Rule No. 3: Be ready for anything
On another night in Chicago, Harry was out on Rush Street when a CTA bus stopped at a red light on the corner. When the doors opened, Colletti said, Harry hopped on at the front of the bus, strolled down the aisle, offered high fives to everyone on the bus, then exited out the backdoor before the light turned green.
“One of the most popular people in the city,” Colletti said.
If you went out with Harry, you might end up in Harlem at sunrise. You might end up on a piano in a saloon on the north side. (“One night he dragged me up to dance,” sports writer Steve Cameron said.) You might end up in a bar in Arizona, listening to Harry sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” to a Cubs fan over the phone. (This happened to Clarke.) You might hear the story of the time Harry went to the bathroom and a man at a urinal was so excited to see him he turned around to say hi. (“He pissed all over Harry’s leg,” Rozner said.)
You also had to understand: You might lose Harry for hours to strangers and admirers. “You had to know that,” said Tom Dreesen, a comedian and friend from Chicago. “He belonged to the people.”
You never knew what else might happen, of course, because Harry didn’t know either. One night in the early ’90s, Rozner, then a beat writer at the Daily Herald, was returning to the Grand Hyatt from Shea Stadium at 1 a.m. when he saw Harry’s limo parked in front of the hotel.
“Come on kid,” Harry yelled. “We’re going out!”
The Cubs had a day game the next day, but you never said no to Harry, so Rozner dropped off his bag and the night began. First, there was dinner and drinks at the Plaza Hotel. Then a stop at one of Harry’s favorite bars, a wood-paneled joint with a long bar and cold Budweiser. By 4 a.m. Rozner was starting to fade. “Harry, I’m done,” he said. “I can’t possibly do this anymore.” But Harry wanted to make one more stop, which is how they ended up rolling up to a brownstone in Harlem after 4 a.m., where a big group of musicians and actors had gathered for a party.
“I can’t imagine what we’re doing there,” Rozner said. “And we walk in, and the whole place stops and they all yell for Harry.”
Rule No. 4: Every minute is precious
Harry loved to argue. If you said Tony Gwynn was the best hitter in the National League, he’d find a way to stump for Mark Grace. If you said Joe DiMaggio was the best player you’d ever seen, he might craft a case for Musial. He loved history. He studied players. Sure, he might mispronounce a name from time to time, but he knew baseball.
One night Harry was out on Rush Street with Dreesen, a usual wingman. The bar closed at 2 a.m., but the owner let Harry’s crew stay for after-hours. As seven or eight guys sat around, Dreesen came up with a trivia question: Name every guy who has hit 50 homers. Harry came up with nearly all of them. For some reason, he couldn’t remember one.
“Alright, damn it, Dreesen, who was it?” Harry asked.
“Gee, I don’t remember,” Dreesen recalled answering. “I just thought you would know.”
“I’ll be right back,” Harry said.
The Ambassador East was just down the street. So he headed home, located a baseball book in his room, found the name, then returned to the bar. As he walked in, the men at the bar were smiling.
“All the guys in the bar hollered: ‘Ralph Kiner!’” Dreesen said. “He came to me and said: ‘Dreesen, I can forgive you for a lot of things. I’ll never forgive you for ruining a half an hour of quality drinking time.’ ”
Harry Caray knew baseball and had no trouble engaging with the game’s characters, as he did here in a pregame interview with Don Zimmer in 1985. (Owen C. Shaw / Getty Images)
Rule No. 5: Be ready for the truth
Harry was a brutal truth teller. This, of course, was what made him so popular with fans. If his team was winning, he was in heaven. If they looked lousy, he said so.
After a game in Baltimore, Harry and Bob Verdi, the Chicago Tribune writer, were out to dinner when White Sox outfielder Ken Henderson walked in. “Harry has been riding his ass big time,” Verdi said. “And he says to him: ‘What are you doing on that fly ball?!?’ The guy comes in for a quiet dinner, you know, and Harry’s all over him.”
Another time, Ed Lynch, the Cubs’ general manager, walked over to say hello at spring training. “I remember exactly the way it happened,” Lynch said. “I walked up to him — it was (just) pitchers and catchers. He was in town. I hadn’t seen him yet. (I said) ‘Harry, how are you? How was your winter?’ He goes: ‘Eddie, we’ve got to get some pitching for this ballclub.’ ”
It didn’t matter who you were. When Jim Lefebvre was managing the Cubs in the early ’90s, Harry hosted the manager’s pregame show each day, conducting a short interview. One day, he started the show like this:
“Hi everybody, Harry Caray at Wrigley Show, and it’s time for the Jim Lefebvre Show as the Cubs get ready to play the Padres … and Jimmy, the Cubs have been terrible lately.”
The same truth-telling extended to his beer. When Harry’s health started to fail, he cut back on his drinking. But to stay loyal to Budweiser, he switched to O’Doul’s, Anheuser-Busch’s non-alcoholic beer.
“Harry’s got like 9,000 shares of Budweiser stock,” Verdi said, “and he’s right on the air and goes: ‘Boy, I’ve been drinking this NA beer. God, this is awful!’ ”
Rule No. 6: The Old Blue Eyes exception
OK, there was one man who could outlast Harry Caray. The night in question came in a booth at The Pump Room inside the Ambassador East. Dreesen, the comedian, was performing with Frank Sinatra at the Chicago Theater, and he had an idea: To put Harry vs. Sinatra. Who could outdrink who?
The standoff lasted until 5 a.m. Round after round after round. Finally, Harry tapped out.
“Harry got up and said, ‘You win, Frank, I’m going to bed. This is bullshit,’” Dreesen said. “Frank looked at me and winked and said: ‘Amateur.’”
Rule No. 7: Life is about the people you meet
Harry treated Cubs fans like family, but he didn’t get along with everyone. He feuded with other broadcasters. He was hard on young colleagues. Fred Mitchell, his friend from the Chicago Tribune, recalled how melancholy and somber he could be around the holidays.
“He would confide that that was because he was an orphan and he remembered how alone and sad he felt as a child during that time of year,” Mitchell said.
As a boy in St. Louis, Harry — born Harry Carabina — had lost both parents by the age of 14. He was raised by aunts and uncles. He never forgot that he didn’t have much. Before Harry died, Rozner called him up to tell he was leaving the Cubs beat and becoming a columnist. Rozner wanted to get off the road and spend more time with his family, but he figured Harry might be disappointed.
Harry, however, was delighted.
“What I didn’t know is that Harry had found family very late in life,” Rozner said. “He would tell you he was not a great father, he was not a great grandfather. And in those last years, he discovered family.”
One day around then, Harry was in the dugout talking to Cubs manager Jim Riggleman, who happened to be divorced. As the conversation continued, Harry offered one bit of advice.
“He very sincerely said to me, ‘Jim, you’ve got to get married. You don’t want to die alone in a hotel by yourself,’” Riggleman said.
It was the same reason, Colletti believes, that Harry loved long nights out with friends: He just didn’t like being alone.
Rule No. 8: Sometimes you just deserve a cocktail
Harry had a stroke in 1987, which slowed him down — but just barely. Dreesen remembers sitting with Harry and his wife, Dutchie, at his restaurant in Chicago. Harry ordered a drink and Dutchie reminded him: “Harry, the doctor said you shouldn’t drink.” Harry clarified that the doctor had told him he could have one drink per night.
“So, honest to God, I’m not making this up,” Dreesen said. “Harry had one Budweiser. He had one Scotch and soda. He had one Brandy Alexander. He had one glass of wine. He had one martini. He had one of all these drinks. Dutchie just raised her hands and said, ‘What are you going to do?’”
On another late night in New York, Colletti remembers Harry hopping off the team bus, briefcase in hand, walking into the night. The next day, on the field at Shea Stadium, Colletti found Harry around the batting cage.
“I go, ‘Hey, Harry, you seemed to be in a pretty big hurry last night. What were you up to?’” Colletti said. “He looks at me and goes, ‘You know. Once in a while — once in a while — you owe it to yourself just to go out and have a cocktail.’”
On another night in Chicago, Harry was out on Rush Street when a CTA bus stopped at a red light on the corner. When the doors opened, Colletti said, Harry hopped on at the front of the bus, strolled down the aisle, offered high fives to everyone on the bus, then exited out the backdoor before the light turned green.
“One of the most popular people in the city,” Colletti said.
If you went out with Harry, you might end up in Harlem at sunrise. You might end up on a piano in a saloon on the north side. (“One night he dragged me up to dance,” sports writer Steve Cameron said.) You might end up in a bar in Arizona, listening to Harry sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” to a Cubs fan over the phone. (This happened to Clarke.) You might hear the story of the time Harry went to the bathroom and a man at a urinal was so excited to see him he turned around to say hi. (“He pissed all over Harry’s leg,” Rozner said.)
You also had to understand: You might lose Harry for hours to strangers and admirers. “You had to know that,” said Tom Dreesen, a comedian and friend from Chicago. “He belonged to the people.”
You never knew what else might happen, of course, because Harry didn’t know either. One night in the early ’90s, Rozner, then a beat writer at the Daily Herald, was returning to the Grand Hyatt from Shea Stadium at 1 a.m. when he saw Harry’s limo parked in front of the hotel.
“Come on kid,” Harry yelled. “We’re going out!”
The Cubs had a day game the next day, but you never said no to Harry, so Rozner dropped off his bag and the night began. First, there was dinner and drinks at the Plaza Hotel. Then a stop at one of Harry’s favorite bars, a wood-paneled joint with a long bar and cold Budweiser. By 4 a.m. Rozner was starting to fade. “Harry, I’m done,” he said. “I can’t possibly do this anymore.” But Harry wanted to make one more stop, which is how they ended up rolling up to a brownstone in Harlem after 4 a.m., where a big group of musicians and actors had gathered for a party.
“I can’t imagine what we’re doing there,” Rozner said. “And we walk in, and the whole place stops and they all yell for Harry.”
Rule No. 4: Every minute is precious
Harry loved to argue. If you said Tony Gwynn was the best hitter in the National League, he’d find a way to stump for Mark Grace. If you said Joe DiMaggio was the best player you’d ever seen, he might craft a case for Musial. He loved history. He studied players. Sure, he might mispronounce a name from time to time, but he knew baseball.
One night Harry was out on Rush Street with Dreesen, a usual wingman. The bar closed at 2 a.m., but the owner let Harry’s crew stay for after-hours. As seven or eight guys sat around, Dreesen came up with a trivia question: Name every guy who has hit 50 homers. Harry came up with nearly all of them. For some reason, he couldn’t remember one.
“Alright, damn it, Dreesen, who was it?” Harry asked.
“Gee, I don’t remember,” Dreesen recalled answering. “I just thought you would know.”
“I’ll be right back,” Harry said.
The Ambassador East was just down the street. So he headed home, located a baseball book in his room, found the name, then returned to the bar. As he walked in, the men at the bar were smiling.
“All the guys in the bar hollered: ‘Ralph Kiner!’” Dreesen said. “He came to me and said: ‘Dreesen, I can forgive you for a lot of things. I’ll never forgive you for ruining a half an hour of quality drinking time.’ ”
Harry Caray knew baseball and had no trouble engaging with the game’s characters, as he did here in a pregame interview with Don Zimmer in 1985. (Owen C. Shaw / Getty Images)
Rule No. 5: Be ready for the truth
Harry was a brutal truth teller. This, of course, was what made him so popular with fans. If his team was winning, he was in heaven. If they looked lousy, he said so.
After a game in Baltimore, Harry and Bob Verdi, the Chicago Tribune writer, were out to dinner when White Sox outfielder Ken Henderson walked in. “Harry has been riding his ass big time,” Verdi said. “And he says to him: ‘What are you doing on that fly ball?!?’ The guy comes in for a quiet dinner, you know, and Harry’s all over him.”
Another time, Ed Lynch, the Cubs’ general manager, walked over to say hello at spring training. “I remember exactly the way it happened,” Lynch said. “I walked up to him — it was (just) pitchers and catchers. He was in town. I hadn’t seen him yet. (I said) ‘Harry, how are you? How was your winter?’ He goes: ‘Eddie, we’ve got to get some pitching for this ballclub.’ ”
It didn’t matter who you were. When Jim Lefebvre was managing the Cubs in the early ’90s, Harry hosted the manager’s pregame show each day, conducting a short interview. One day, he started the show like this:
“Hi everybody, Harry Caray at Wrigley Show, and it’s time for the Jim Lefebvre Show as the Cubs get ready to play the Padres … and Jimmy, the Cubs have been terrible lately.”
The same truth-telling extended to his beer. When Harry’s health started to fail, he cut back on his drinking. But to stay loyal to Budweiser, he switched to O’Doul’s, Anheuser-Busch’s non-alcoholic beer.
“Harry’s got like 9,000 shares of Budweiser stock,” Verdi said, “and he’s right on the air and goes: ‘Boy, I’ve been drinking this NA beer. God, this is awful!’ ”
Rule No. 6: The Old Blue Eyes exception
OK, there was one man who could outlast Harry Caray. The night in question came in a booth at The Pump Room inside the Ambassador East. Dreesen, the comedian, was performing with Frank Sinatra at the Chicago Theater, and he had an idea: To put Harry vs. Sinatra. Who could outdrink who?
The standoff lasted until 5 a.m. Round after round after round. Finally, Harry tapped out.
“Harry got up and said, ‘You win, Frank, I’m going to bed. This is bullshit,’” Dreesen said. “Frank looked at me and winked and said: ‘Amateur.’”
Rule No. 7: Life is about the people you meet
Harry treated Cubs fans like family, but he didn’t get along with everyone. He feuded with other broadcasters. He was hard on young colleagues. Fred Mitchell, his friend from the Chicago Tribune, recalled how melancholy and somber he could be around the holidays.
“He would confide that that was because he was an orphan and he remembered how alone and sad he felt as a child during that time of year,” Mitchell said.
As a boy in St. Louis, Harry — born Harry Carabina — had lost both parents by the age of 14. He was raised by aunts and uncles. He never forgot that he didn’t have much. Before Harry died, Rozner called him up to tell he was leaving the Cubs beat and becoming a columnist. Rozner wanted to get off the road and spend more time with his family, but he figured Harry might be disappointed.
Harry, however, was delighted.
“What I didn’t know is that Harry had found family very late in life,” Rozner said. “He would tell you he was not a great father, he was not a great grandfather. And in those last years, he discovered family.”
One day around then, Harry was in the dugout talking to Cubs manager Jim Riggleman, who happened to be divorced. As the conversation continued, Harry offered one bit of advice.
“He very sincerely said to me, ‘Jim, you’ve got to get married. You don’t want to die alone in a hotel by yourself,’” Riggleman said.
It was the same reason, Colletti believes, that Harry loved long nights out with friends: He just didn’t like being alone.
Rule No. 8: Sometimes you just deserve a cocktail
Harry had a stroke in 1987, which slowed him down — but just barely. Dreesen remembers sitting with Harry and his wife, Dutchie, at his restaurant in Chicago. Harry ordered a drink and Dutchie reminded him: “Harry, the doctor said you shouldn’t drink.” Harry clarified that the doctor had told him he could have one drink per night.
“So, honest to God, I’m not making this up,” Dreesen said. “Harry had one Budweiser. He had one Scotch and soda. He had one Brandy Alexander. He had one glass of wine. He had one martini. He had one of all these drinks. Dutchie just raised her hands and said, ‘What are you going to do?’”
On another late night in New York, Colletti remembers Harry hopping off the team bus, briefcase in hand, walking into the night. The next day, on the field at Shea Stadium, Colletti found Harry around the batting cage.
“I go, ‘Hey, Harry, you seemed to be in a pretty big hurry last night. What were you up to?’” Colletti said. “He looks at me and goes, ‘You know. Once in a while — once in a while — you owe it to yourself just to go out and have a cocktail.’”
