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| The secret of this phenomenal success was "Fernando's Fadeaway," a screwball widely regarded as the best since Hubbell's. But he was not intentionally emulating Hubbell or even Christy Mathewson, the master before Hubbell. The youngest of twelve children from a Mexican farm family, Valenzuela, who spoke through an interpreter his rookie year, had never heard of either of these Hall of Famers. He learned the screwball from former Dodger Bob Castillo and had even learned to throw it at two different speeds. As it turned out, he would evoke further comparisons to Hubbell in 1986 when he tied his record five straight strikeouts in the All-Star Game. All-Star success was not new to him - he had compiled a 0.00 ERA and 9 strikeouts in 7.2 All-Star innings, including 1981, when he became one of a select few rookie pitchers to be an All-Star starter. |

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| I remember early in the 1982 season listening to KMOX as Willie had just cracked the Cardinals lineup. Even over the radio you could feel the excitement as he would slice one down the right field line and turn it into a triple. Nobody went from home to third faster than Willie. I can still see him from my seats at Busch, as he turned the corner at first and broke into that hunched over sprint...he just kicked it into another gear. One of the things I always loved about Willie, is that he was as raw at the end of his career as on the day he came up. He could bat right-handed against a lefty junkballer, and strike out on three pitches in the dirt...or get picked off first, and then come up later and get the game-winning hit. You never knew what would happen next with Willie. He was a thrill ride. I remember sitting in the third base box seats in Milwaukee for game three of the 1982 series. We had split in St. Louis and had to win once in Milwaukee to force the series back home to St. Louis. It looked grim that night when Ted Simmons smashed a one-hopper off Andujar's knee and Jack was literally carried off to an early exit. The Brewers were hitting Sutter late. It was Willie who single-handedly won that game for the Cardinals. The two big homers and two homer saving catches. Awesome. I was also at what is referred to as "The Ryne Sandberg Game" on June 23, 1984 at Wrigley. I was wearing my Willie jersey, and long before Sandberg became Babe Ruth that day, Willie had already hit for the cycle. Cardinal fans were high-fiving me for two hours. At the end, I exited in a beer-soaked frenzied Cubs celebration. An incredible game. I was in Cincinnati on Memorial Day weekend in 1985. The Cardinals were struggling along playing 500 ball. In the series opener on Friday night, Neil Allen beaned in the winning run in the 13th inning. After that, Whitey declared the Neil Allen era complete, and we went to "bullpen by committee." The next two games, Vince and Willie absolutely ran wild, and from that weekend on the Cardinals were truly off to the races, playing forty games over 500 throughout the remainder of the season. I also remember flying into St. Louis and hurrying to game three of the 1985 NL Playoffs. We were already trailing the Dodgers two games to none, when we came home for that Saturday afternoon game three. It was your classic sunny autumn day in St. Louis... what I like to refer to as "Red October!" Immediately in the bottom of the first, Vince and Willie got Bob Welch all frazzled. Tommy Herr tacked on a homer, and with Pendleton flashing the leather at the hot corner, we turned the series around. Everybody knows about those four glorious victories. "Go Crazy Folks!" Willie, you were a class act, and you were my favorite player. It was a gas cheering for you. Thanks for everything, and God Bless You! --Andy Larsen Rockford, IL |

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| # In his rookie season, he won 17 games and followed that with 24 the next year. # He had six seasons where he won 20 or more games. Each of those years, he led the American League in wins. # He threw three career no-hitters and had 12 career one-hitters. # He was 23 and had 107 wins when he enlisted in the Navy in 1941. # In his first two full seasons back from armed service, he won 26 and 20 games respectively. # He was baseball's biggest drawing card, with an average of an additional 10,000 fans that showed up when he was scheduled to pitch. # He pitched for Cleveland for 18 years, winning 266 games and losing 162. # He led the American League in strikeouts seven times. He set a record for his time in 1946, when he struckout 348 batters. # He was elected to the National Baseball Hall of Fame in 1962. |
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| Groat and [Bill] Mazeroski led the league in double plays for five consecutive years; he said in Twin Killing, "...my wife could have led the league in double plays with Mazeroski at second base if she were a shortstop. He was that good." |



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| After the collision, he still managed to throw the ball to third base in an attempt to catch the advancing runner, his former teammate Gorman Thomas; when the throw went into left field, Thomas tried to come home. However, he was tagged out by a sprawled out Martinez, who had managed to catch the return throw from George Bell on the ground, thus completing probably the only 9-2-7-2 double play in Major League history. |

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| In 1916 Harris played for Muskegon in the Central League, hitting a robust .166 in 55 games. In 1917, he started the year playing for Norfolk in the Virginia League, hitting .120 in 15 games (6 for 50), after which the league folded. Harris, deciding he wasn't going to make it as a baseball player, went home to Pittston, Pennsylvania, and got a job in the coal mines. Shortly after that, however, the second baseman of the Reading club in the New York State league got into a fight with an umpire and was banned from the league. The Reading manager, George Wiltse, needed a second baseman and had seen Harris play – not Bucky Harris, but his older brother, who was also a minor league second baseman. When Bucky got a telegram asking him to report to Reading, he thought it was for him, and reported the next day. Wiltse knew he had the wrong Harris, but needed a second baseman anyway, and decided to give Bucky a chance to impress him. Three years later, Harris had played 137 games for the Washington Senators, and hit .300. |

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| Gibson was known for pitching inside to batters. Dusty Baker received the following advice from Hank Aaron about facing Gibson: "'Don't dig in against Bob Gibson, he'll knock you down. Don't stare at him. He doesn't like it. If you happen to hit a home run, don't run too slow, don't run too fast. If you happen to want to celebrate, get in the tunnel first. And if he hits you, don't charge the mound, because he's a Gold Glove boxer.' I'm like, 'Damn, what about my 17-game hitting streak?' That was the night it ended." Gibson maintained this image even into retirement. In 1992, an Old-Timers' game was played at Jack Murphy Stadium in San Diego as part of the All-Star Game festivities, and Reggie Jackson hit a home run off Gibson. When the 1993 edition of the game was played, the 57-year-old Gibson threw the 47-year-old Jackson a brushback pitch. The pitch was not especially fast and did not hit Jackson, but the message was delivered, and Jackson did not get a hit. |

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| After signing with the Chicago White Sox in 1955, he spent 1957 in the military and made his debut with the team in 1958, seeing limited play as an outfielder and pinch hitter. He appeared in 58 games for the 1959 pennant-winners, but the midseason acquisition of Ted Kluszewski left him on the bench, and he was hitless in four pinch-hitting appearances in the World Series. In December of that year he was traded to the Cleveland Indians in an eight-player deal that brought Minnie Miñoso back to Chicago, but the Indians dealt him to Detroit the following April in what turned out to be one of the worst transactions in baseball history. Not realizing what he had, Indians general manager Frank Lane traded Cash for Steve Demeter, who would play only four more games; both Chicago and Cleveland were haunted by Cash for the next 15 years, as he won a batting title and a World Series ring in a Detroit uniform. |

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| In 10 years that spanned Traynor's peak, Pie had 1,022 RBI on 53 homers. In a similar 10-year span, Mike Schmidt knocked in 1,031 runs - on 361 homers. In 1925, Traynor stroked a single and a home run off the great Walter Johnson in his first two at-bats in the 1925 World Series, won by Pittsburgh. In 1927, Traynor and fellow Pirates Hall of Famer Paul Waner shared the same bat all season. The 42-ounce bat was a discard from an anonymous Boston Braves outfielder named Tim Hendryx. Sharing one big bat, Waner led the National League with a .380 batting average and 131 RBI, while Pie mustered a .342 average and stroked a game-winning single on the season's last day to propel Pittsburgh to the pennant. In 1928, Traynor knocked in 124 runs and hit only three homers, while striking out 10 times. Ten! |
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| Q: Are you still learning things about baseball? Buck: Let me tell you something: when you stop learning, you’re through. Mm-hmm. I’m 91, but I’m still learning. Not only about baseball, about others things [too]. Yeah, yeah. You should always keep learning, as long as you live. You’re going to write. You’ll learn something. And not only that, you’re going to teach things. Cause what you’re going to write about now a lot of people, could be baseball fans, don’t know about. Mm-hmm. Of course, you learning, you teaching, that’s life. That’s life.... Q: You have an amazing sense of optimism about the world. Buck: That’s what you should have. Cause always figure that tomorrow is going to be better. Don’t care how good today is, tomorrow is going to be better. But it is exciting though to get up. It’s like the first time you see a Willie Mays, huh? “Mm, look at this.” (Laughs) Q: WeYankee fans are feeling that a little bit these days with the kid Soriano. Buck: Hey, you got to. How you think I felt when I saw him? Huh? That kid. How can he generate that kind of power? Oh, man. (Laughs) It’s amazing, isn’t it? Q: It’s like his bat has batteries or something like that. It’s supercharged. Buck: I’m telling you. He’s got great wrists. And, oh man. You look at him and say, “This is going to be another superstar.” Q: You think he’s going to last? Buck: Of course, of course. Yes. Man. A kid like—-Boy. It’s still there. I’ll tell you one thing—-you know what worries me about baseball? (Pause) The black kid in the inner city stopped playing baseball. Going to basketball. You know the white kid, 170 pounds, 175 pounds: Pee Wee Reese, Phil Rizzuto, that white kid. He stopped playing baseball now [Dave Eckstein notwithstanding]. Mm-hmm. Q: Why is that? Buck: It’s just the difference in the times. Now, all those kids used to play baseball, but what they do now? They play soccer, they doing other things. A lot them actually, don’t play baseball. They on the computer. They doing a lot of things that we never did. I remember in my time, you hear the mama [say], “Alright now, its time for you to come in.” Now you got to tell the kids, “Why don’t you go out and get some sunshine? Go outside and get some sunshine.” But there’s so many things he can do inside the house, you couldn’t do in my era. I remember the southern white boy: he was hungry. He wanted to get out of that cotton field just like the black kid wanted get out of the inner city. Baseball was the out. That’s it. Baseball is the out for the Latin kids; baseball is the out for the Japanese kids. Uh-huh. You understand? This is his way out. And this is why they playing. |

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| Former outfielder Tito Francona, 67, agreed. "Jimmy was smart as a fox," he said. "Every time he got kicked out of a game, he made more money. People sent him money to pay his fines. I remember a game in Yankee Stadium where he ran to second base and did jumping jacks. Then he ran behind the monuments and sat down." Rocky Colavito, 67, recalled the time he was playing next to Piersall in the Indians outfield in Detroit. "He was in center and I was in right," said Colavito. "All of a sudden, I saw him running to the 395-foot sign in center where two guys were sitting by themselves. He came back laughing. I asked him what happened and he said, `Those two guys have been yelling at me through the whole game. I just spit in their face.'" On one occasion he pulled a water pistol from his pocket and shot water into an umpire's face. |


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| As Clemens nears his 300th victory, consider these comparisons. Since leaving the Red Sox as a free agent following the 1996 season, Clemens is 107-43 and has been paid $59 million. Since the Red Sox traded Moyer to the Mariners earlier that year, he is 105-50 and has been paid $31.5 million. In other words, the Red Sox could have a pitcher with more than 100 wins over the past seven seasons and easily have enough money to have signed Pedro or anybody else to front the rotation. You don't hear much about Moyer. He's never struck out 20 batters in a game. He's never been ejected from a postseason game in the second inning while wearing warpaint. He's never assaulted Mike Piazza with a splintered bat. All he does is win. And win. And win. Since 1996, he has a better winning percentage than Pedro Martinez, Randy Johnson or Greg Maddux. In fact, he has the best winning percentage in baseball during that span (minimum 15 decisions each season). Granted, that doesn't make Moyer the best pitcher in baseball. But he's the best pitcher who was once released by the Texas Rangers. No, the Red Sox weren't the only team to underestimate Moyer. The Mariners are his seventh organization since he was drafted in 1984. He once was traded for Mitch Williams. He pitched for Joe Torre -- in St. Louis. He learned quite a bit about pitching during all those journeys and finally put it all together in 1996. He is the second big-league pitcher to go from as many as 23 games under .500 for his career to 23 games above .500. "He's like a fine wine, he gets better with age,'' said Minnesota third base coach Al Newman, who faced him as a player more than a decade ago. "No, actually, he just gets slower.'' It's true. Moyer can pitch in the mid 80s, but he loves to make batters look ridiculous by throwing curveballs and changeups in the 70s that appear to defy gravity. He throws slop up there so tantalizingly slow that scouts can measure his pitches by counting "One Mississippi, two Mississippi.'' As one opponent said after Moyer made him look silly this year, "He was throwing feathers up there.'' Moyer is as old school as they come -- he still shows his stirrup socks -- and even without a blazing fastball he can be a mean SOB on the mound. He isn't afraid to pitch seriously inside and if a batter crosses him, he isn't afraid to leave a bruise. On several occasions, catcher Dan Wilson has heard Moyer shout at the batter and ask what pitch he would like him to throw next. "They don't know what to make of it,'' Wilson said. He turns 41 this fall, but Moyer is in exceptional shape and is capable of pitching several more seasons. With 171 career wins, he could very well finish with more than 200. That may not be as impressive as Clemens' final total, but Boston fans wouldn't have minded if a few more of them had come in a Red Sox uniform. |


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| Landis was granted absolute power over the game as commissioner in 1920 after the Black Sox scandal had tainted the game. He exercised his authority tyrannically until his death in 1944, with no recourse from his decisions available or public criticism of them permitted. Although he was harsh and narrow-minded, and often arbitrary and inconsistent, he persuaded most Americans that the integrity of the national pastime had been restored. |



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| Dontrelle Willis was pitching for the Florida Marlins against the San Diego Padres. The Marlins had a lead, and it was beginning to look like Willis would get his first Major League win. But then his pitches started to miss the plate. As Marlin's manager Jack McKeon looked on, he saw Willis fidget and sweat. The more nervous Willis got, the harder it was for him to get the ball over the plate. McKeon knew exactly what to do. The 72-year-old manager quickly called time out. He walked to the mound to calm to his young pitcher. McKeon gave Willis a short speech about how to throw a strike. But his words were not the important thing. McKeon's confidence and joking style were just what Willis needed. When McKeon left the mound, Willis was smiling and relaxed. He was ready to pitch again. He finished strong and got his first win for the Marlins. |
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| During a USO tour by a number of players in 1944, Medwick was among several individuals given an audience by Pope Pius XII. Upon being asked by the Pope what his vocation was, Medwick replied, "Your Holiness, I'm Joe Medwick. I, too, used to be a Cardinal." |
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| Joltin' Joe DiMaggio by Ben Homer & Alan Courtney© Published: 1941 Performed by: Les Brown Sung by: Betty Bonney Hello Joe, whatta you know? We need a hit so here I go. Ball one (Yea!) Ball two (Yea!) Strike one (Booo!) Strike two (Kill that umpire!) A case of Wheaties He started baseball's famous streak That's got us all aglow He's just a man and not a freak, Joltin' Joe DiMaggio. Joe, Joe DiMaggio We want you on our side He tied the mark at forty-four July the 1st you know Since then he's hit a good twelve more Joltin' Joe DiMaggio Joe, Joe DiMaggio We want you on our side From coast to coast that's all you'll hear Of Joe the one man show He's glorified the horsehide sphere Joltin' Joe DiMaggio Joe, Joe DiMaggio We want you on our side He'll live in baseball's Hall of Fame He got there blow by blow Our kids will tell their kids his name Joltin' Joe DiMaggio We dream of Joey with the light brown plaque Joe, Joe DiMaggio We want you on our side And now they speak in whispers low Of how they stopped our Joe One night in Cleveland Oh Oh Oh Goodbye streak DiMaggio |

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| "A lot of things run through your head when you're going in to relieve in a tight spot. One of them was, 'Should I spike myself?'" "He (Jimmie Foxx) has muscles in his hair." "I'm the guy that made Joe DiMaggio famous." "I talked to the ball a lot of times in my career. I yelled, 'Go foul. Go foul.'" "I want to thank all my teammates who scored so many runs and Joe DiMaggio, who ran down so many of my mistakes." "I was the worst hitter ever. I never even broke a bat until last year when I was backing out of the garage." "No one hit home runs the way Babe (Ruth) did. They were something special. They were like homing pigeons. The ball would leave the bat, pause briefly, suddenly gain its bearings and take off for the stands." "One rule I had was make your best pitch and back up third base. That relay might get away and you've got another shot at him." "The secret of my success was clean living and a fast outfield." "When Neil Armstong first set foot on the moon, he and all the space scientists were puzzled by an unidentifiable white object. I knew immediately what it was. That was a home run ball hit off me in 1933 by Jimmie Foxx." |
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| Lefty claimed that one time he hit a double but was picked off second base. "What the hell happened out there," Joe McCarthy demanded. "How should I know?" replied Lefty. "I've never been there before." One time, with runners on first and third, the batter hit a sharp one-hopper back to the mound. Lefty bobbled the ball a moment, too late to make the play at home, then spun and threw to Tony Lazzeri at second, way too late to make the play at second. "What did you do that for?" asked Lazzeri. "I've been reading in the papers about what a smart player you are," said Gomez. "I figured you'd think of something." |

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| Herman's name is associated with a baserunning gaffe during his rookie year that was not entirely his fault. During a game on August 15 at Ebbets Field, he tried to stretch a double off the right field wall into a triple with one out and the bases loaded; Chick Fewster, who had been on first, advanced to third base – which was already occupied by Dazzy Vance, who had started from second base but was now caught in a rundown and was dashing back to third. All three of them ended up at third base, with Herman not having watched the play in front of him, and the third baseman tagged all three just to be sure of getting as many outs as possible. The slow-footed Vance had been a major contributor to this situation, but according to the rules the lead runner was entitled to the base, so umpire Beans Reardon called Herman and Fewster out. Thus, Babe Herman was said to have "doubled into a double play"; he would later complain that no one remembered that he drove in the winning run on the play. This led to the following popular joke: * "The Dodgers have 3 men on base!" * "Oh, yeh? Which base?" |

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| He was born Vincent Edward Scully to Irish immigrant parents on Nov. 29, 1927, in the Bronx. His dad, a silk salesman, died when Vin was little and his mom remarried a man Vin liked. He's described his family as "not poverty-stricken, just poor." He grew up in a fifth-floor walk-up in Washington Heights, and he knew what he wanted to be almost from the beginning. |
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| "Three times in his sensational career has Sandy Koufax walked out to the mound to pitch a fateful ninth where he turned in a no-hitter. But tonight, September the 9th, nineteen hundred and 65, he made the toughest walk of his career, I'm sure, because through eight innings he has pitched a perfect game." Vin Scully just finished his 50th season broadcasting Dodgers games. I listened in regularly for what at the time was my whole conscious life but was only a dozen or so of those years. I grew up in Los Angeles. Lots of kids at school rooted for the Oakland A's or the Pittsburgh Pirates, powerhouses of the day. Those teams won a lot (and had cool caps), but you couldn't go home from school and listen to them on the radio. I was an Angeleno, and Dodger blue all the way. I moved away from my hometown half a lifetime ago, and the one thing I miss about the place, even still, is the sound of Vin Scully's voice, that musical Irish tenor crooning from the transistor radio hidden beneath my pillow after bedtime: Swung on, a hiiiigh drive into deeeep left field. Back goes Henderson, a-waaaay back, to the waaaaaall ... she's gone! Musical, yes. Vin Scully has the most musical voice in baseball. He doesn't have the clipped, old-time-radio cadence of most broadcasters who date back to the '50s and beyond. Although his timbre is thin, everything is smooth and rounded. The words slide into each other. He has flow. The melody rises and falls on the tide of the game. You can almost hum along to Vin Scully. He's often referred to as baseball's poet laureate, and those who don't get him parody him by quoting Emerson or spouting flowery language. But even though he will occasionally toss off some verse (he's likely to find the lyrics of an old show tune more apt) or call a cheap base hit "a humble thing, but thine own," the real metaphor for Vin Scully isn't poetry, or even music: It's painting. Other radio announcers can tell you what's happening on the field, and you can imagine it. With Vin Scully, you can see it. His command of the language and the game is so masterful that he always has just the right words to describe what's going on. He paints you a picture. You can't ask another baseball announcer about Scully without hearing a variation on that phrase: "At times I'll be listening to him and I'll think, Oh, I wish I could call upon that expression the way he does," Dick Enberg has said. "He paints the picture more beautifully than anyone who's ever called a baseball game." I found a collection of baseball writing once in the library. One of the chapters was a transcript of Scully's call of the ninth inning of Sandy Koufax's perfect game against the Chicago Cubs in 1965. It read like a short story. It had tension, rising and falling drama, great turns of phrase. It was, and still is, the best piece of baseball writing I've ever seen. And it came off the top of his head, at a moment when, like the man whose feat he was describing, he knew he had to be at the top of his game. I've since heard a tape of that half inning: There's not a single misstep. He never once fumbles for a word, makes a false start or trips over himself. Fastball, swung on and missed, strike 2. And you can almost taste the pressure now. Koufax lifted his cap, ran his fingers through his black hair, then pulled the cap back down, fussing at the bill. Krug must feel it too as he backs out, heaves a sigh, took off his helmet, put it back on and steps back up to the plate. It's different now. I've changed my skin. Today I root for the Dodgers' hated rivals, the San Francisco Giants. I have friends who still can't believe it, who don't think it's possible to go from the Dodgers to the Giants, even though the Giants' own manager, Dusty Baker, had his best years in a Dodgers uniform. But it's true. The place in my fan's heart where Jimmy Wynn and Davey Lopes and Steve Garvey and Ron Cey used to live is now occupied by Barry Bonds and J.T. Snow and Jeff Kent and Marvin Benard. But as wonderful as the Giants' announcers have been while I've rooted for them -- the wry wit of Hank Greenwald and now the impish charm of Jon Miller -- there's still nobody like the redhead. Miller's occasional Scully impersonations only help a little. You've probably heard Vin Scully even if you don't live in Los Angeles. He's worked for the networks off and on since the late '50s, doing baseball, football and golf, and he's the announcer in the current baseball movie "For Love of the Game." He's OK on TV, but if you haven't heard him broadcast baseball on the radio, you haven't heard him. For one thing, he works alone, something the Dodgers continue to allow him to do long after it's become fashionable, even required, to have a former player serve as a "color" commentator. On network TV or radio, he always has a partner. For years on NBC's "Game of the Week," his partner was Joe Garagiola, and Scully's instructions to Garagiola when they first teamed up, for an All-Star Game in the mid-'60s, are enlightening: "I said to him, 'Joe, you played a long time, but I've broadcast as many games as you've played, and then some. So if you're gonna talk "inside baseball," you tell the fans the "inside baseball." But don't tell me.'" Good advice, but impossible. The fact is, when two people are in the booth, they talk to each other. When it's just Vin, he talks to you and me. It's intimate. We're in on it. And Scully's vast knowledge of the game, his incredible store of anecdote both old and new, the fruits of his almost obsessive preparation, need not play second fiddle to some former backstop with strong opinions about when to employ the hit-and-run. I grew up in a lucky time and place for a kid who liked to listen to sports on the radio. We had Scully doing the Dodgers, Enberg doing the Angels and Rams, the colorful, vocabulary-inventing Chick Hearn doing the Lakers, and Bob Miller, less famous than the others, somehow making hockey action make sense on the radio for the Kings. (All are still there except Enberg, long NBC's plum-assignment guy.) I was spoiled. I've heard others who grew up listening to Scully say that they never realized how good he was until they traveled around some and heard other announcers. But I knew. Looking back, I think now that Jerry Doggett, the Dodgers' longtime No. 2 announcer, was a pretty fair broadcaster, but he seemed like a clod next to the mellifluous Scully. I could hear the Angels' various broadcasters every night, and sometimes I'd tune in the San Diego Padres on KGB or even the Giants on clear-channel KNBR. Nobody like him. Nobody like the redhead. The Dodgers defensively in this spine-tingling moment: Sandy Koufax and Jeff Torborg. The boys who will try and stop anything hit their way: Wes Parker, Dick Tracewski, Maury Wills and John Kennedy; the outfield of Lou Johnson, Willie Davis and Ron Fairly. And there's 29,000 people in the ballpark and a million butterflies. There's David Copperfield stuff to get to, although talking about it means talking about Vin Scully the person, not Vin Scully the voice, something Scully and I probably agree is far less interesting to do. He was born Vincent Edward Scully to Irish immigrant parents on Nov. 29, 1927, in the Bronx. His dad, a silk salesman, died when Vin was little and his mom remarried a man Vin liked. He's described his family as "not poverty-stricken, just poor." He grew up in a fifth-floor walk-up in Washington Heights, and he knew what he wanted to be almost from the beginning. "I was about 8 years old and we had an old radio on four legs with crossed bars between the legs," he told his friend Danny Kaye in a TV tribute in 1982, "and I would come home to listen to a football game -- there weren't other sports on -- and I would get a pillow and I would crawl under the radio, so that the loudspeaker and the roar of the crowd would wash all over me, and I would just get goose bumps like you can't believe. And I knew that of all the things in this world that I wanted, I wanted to be that fella saying, whatever, home run, or touchdown. It just really got to me." He was a pretty fair baseball player at Fordham Prep, and went to Fordham University on a partial baseball scholarship in 1945. He served a year in the Navy, then returned to get his degree in 1949, giving up baseball in his senior year because it interfered with his chance to do some work at a local radio station. He also was a stringer for the New York Times, wrote a column for the college paper -- and sang in a barbershop quartet. Upon graduation he got a job at WTOP, the CBS affiliate in Washington. A network executive mentioned him to Red Barber, CBS's sports director (and lead announcer for the Brooklyn Dodgers). Not long after, Barber had a sudden need for an announcer to do the Boston University-Maryland football game, part of "The Saturday CBS Football Roundup," which had Barber in the studio in New York throwing it to whichever one of several games around the country was most exciting at the moment. Barber called Scully at home and got his mom, who was thrilled, if confused. "What kind of mother would I have?" Scully said. "Irish, red-headed and excitable. She took the message, but she said it was from Red Skelton." Scully went to Boston to do the game from Fenway Park. But because of a mix-up, there was no booth for him. He ended up on the stadium roof with a long microphone cord, walking up and down to follow the game, freezing -- he'd left his coat and gloves at the hotel, thinking he'd be inside. When Barber got a note from Fenway officials the next week apologizing for not having a booth for his man on Saturday, he was shocked and impressed: Scully had never mentioned his plight on the air, had never grubbed for sympathy from the audience. Although Scully was sure he'd done a lousy job and blown his big chance, Barber soon offered him the job as No. 3 man in the Dodgers booth. He was 22 years old. How can it have taken so long? "Koufax, feet together, now to his windup and the 1-2 pitch: fastball outside, ball 2. (Crowd boos.) A lot of people in the ballpark now are starting to see the pitches with their hearts. The pitch was outside, Torborg tried to pull it over the plate but Vargo, an experienced umpire, wouldn't go for it. Two and 2 the count to Chris Krug. Sandy reading signs, into his windup, 2-2 pitch: fastball, got him swingin'!" "We just needed somebody to sort of take an inning here and there and just do little things. As I put it, carry our briefcases if necessary," said Barber, known as the Old Redhead, who would become Scully's mentor. "Scully was a very apt young man. And he took right over. He made the most of his opportunity." It used to be the other way around, but now if you listen to old tapes of Red Barber, you hear some of Vin Scully's cadences. Barber's call of Cookie Lavagetto's game-winning double in Game 4 of the 1947 World Series ("Here comes the tying run, and heeeeere comes the winning run!") sounds almost exactly like Scully. "Red never taught me how to broadcast, he never taught me baseball, or anything like that," Scully said in the 1982 video. "What he did teach me was among other things an attitude -- get there early and do your homework and bear down. Use the crowd." Scully uses the crowd like nobody else. He still gets those goose bumps from the roar of a crowd, and he makes it a part of the broadcast. At the most exciting, historically significant moments, when other announcers would blather on about how exciting and historically significant the moment is, Scully shuts up. When Koufax struck out Harvey Kuenn to complete his perfect game, Scully stayed quiet for 38 seconds while the crowd roared. When Henry Aaron broke Babe Ruth's career home run record with his 715th in 1974, Scully said, "It's gone!" -- and then took off his headset and stood in the back of the booth so he wouldn't be tempted to ruin the moment by talking. When the Brooklyn Dodgers won their only World Series, in 1955, he said, simply, "Ladies and gentlemen, the Brooklyn Dodgers are the champions of the world." (He would later claim that he would have been unable to say more, for fear of bursting into tears.) "The strike 1 pitch: curveball, tapped foul, 0 and 2. And Amalfitano walks away and shakes himself a little bit, and swings the bat. And Koufax with a new ball, takes a hitch at his belt and walks behind the mound." I would think that the mound at Dodger Stadium right now is the loneliest place in the world." After one season, Scully was afraid he was going to be out of a job. The Dodgers were sold to Walter O'Malley, and Scully figured the new owner might want to bring in his own people. Then Vin got a call at home. It was O'Malley. Not, as Scully has often said, his secretary, or "a special assistant to," but the man himself. O'Malley assured the young announcer that he was wanted back for 1951. "It was an incredible thought," Scully would say years later. "Here I'd been a year and a half out of college, and the thought that with all the things he had to do and with all the things he had on his mind, that he would call this kid in Jersey, the third announcer, and tell him, 'You'll be back next year.'" It was the first indication Scully had of the O'Malley way of doing business, a way that would make him an intensely loyal employee as long as the family owned the team. He came to consider Walter O'Malley a father figure, and Walter's son, Peter, who eventually took over the team, was like a brother. When Peter decided in late 1997 to sell the team (Fox bought it the next year), he sat Scully down and told him personally, and Scully said he felt "like I had been hit in the pit of my stomach." By the mid-'50s Barber had moved over to the Yankees and Scully was the No. 1 man for the Dodgers. In 1958 -- the Brooklynites among you generally stop reading at this point in the story -- O'Malley moved the Dodgers to Los Angeles. "My first feeling was of tremendous relief when [O'Malley] told me I was in his plans to go to Los Angeles," Scully told Bob Raissman of the Los Angeles Daily News in 1997. "But I was saddened because being a New Yorker, everything I had and loved in the world was back there." Not for long. Scully married a woman named Joan Crawford (not the actress) in 1958. The Dodgers struggled to a seventh-place finish that year, but in 1959 became the first National League team to go from seventh to first when they beat the Milwaukee Braves in a playoff. (Scully's famous call of the clinching moment: "Big bouncer over the mound, over second base. Up with it is Mantilla, throws low and wide! Hodges scores! We go to Chicago!") They beat the "Go-Go" White Sox in the Series, and what had taken 75 years and millions of broken hearts in Brooklyn had taken two seasons in California. The Dodgers were champions of the world. Los Angeles fell madly in love with its new team -- and with its announcer. "Sandy fussing, looks in to get his sign, 0 and 2 to Amalfitano. The strike 2 pitch to Joe: fastball, swung on and missed, strike 3! He is one out away from the promised land, and Harvey Kuenn is comin' up." It was a different world out West. In 1962 the Dodgers moved into a gleaming new ballpark -- something that would have kept the team in Brooklyn had a deal been worked out there. They were champions again in '63 and '65, and then, after a Brooklyn-like four-Series losing streak ('66, '74, '77, '78), again in '81 and '88. The golden age of the transistor radio made Vin Scully's voice an overarching presence at Dodger Stadium. So many fans brought radios to the game, the broadcast could be heard in every corner of the ballpark. Even the players could hear it when the crowd was quiet (which, at polite Dodger Stadium, was often). He used that power only rarely. Once he had the crowd sing "Happy Birthday" to an umpire, Frank Secory. In 1965, on the last day of the season, with the Dodgers having clinched the pennant the night before, manager Walter Alston let Scully manage, over the radio, from the booth. A very hung over Ron Fairly drew a walk ("He didn't trot to first base. He didn't really walk to first base. He sloshed to first base"), and Scully thought it would be fun to have Fairly, slow-footed in the best of times, steal. "For those of you in the ballpark with transistor radios listening," Scully said, "watch Fairly's face when he looks over to third and gets the steal sign." After a double take for the ages by Fairly and a foul ball by the hitter, Scully had Fairly go again, and he made it, thanks to the catcher dropping the ball. At that, Scully retired from managing: "All right, Walter," he said, "I got you this far. Now you're on your own." "One and 1 to Harvey Kuenn. Now he's ready: fastball, high, ball 2. You can't blame a man for pushing just a little bit now. Sandy backs off, mops his forehead, runs his left index finger along his forehead, dries it off on his left pants leg. All the while Kuenn just waiting. Now Sandy looks in. Into his windup and the 2-1 pitch to Kuenn: swung on and missed, strike 2! It is 9:46 p.m." Vin Scully has been behind the mike for half a century -- more than two-thirds of the time that baseball has been a radio fixture. He is revered, at least by those who know of him, like few others in the game: like Joe DiMaggio was, maybe, or Willie Mays is. He's in the Hall of Fame. In fact, the Hall of Fame did a multimedia presentation on his 50th season this year that was so popular, it's probably going to become a regular event. In even more fact, when I called the Hall of Fame for help in researching this article, I was told there was a six-week backup for reference requests -- "but since you're writing about Vin Scully, I can do it right away." Criticizing him is like criticizing Shakespeare. You can do it, but you say more about your own foolishness than anything else. He's never changed his style. When his wife, Joan, died at 35, in 1972, leaving him with three children, Scully was the same easygoing fellow he'd always been on the air. It was just like on that rooftop at Fenway all those years before. No complaining, no talking about Vin. I listened to him every day, and I had no idea. (He also has three children with his current wife, Sandra.) As he gets older, it seems to bother him more and more to be away from his family on road trips. He talks a lot -- in interviews, never on the air -- about how precious time is, and how much of it feels wasted when he's away from home. "There are a lot of times you sit in a hotel room and you can hear the meter ticking," he told the Dodgers' Web site earlier this year. "And you begin to think about your own mortality. But I do love the game so much." Retirement doesn't seem to be on the horizon. "Two and 2 to Harvey Kuenn, one strike away. Sandy into his windup, here's the pitch: Swung on and missed, a perfect game!" I haven't heard him much these last couple decades. Even when I visit L.A. there's rarely time or inclination to sit and listen to a ballgame on the radio, and anyway now that every game is on TV, Scully's not on the radio enough anymore. He does more innings on the TV side, leaving the bulk of the radio work to others. But I still hear him in my head, the voice of baseball for me. When I slap one through the hole in a pickup softball game, he's right there with the call: "A humble thing, but thine own." |

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| His great plays in the game included a monstrous home run off Rick Reuschel of the San Francisco Giants which landed an estimated 448 feet from home plate - in his first All-Star at-bat. Legendary baseball announcer Vin Scully (calling the game for NBC-TV) was moved to comment, "And look at that one! Bo Jackson says hello!" |
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| Joining the Raiders midway through the 1987 season, Jackson rushed for 554 yards on 81 carries in just seven games. Over the next three seasons, Bo Jackson would rush for 2,228 more yards and 12 touchdowns. What made his stats so impressive was the fact that he was a back-up to Raiders' legend Marcus Allen. |