"Only truth can give true reputation; only reality can be of real profit. Unfounded things never reach old age."

- Balthasar Gracian, 17th-century Spanish Jesuit

We speak in baseball of immortality, of Ruthian clouts, of Mays' catches - even, if gruesomely now, of the mastery of Ted Williams, the Fenway deity whose corpse lies frozen in a cryonics lab, there to "live," perhaps, for a creepy eternity. Mostly, though, we speak of deeds, of acts that will live forever in the collective memory of the game.

Pity, then, in a way, that a man like Ernie Harwell has to grow old.

Harwell, the gracious Hall of Fame announcer with the basso profundo voice, will retire at the end of this season after 59 years. Thirty-seven have been with the Detroit Tigers, the 101-year-old franchise he has come, over the years, to personify.

His "farewell tour" of the American League brought him to Baltimore last weekend, where, at 84, he called games as ever, chatted up friends, sat in on "baseball chapel" and recalled his days as the first announcer for the big-league Baltimore O's.

"We weren't a very good team then," he says with a laugh. "Vern Stephens led in home runs with eight. He led in RBIs with 46! I don't remember for sure, but I think Don Larsen lost 20 games. The team lost 100.

"Things got better after I left here [in 1959], when [former GM/manager] Paul Richards came. He rebuilt things. But we loved it in Baltimore. It has given many gifts to the game."

For Harwell, who knows that baseball, at its best, tends toward the understated, the words "farewell tour" seem oxymoronic. "You must feel like a rock star," a reporter suggests. "I wish I were a rock star," laughs the man who has, in fact, published 55 original songs and sometimes cites Gershwin on the air.

"It may be a little late for that now." Mostly, it's his chance to revisit his favorite part of baseball: the ushers, chaplains, managers and the millionaires who make it up. "That's what I'll miss the most," he says. "The people. I've been blessed to know so many."

In 1999, Harwell was emcee before the final game at 87-year-old Tiger Stadium, one of baseball's gems. He presided over the opening of Detroit's new Comerica Park, which, like Camden Yards, puts fondness of the past on display. For Harwell, a devout Christian who reads from the Song of Solomon to open his first broadcast each year, everything new is old again, and vice versa. Just as it is for his game.

But Ernie Harwell Day, slated in Detroit for Sept. 15, will abash one of the sport's great poets. "I have no idea what's planned," he says, brows furrowed. "It'll be too much. But they were kind enough to plan it, so I'll do what I always do: show up."

'Become a friend'

In baseball, that's half the battle. Four-hour games, coast-to-coast travel and steamy, nine-month schedules see to that. "When I started, there were eight teams in each league," says Harwell. "The westernmost outpost was St. Louis. I'm not one of these 'golden-age' types - you know, 'It was better in my day' - but it was more intimate then."

Harwell shows why baseball, for all its current problems, still holds the unofficial title of national pastime. It brings out the best in those who love it.

"I'd never have come this far without Lulu," he says of his wife of 61 years. "She's been a good sport. She left Baltimore even though we loved it here. She's the best thing that ever happened to me." That includes, he says, the 1984 Tigers, who started 35-5, stayed in first place all season and easily won the World Series.

He concedes it's fun to announce for a winner - and his "Tiges" have had more lean years than good - even that isn't the point. "The game itself, the intrinsic game, has got so many nuances," he says. "It can be as simple as which team scored more runs. But it's got more layers to peel away than you could ask for."

For Harwell, it's about more than stats and standings. He has always questioned fans who only like a winner. "You can see a great game between two second-division clubs," he says. "The pitching, the strategy, the setting up of hitters - in the big leagues, you're seeing the best of the best."

So are fans who have asked Harwell into their homes, on TV and radio, for almost as long as he's been wed. He thinks it's the office more than the occupant. "Especially in baseball," says the Emory University grad, "and especially on the radio. You're the background to people's lives. They go to the mountains or beaches, into the kitchen or the workplace. The game is a constant. They listen. Their minds can wander, then come back. In that way, you become a part of the family."

Whether you're a Jack Buck in St. Louis, a Harry Caray in Chicago, a Herb Carneal in Minnesota or a Chuck Thompson in Baltimore, "if you're around enough," he says, "they get used to you. You become a friend."

Love of the game

Harwell, of course, brings more to it than that. He's a man, after all, who grew up in rural Georgia, listening to Mike Thomas and Jim Davenport, the voices of the old Atlanta Crackers of the Southern Association. In those days, the only big-league games he could hear were those in the World Series. "You might hear four games a season; you might hear seven," he says. "But I'll tell you, I looked forward to them all year long."

Harwell took over as Crackers' announcer in 1940, at a time when broadcasters didn't even travel with the team. If Atlanta played at Birmingham, for instance, a telegrapher at the game sent basic accounts of the action - strikes, balls, hits - in Morse code. In the home press box, the announcer did the rest.

"I might say, 'The infield's back, the outfield's to the right, the pitcher looks in to get his sign; there's a hard slider on the outside corner. Strike one called.'" He whacked a ruler on a table for bat meeting horsehide. "You were an actor as well as an announcer," he says.

Maybe that's where his storytelling skills - painting a verbal picture, he calls it - originate. Maybe it's an inborn talent. Either way, you're almost a painter, he says.

"You've got an empty canvas to work with," Harwell says. "Baseball has a certain framework. It's pretty mathematical. You've got nine innings, three outs per half-inning, and three balls and two strikes. It's structured, really, but you have a chance, within that structure, to be a little creative."

Harwell certainly is, even away from the ballpark. He'll tell you of Babe Ruth - "a big, blustery fellow," he says - or of the Hall of Fame gallery of other greats he has described: Feller, Dean, Musial, Snider, Kaline or Ted Williams, the best hitter Harwell ever saw.

During his time in Baltimore, 1954 to 1959, he all but adopted a skinny young kid named Brooks Robinson. "We had a big old house near Notre Dame [college]," says Harwell. "It was a farmhouse, built in the 1850s, with 10 bedrooms. We had a couple of acres, and we had a horse in the garage. Our two boys used to ride it."

Robinson impressed the announcer by coming over often to play catch with his boys. "A great gentleman," he says, "even then. Brooks is one of my favorites in baseball."

Then there were Tigers - lots of Tigers. Harwell, who moved in 1960 when the Orioles wouldn't match Detroit's offer, says it might have been more fun had the team won more often. But that didn't stop his appreciating, say, Mickey Lolich, the heavyset lefty who won three games in the Tigers' come-from-behind World Series win against St. Louis in 1968.

Lolich was "the working-man's pitcher," says Harwell. "Never missed a turn." Mark Fidrych, the goofball righty who delighted Tiger fans with his antics in 1976, was "the most charismatic player [Detroit] ever had. All he wanted to do was pat the mound, talk to the baseball and throw it past the hitters."

Few recall it today, but in 1951, Harwell - just as his New York Giants announcing partner, Russ Hodges, did - called Bobby Thomson's pennant-winning home run in the 1951 National League playoffs.

Hodges and Harwell took turns doing radio and TV, and "when Oct. 3 came up," he says, "the playoff game, the third and final game, it was my turn on TV. I thought I had the better assignment. For the first time in the history of television, this sports series was going to be telecast coast-to-coast. There were going to be five radio broadcasts. Poor old Russ was going to get lost on the radio, and I'd be on TV.

"Well, the Lord works wonders. They taped the radio call that Russ made - 'The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant!' - ... and eventually it became the most famous sports broadcast of all time. I was on TV, all by myself, on NBC, coast-to-coast: no recording, no replays, nothing."

Harwell nearly blew the call to boot. "I just said, 'It's gone!' and I was going to let the picture take over. In that split-second, I realized the ball wasn't hit all that well. It was sort of a soft, arcing line drive. In the Polo Grounds, it was only 278 feet to left field, though. If it didn't go out, I decided I'd say, 'It's gone ... into [the fielder's] glove!"

In top form

No history was at stake this past weekend, when two sub-.500 teams - his Tigers and the rebuilding Orioles - went at it for three games at Camden Yards. But true to his code, Harwell was in top form. He showed, in fact, what a great announcer really does.

He showed his humanity. He spoke of Chuck Thompson, longtime voice of the O's and, natch, a longtime friend with whom Harwell often speaks. "Chuck's been having eye troubles, I know," he said on the air. "We wish him the best."

He showed his art. "There's a little bit of daylight left," he told listeners, "not much, though. The lights are already on. A gentle breeze is blowing, but it's a warm, humid night here in Crabtown, typical of an August evening - 97 degrees at game time." The Tigers jumped to a 5-2 lead, but the Orioles mounted a rally and the crowd noise rose. "Here in the fifth," he said, "the Birds are beginning to flap their wings."

He showed his love of tradition. "It's a small park here," he said, "not like the old one. It doesn't have the foul-territory acreage of old Memorial Stadium, which was originally built for football. They've torn the old place down, you know. It didn't seem that old to me."

He showed fondness for the home team. "This city has given so much to baseball," he said. "The Bambino, slugging Babe Ruth, came from here, of course. Now they're playing 'inside baseball,' working on the little things. So they've done it both ways."

He showed his up-to-date knowledge of the game, but also his old-fashioned ways. The visitors were "the Tiges" and "the Detroiters." Tony Batista was the Orioles' "third-sacker." But his humor and energy kept things relevant. Detroit's Steve Sparks, whose "out" pitch is a knuckleball, had it working. "The umps don't like a knuckleballer any more than the hitters do," he said.

Mostly, he showed a love for a game he has helped define and the people who make it up. He flawlessly introduced eight visitors in the booth to each other and showed them his wryness. Midgame, an assistant handed him a note. "Ernie, we love you!" it read. He shook the envelope, laughing: no cash, no checks, he complained.

'Keep things simple'

There's something comforting about Harwell, a man who has said an announcer's best quality is his "wearability." In a hotel room near Camden Yards, after an early dinner, he's barefoot, feet up, relaxed in baggy trousers and a striped pajama top.

The wrinkles of 84 years seem to move as he talks, telling more of vigor than age. Gladness and gravity, empathy and soul, play across his features. His blue eyes glow.

Maybe it comes from his faith. Maybe it comes from Lulu and his four kids. Maybe it grew from the game he loves. But a man who trusts his humanity this way surely trusts your own. "Where are you from?" he asks a reporter. "Are you married? What team do you cheer for? Ever make it to Tiger Stadium?" He asks as much as he answers.

As to baseball's troubles, he doesn't address them much. Fans hear enough, he says, about salaries and holdouts at the expense of the game. What about the surfeit of home runs? "There are 20 theories about why that is," he says, "and we could hash and rehash them. But baseball goes in cycles. They should help the pitchers by raising the mound - it'd be so simple! - but pitching will come back in time."

What about the dark shadow of a pending strike? On Aug. 30, we'll know if Harwell's last hurrah is cut short by the millionaires who rule the game. "Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior," says Harwell in his soft, Peach State drawl. "I gave my life to him in 1961. If there's one thing I know, it's that I'm not in control. He is. I don't know what will happen. But I know things happen for the best."

Even a shutdown of the game he loves, during his final year?

Typically, Harwell sees a silver lining even in that: He won't have to squirm through an Ernie Harwell Day.

"To be to be honest with you," says one of baseball's all-time greats, eyes crinkled in mirth, "It would be sort of a relief. It's going to be such a fuss! I don't like a fuss. I try to keep things simple."