On The Dial: Vin Scully – 1927-2022

It’s been almost a week since Vin Scully passed away at the age of 94. Six years removed from his last broadcast from Oracle Park in San Francisco as the voice of the Los Angeles Dodgers. 

Why is Vin so special? And, why is this column dedicated to him?

The story of Scully is personal. I never met him. I wished I did. Yet, he was a part of our family’s life for as long as I can remember. 

Imagine a Sunday morning at the Stern home in Reseda. A color television set sat in the corner of the den. My brother Matthew and I knew that at 10:00 AM, the Dodgers would be playing an East Coast team, live from Veteran’s Stadium or Shea Stadium on KTTV channel 11. Maybe Three Rivers Stadium or Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium. These multipurpose stadiums were unique to us, as we only knew of the baseball-only ballpark nestled in Chavez Ravine near Chinatown and Echo Park.

Just as the broadcast would begin, five words came from Scully himself: “It’s time for Dodger baseball.” That was followed by a cut to Scully himself in the visitor’s press box, with his well-coiffed reddish blonde hair, glistening blue eyes, and perfect smile. He wished us a “very pleasant good afternoon,” even though it was before noon on the West Coast. He invited us to “pull up a chair” and enjoy the game from across the country via the airwaves. 

The Vin Scully we experienced on television was the exact same one that we listened to on our transistor radios. Moreso, our car radios. 

Back then, we tuned to KABC – 790 on the AM dial in Los Angeles. Normally, it would be a talk radio station. When the Dodgers took the field, the only one talking would be Scully. 

Again, he pronounced that it was “time for Dodger baseball,” wished us a “very pleasant good evening” and asked us to “pull up a chair” for a few hours of his stories and a game thrown in for good measure. 

That’s what Scully did. He told stories. He would wave them through at-bats. Steve Garvey or Dusty Baker would be at bat, and some random piece of history would come up. Whether it was related to the guy at bat or not, Scully told stories throughout his 67 years behind the microphone.

The stories never stopped. Not for me. Perhaps put on pause due to relocation with the occasional national broadcast. You could never get Scully away from a microphone without a big turn of events on the diamond. 

That was exactly what happened on October 15, 1988. The Dodgers picked up slugger Kirk Gibson off free agency for more power at the plate. His bat was missed when he went down with an injury prior to the 1988 World Series against the Oakland A’s. 

Scully was working the World Series that year. He was doing the NBC broadcast on television. As the series opened up at Dodger Stadium, he took us to the bottom of the ninth inning, where manager Tommy Lasorda played a wild card on A’s reliever Dennis Eckersley. He sent the injured Gibson up to bat as a pinch hitter.

What transpired does not need to be retold. After a brief silence, Scully announced that “in a year that has been so improbable, the impossible has happened.” 

For those of us of a certain age, we can only recall the time when Willis Reed came back to close the 1970 NBA Finals for the New York Knicks after sustaining an injury that everyone thought would finish his year. That was what the Gibson walk-off homer reminded me of. Only Scully can give it the story it needed, with the context it had to have. 

Thanks to technology – specifically, satellite radio – I rediscovered the old redhead from Fordham University who became the youngest broadcaster in Major League Baseball history. He was the heir apparent to the great Red Barber, who jumped to the New York Yankees broadcasts after years with the Brooklyn Dodgers. In 1953, Scully commanded the airwaves from Ebbets Field, witnessing World Series triumphs and setbacks, no hitters and perfect games. 

Through SiriusXM, I was welcomed by Scully through the infotainment system with the proclamation that it was “time for Dodger baseball” and greeting me with a “pleasant good evening” wherever I was driving. He came through the speakers from Dodger Stadium giving me a glimpse at a Clayton Kershaw start against any given opponent. I need not need to “pull up a seat,” as I was comfortable behind the wheel listening to every word Scully had to say. 

This, from a redhaired kid from The Bronx who would find himself underneath a radio during his boyhood. He would be intoxicated by the “roar of the crowd.” That same roar he would experience for 67 years inside the press box at Ebbets Field, the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, and Dodger Stadium. 

Scully was part of my childhood. On radio or television, he would give us a few hours of Dodger baseball. That voice – an Irish tenor from New York – was the voice of baseball. No matter who you rooted for, you listened to Scully. He told you a story – regardless of ending. 

One such ending still resonated today. Ever the poet, Scully signed off from San Francisco’s Oracle Park with these final words:

"May God give you, for every storm, a rainbow; for every tear, a smile; for every care, a promise; and a blessing in each trial. For every problem life seems, a faithful friend to share; for every sigh, a sweet song, and an answer for each prayer.”

Scully put up a banner that said “I’ll miss you” in front of his press box on his last home broadcast at Dodger Stadium in 2016. Last Friday, the Dodgers unveiled a new banner in the same spot. It read “We’ll miss you.”

Well, Vin…I’ll miss you, too. 

Cover photo courtesy of Floatjon, CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0, via Wikimedia Commons