Read On: Three cheers for Vin Scully

I have been dreading this day all year.

Vincent Edward Scully (better known as Vin) is retiring in just a week or so. Hanging up his microphone and riding off into the sunset.

The accolades have rightly been pouring in. There will never be a sports announcer as great as Scully. That’s not opinion but fact.

It had to happen sometime. The man is 88, almost 89. He’s been at this, in the same job, working for the same team, for 67 years. Sixty-seven! This should qualify Scully not merely for the gold watch but the watch factory itself.

But Scully has represented considerably more to me than just the guy who calls Dodgers baseball. Without ever knowing it, he’s been the soundtrack to my life, the connective tissue that’s inspired my very existence, a guiding force that has by example influenced my character and conduct and shaped the man I’ve become.

A fan holds up a picture of Hall of fame broadcaster Vin Scully prior to a baseball game between the Dodgers and the San Francisco Giants, Tuesday, Sept. 20, 2016, in Los Angeles.

(Mark J. Terrill / AP)

My childhood was what one might describe as turbulent. My parents were in divorce proceedings before I turned 1. I logged nearly two years in an orphanage as a radical full-time child care solution. My brother died at 17 after basically eating himself to death. And I was ultimately passed back and forth between my mother’s and father’s households with little supervision and less direction.

Through it all, beginning when I was 7 in 1965 after discovering baseball, Vin Scully was there for me when often no one else was. His lyrically descriptive and comforting voice seemed to speak directly to me through my portable transistor radio during ballgames, serving as a stabilizing pillar of aural reassurance.

Indeed, while I thought I was addicted to baseball, it turned out what I was actually hooked on was Vinnie – a role model who literally mentored me through the airwaves.

Via the way he called a game, Scully taught me how to communicate in an economy of language, when to shut up, how to describe and how to speak volumes by being a great listener.

He taught me that no live shot of a baby can go uncommented upon and that there really is nothing greater.

He taught me how to elevate a moment through simplicity and elegance and demonstrated how much words and phrasing matter.

He taught me that conversation, even one-way conversation, is itself poetry.

He taught me that the most special hot dog on the planet goes by the name Farmer John.

He taught me that treating everyone with respect is as vital as breathing, and that humility isn’t something to merely strive for but must be utterly embodied.

He taught me that everyone has a story, and as human beings we need be open to hearing them all, even from those with whom we may disagree or think foolish.

He taught me the importance of class, the kind of class that you exhibit by never trashing your boss no matter how much he or she may deserve it.

He taught me how to remain impartial when you’re supposed to be impartial but to take a stand when necessary.

He taught me how one can practice spiritual faith without having it define them. Scully’s a devout Roman Catholic, but you would never have known it, as he’s rarely if ever brought it up.

He taught me how to be a consummate professional and the value of preparation, and that anything worth doing is worth doing extraordinarily well.

He taught me how to behave. We never heard about Vin involving himself in any tabloid scandal. He didn’t pull rank by running the line at a restaurant or act like a jerk while no one was paying attention.

He taught me the value of honesty, and how it can be practiced sans meanspiritedness or sarcasm.

I’m sure Scully has his dark days. How could he not? He lost a wife in 1972 and an adult son in 1994. But the tragedy appears to have neither consumed him nor left him bitter. And it never impacted his work.

In short, I can say with certainty that — despite never having met him in person — I’ve not known a better human being than this man. He’s provided a standard to which I’ve aspired for the entirety of my life, in a way that my own parents never could.

Saying simply “thank you” to Vin Scully feels wildly insufficient. But it’s all I’ve got. So thank you, sir.

--

RAY RICHMOND has covered Hollywood and the entertainment business since 1984. He can be reached via email at ray@rayrichco.com and Twitter at @MeGoodWriter.