The numbers in the scorebook were never official until Frank Haraway put down his pencil. He was the keeper of Denver’s growth chart as a major-league city.
“Try to keep up,” Haraway said on the day we met.
Weaving through the Denver Press Club to chase down a football coach, Haraway moved on crutches. Ever been challenged to a foot race by a guy on crutches?
Haraway smoked me.
While choking on the fumes, I learned something unforgettable on that day more than 20 years ago.
Keeping up with Haraway was a great way to watch Denver sports grow up.
His job is done. The numbers on the scorecard are official. Last week, Haraway died at age 88.
The state lost its living history of every athletic feat and colorful character from Whizzer White to Carmelo Anthony.
“What do you think I am, your personal encyclopedia?” Haraway growled into the telephone each time I called.
“Yes,” I admitted without fail, because punching his number put me in touch with a better resource than Google.
“OK, ” said Haraway, his voice softening. “What can I tell you about?”
Everything.
No eyewitness to Colorado sports ever saw more balls, strikes, dunks, tackles, trades or victory parades than Haraway did before, during and after his 44 years as a sportswriter for The Denver Post.
He was the Zelig of the games we played.
In every photograph of any Colorado sporting event worth remembering, Haraway can be found somewhere in the frame.
His estimate of a staggering 7,000 baseball, basketball and football contests he attended always sounded low, because Haraway seemed to be everywhere at once, anywhere you stood up and cheered.
I used to believe if Haraway was not present at the stadium, arena or ballpark, the score did not count.
I still do.
Haraway was the way sports in Colorado were. He was a newspaperman from an era when mustard on the tie was worn like a badge of honor and pro athletes were neighbors from down the street.
Through Haraway’s eyes, it was possible to feel sports’ beauty without the noisy distractions of money, ego or cynicism. In stories, his favorite form of punctuation was a smile.
But Haraway loved to argue sports, although I never once heard him shout.
“You give ’em what for, kid,” Haraway said.
Our favorite running topic of debate was his generosity during decades of service as the official scorer for local baseball teams from the minors to the big leagues.
Altitude? What a thin excuse. My theory is batting averages have long been inflated in Colorado because a certain scorer never learned the meaning of E-6.
“Hitting a baseball is too hard to take one single away,” insisted Haraway, as serious as I’d ever seen him.
But he laughed at my bad jokes, anyway. A mentor who does deserves a fond goodbye.
Even if you never met him, any fan who lives for sports knew Frank, who seldom left the house without a baseball schedule stuffed in his pocket.
Not too long after I began hanging out in the same joints he did, Haraway was informed his ticker needed major repairs. How soon could he check into the hospital for a quadruple coronary bypass?
Haraway declared the surgery would have to wait. You see, there was a big homestand by the Denver Bears that could not be missed.
And the doctor actually agreed.
Decades ago, childhood tuberculosis robbed use of his hips. Crutches clicking on the floor always announced his entrance.
But no matter the season, whenever Haraway arrived at the stadium, I always heard the crack of a bat or the clack of a typewriter, two of his favorite sounds.
Which only proved I was the typical, hopelessly romantic scribe who made too big a deal out of everything, Haraway said.
In spring, while eating dinner together in the Coors Field press box that bears his name, Haraway dreamed aloud of seeing the World Series in Colorado.
“Maybe in one of our lifetimes,” he joked. “See if you can get that done.”
I promise, Frank.
The Rockies conclude the 162nd and final game of the regular season today.
The old official scorer’s funeral is scheduled for Tuesday.
Perfect.
For Haraway, anything can wait until after the baseball is done.
Staff writer Mark Kiszla can be reached at 303-820-5438 or mkiszla@denverpost.com.
