I grew up in a household of sports. We followed what was in season, like grocery shopping. In the winter was basketball. I saw the last generation of Jordan appearances, the beginning of the Phil Jackson-era Lakers. Those teams were exciting to follow and we're some of the most dominant around. I saw the final period of Chick Hearn games before he passed. I was far too young to appreciate their significance and or even understand what he meant to longtime Laker fans who watched them at the Forum during their showtime years. The Forum too, was this mythical arena, I was told at that age, in a bad neighborhood. It remained empty with only memories keeping it standing. It was where the greatest basketball players, teams and broadcasters of all time met to play the sport. Chick was the voice behind the franchise and will be remembered as one of the best in the game.
Springtime was all about baseball. This was a sport I was keen enough to grab hold of at a young age. Seemingly simple, slow, rhythmic and romantic. It's a sport with enough superstitions that would intrigue any five-year-old. It allows many human errors that somehow make the game beautiful. I played the sport at a young age, signed up to several teams and watched the Dodgers nearly every day. My roots for baseball went much deeper than basketball or any other sport. I could tell stories of many teams and eras of my team. And that was part of it too...saying "my team" and phrases like "we're about to score". It still hurts to watch us loose or struggle, and when some of my favorite players are let go. But the team still works me up like a child. The contagious energy that is only felt at the stadium, the high-fives with strangers. The singing at the 7th inning stretch in unison, the smells of ballpark food, peanut guys' screams. The drunk guys after the games still cheering on the team, even when they'd lose. It's all part of my upbringing. The more important part, however, was Vin Scully's voice. This week is the last of his 67-year career.
Vin's voice was the swing of the bat, the slap of the glove, the cheer after a double-play. He was part of the tapestry that made the game special. His vast amount of information about the game, anecdotes and memories kept each three-hour game interesting. I often would pay more attention toward the end of the game in amazement as he could still talk about something new. His deep knowledge of the game was one-of-a-kind and deserves all the acclaim he's received over the years. One could hear his genuine excitement for the game that would light a spark from his childhood. He never treated it like a job, though he was professional, he was still the Irish boy from the Bronx. He greeted my family and I every evening on TV or over the radio, with insightful stories that only he could know. There were personal stories about a player's mother washing grass stains out of his pants, or the way a player's journey from a small town in another country eventually lead to playing in giant stadiums around the States. There were countless anecdotes each night that made the audience closer to, believe it or not, players from the opposing team! He humanized every person on the field.
Vinny's retirement will be a huge loss for the game of baseball but I consider myself very lucky have listened to the games with his voice behind the microphone. There were days when I just wasn't up to watching anything, for whatever problem was going on in my life but when I would finally turn it on and hear his pleasant voice, mid-story, I would stop... and listen. The man could snap me right out of a bad mood instantaneously. I'm not exaggerating. He was the Garrison Keillor of baseball. It was the tone of his voice, like a grandfather who knew everything there was to know about the game. Without him, it really isn't the same. And it won't ever be.
