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Los Angeles, California – July, 2006 It's 1956. I'm 7. The radio in my mom's kitchen, a Zenith, about the size of microwave — which was still decades from being invented — brought sounds of the world (as scratchy as they may have been) to receptive ears. Around the corner from my house, we played baseball on the street. First and third base were oak trees. Home plate and second base were yesterday's newspapers with a handful of pebbles on top to keep them in place in a slide or from flying away in a wind. That was baseball. And so were the sound and the voice that came from that Zenith on radio station WMGM. The sound of the crowd from Ebbets Field. The sound of the peanut vendor that could be heard layered among the crowd. The sound of the umpire bellowing "steeee-rike" off in the distance. And then the sound of The Voice, calming, descriptive, reassuring, avuncular. And to think The Voice was only 29 at the time. It was Vin Scully, my personal Pied Piper who led me into doing all I ever wanted to do, broadcast baseball. Dodger baseball. All right, Brooklyn Dodger baseball. But due to circumstances beyond my control, now it's Los Angeles Dodgers baseball. What are 3000 miles and 50 years?  The Voice in his perch: Vin Scully at work. Vin — in my business, he is a one-word icon, no last name required or necessary — is the best baseball broadcaster who has ever cleared his throat. He is our profession's Bob Dylan, Johnny Carson, and Babe Ruth. How do you think he does it? I don't know. What makes him so good? For openers, the game comes real slow for Vin. It's almost as if baseball is played at and for his pace. He is never rattled, never rushed. While most of us foolishly try to begin an anecdote with two out in an inning, inevitably the batter swings at the first pitch, grounds out, and the story is the victim of a commercial. When Vin begins a story, somehow it's a 10-pitch at bat that conveniently concludes with his punch line. No runs, no hits, and no errors. Roll commercial. And then there is the sound of The Voice. Rich and rhythmic, friendly and comforting. When he invites us to "pull up a chair," which is a difficult thing to do, especially when you are driving on the freeway, you figure "okay, sounds good to me." He is poetic. He speaks with a writer's flair, without the benefit of a backspace on a typewriter, a delete key on a computer, or good old-fashioned Whiteout. We don't have that luxury in our business. Vin doesn't need it. Vin works alone. He is the last baseball broadcaster who announces without a partner. Vin is his own broadcast team. He wouldn't have it any other way. He shouldn't have it any other way. Poets don't need no stinkin' straight men. Vin is a wordsmith the way Sandy was a pitcher or Babe was a slugger. You see, I know what makes him so good. But how? I still don't know. And it doesn't matter.
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