Every so often, an enigmatic force captures Philadelphians’ hearts in a very Philly way. It’s happened with Gritty, Jason Kelce, and that guy who ate all those rotisserie chickens. The Philebrity currently worthy of demigod status is former Phillies All-Star, current Phillies color man, John Kruk.
A baseball giant from 1986 to 1995, Kruk spent time with the San Diego Padres before coming home to Philly in 1989. It was here where he made it to three All-Star Games as a first baseman and became a prominent member of the Phillies’ “Macho Row” during the team’s unsuccessful 1993 World Series run against the Toronto Blue Jays.
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By the time Kruk finished his career, he could claim a .300 batting average, 100 home runs and 592 runs batted in.
Sure, that’s an incredibly impressive baseball career, but his true talent? Yapping. (Not familiar with “yapper?” It’s the latest term for what your grandparents called the “gift of gab,” and basically describes someone with a penchant for chatting about anything and everything.)
Not familiar with Kruk’s yap game? Get up to speed with this montage aptly named John Kruk Being a National Treasure for 10 Minutes.
This summer, unwinding at home with Kruk’s chit-chatting has been my go-to remedy for decompressing. My favorite form of togetherness is game-watching with my pals — a real yapfest with my crew. But most of my friends are reluctant to gather for all 162 games. As an extrovert, watching by myself historically is a letdown.
Since Kruk entered the game, solo-watches are now a beloved dose of me-time. Kruk’s color commentary is the perfect remedy for not feeling so lonely while you watch a game — and he offers plenty of fodder for my friends to unpack when we reconvene.
The legend of Kruk
Truth is, John Kruk’s extra-dry, aw-shucks humor has charmed us for years. There was the time in 1992, his peak mullet era, when he dazzled full force on David Letterman.
Or when, as the personality of the 1993 Phillies locker room, he shirked the title of “athlete” in favor of “baseball player,” which felt more forgiving to his physique.
Years later, he pranked then-rookie second baseman Chase Utley after his first MLB grand slam.
Our Phillies All-Star was even once parodied by SNL all-star Chris Farley.
Over the years, he’s nabbed acting credits in film and television. He’s held coaching gigs, had a few stints with ESPN and wrote a book called I Ain’t an Athlete, Lady.
But in 2017, he made his best career move yet by joining the Phillies broadcast team — his partner in the booth is jovial play-by-play announcer Tom McCarthy — and becoming the man we adore so much today, effectively invigorating what it’s like to watch a Phillies game.
The Kruk effect
I had the pleasure of attending a Phillies game recently. Usually, the electric feeling you get from watching the game from stadium seats, surrounded by 40,000 other fans, is the preferred viewing method.
The Phillies were up by double digits. I witnessed my first in-person grand slam — a Schwarbomb, no less, Kyle Schwarber’s 40th of the season. It was the perfect night to be at Citizens Bank Park.
Until my phone lit up with a text from my husband:
Husband: Can you hear what Kruk is talking about
Me: No, is it good?
Husband: He talked about going to the Franklin Institute and how he learned that ripping off someone’s ear takes the same amount of strength as opening a pickle jar.
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And just like that, my being-there bubble … burst. A total sense of FOMO coursed through my body. Sure, seeing a Schwarbomb IRL is a treat, but I couldn’t help but feel like I missed out on a key moment in the John Kruk commentary highlight reel.
Kruk as cure for a too-long season (and other things that ail us)
Kruk’s soliloquy on the Franklin Institute nicely encapsulates his staying power. We diehard Phillies fans know: We tune in for the Phils, of course, but what keeps many of us enamoured is waiting for the next beautifully nonsensical Krukism to drop.
Let’s face it. Baseball is boring. Yes, it’s America’s pastime. Yes, it has some truly awe-inspiring shows of athleticism. Yes, its influence on sports, culture, politics and American identity could produce plenty of PhD dissertations.
But right smack dab in the middle of a long season, when playoffs seem hopeful but eons away and the excitement of Opening Day has long since faded? That’s when baseball feels a bit like watching paint dry.
We tune in for the Phils, but what keeps many of us enamoured is waiting for the next beautifully nonsensical Krukism to drop.
Cue John Kruk. A former first baseman (and occasional outfielder) with an impeccable gift for out-of-left-field gab. A certified yapper.
Former minor league baseball broadcaster Nick Devlin offered insight into how Kruk is changing the game of the age-old art of sports commentary.
“Former players take themselves very seriously,” he says. “To have a guy like that, who’s not constantly trying to remind you of how great he was or where he’s been, is really refreshing.”
His theory: Kruk is just being unabashedly himself — and that’s exactly what audiences are looking for.
“It’s very charming because it really brings you into [the game], which is ideally what every sports broadcaster says they want to accomplish,” he says. “But it’s very hard for a lot of them … because they’re so stuffy. Kruk just has that ability to cut through that filter and be like: You know what? I am just myself.”
“He has a willingness to just say what’s on his mind and surrender to the boredom … a lot of times you’re just looking for something to talk about.” — Nick Devlin, former minor league broadcaster
Devlin says most times, analysts fill dead air with anecdotes from their past playing careers. Not Kruk (although the time he recalled playing against a prison team whose catcher told him what he was in for — while Kruk was at bat – was certainly a highlight we’re glad he shared).
Kruk’ll remind you to get a colonoscopy or complain about how difficult hotel light switches are to figure out. Why are there no waves in Miami? Why aren’t babies born with chest hair? What should you order for breakfast at Uncle Bill’s Pancake House? Such Krukian musings are the antidote to a season that tends to lag.
“He has a willingness to just say what’s on his mind and surrender to the boredom,” says Devlin. “Because a lot of times you’re just looking for something to talk about.”
With Kruk in the booth, it feels like you’re watching the game with an old pal, without ever leaving your couch. Tune him in. Tune him out. It’s just better to have him there.
Brawn, brains — and a sense of humor
Amongst my social circles, Kruk is an icon. When the topic of Kruk enters the conversation, my baseball fan and sports-averse peers both light up. One former Mets fan recently shared with me that his burgeoning John Kruk fandom was enough to pull him over to his version of the dark side: He now roots for the Phils.
When you’re entertaining enough to make people cheat on their home team with a division rival, you know you’re doing something right.
John Kruk’s apparent commitment to weirdness and jabbering feels like a tribute to Philly itself. While plenty of cities claim oddity, few do so with such little care for how the rest of the world perceives them.
It’s the “no one like us, we don’t care” of it all that Kruk so easily captures. Watching someone truly enjoy the game with little self-regard, who could care less about his rank as a sportscaster is refreshing — and, ironically, makes him the best at what he does.
Kruk’ll remind you to get a colonoscopy or complain about how difficult hotel light switches are to figure out.
Of course, not everyone agrees. Case in point: my baseball purist father, part of a subset of ball fans who feel the game should be reported as if it were a chess match, or breaking news.
On the matter of sports, I typically take my dad’s word for it. He spent the bulk of his career as a Philly sports journalist, so I often yield to his sage sports wisdom … except on matters of Kruk.
His beef: “It’s like listening to two guys talk about the game at a bar.” To him, baseball commentary should be a type of poetry — with a lively cadence that never veers off topic. He recalls the greats like he’s some sort of baseball encyclopedia. There’s that wisdom again …
I push back: Kruk could still go head-to-head with any analyst on RBI stats, hitting power, or even player psyche, I say. It’s just that he chooses to intersperse baseball with questions about how to open an email. In this way, Kruk displays a talent for casually shooting the shit that other announcers sorely lack.
Ironically, watching a game with my father is a lot like watching a game commentated by Kruk. In the same breath, my dad often reels off facts about a player’s strengths and weaknesses and gives the details on the new soup recipe he perfected. It’s the likeness to my dad’s play-by-play that makes Kruk all the more appealing to me.
Kruk provides the conversation we need, especially as playoffs approach and the stakes increase. Win or lose, he will still make sure you’ve had a good time. You don’t need your blood pressure to rise if an outfielder misses an easy catch. Just listen to Kruk suggest that he and McCarthy should name their child Malachai, should they ever … become fathers together.
Shouldn’t every sport be this simple? Watching sports is supposed to be fun, after all.
And if we can’t all be together to watch every game, shouldn’t we at least be able to capture that vibe?
A few nights ago, during an Eagles preseason game, Guard Landon Dickerson chowed down on an Uncrustable while Kubrick staring straight down the barrel of the camera during a sideline interview with Offensive Tackle Lane Johnson.
All I could think to myself was: These announcers have no idea the gift they’ve been given and how they are squandering it. Kruk would know how to do this right. He’d say something about such a big guy eating such a silly little sandwich. Why can’t Kruk be the commentator for every Philly sport?
In this moment, I’m reminded: A solid understanding of the sport, a dash of playful witticisms, an unbridled passion for yapping and a whole lot of not taking yourself too seriously: That’s John Kruk’s winning formula.
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