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Here's the set.
Here's the pitch.
He swings us along once.
It is long gone.
A home run.
Not all broadcasters, sportscasters,
have a signature call.
Some do.
You do.
I do.
But not everybody.
You didn't start out to have a signature call, did you?
No, I just started out doing the game.
And whatever the signature two calls that developed for me
just sort of happened.
I think probably the first one I came up with was,
he stood there like the house by the side of the road
and watched it go by when a guy took a call third strike.
There's a breaking ball in for a strike.
And he stood there like the house by the side of the road
and watched it go by.
Struck him up.
That's the third strikeout for holiday.
Long gone was my so-called home run call.
But I really didn't do that until the late 80s or the mid-80s.
I didn't do it in 84.
And somehow I just began to say, it's going.
It's a long one.
It's gone.
It's long gone.
And then I cut it back to long gone.
And then people sort of asked me to keep doing it.
So I did.
Right hander against the right hander.
The outfield is straight up in deep on Fielder.
He is the DH today.
Swing, there's a drive to left.
That one is long gone.
Fielder weighs into that first pitch
with his 29th home run of the year.
Learning another one of your signature calls
is on your call for a double play.
Two for the price of one.
Where'd you start that from?
You know, I don't know when that started,
or where it came from.
Maybe it was inspired by Lulu's shopping philosophy.
Set the pitch.
He swings, bounding ball, stopped by Truby
for the second one, really the first.
Two for the price of one for the Tigers.
A great play by Truby to end the third inning.
The foul ball, caught by a man from Saginaw.
Yeah, that's another one of those accidents.
I never did that in any other place.
I didn't do it in Brooklyn or New York or Baltimore.
But when I got to Detroit, I guess about the first year or so,
maybe in 60 or 61, somebody hit a foul ball.
I said to my partner, that guy that caught that ball
is from Saginaw, I said.
And then he just sort of caught on.
And I'd walk through the ballpark,
and somebody would say, hey, let a guy from Gross Point
catch one today.
Or somebody would say, hey, a lady from Windsor
never has caught one.
Why don't you let a lady from Windsor
catch a foul ball tonight?
So that's what we did.
And then when we went on the road,
we would know some outlying cities,
like New Rochelle in New York or Tunifly, New Jersey.
A guy from Tunifly would catch it.
If you were in Chicago, a fellow from Evanston
might have caught that one, that kind of thing.
It was a lot of fun.
We enjoyed that.
Infield in double play depth for the Mariners.
They've had a lot of ground balls so far today.
Here's the pitch on the way.
He swings and fouls it off.
It'll reach the seats over back of the Tiger dugout.
And the man from Walla Walla will take that one home.
Did you ever let a lady from Kentucky catch one?
No, Lulu had to stay home and take care of the kids.
From the greatest managers, players, broadcasters,
and team, we're going to shift now
to your most embarrassing moment.
What was the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to you
while you were either on the air or in the booth?
I had a lot of embarrassing moments in my career,
but I think the one that was most embarrassing
happened in California.
The Tigers were playing the California Angels,
and Collins was at third base.
Freehand's a catcher, and Collins steals home.
He's called safe on a very close play at the plate.
There's an argument ensues.
Ralph Halk comes out of the dugout,
and I says, here comes Halk out.
He's arguing with the umpire, and Bill Freehand at the plate,
and he's beating his mitt at home plate.
So luckily for me, it happened about 2 o'clock
in the morning, Detroit time, and you know,
never heard a peep out of anybody,
except one guy, my friend Pete Sark,
who was an announcer who lived in Flint.
He called me the next day and said,
do you know what you said?
I said, I don't know.
I sort of thought I made a slip,
but Paul Kerry didn't react.
What was it?
And he told me, and I dropped the phone.
Oh, me.
Woo.
Ha, ha, ha, ha.
Woo.
My son, he steps away from the plate, gets back in.
Collins is coming down that line a little leisurely right now.
Crawford looks over to him.
Now, here he comes to the plate, stealing home the throw,
and he is safe.
He gets a steal of home by Collins.
Freehand is putting up a dam on argument with Garcia,
the plate on fire.
He claims he had him.
Here comes Rob Halk out.
He's getting in on the argument.
Crawford is over there watching.
Freehand is meeting his minutes of place.
That's probably something that you're not most proud of,
but one of some of the things you are most proud of.
One of the highlights of my career, I think,
was being put in the Guinness Book of Records,
the only media member who's in the Book of Records,
and I'm in there as the most enduring baseball announcer.
I'm very proud of the fact that the folks at the tower out
at Metropolitan Airport named an airspace after me,
so if you come in maybe over Jackson, coming into Detroit,
you got to go through an airspace named Ernie Horwell.
First active broadcaster to enter the Hall of Fame.
And I'm very proud of the press box dedication at Comerica Park
that the Tigers accorded me, plus the stature
that Mike Illich had constructed for me that is there
in the ballpark.
By the way, that stature did a good job
because they put all the wrinkles in my pants.
I weigh 350 pounds, and I'm hollow.
Sports Illustrated named to me as the radio announcer
for their all-time dream team when they selected
that team a couple of decades ago.
And I'm very proud that the Detroit Public Library dedicated
a room to Lulu and me to house my sports collection.
How would you want to be remembered?
I'd like to be remembered in the world
of some real rich guy.
That's how I'd like to be remembered.
Have you got any prospects for me?
Well, I think the Bible in Micah says,
son of man, what does God require of you but to do justice,
love mercy, and walk humbly with your God?
And that's what I've tried to do.
I probably haven't done it very well,
but I'd like to be remembered as making a try at that.
The Tigers have just finished their 2002 season,
and I've just finished my baseball broadcasting career.
And it's time to say goodbye, but I think goodbye is a sad,
and I'd much rather say hello.
Hello to a new adventure.
I'm not leaving, folks.
I'll still be with you, living my life in Michigan,
my home state surrounded by family and friends.
And rather than goodbye, please allow me to say thank you.
Thank you for letting me be part of your family.
Thank you for taking me with you to that cottage up north,
to the beach, to picnic, your workplace, and your backyard.
Thank you for sneaking your transistor under the pillow
as you grew up loving the Tigers.
Now, I might have been a small part of your life,
but you've been a very large part of mine,
and it's my privilege and honor to share with you
the greatest game of all.
Now, God has a new adventure for me,
and I'm ready to move on.
So I'll leave you with a deep sense of appreciation
for your long-time loyalty and support.
I thank you very much, and God bless all of you.
This is an open letter to Ernie Harwell.
Dear Ernie, 53 years ago, I followed you into Brooklyn.
20 years ago, I followed you into the Hall of Fame,
and our relationship has only been perfect.
Baseball is so much richer for having you all these years
and poorer for losing you.
Sincerely yours with love and affection, Ben Scully.
Hi, Ernie.
Nice to see you, and congratulations on your retirement.
You deserve it.
I tell you, you've been one of the icons
in the history of the game of baseball,
and I feel very privileged to have been able to get to know you
way back when you were doing Oreo baseball,
going to your home and seeing the sporting news you had there,
the history of the game, meeting your twins.
And it's been a good role, and I tell you,
you're going to enjoy your retirement a great deal.
And I'm just privileged to be a part of baseball with you.
Thank you.
Hi, Ernie.
This is your old buddy, Tramp.
I know you're retiring from your broadcast booth,
but we all know this is just a semi-retirement.
Hope the best for you and Lulu in the coming years.
There's one phrase that's used quite often, you're the best.
But in your case, Ernie, you simply are the best.
We're going to miss you.
All of baseball and all Tiger fans are going to miss you.
Ernie, best of luck.
Mr. Harwell, this is Derek Jeter of the New York Yankees.
I just want to congratulate you on your retirement.
And from someone who grew up listening to you,
you will be greatly missed.
Ernie, I can't tell you how much I'm going to miss you.
I go back, like few other people anymore left in baseball,
to the old New York Giants when Ernie Harwell used to be
in the booth.
But what I'm going to miss most of all
is the visits in the clubhouse, the visit and the dugout,
being able to talk with the old Hall of Famer
and just talk about life.
You're such a wonderful human being.
There's plenty more gas left in the tank, my man.
And I hope you make a visit from time to time.
We're going to miss you.
Hello, Ernie.
I'll be so glad to have you home soon
to help me in the garden with getting rid of the old vegetable
garden and making a new one and planting some new roses.
It makes me think of how many times I've had to be alone.
And I want to thank the fans for giving you back
to spend the time with me.
Hurry up and get home, Ernie.
William Ernest Harwell began his broadcasting career
in Atlanta, Georgia in 1940.
From 1948 to 2002, he called over 8,000 baseball games.
And in 1981, received the greatest honor of them all,
induction into the baseball Hall of Fame.
From Jackie Robinson and Pee Wee Reese, Willie Mays and Bobby
Thompson to Leo DeRosher and Sparky Anderson.
Ernie painted a picture of baseball unlike any other.
Baseball is the president tossing out
the first ball of the season.
And a scrubby schoolboy playing catch
with his dad on the Mississippi farm.
A tall, thin old man waving a scorecard
from the corner of his dugout.
That's baseball.
And so is a big, fat guy with a bulbous nose running home
one of his 714 home runs.
There's a man in Mobile who remembers that Honest Wagner
hit a triple in Pittsburgh 46 years ago.
That's baseball.
And so is a scout reporting that a 16-year-old pitcher
in Cheyenne is the coming Walter Johnson.
Baseball is a spirited race of man against man,
reflex against reflex, a game of inches.
Every skill is measured.
Every heroic, every failing is seen in cheer or booed
and then becomes a statistic.
In baseball, democracy shines its glaring.
The only race that matters is the race of the bag.
The Creed is a rulebook.
And color merely something to distinguish one team's
uniform from another.
Baseball is a rookie.
His experience is no bigger than the lump in his throat
as he begins full film of his dream.
And it's a veteran too.
A tired old man of 35 hoping that those aching muscles
can pull him through another sweltering August
and September nicknames of baseball, names
like Zeke and Pye and Kike and Home Run and Cracker
and Disney and Dancing.
Baseball is a clear cool eyes of Roger's Hornspeak,
the flashing spikes of a tie-com and an overage
pixie named Rabbit Moranville.
Baseball, just the game, as simple as a ball and batting,
yet as complex as the American spirit symbolizes.
A sport, a business, sometimes almost even religion.
While the fairy tale of Willie May is making a brilliant world
series catcher, then dashing off to play stickball
in the streets with his teenage fouls.
That's baseball.
So as a husky boy of a doom-blue Garry's Fang,
I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.
Baseball is a garth moat.
Hot roast at Tina's.
The sporting news.
Ladies' Day down in front.
Take me out to the ball game in the Star Spangled Banner.
Baseball is a tongue-tied kid from Georgia growing up
to be an announcer and praising the Lord for showing him
the way to Coopers Town.
This is a game for America.
Still a game for America, this baseball.
Thank you.