When I first moved here, I understood right away that this was a man of righteous indignation held in check by just one thing: his flattop. And then that disappeared. About a year ago, I figure, the man just grew out his hair. I've been waiting for its return ever since.
His hair was my connection to this region's sports past. It was Hank Stram and the short shorts of the Kansas City Kings. It was chagrin over a pine-tar bat and a fifth down in Columbia. It was baseball before WAR and football before guilt. Harry told it like it was from beneath a slab as smooth and straight as the deck of an aircraft carrier.
So now I'm starting a rallying cry, and I hope it inspires us all no less than the one that allowed a plucky team of Little Leaguers to take the field at the Houston Astrodome. Bring back your flattop, Jack Harry.