Food D.O.G.s: Harry, the Vet, and Phillies Franks

I might be the only person in the world who misses Veterans Stadium.

Walking past the Spectrum toward the statuesque facade. Climbing the ramp to the turnstile.

Buying a program just before going in and seeing that sliver of artificial turf and pregame warmups through the humongous overhang.

But Harry Kalas's death on Monday gave me one more reason to pine for, admittedly, one of the ugliest baseball parks of all time - and it's food.

When I think of Harry's voice in the realm of ballpark eats, I think of trips to the concession stand for a Phillies Frank. If you walked out of one of the Vet's typically empty upper-level sections onto the concourse area, the first and only thing you’d hear was Harry, doing the radio broadcast, and his golden pipes bouncing around the concrete.

Sometimes there'd only be a few concessions stands open, so you'd have to walk for a while. Harry would be with you the whole way, keeping you updated on whatever Shane Rawley or Juan Samuel was doing out on there on the field.

Eventually, you'd come upon that humble holy grail of a concession stand that the Vet had to offer. It wasn't much. Nachos, fries, ice cream (in the Phillies batting helmet!), soft pretzels.

And the Franks. Oh the glorious Franks. Load those suckers up with mustard and ketchup and relish and whatever else they'd have. I could eat five of them, or more if the Dollar Dog Day had been invented in the mid-1980s.

It's easy for these bandwagon jumpers of today, chowing down one of these fancy foot-long dogs at Citizens Bank Park, or Bull's Barbecue sandwiches, or Tony Luke's cheesesteaks, all while watching a newly minted championship team.

Back in my day, we had plain old hot dogs, and sub-.500 records, and Kevin Gross. And we liked it!

(Oh, and it didn't hurt that we had Harry, too.)

Peter Bothum