DODGERS The VIN SCULLY Thread

Discussion in 'Los Angeles DODGERS' started by irish, Sep 22, 2016.

  1. irish

    irish DSP Staff Member Administrator

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    can't believe no one thought to create this thread
    maybe because we're all in denial of him leaving
     
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  2. irish

    irish DSP Staff Member Administrator

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    whether you like olbermann or not
    soild article

    Vin Scully is a Legend, but be's not a Saint
    by Keith Olbermann | GQ — 4 hours ago

    [​IMG]

    On Friday, April 9th, 2004, Royce Clayton of the Colorado Rockies—his new dreadlocks cascading out from under his helmet—strode to the plate at Dodger Stadium to lead off the top of the 8th. Far above him, broadcasting perhaps his 8,500th ballgame, Vincent Edward Scully thought of something.

    “You see Clayton’s hair and you think of Johnny Damon,” Scully said, pausing, to let the mental image form of how Damon had that season added a long flowing brown beard to his long flowing brown hair. “You seen pictures of Johnny Damon in the papers? Red Sox outfielder?” This kind of aside had long been a standard Scully ploy: utilize an endearing anachronism to help the viewer or listener live up to Scully’s subtle-but-powerful demand that they work hard at multi-tasking and follow not just his broadcast of the game but also his sidebars, which flow like the Mississippi—and he’s Mark Twain, piloting the riverboat while he’s telling you stories about life deep in the woods behind the banks. “Two-and-oh. Holy Mackerel! I tell you who he reminds me of. Only me, now.”

    There was no actual pause before what came next. But to all of us watching Vin Scully do just another Dodger regular season game, time stopped to allow us to try to guess where Vin was going with this. One of his viewers—me—at home and under the covers, well past midnight in New York (and thank you baseball satellite package), assumed he would make the obvious, but perfect, analogy between the hair and beard of Johnny Damon and the hair and beard of Jesus Christ. In that split second I was wondering how in the hell he’d do it without leaving the possibility of offense, because in broadcasting today if you’ve gone 67 days without offending anybody you’re either a dreadful bore or a master of collegial decorum, and Vin Scully has gone 67 years without being a dreadful bore or offending anybody.

    Forgive me the self-conscious writing conceit of returning to the start of what Scully said during that otherwise forgotten April game twelve years ago, so you get the flavor of the thing and the full impact of him not invoking Jesus: “You see Clayton’s hair and you think of Johnny Damon. You seen pictures of Johnny Damon in the papers? Red Sox outfielder? Two-and-oh. Holy mackerel! I tell you who he reminds me of. Only me, now. Charles Manson!”

    Scully cracks himself up for a second and there’s a welcoming cough-like grunt subsuming part of the next consonant. “How’d you like to have somebody say you look like Charles Manson? I’ve got his bubble gum card, right? Gee whiz! Oh well.” The self-deprecating laugh vanishes suddenly now in the one-second pause, and Mark Twain is back focused on the riverboat’s wheel. “Five-one Dodgers in the eighth…”

    The recording of The Night Vin Scully Talked About Charles Manson has been with me ever since, and to those I meet who have not heard it, it now, in 2016, provides even more of a happy shock than it did twelve years ago. Because now, as Scully’s retirement looms, he has seemingly been so buried in deserved praise and honest gratitude that one almost visualizes him having to wade his way through it to get to his broadcast booth at Dodger Stadium. As the years have piled up he has gone from being Brooklyn Boy Wonder Announcer to Inventor of Los Angeles Baseball to The Game’s Greatest to Icon to Saint Sportscaster to, this year, something approaching Living Deity.

    This is not to say Vin Scully is not a terrific and endlessly patient human being, nor that anyone who has treated him with reverence, nor that the succession of ballplayers and managers who have bestowed the ultimate role-reversal praise by making the pilgrimage in full uniform to him in the press box are being insincere or overdoing it. It’s just that the real Scully—the one who once made us think not of Christ but of Manson—is far more human and far more capable of the unexpected. And thus far more praiseworthy.

    He’s not as good as everybody’s making him out to be—he’s better.

    Of course, I can write that now, 29 years after I first met him. It should be 31 years after I first met him, but honest-to-God, the first two years I worked in Los Angeles as a full-time sportscaster on a top-rated local TV newscast and on all-news radio, I could not manage to screw up the courage to introduce myself to him. At fourteen or so, required in a composition class in a suburban New York prep school to write an essay on what I would do if I knew I had six months to live, I had included in my farewell tour going to Los Angeles to meet Vin Scully. So when I finally dismissed the element of Final Wish to the thing and made that same pilgrimage to him before a game—with my heart beating in my ears—he responded with something so kind and self-deprecating that I was certain I wasn’t the first professional to have been that flummoxed in his presence. “I’m glad you said hello! I thought I had done something to offend you!” Before I could sputter any kind of reassurance, he began to quiz me about anniversaries of obscure but interesting baseball events which I used to drop into my sportscasts. I explained I had found a perfect book that sorted them not by year but by month and date. “Goodness! Really? By date? Could I borrow it? Would you mind if I did something like it during the telecasts? Just Dodger anniversaries?” I remember stifling an instinct to look around to make sure he wasn’t talking to somebody of actual importance standing behind me, and shortly afterwards getting a thorough physical to make sure I didn’t actually have just six months to live.

    The pilgrimage has only taken on its finality this year—we were lined up in the hallway on the June night I finally got to Dodger Stadium about 6:15 and cued up to say goodbye—but within the broadcasting industry it has for decades been almost universal, and mine is not even the sappiest of the Too-Scared-To-Introduce-Myself stories. In 1999, the Yankees played an exhibition game in L.A. and a friend of mine had to overcome his nerves just asking me if I would introduce him to Vin.

    The friend was named Michael Kay and he was in his eighth season as a Yankees’ play-by-play announcer, and like Scully he was an alumnus of Fordham University, and thus his bona fides were several times better than mine. Before I introduced them, Mike said, “I’m shaking like a leaf.” After Vin exited, Mike said, “I’m still shaking like a leaf.” And all Scully did to calm him down was tell the shockingly human—and theretofore untold story—of how he had been approached to bolt the Dodgers in 1964 to become a Yankees’ announcer. As Kay and I blinked silently in disbelief, Vin revealed even more. “And I thought long and hard about it. I was born in the Bronx. We had only been here six, seven seasons. It was tempting.”

    Other pilgrimages have been punctured in blunter fashion. Amateur archivists still strive to confirm the exact date and list of witnesses when Scully, having a pre-game meal in the tiny press box dining room just up the first base line from his Dodger Stadium booth, listened impassively to a group of sportswriters go on about how the personal lives of a single woman reporter and a local married athlete had unfortunately and very publicly intertwined. Suddenly Vin reddened and said, “Just tell me one thing”—and proceeded to inquire with vivid non-Dodger blue language about why the respected part of the couple had gotten involved with the less-respected one. It’s possible one of the sportswriters is still seated at that table, having turned into a statue with jaw permanently agape.

    Legendary is the story of the blustery political commentator who years ago had ‘his people’ advise the Dodgers he wanted to meet Scully because Scully was “number one” in his field. “Everywhere I go, Mr. Scully, I try to meet whoever is Number One because I’m Number One in what I do and it’s important to recognize and salute those of my own stature, and you’re Number One here!” The man bellowed on like this for several moments as the crew in the Dodger booth squirmed. When he finally paused, too impressed with himself to sense Scully’s anger, Scully quietly, politely, and efficiently cut the blowhard into little pieces. “Well then, you’ll want to meet Arthur here, who is our Number One stage manager.” The commentator found himself unwillingly shaking hands. “And of course, you’ll want to meet Debbie, she’s our Number One makeup artist.” Another unhappy handshake. “And Don, our Number One cameraman—who, coincidentally is on Camera Number One.” Again with the handshake. “And in the row behind you, that’s Antonio, our Number One intern…” Witnesses disagree as to how many Numbers One Scully introduced before the man angrily muttered “I gotta go”—but all agreed he was several feet shorter when he went.

    So Scully is many things, but mild-mannered saint is not one of them. I have listened to him talk, mystified and hurt, about the conduct of a baseball Hall-of-Fame player towards him, and heard him bemused at a previous broadcast employer’s attempt to remake the look of his telecasts (“They could ask me what it should look like, couldn’t they? I mean 50 years in, maybe I’ve had one idea of some value?”). I have heard him use other salty language and am one of the few witnesses left to tell thee of the time he hosted a television game show.

    These non-beatified versions of Scully aren’t extraordinary and given how long he’s been doing this, statistically they are probably few and far between. His longevity sometimes escapes our ability to contextualize it. It is amazing to contemplate that he joined the Dodgers only three years after Jackie Robinson did, and was in the booth for the first ballgame Mickey Mantle ever played in New York. It is startling to realize the on-air audition he had — and didn’t pass — to become John Madden’s TV partner was 35 years ago this month. It is mind-bending to consider that he has not just been on 22 of the 94 annual radio and television World Series broadcasts ever, but been alive for 87 of them. It is goose-bumpy to recognize that the season he began broadcasting major league games, Connie Mack was still the manager of the Philadelphia Athletics (Mack had become A’s manager in 1901 and we’ve just passed the 130th anniversary of Mack’s debut as a major league catcher). And it almost requires the language of Light Years to realize that if you start a new job the day after his last scheduled regular-season Dodger broadcast and you stay in that gig as long as Scully has in his, you will not be leaving your new position until Sunday, September 26, 2083.

    You will also have to be almost flawless at that job over these next 67 years. Lost in the pilgrimages and the longevity is the reality that unlike almost every other great broadcaster in any field and of any time, there is not only no long list of Scullyian Gaffes, there is almost no list. Amid the Kirk Gibson call, and the Bill Buckner call, and the Hank Aaron call, and the Larsen Perfect Game call, and the Koufax perfect game call — there just aren’t many mistakes. Certainly, a few years back he confused Koufax and Clayton Kershaw, and this past June he advertised an upcoming Dodgers-Nationals pitching match-up as Kershaw versus Stephen Spielberg. Naturally, two days later, Vin turned it into a priceless callback and a subtle reference to Broadway understudies by saying “The other night I think I said Stephen Spielberg. But I regret to say he is unable to pitch.” But these and the occasional slightly-garbled name or detail are all the result of age, and even if they were not, the average major league play-by-play man probably makes as many of them a season as Scully has in a lifetime.

    Yet if there is one memory of his work that I will always carry with me—besides, of course, Charles Manson Night at the old ball yard—it is of an actual Vin Scully on-air mistake. On a miserably humid night in Cincinnati in August, 1991, with Dodger catcher Mike Scioscia at bat, Scully abruptly announced “The two-oh pitch to Hodges…” ‘Hodges’ was Gil Hodges, the Dodger first baseman from before Scully joined the club through the 1961 season, later manager of the 1969 “Miracle” Mets and as of that night buried—in Brooklyn—nearly 20 years after a fatal heart attack at just 47.

    The mistake was so unexpected that it was actually noted in the pages of The Los Angeles Times. And that night, during the Dodgers’ telecast from San Francisco, Scully came on the air and owned up to it. I foolishly didn’t keep the tape from that night and I seek it still, so you’ll have to accept a paraphrase.

    Scully came on camera, mid-game and said (approximately), “I’m told that back home today a mistake I made the other night appeared in one of the papers. I had been thinking of the late Gil Hodges. If you don’t know, Gil Hodges was a great Dodger first baseman, and my great friend and a great man who was taken from us far too soon. And like Mike, Gil wore number fourteen. And it was awfully hot in that booth and for some reason instead of saying, ‘two-and-oh to Scioscia’ I said, ‘two-and-oh to Hodges.’ But I think the weather and the uniform number were not the only reasons I confused them. Mike reminds me a lot of my friend Gil and, like Gil, I think he may be a fine major league manager some day. Anyway, I just wanted to apologize for the mistake.”

    And then Vin Scully did something that took my breath away.

    As the booth light went off and the telecast showed the Giants and Dodgers on the field at old Candlestick Park and the sounds of Scully switching from a hand-held microphone to his headset rustled in the background, he said something that only Vin Scully could ever say, that would turn an ordinary stumble into a timeless moment. “I wish,” he almost whispered, “I could bring Gil Hodges back that easily.”​
     
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  3. THINKBLUE

    THINKBLUE DSP Gigolo

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    I'm beyond sad that he won't be around anymore, but so grateful to have listened to him and happy that he is able to leave on his own terms. Much deserved rest.

    His 3 inning simulcast on radio is still unmatched to this day.

    Thank you so much, Vin! I have so many great memories listening to you.
     
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  4. MZA

    MZA MODERATOR Staff Member

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    Funny thing, I was gonna make a Vin thread and post that story, irish.

    Wonderful story, and even though I never saw Hodges play, that last remark, it got to me, because I can clearly hear Vin's voice say it.

    Gonna miss him, but damn am I happy that I got to hear his voice for the time that I've been a fan.

    No one can ever replace him, and I'm sure whomever takes over knows they shouldn't even try, and just be themselves.

    We got seven more games with him. Can't believe it's gonna be over soon.
     
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  5. irish

    irish DSP Staff Member Administrator

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    [​IMG]
     
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  6. C2ThaB81

    C2ThaB81 DSP Legend

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    It's pretty unreal that this moment is actually gonna happen. I mean it was gonna happen at some point but I've never known anything but vin scully and the Dodgers. To see theses tributes, the players making a point to visit before their last game in dodger stadium, the respect he's earned from baseball people in general, it's really hard to put in words.

    I've never met the guy but Sunday's game in dodger stadium and next weekend in San Fran are going to be two days that are tough to watch but days I will treasure for the rest of my life. You want to be there in person to celebrate it but you also want to watch on TV just like you have so many of the years before. I never thought a man telling stories and broadcasting a baseball game on radio/TV would have such an emotional effect on me, but it will and has already started.

    Thanks Vin for making my dodger fan experience more and more enjoyable each and every year regardless of the outcome. Obviously there's no substitute for winning but losing and having a chance to experience the greatness that is vin scully makes it a lot easier to take. Dodger baseball will continue, but it will never be the same.

    #win4vin
     
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  7. Man Ray

    Man Ray Well-Known Member

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    Without a doubt, the whole Dodgers experience will never be the same. I can't even imagine Dodger Baseball without him. He was the one constant, no matter what else was going on in the world, he was always there for us. I can't say I ever took him for granted, but I somehow thought he would always be here for us. Like any Dodger fan, I hope we win the World Series every year. But this year, more than any other, would be especially nice. Perfect actually. To say he will never be forgotten is an understatement. We love you Vinny.
     
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  8. Gebbeth

    Gebbeth DSP Legend

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    Got to relate a personal story.

    I'm old enough, like a lot of you here (cmon, admit it), to remember growing up at a time when you only had a small 19 inch color TV with just a few VHF channels and some useless UHF channels. In total, maybe 15 or so useable channels.

    Of course, there was no DVR....no satellite TV, not even cable.....hell, the VCR wasn't even around.

    My parents were immigrants, and so, when they wanted to see the very few channels that showed shows from back home and local TV in their language, that usually was on UHF and in the evenings during a specific time.

    That time was usually when baseball was being played at home.

    So my only choice was to bite my tongue and wait for the news in the LA Times, or sneak one of those old FM/AM radios with the cassette player built in, and listen to Dodger baseball with Vin.

    It was, in a lot of ways, the lullaby that I slept to, unless it was an especially exciting game. Had to keep the volume low though cause was either pretending to study or was lying down to go to sleep.

    When you think about it, Vin was the nighttime story teller for generations of Dodger fans....and really baseball fans (he called so many nationally televised games to in those days).

    What I feel sad about is not that I won't hear Vin's magic again, although that is so very sad. It's that my two boys, who are very young, won't have the chance to listen.....really listen......to what a baseball game really is. It's a story. It's a history. It's that muffled scream on a walk off for the home team while under the sheats, with Vin letting the crowd do the talking, and then making that poetic, symbolic, humorous, eloquent, enthusiastic, and respectful emphasis on a little bit of baseball history. Vin is, was, will be the best ever at that....creating memories.

    I'm truly sad, my boys won't be able to experience that....not live at least....as they grow up.

    Not looking forward to Oct 2nd......but grateful to have been able to witness his greatness for as long as I have.
     
  9. irish

    irish DSP Staff Member Administrator

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    very well said
    sad but grateful
    like @Man Ray said, won't be the same without him
     
  10. fsudog21

    fsudog21 DSP Legend

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    Started listening to the great Vin in 1960. Early on it was all radio, either a plug in on a transistor. Only TV games were Dodger-Giant games from SF on Channel 11 in LA.

    My favorite Vin moment was his call of Sandy's perfect game in '65. Listening to the whole thing on a transistor. Sandy and Vin at their best. Perfect game.........perfect call.

    https://archive.org/details/VinScullyCallsThe9thInningOfSandyKoufaxsPerfectGame

    He's been part of my life as long as anyone alive (both my parents have passed on) and I'll miss him more than I can express. No one could paint a picture with words like Vin.

    You'll note a common thread among the tributes to him.........he's as good and genuine a person as he is a broadcaster.

    Here's to a great rest of your life, Vin.
     
  11. fsudog21

    fsudog21 DSP Legend

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    My grandmother was a Croatian immigrant who spoke very broken English. She learned a lot of that English from listening to Dodger games.

    My memories of visiting her in San Pedro were of Vin's voice blasting over her radio as we walked up the stairs to her front door (she was hard of hearing).

    "He talks to you like he's your friend," she explained. Well put.
     
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  12. Bluezoo

    Bluezoo Among the Pantheon

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    I think what your grandmother said, the deluge of accolades not withstanding, that" he talks to you like he is your friend", plainly and simply, is the magic and brilliance of Vin Scully.
    All the rest just happens naturally because of that...
     
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  13. MZA

    MZA MODERATOR Staff Member

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    Not just the voice of a generation, but the voice of many.
     
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  14. McCPRO55

    McCPRO55 Active Member

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    Became a Dodger fan when about 8, (1963) would make my little brother be the Giants when we played he’s still a fan that’s how I made a Gnats fan. Very little baseball on TV’s 3 channels in Terra Bella CA but had Vin on the radio. He was so good you could see the games in your head, every throw to first, pitch to the plate and play in the field. Over the years I’ve yelled and been more excited listening to his calls on the radio then any football, basketball game I’ve seen live or on TV. I will miss him like I do my Mother and Father. Not my poem, not sure of author.

    An Ode to Vin

    Oh Scully, oh Scully, just where will you be

    When seventeen comes and we tune in to see

    And hear you weave yarns of days that have passed

    I just can't believe you are leaving at last


    Just stay one more year to tell us stories

    Of Sutton and Drysdale and Robinson please

    And of Pee Wee, the Duke and Campy and John

    Sixty-seven short years and poof you are gone


    I knew it the first time that I heard your voice

    The Dodgers were gonna be my only choice

    I'm all grown up now, but you bring out the boy

    Describing the heartbreak, celebrations and joy


    So please Uncle Vinny, tell us some more!

    Just tell us who's batting, just tell us the score!

    Tell us of Robinson's 90 foot dash

    Or of Gibson's historical World Series smash

    Or of Finley's walk off on the Giants that day

    Just tell us you're kidding, just tell us you'll stay


    I'll sit on your lap and I'll listen real good

    To tales of Piazza smashing with wood

    Or Hershiser's magical eighty-eight run

    Or of all of the pennants and trophies we've won


    Just share with us one more magical day

    All that is Garvey, Lopes, Russell and Cey

    Just tell us of Marshall and Gagne the king

    And Monday up north in quest of a ring


    Just tell of Fernando's one no-hit night

    Or the four straight homeruns before Nomar took flight

    Tell us of squeeze plays and flares in the sky

    Tell of the "wild horse" some thought could fly


    Just a little bit longer, just a little bit more

    Please tell us of Alston and Tommy for sure

    And though you're the greatest southpaw that we've had

    Tell of Koufax the great and Kershaw the lad


    And maybe a bit of Shawn Greene pounding four

    Or rookies both present and past we adore

    Tell of Guerrero's homerun setting June

    Or tell us of Welch and his October boon


    I know that all things must come to an end

    But I suddenly feel like I'm losing a friend

    The boy just can't help it, he's starting to cry

    While the grown-up lets out a resolute sigh


    So God speed dear Scully from one and from all

    Come seventeen we'll be missing your call

    From Blue Heaven on Earth perched way up above

    I'll still be right here with transistor and glove
     
  15. Gebbeth

    Gebbeth DSP Legend

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    I think it was Bob Costas and Jerry Reuss that said something to the effect that when Vin started a story, no one would hit into a double play to end the inning. If there were two outs, and Vin started a story, the last batter would foul off 12 pitches, and Vin would complete the story. Reuss said he actually heard on the mound that Vin was in the middle of a story, so he took extra time so Vin could end the story, and he would then get ready to pitch.

    In other words, baseball seemed to wait for Vin. That's how much the game respected Vin.

    Here's a classic example. Vin even says he's not going to tell the story of beards because there was two outs. But magically, two men get on base and the inning gets stretched out, and I think he completes the entire story. And it is actually hilarious as the camera gets different shots of different beards.

     
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  16. THINKBLUE

    THINKBLUE DSP Gigolo

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    "Bienvenue monsieur Gagne!"

    "If you have a sombrero, throw it to the sky!" [Guy in the TV truck: "Wow, racist"]
     
  17. irish

    irish DSP Staff Member Administrator

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    without a doubt, the best thread i've ever started
    the posts have been fantastic
    i remember one radio broadcast back in either 1969/1970
    after the game, there used to be three steps...
    1. jerry doggett would go down to the clubhouse and interview a player
    ~commercial
    2. vin would go over all the scores in both leagues
    ~commercial
    3. vin would tell some interesting story from his archive*
    ~signoff**
    anyway, this one night jerry is sick so vin has to do the entire postgame show himself
    but for some reason he did the scores first, the interview second, and then his story
    the way he painted the picture, i imagined him jogging up and down the stairs back and forth
    i know not a significant/interesting memory, but one nonetheless

    ** i do, however, remember how he would end the broadcasts...
    "and that will do it for tonight, where the dodgers beat the cardinals 7 to 3."

    i also remember after hr's in the 60's/70's...
    "on that homerun by (player) $50 worth of union oil autoscript to..."

    * one of his stories was about a guy walking up to the plate for his 4th at bat
    i'm reciting from memory, so i'm paraphrasing...
    "In his first three ab's the pitcher had struck [Joe] out three times -- each at bat making [Joe] look bad on breaking balls
    anyway, [Joe] is on deck when the hitter ahead of him drills a bases loaded ball into the gap
    as one of the runners runs home, the throw comes in
    it's gonna be close!
    just as the throw approaches the catcher, [Joe] steps in front, cocks his bat, swings, and crushes the incoming throw
    naturally [Joe] and the runner are called out for interference
    the umpire, flabbergasted, asks [Joe] 'why did you do that?'
    [Joe's] response... that was the only fastball I got all day..."

    again, maybe not a substantial/interesting memory
    but something i remember 45ish years later...
     
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  18. irish

    irish DSP Staff Member Administrator

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    "viva puig!... viva cuba!!!... [guy in the truck, "fucken boaters"]
     
  19. Gebbeth

    Gebbeth DSP Legend

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    Hell, I miss his Farmer Johns voiceovers.
     
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  20. Man Ray

    Man Ray Well-Known Member

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    I remember all of that. And I miss Jerry Doggett too. I cried when he passed away.
     
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  21. irish

    irish DSP Staff Member Administrator

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    was also on dan patrick's show



    same here
    jerry wasn't the best announcer
    but i loved him nonetheless [homo]
    cried when he passed
    same with drysdale
     
    Finski likes this.

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