If I were a real, professional blogger with industry cred, I might be compelled to cover the following topics:

• Kayne West pulling the VMA trophy from Taylor Swift and making a complete ass of himself and all the white folks who fell for him in the first place because his album titles promote the fact that he’s a credible hip-hop musician who also graduated college, or something like that.
• Jim Carroll‘s death. Don’t get me wrong, I loved “People Who Died” as much as the next guy, but the rest of that debut album was kind of pedestrian to my ears and, maybe sadly, I never got around to checking out his poetry. The little bit I once saw of that Basketball Diaries movie looked good, though. If Carroll looked like Leslie West rather than a cross between David Bowie and Kevin Bacon would I be feeling less compelled to cover the man’s passing?

Sorry, I’m in a bit of a grumpy mood today after a blow-out, fun weekend only interrupted by my boys’ soccer team’s second-half collapse and news of a friend dying. My friend Tim never wrote anything as catchy as “People Who Died” or chronicled his life as a teenage basketball star and junkie, but in his short life he lived through more hardships (eg, heart transplant at 16, loss of his seemingly healthy nonsmoking wife to lung cancer at the age of 33, a few battles with cancer himself until this last one beat him) than any hardships most celebrities can cook up to induce on themselves. Tim was a solid, soulful guy from the time my friend Mary Beth first introduced him to me as her new boyfriend to the last time I saw him. I’ll always remember the penultimate time I saw him.

Last October, my friend Pete and I met up with Tim and his brother at the prescribed inning along the concourse down the third base line at Citizens Bank Park to watch an inning of the Phils-Brewers’ division playoff game. Throughout the second half of the 2008 Phillies season, we’d been making a habit of meeting during the same inning of all games on our season ticket plan. It was becoming a good luck inning, and that night we got to witness Brett Myers‘ shocking and epic at-bat against CC Sabathia, which was punctuated by Shane Victorino‘s grand slam! As the ball traveled before our eyes, we grabbed each other and hugged with all our might. We hugged anyone in reach. Man hugs. Women hugs. Kid hugs. Love was in the air, and it wouldn’t surprise me if a couple of complete strangers conceived that night, seconds after the ball cleared the leftfield wall.

I still have no interest in discussing Kanye West, but I’m now better able to empathize with whatever some of you may be feeling about Jim Carroll.

I can’t believe I’m going to have to watch Phillies games without the voice of Harry Kalas, who died in the press box at the Washington Nationals’ stadium at 1:20 today. For those of you who did not grow up with “Harry the K” calling games since your childhood, the Baseball Hall of Fame broadcaster may be one more legendary voice you’ve heard in the background of ESPN highlights – and even imitated by ESPN broadcasters – but he’s THE VOICE of the team I first started following the same year Kalas came to Philly, 1971. From boyhood forward, every Philadelphia sports fan works on his Harry Kalas impersonation. It’s a good thing that we’ll be able to remember the sound of Harry’s voice a lot better than any of us try to replicate it.

Admittedly, we’ve got weird priorities in Philadelphia, and our beloved sports broadcasters often resonate more deeply in our hearts than our usually suspect teams. When Kalas’ old color man and Hall of Fame Phillies centerfielder in his own right, Richie Ashburn, died midseason in 1997, our city mourned like Rome might following the passing of the Pope. I’m sure the coming week here will be no different.
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