One by one, the visitors come to say goodbye to Vin Scully
LOS ANGELES — The journey to the sky begins along a corridor with a cool, gray cement floor that squeaks beneath a pair of tennis shoes. Then left up a flight of stairs and right along a narrow hallway whose wall hangings – shadowy men rendered in various ball-playing poses – are yellowed with age. On the right, the old visitors’ clubhouse, still useful for its legendary shower water pressure. Two blond doors lead to a lobby, bright and high-ceilinged, where, postgame, the exclusive Dugout Club expels A- and B-listers wearing their bedazzled pink Dodgers caps.
Halfway there, the journey to the sky continues to the left, along a passage lined with golden and silver trophies that tell the story of the franchise, and to a pair of listless and moody elevators. “Going up,” the young lady says. There is no down from here, only up. The doors open five floors later, though the ride seems to have taken longer, to a concourse stirring with ushers and security men and early arriving fans who have not bedazzled their caps.
Across the way, a sign reads “Vin Scully Press Box,” beside an open door and a man named James, who smiles and nods and offers his hand as hello. Frames to the right hold photos of the Hall of Famers who have been home here, among them Vin Scully, Jaime Jarrin, Jim Murray and Ross Newhan. Ahead, in the distance, the left-field bleachers, palm trees, a mountain range, swirls of clouds. Then, to the left, a series of television and radio booths, and a voice that could only be his, above it all, in the sky.
“It’s been a remarkable feeling,” Vin Scully said. “I understand they’re saying goodbye. But they’re going to some trouble in order to say goodbye. The dressing rooms are way the heck down there” – with pale, reddish hands he gestures to the dugouts below – “and they have a certain schedule to keep. And yet here they come.”
They have arrived bearing gifts. Among them, Joe Maddon and David Ross presented him with the No. 67 panel from the Wrigley Field scoreboard along with a couple T-shirts, one of which read, “Try Not to Suck,” and imagine Vin Scully wearing that while mowing the lawn. Mostly, they have arrived bearing goodwill. And thanks. They have journeyed into the sky, shuffled the last few feet, peered around the door frame, and found the red-headed man with the welcoming, crooked smile, his arms spread, the “Well, hi, come on in!” unmistakably his.
“You’re ascending into the clouds to meet Mr. Scully,” Maddon said. “That’s like the window to the world up there.”
Scully is 88 years old, in his 67th season sitting in booths like this one, the last 54 years here, high above home plate at Dodger Stadium, and on many nights – like this one – with his wife, Sandra, in a chair behind his. He’ll call seven more games from here, the most perfect office in the world, not that he’s not counting.
“As God is my judge, no,” he said. “In fact, we were putting up the schedule today, home and road, and it’s really the first time I’ve even thought about it. I’m just going very happily. The one person I think is counting more than anybody is my wife, because she loves baseball. She said to me, ‘If I can, I’ll go to every game.’ So there you go.”
He is practically alone in that, especially here, where one last generation of hand-holding, cotton candy-smeared baseball fans can look to the sky to witness the man who is only, perfectly, summer-evening, take-me-away … Vin.
The world, then, comes to him, if only to return the favor.
David Ortiz, in his final season as well, made the ascent. Bryce Harper, too, more than once, along with Dusty Baker. Manny Machado arrived one afternoon with Jonathan Schoop. In early August, four Phillies, including coach Juan Samuel and L.A. kid Michael Mariot, paid their respects. Four days after that, Clint Hurdle and Gerrit Cole knocked. Back in May, Terry Collins. Giancarlo Stanton, who grew up nearby, said hello to the man who voiced his childhood. Umpires, many of whom honor Scully with tips of their caps from behind home plate before games, have come to shake his hand, many for the first time. Two weeks ago, Maddon and Ross showed up with their arms loaded with gifts, and Vin returned the favor.
“David Ross came up and I kidded him – oh I did a little research – I said David what can you tell me about Edgar Renteria when you broke in?” Vin said. “I said, the reason I bring that up, he’s the first guy you ever threw out trying to steal. Oh, he just went wild. And Joe Maddon started laughing. That’s the fun of it.
“Giancarlo Stanton was another. What happens, too, a lot of the young players who grew up here, listening to the game, they’re the ones who are so impacted. ‘Since he’s leaving, I’d like to meet the guy I used to hear when I was a baby.’ So I understand that, too.
“That’s one of the blessings. The voice has been a bridge to other people, where I’ll meet somebody out – an adult – and they’ll say, ‘You know, when I hear you, I think of backyard barbecues with my mom and dad or painting a garage on a Saturday afternoon.’ And those are nice residuals to have.
“Again, I can’t lose sight of it. They’re coming up because I’m leaving. It’s a nice gesture, but that’s why they’re coming up. And I’m touched.”
It is telling that at the end of a journey of a thousand miles, Vin appreciates the conviction behind a stroll of a thousand steps. That they’d care enough to care, after all these years. There was a time, not all that long ago, when he knew them well, the men who play the game he puts to music. On his way home, away from here after so long, he is reconnecting with those days, and those men. Of course, he had a story for that too.
“Oh, I’ve loved it,” he said. “Way back when, I sat in the very back of the bus with the humpties. That’s what they called themselves, the humpties, or the hardly-ables. And they were with the old Brooklyn Dodgers. Raising hell, laughing and scratching. Dick Williams was one of the prime leaders. And he became a Hall of Fame manager, of all people. It was great, being in the back of the bus.
“Most of those days, I was about the same age as the rookies. So they kind of looked upon me as a rookie and they took very good care of me and they became really good friends. Then as the years went by, and more television and more everything else, all of a sudden I couldn’t get down there. I used to hang out by the batting cage and come up and have a story. Can’t do that anymore.”
So he sits for a few more days, and he tells their stories, and he relives a lifetime not really above them. Not really in the sky. But beside them, every step.
Maybe, it’s suggested to him wryly, since he and David Ortiz will leave at the same time, even possibly the same day, they’ll be found together on a beach in Santo Domingo this time next year, laughing at the good old days, recalling the best of them. He laughed.
“Not quite,” he said. “The sun and I are mortal enemies. But it was a joy. It really was fun.”
