. Gone. Vanished. Nowhere to be found were these two very important scraps of paper. I turned my apartment upside down and inside out, but to no avail. I was screwed. I feably attempted to get his number by calling information, it was naturally unlisted. Despite my pleading with two different operators I was out of luck. I was left to sit and stare at the kitchen clock as our scheduled time came and went. Few times in my life have I felt more helpless, or more of a rube.

And then, about 45 minutes after we were scheduled to meet, my phone rang. It was Ernie Harwell.

“John, I thought we were going to talk baseball tonight?”

That voice that had provided the soundtrack to my youth was on the other end of my telephone, wondering where the hell I was. I explained, with about 100 apologies intermixed, that I had “misplaced” his information and was unable to reach him. He laughed, a big laugh, and told me it was ok. He gave me his address once again and I ran with all the speed god gave my legs to my car and headed out.

Did I mention there was a blinding snowstorm going on in the metro Detroit area about this time?

What should have been a 20 minute drive turned into an hour. Weary, nervous beyond words and afraid I had for the second time in one night blown my chance, I pulled into his driveway, trudged through the snow and knocked on his door. He greeted me with another smile and another handshake, and invited me in.

He introduced me to his wife, Lulu, who promptly prepared me a cup of hot chocolate. Then Ernie Harwell and I sat down in his family room to talk baseball. Never before or since in my time writing about this game have I felt more blessed, or more surreal. To recap the tale of the tape….

In this corner, The radio voice of the Detroit Tigers for more than 40 years, author of numerous books and columns, member of the Baseball Hall of Fame, Mr. Ernie Harwell.

In the other corner, me. A kid barely old enough to drink, with a zit the size of Rhode Island on my chin and a list of writing credits that had entertained an audience of six people, maybe.

Despite this, Ernie made me feel as valuable and important as if I had won the Pullitzer Prize. We spoke for more than an hour, about the then current Tigers team, previous squads, dozens of players, his experiences in the booth and everything in between. He recounted his call of the infamous shot heard round the world, a call lost to most people in perpetuity.

I left that evening with a mountain of nostalgia. Over the years I’ve listened to the tape recording I made of our conversation more times than I can count. I was up until the wee hours of the following morning playing it over, and over, and over. I still have it, and I listened to it this morning for the first time in a long time after hearing the news that Ernie has been diagnosed with uncurable cancer of the bile duct.

I’m not going to eulogize him here, he isn’t dead, and it isn’t right to do so. Ernie Harwell is very much alive, and regardless of what will happen to his body in the coming months his spirit and lifetime of work will live on for eons. That will never die. That tape recording, will never die. My love for the game of baseball, and my gratitude for a legend who took the time to make a no name kid feel like a real journalist will never die. It is a large part of what has driven me over the years to chronicle this game with the belief that anything is possible.

I’ve never told this story in print before, I’m not sure why, but I never have. It felt appropriate today. If by some chance you’re reading this Ernie, thank you, thank you very much, and be well.

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Tags: Detroit Tigers, Ernie Harwell, My interview with Ernie Harwell, The shot heard round the world