Brian Murphy: An ode to Vin Scully, baseball's vocal essayist and master of the moment
The Vin Scully tributes trickled in late Tuesday after the Dodgers broke the solemn news that their great orator and the finest conversationalist baseball has ever known had died at 94.
By Wednesday morning, a heartfelt torrent cascaded across social media as the sport reminisced about the silky storyteller who narrated decades of baseball’s biggest moments. A soothing and familiar voice for generations of L.A. fans and beyond who watched or listened to history unfold with Vin in the room.
No other broadcaster commanded the room longer or with a defter touch than the kid who grew up playing stickball on the streets of the Bronx and grew into the folksy gentleman of Southern California who earned his graceful place on the national stage.
Scully’s voice connects the dots of life and can transform millions back in time to the joy and wonderment of something incredible unfolding. The great conductor of unscripted entertainment for seven decades.
From Jackie Robinson to Clayton Kershaw, Sandy Koufax and Hank Aaron to Kirk Gibson and Mookie Wilson, Scully was at the mic to chronicle their heroics. Not to mention Jack Nicklaus triumphing at the 1975 Masters. Or Joe Montana-to-Dwight Clark in 1982, “The Catch” that launched a San Francisco 49ers dynasty.
He belonged to Dodgers fans, but Scully became everyone’s baseball soundtrack as NBC’s lead play-by-play man during the 1980s.
Scully, just 25, was the youngest announcer to call a World Series in 1953. He went on to broadcast 25 Fall Classics, along with 12 All-Star Games, 18 no-hitters and three perfect games.
His radio description of Koufax’s perfection in September 1965 against the Chicago Cubs – from the left-hander’s “loneliest walk” to the mound in the ninth inning, to wiping sweat from his brow and hitching up his pants -- is a master class in painting a picture and building tension with every close pitch.
“There’s 29,000 people in the ballpark and a million butterflies,” Scully said, adding later: “A lot of people in the ballpark now are starting to see the pitches with their hearts.”
After Koufax struck out Harvey Kuenn for the 27th out, Scully stayed silent for half a minute as the crowd roared, interrupting the celebration only to mark the milestone.
“On the scoreboard in right field it is 9:46 p.m. in the City of Angels, Los Angeles, California.”
See, Scully was an essayist as much as an announcer, his feel for the game and moment unrivaled during any era, in any booth, on any network.
On April 8, 1974, Aaron was mobbed at home plate by his Atlanta Braves teammates after surpassing Babe Ruth with his 715th career home run off the Dodgers’ Al Downing.
“What a marvelous moment for baseball. What a marvelous moment for Atlanta and the state of Georgia. What a marvelous moment for the country and the world,” Scully called.
“A Black man is getting a standing ovation in the Deep South for breaking a record of an all-time baseball idol. And it is a great moment for all of us, and particularly for Henry Aaron.”
Scully mastered everyday vocabulary and poetically mixed it with keen observation. A broadcaster who may be remembered more for what he didn’t say as drama unfolded than the iconic calls that defined his incredible 67-year career.
In the 10th inning of an exhausting Game 6 of the 1986 World Series, Scully captured the mood perfectly – “Do you believe this ballgame at Shea?” -- as the Mets staged an incredible two-out comeback which culminated with the “little roller” heard ’round the world.
Boston Red Sox first baseman Bill Buckner limped over to make a play on Mookie Wilson’s weak grounder only to have it slip through his legs for an epic error that daggered New England baseball fans for years.
“Little roller up along first … behind the bag!” he exclaimed. “It gets through Buckner! Here comes (Ray) Knight, and the Mets win it!”
As Queens erupted in disbelief, Scully did not utter a single word for three minutes as the cameras told the story.
“If one picture is worth a thousand words, you have seen about a million words, but more than that, you have seen an absolutely bizarre finish to Game 6 of the 1986 World Series,” Scully said. “The Mets are not only alive, they are well, and they will play the Red Sox in Game 7 tomorrow.”
None of today’s shtick-obsessed blowhards could pull off brevity without busting a brain gasket.
Two years later, Scully was back in the NBC booth for Game 1 of the World Series when Gibson hobbled to the plate to pinch hit with two outs in the bottom of the ninth and the Dodgers trailing the Oakland A’s and dominant closer Dennis Eckersley by a run.
One Roy Hobbs swing later …
“High flyball into right field, she i-i-i-is … gone!” Scully said.
More pandemonium. More silence from Scully. For 65 seconds, letting the scene at Dodger Stadium breathe instead of stomping on it with hyperbole.
“In a year that has been so improbable, the impossible has happened.”
Another half-minute of silence before Eckersley’s reaction was cued up on replay.
“Look at Eckersley,” Scully said, “shocked to his toes.”
Few folks outside of Detroit remember that was not the first time Scully elevated Gibson’s World Series heroics to Paul Bunyon heights. This 12-year-old watching every minute in his suburban home will take to the grave Scully’s Oct. 14, 1984, call at old Tiger Stadium.
Gibson had emerged as a superstar that year as the Tigers roared out to an unprecedented 35-5 start and steamrolled their way into a clinching Game 5 that Sunday night against the overmatched San Diego Padres.
Detroit led 5-4 in the bottom of the eighth when Gibson, who had already homered in the game, came up to face Padres flamethrower Goose Gossage with runners at second and third.
“First base open, and they will walk Kirk Gibson I believe; it figures they’ll take the bat right out of Gibson’s hands,” Scully said about San Diego setting up a potential double play.
But Gossage shook his head and told his visiting manager, Dick Williams, that he had owned Gibson when he was closing for the Yankees and wanted a shot at striking him out instead of issuing the slugger a pass.
Months later, the MLB highlight film of the Series revealed a mic’d up Gossage and Detroit manager Sparky Anderson telling Gibson that Gossage didn’t want to walk him.
Scully, of course, was not privy to any of that conversation in real time. But he teed up the perfect anecdote to provide context.
“You know, Kirk Gibson made his major-league debut, his very first at bat in the big leagues, against Goose Gossage,” Scully said. “And struck out on three pitches. And, maybe, because of that, Gossage is saying, ‘I can get him.’ Well, we’ll see.”
Two pitches later, Scully yelped, “And there it goes!” as Gibson jacked a three-run homer into the upper deck, sealing the title and sending Tiger Stadium and Michigan living rooms into a tizzy.
Ninety seconds of video showed Gibson and the Tigers celebrating in the dugout before Scully presciently weighed in:
“I have a distinct feeling that Goose Gossage talked Dick Williams out of the intentional walk.
“Saddest words of tongue and pen, what might have been for San Diego, and this crowd in Detroit, delirious!” he said.
Two meaningless outs later, producers cued up Gibson’s home run swing and triumphant trot for the commercial fadeout, allowing Scully to put the bow on a magical season:
“Here’s the story – of the inning, of the game, of the Series of … the … year.”
Vin was there.
Vin was always there.
A very pleasant good evening to you, Vin, wherever you may be. Thanks for letting me pull up a chair and spend part of so many days with you.
