SAN DIEGO — Vin Scully was baseball's Sinatra, a man who sang the song of the game with great timing and phrasing, without blowing a lyric, or dangling a participle. But unlike Frank, when Vinny approached the final innings, his pipes, his chops, his instrument, never failed him.
Frank got by in his dotage because he was a great actor and couldn't be anything but larger than life itself. Vinny never lost his voice or cleared his throat, never used a script, ad-libbing all the billions of lines.
You were there even if you weren't, sucked in by Vin's vocal hospitality. Here was a giant atop the beanstalk, who considered himself more like Jack.
And yet, the most remarkable quality of the greatest voice in the history of not just baseball, but sports, was its silence. The shut-up-and-listen of it.
Vincent Edward Scully, who passed away Tuesday at the age of 94, was the all-time best at allowing the moment to do the talking for him. He was a scholar, a professor, a grand master of the English language who filled his broadcasts with education.
Among the many tributes to Vin was the call of the famous, unlikely 1988 World Series home run by the Dodgers' injured Kirk Gibson. After Vin described it, after the ball went into the right-field seats, we heard the roar of the crowd. For more than a minute. As far as we knew, he had taken the opportunity to visit the head.
May be true. We do know that, after he called Hank Aaron's 715th home run, he did get up and walk away for a time. The moment. It never escaped him. He never was more important than the game in front of him.
I had many talks with Don Freeman, the Maestro, our late, great columnist, and he spoke about ego. How you couldn't be great at what you do without it.
So Vin had to have an ego, had to know how damn good he was. But it never came through the microphone, or in person, and I interviewed him more than once.
There are two types of ego, outward and inward. He held his in, wrapped in Saran under a heavy overcoat.
One day after we talked, I went into the office, turned on my forsaken voicemail, and there was his voice, thanking me for the column. How often did that happen? If you count the fingers on one hand, that's too many.
My immediate boss, Jay Posner, has a written note from Vin framed and on his wall, which upsets me to no end.
The man was class grown from organic soil. And, despite his fame, as a Hollywood star who never went Hollywood, he always had time to help others. I'd say he was loved by his peers, but he didn't have any. Nobody close.
I grew up here during a time when we had no major sports, and San Diego State was athletically challenged. There were the minor league Padres, called by Al Schuss, who should be a member of the team's hall of fame. He was good.
However, when the Dodgers moved to Los Angeles in 1958, and Vinny came along eight years following his first Brooklyn call in 1950, my world changed. I was raised in a family that hated the Dodgers and loved the Giants. My dislike for that team, if anything, has intensified.
But I listened to Vin. He was our bridge to the major leagues. And he wasn't afraid to criticize his team when it erred. After all, Queen Elizabeth had a better chance of being fired than him.
One night, with the Pirates playing in L.A., Pittsburgh's Willie Stargell homered in his first three at-bats, and then followed with a blast even Vin thought was out, but it hit the top of the wall and stayed in play.
Stargell got to second base, but was in a daze, wandered off the bag and got picked off.
"Poor Wilver."
Vinny one night reported that a Phillies pitcher had thrown a matzah ball to Aaron, which Hank hit into the Schuylkill River, only to be called out because he was so anxious he jumped out of the front of the batter's box.
"Poor Henry."
Once, Aaron came to the plate against Dodgers reliever Ron Perranoski, who threw rainbows. Vin pointed out that Hank was batting over .700 lifetime vs. Ron.
"You can only hope he doesn't hit it out."
Aaron singled.
The Giants' Juan Marichal, my all-time favorite pitcher, dominated the Dodgers like no other. Of his 243 career victories, 37 were against the Dodgers.
The Giants scored a run in the first inning. What did Vinny say? "It's an uphill battle from here." Right again.
During a Dodgers-Cardinals game, St. Louis manager Red Schoendienst blew up and got tossed.
"There's one hot bird." And then I heard this for the first time: "Stick a fork in him, he's done."
Vin wasn't perfect, but he did his best to hand out more eloquent loaves and fishes to everyone in earshot. I was tuned to literally hundreds of his broadcasts, and not once did I hear him fumble for words, never an "uh."
Of course millions of people didn't hear his Dodgers calls, but they still knew he was the best. I never chronicled Napoleon on the field of battle, either, but I still know he was a great captain.
The kid out of the Bronx began calling Dodgers games in Brooklyn in 1950, alongside the legendary Red Barber. By 1959, he had L.A. fans on transistor radios listening to him in the stands.
No other city could touch Los Angeles when it came to sports broadcasters. Vinny (Dodgers), Chick Hearn (Lakers), Bob Kelley (Rams), Bob Miller (Kings) and, a bit later, Dick Enberg (Angels and UCLA basketball).
They all were remarkable in their own way, but Vinny was poet laureate. He did the Dodgers for 67 years, calling 25 World Series and 20 no-hitters, including the Sandy Koufax and Don Larsen (World Series) perfect games.
He grew up a Giants fan, a few blocks from the Polo Grounds. His favorite player was Mel Ott.
When I asked him to name the greatest player he ever saw, he didn't hesitate. "Willie Mays," although he added he saw very little of Mays' idol, Joe DiMaggio.
When the one great scorer comes to write our names, he will hand the list to Vinny and Churchill for roll call. And there will be no mistakes.
"When people ask me what I do," Vincent Edward Scully told me the first time we met, "I tell them I'm a passenger."
Vinny, my eternal thanks for allowing us to ride along.
