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If the Dodgers began mounting a rally after trailing throughout, he’d explain that this was the first time the Dodgers were “getting a look at the game.”Īs I lay listening in the dark, Scully gave me a look at the game in a wider sense. Like any announcer anywhere, Scully’s repertoire included a handful of phrases that would come up from time to time. Scully politely ask the patrons below to turn down the volume.) Sometimes this would cause feedback during the broadcast, so it wasn’t uncommon to hear Mr. (I’m sure this happened at other ballparks also, but Scully’s one-on-one connection with his listeners was so powerful and ubiquitous that Dodger fans were notorious for bringing their transistor radios to the stadium so they could still hear Vinnie call the game as it unfolded in front of them. Whether doing radio or television, Scully was that rare announcer who worked alone, providing the analysis to his own play by play, so instead of talking to a partner in the booth, he spoke to all of us. If he didn’t share the out-of-town scores during the final innings, I’d try to stay awake for the postgame show.

In the beginning Vin Scully was simply a means to an end. Cable sports networks and the internet hadn’t yet been imagined even in the wildest science fiction, so if I needed to know the Yankee score before the morning paper arrived the next day - and I always did - my only option was to listen to the Dodger game on the radio as I lay in bed. I had fallen in love with the Yankees two summers earlier on a trip to New York, so now I found myself three thousand miles and three time zones away from my favorite team. I was nine years old when we moved to California in the summer of 1979. This team doesn’t need to panic, it just needs to win a game or two. Or maybe things will work out on their own.Īt least things will look a bit different tonight, with Oswaldo Cabrera starting at third and Estevan Florial in center. “George wouldn’t stand for this, Billy would flip over the postgame spread.” The past has been romanticized to the point that yesterday’s embarrassments (George Steinbrenner, Billy Martin) have become the models that could save this season. Like most issues like this, the truth is probably somewhere in the middle.

The first ninety games were a mirage, and this collapse is proof that Brian Cashman isn’t committed to winning, that Aaron Boone is incompetent, and that the entire franchise is a shell of its former self. The optimistic among us see a summer swoon compounded by untimely injuries and some bad luck, but the pessimists will say the goose is cooked. The Dog Days are here, but they’ve been here so long that it’s hard to know what we’re seeing.