The Day Harry Caray Died

By Mike Trippiedi

Homeless alcoholic Glenn Campanella can't get a break. With his uncanny resemblance to the famed announcer, Harry Caray, his path to sobriety is on a constant detour by strangers buying him beer in exchange for singing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game."
But when the real Harry Caray dies, Glenn Campanella's downhill path spirals even deeper. He finds himself kidnapped by a serial arsonist and his on-again, off-again, stripper girlfriend. Together, this modern-day Bonnie and Clyde, hope to exploit their new discovery to the many mourners gathering at Chicago's Wrigley Field. And the homeless man with the Harry Caray face, soon finds himself trapped inside a nightmare, on a direct collision course with his past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Trippiedi
• Release date: Nov 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9780463052853

Mike Trippiedi

Mike Trippiedi is a writer of all things from blogs to screenplays, and short stories to novels. As a playwright, his women's prison comedy, Caged Vixens, had successful runs in Memphis, TN; Huntsville, AL; and Urbana, IL. His feature-length film, Amber Rose, enjoyed a long run on the film festival circuit, which included wins for Best Dramatic Feature at both the Washington DC Independent Film Festival, and the Illinois International Film Festival. Mike lives in Champaign, IL with his wife, Sue, and their cat, Greta. He can be reached at [e-mail]

Book preview

THE DAY HARRY CARAY DIED

A novel by Mike Trippiedi

Cover design by Joe Taylor

Published by Kindle Direct Publishing

This novel is a work of fiction. The characters depicted in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. And while many of the locations are real, the events that happen in them are not.

Copyright © 2022 Mike Trippiedi and Shut Up & Do It Productions

All rights reserved

First Edition

First published by Kindle Direct Publishing 2022

Printed in the United States of America

For Ross and Joan.

Jennifer, V, and Jack.

And for Sue – always.

CHAPTER ONE

"When I die, I hope they don’t cremate me ‘cuz I’ll burn forever."

Harry Caray

It’s not like I didn’t have any warning. Harry Caray had been in a coma since Valentine’s Day. So, when he left this earth four days later, baseball fans and drinkers everywhere mourned and toasted a man who not only made a dying pastime popular again, but also brought acceptance to public drunken behavior. I should know. Living on the streets and having an uncanny resemblance to the famed announcer, not only got me a lot of free booze, but also helped derail my path to sobriety.

My name is Glenn Campanella. I also answer to bum, loser, drunk, homeless man, and Harry. And it was the latter moniker that roused me from my slumber on that fateful night of Wednesday, February 18, 1998.

Harry, you’re dead, said the blurry figure.

Still half asleep, I believed the guy. And as my fog attempted to decipher whether the hazy image before me was an angel calling me home, or the Devil himself, I felt the liquid hit my face and clothes.

At first, I thought it was water he threw to wake me up, until the odor overwhelmed me. Gasoline! And as I heard the strike of a match, followed by the words, Burn! Bum! I shot straight to my knees from my portable cardboard home and began to plead.

Begging for one’s life is a lot different than asking for a handout. When you’re hungry, or cold, or need a drink, the truth is right there in the eyes of those who dare to look. But when faced with the choice of living on the street or not living at all, the mouth overrides, and the true sound of desperation transpires.

As the shadowy figure waved the lit match in front of my gasoline-soaked body, my passive need for a dollar instantly morphed into an aggressive whoring for my life. Gone was my despondent gaze that everyone but the poets looked away from. My hollow look replaced with sincere desperation in the form of babbling words, which I hoped could somehow convince this fire starter to SPARE MY LIFE!

***

My Harry Caray looks and similar voice had always given me the advantage on the streets. While my cohorts in misery struggled with the daily challenges of keeping warm, getting fed, and surviving to sunrise, I was regularly the recipient of sandwiches and beer. I had to earn them, of course. Singing Take Me Out to the Ball Game would normally do the trick, but sometimes all it took was a heartfelt, Holy Cow! for me to be set for the evening. I was the envy of my homeless buddies – the broken man with the Harry Caray features – enabling me to easily score alcoholic swag with just a song or a phrase. Or as Harry would put it, It might be, it could be…it is! Homerun! Chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug.

***

While the flame from the match swayed like a pendulum above my now flammable head, I suddenly felt my hobo-king status on the verge of going up in smoke – literally. And as my eyes burned from the gasoline and my legs wobbled with fear, I held on to the hope that my Harry Caray attributes would rescue me from becoming toast – burnt toast.

It was going to take more than a song or a phrase to get me out of this jam, though. I had to go for the long ball. The time was now to impersonate Harry Caray doing what he did best – mispronounce names. Who didn’t love it when Harry got tongue-tied when players like Mark Grudzielanek or Tony Graffannino came to bat? I’m a genius! Or so I thought. In the panic to save my life, the only player I could think of was Mark Grace. Even Harry couldn’t screw up that name. I’m dead! What was I thinking?

Then it hit me, the obvious. Ryne Sandberg! How many times did Harry Caray get Sandberg’s name confused with the pitcher, Scott Sanderson? I could feel the heat from the match dangerously close to my face. I desperately morphed into my Harry Caray persona, hoping I could win him over.

That brings up the second baseman, Ryne Sanderson. Ryno. Ryneberg. Sander... The second baseman is now batting. Sandberg. That’s it, Sanderson.

The man paused, then rapidly shook the match, distinguishing the flame. I was safe – for a few more seconds at least. There was evil in this man’s eyes, and I sensed he wasn’t through with me yet. I was correct.

He leaned toward me and stopped when our eyes were parallel. You are old news, pal, he said. Harry Caray died a couple of hours ago. Your days of being an imposter are no longer needed. Then the stranger reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small box of wooden matches. He picked one and struck it along the side of the matchbox. And in an instant, the flame had returned.

He was right. I wasn’t Harry Caray. I was just a hopeless drunk pleading for my squandered life. But I was not ready for it to end. Not at that moment. And certainly not by being burned alive. Please, I begged. I’ll do anything!

The man stood motionless. He then looked at the burning match, then at me, then back to the match. We both watched in stillness as the flame got closer to his fingers before he snuffed it out with a violent shake of his wrist. He then reached out and twisted my face in his hand while he looked me up and down. Anything?

I nodded.

Get up!

My face cringed as the gasoline from the collar of my coat splashed into my mouth while he forcefully lifted me to my feet. Before I was steady, I found myself being pushed, pulled, and dragged to some undetermined destination. I had no choice but to keep up his pace. Where are we go…

Shut up!

On a nice summer night, the bars would be overflowing with drinkers taking in the seasonal air; some of them even spilling out into the street. But this was February, and we only passed a couple of smokers. One of them glanced up at me and did a double take. Rest in peace, Harry, he said, before stamping out his cigarette.

My mind was racing. Where are we going? What is my fate? How can I get away? I knew the downtown area we were in and felt safe as long as we didn’t turn into the alley up ahead. The homeless community knew better than to venture there at night. With no lights and no open businesses, it was a breeding ground for shady characters and petty crime. So when I found myself being pulled into the darkened backstreet by this irrational pyromaniac, I was not surprised. And as a defense mechanism, my body went numb. I’m doomed!

I made it to the end of the alley untouched and felt a pang of relief until I spotted a lone car parked on the street and instinctively felt that it was his. I was right.

Get in.

I did. And the minute the door closed, the smell of gasoline from my soaked clothes filled the car.

You stink, he said, rolling down the windows, before turning the key in the ignition and speeding away down the deserted street.

He turned on the radio, and a call-in sports program was playing. Everyone was talking about my doppelganger, Harry Caray. I had spent the worst years of my life impersonating him, being rewarded with free liquor and unearned vagrant fame. I knew my subject and at times felt these callers were talking about me. But when they spoke of all the joy Harry Caray brought to the world and the delight he got from life itself, I understood the fraud I was and believed whatever fate lay ahead was not only deserved, but overdue.

What do you want from me? I asked.

Shut your beer hole. You don’t talk unless I say so.

I sat nervously looking out the car window, not recognizing my location, wondering who this kidnapper/arsonist was and what he wanted from me. The radio was blaring in my ear. All the people calling in with fascinating stories about Harry Caray were surprisingly soothing to my current situation. That was until the radio DJ broke in and said, You’re listening to KMOX, and I instinctively knew my fate was in the dirty paws of a St. Louis Cardinals fan.

CHAPTER TWO

"And all this to-do about me singing ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game’ in the middle of the seventh inning – I always did that. It’s the only song I know the words to."

Harry Caray

Cue the banjo music. That seemed to be the only element missing from my current tableau. The gasoline had doubled my vision, so when my eye caught the speedometer at what appeared to be 6565, I assumed our speed was pushing seventy and rising. It certainly felt like it.

All four windows were rolled down. If a person happened to be walking along the sidewalk, they would have thought the strong fuel smell was coming from the car’s engine, not my body. It was cold, and the open windows made it more bitter. Not only could I feel ice crystals forming around my nostrils, but I could also see them developing in his. But I remained the obedient prisoner – quiet, passive, and terrified.

Feeling the car accelerating, I reached for the seatbelt and securely tightened the wide strap around my unprotected body. Upon seeing the motion to safeguard myself, my kidnapper started to laugh. Too afraid to talk, I gave him a what’s so funny? look.

You might want to rethink that safety belt, he snickered. You’re so caked in gasoline you’ll blow apart in a million pieces on impact. If we crash, you have a better chance of surviving being thrown from the car.

I unbuckled the seatbelt. Then in an act of either bravery, stupidity, or defiance, I snapped the strap securely back into place.

Fine, he said, before reaching in front of me and opening the glove compartment. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other rummaging around the compartment, he finally located what he was looking for and pulled it out. It was a pair of scissors. And with one snip, my seatbelt was useless. And just so you don’t get any ideas, he said, waving the scissors in front of me, he threw them out the window of the speeding car.

No one spoke. With the call-in radio show blaring, the fierce wind blowing in through all directions, and my barbaric imagination playing out every nightmare scenario of what my outcome might be, silence was the one thing we weren’t driving in. And the noise within and around was worse than any jackhammer, bagpipe, or nails on a chalkboard. I needed a drink.

The Harry Caray tributes were now becoming repetitive, motivating my abductor to turn off the radio. Never fails, he said. They always make dead people out to be saints. Then he looked at me grinning. Wonder what they’ll say about us?

Then the car instantly accelerated. The strong air blowing into my face had cleared the gasoline from my eyes. I preferred my double vision, for it made my situation feel more dream-like. This was now all too real. I could see the speedometer clearly, and it had reached ninety, which would be fast on a highway, but we were on a residential street – making this perilous joyride downright suicidal.

There was a stop sign up ahead. He was not slowing down. When does my life flash before me? I thought. Then I realized my loser highlight reel comes the moment before death, not sooner, making me stuck on this high-speed death row until I go kaboom. It was late enough, however, that no cars were in our path as we sailed through the intersection untouched.

And as quickly as the stages of denial and bargaining passed through me, I could feel acceptance on the horizon. That was not to happen, though, – at least not yet. The car was slowing down. I glanced at the speedometer – sixty-five, fifty, forty, thirty-five, twenty-five, fifteen, ten, five. He turned into a driveway.

Oh my God! This maniac just took me to his house!

I thought about bolting from the car, but my anxiety paralyzed me. Even when he left the vehicle, I found myself immobile. His words, Come on! made me blink, but it was his hands yanking my body that got me out of the car and on to my unsteady feet.

I kept moving in the direction he was shoving, until I stumbled up some stairs and fell onto his front porch. I laid there to prolong my fate. If he wanted me to get up, he would have to pull me to my feet. I waited. Silence. He was gone.

My mind wanted to feel relief but was instead overwhelmed with uneasiness. I shut my eyes. The darkness scared me. I have to run. NOW! Adrenaline got me to my feet only to be knocked flat on my back by a strong gush of ice-cold water from a hose my captor was now holding and spraying all over me.

Can’t bring you inside smelling like a gas station, he said, as the freezing water soaked straight through to my skin. Besides, need you smelling clean and fresh for your lap dance.

My what?

Everything was out of whack, and the constant spray of hose water drenching me from head to shoe intensified my confused state of mind. The gasoline smell was not washing away, nor was the stench of the last thirty minutes, which was now etched into my newfangled reality. And the menacing intuition I felt in my stomach told me things were just getting started. Did he say lap dance?

Caroline! he yelled, turning the hose from me to the door. Caroline! he screamed again, this time his words breaking into a high-pitched crack.

A female voice, which I assumed was Caroline, came screaming back behind the closed door. Go away, Bucky!

Bucky? My kidnapper’s name is BUCKY?

I come bearing gifts!

Don’t want no damn flowers! yelled the female from behind the door. Go sleep somewhere else tonight.

Oh, Caroline, baby, this beats any flower. Come on. Open the door. Come see what I brought you. You like butterflies?

That last question was addressed to me, but I didn’t realize it until he got up in my face and repeated it – angrily. I said, do you like butterflies?

Who doesn’t like butterflies? I replied.

ME! he shouted before punching the front door with his bare fist. He then took the hose and disappeared around the corner of the house. I heard the water shut off, and before I could arrange my thoughts he returned – crying.

I think it might be wise not to bring up the subject of butterflies.

Okay Harry, or whoever you are, he said, after wiping his tears and runny nose with his coat sleeve. I need you to get up, pull yourself together, and give me the best rendition of ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame’ you got, cause the way I see it, you’re my only hope of getting me into my own house. And if I don’t get through that door, you don’t get through the night. Understand?

I’m wet and I’m cold.

And you still smell like gasoline, but we’ll get you cleaned up once inside… MY HOUSE!, he screamed at the door, before punching it once again.

You got liquor in there? I said as I struggled to my feet.

Sing.

Oh, the priorities of a dependent down-and-out. I knew this routine backwards, sideways, clean, tipsy, and loaded. And with the real Harry Caray barely cold, this was the least I could do to honor his legacy. And to get some alcohol.

Caroline, I spoke at the door using my best Harry Caray voice. Let me hear you! Loud and clear! A one, a two, a three. Take me out to the ball game. Take me out with the crowd. Buy me some peanuts and cracker jack, I don’t care if I never get back…

And then I heard it from the other side of the door. She was singing with me. And together we crooned, Let me root, root, root for the Cubbies, if they don’t win it’s a shame. For it’s one, two, three strikes, you’re out, at the old ball game.

The sound of a dead bolt being released stopped our duet. And Caroline appeared. She was a mixture of pretty and plain but had a roughness about her that I instinctively knew to be cautious of. It was in her eyes: life – a hard one.

Is this bum for real? she said, looking me up and down.

He’s no bum, Caroline. Come on, Harry, he nudged with his head. Talk to my lady.

All eyes were on me. They appeared to both want this act to continue, and I was in no position to deny them. Gasoline, lap dance, butterflies, all raced through my mind. What is going on? I had no choice but to play this freakish scenario through to whatever outcome awaited. Don’t let me down now, Harry. It might be, it could be…it is! The mysterious, Caroline. In the flesh. Holy Cow!

She stared at me emotionless, then took my hand. It was warm. Don’t worry about Bucky, she said. He’s a pussycat. I’m the one you should be afraid of. And with that, she led me inside, slammed the door shut, and pulled the dead bolt tight – leaving my abductor alone on his porch.

CHAPTER 3

"Now he gives me a hug. I see his hands and arms with all these marks and tattoos. I’m thinking, I’m hugging the anti-Christ."

Harry Caray

You smell like gasoline.

I didn’t answer. I was not only numb