In the beginning, people were mesmerized when walking through the ballpark and hearing his voice. He once said, “What you hear on the air has always been me, because I made it a point not to listen to anyone else.” His sound was pleasing, and it was hard to forget that voice. This fellow preferred to work alone on the radio. He never wanted to talk to a partner; he wanted to talk with us. This guy never referred to his listeners as fans (short for fanatics); he preferred to call them his friends. He wanted his listeners to feel like they were sitting next to him. His grasp of the English language was impeccable. He always used the right phrases and nothing was ever out of place, not a hair, not a word. There is no doubt that baseball kept him young, and us too. This guy was more important to the game of baseball than anyone else who may have ever played. His calls were poetry, timeless and remembered, and his character was even greater than his broadcast skills.

A devout Catholic, he attended Mass every Sunday, before heading to the ballpark. Universally loved, he sometimes said a lot by simply saying nothing at all. This guy never yelled into his microphone; he understood the pace and rhythms of the game. For him, every baseball game was a canvas, and his job was to paint a masterpiece. His voice on the radio reminded me that no matter how much things change, some things stay the same. He took us to places near and far and told us stories of the game and its players that we never knew. Even though he was paid by the Dodgers, he was unafraid to criticize a bad play, or a manager’s decision, or praise an opponent. He always said he wanted to see the game with his eyes, not his heart. Dodger fans brought their transistor radios to the park, because they didn’t want to miss any of his stories. Everyone considered him family. There have been so many words used to describe him; and he made you think, cry and laugh, all at the same time. It seemed like he had been around forever. Not only did he connect generations of families with his words, he predated Willie Mays, Mickey Mantle, the batting helmet, transistor radios, the designated hitter and the sacrifice-fly rule. In 1950, when he slid in behind a microphone for the first time, gas cost 27 cents a gallon, a postage stamp cost 3 cents and minimum wage was 75 cents an hour.

Winston Churchill once said, “The farther backward you can look, the farther forward you will see.” Vin Scully must have been able to see for miles. He never acted his age in his whole life. He was born mature and remained young. The masses are weeping in baseball Heaven, because 94-year-old Vin Scully has left us. He realized that the only thing we get to decide in life is what to do with the time we are given. I believe he used his time wisely. He always knew that the best announcing does not come from your memory; it comes from living through your experiences. And he had experience in spades.

Vin Scully, the red-headed kid, had a way with words. He was a miracle on the air. Every broadcaster wanted to be Vin Scully. It’s going to be hard to think about the Dodgers without thinking about him. He will forever be linked to the fans by five simple words, “It’s time for Dodger baseball.” Vin Scully dropped the mic for the last time on a Tuesday night. The date of his passing will read August 2, 2022. He was the heartbeat of baseball.

Andy Purvis

The only way to stop this guy from playing defense was to lock the dressing room door before he came out. He was born to wear green and white. If he had learned to shoot a hook shot with both hands, they would have stopped playing the game of basketball. The man was a jokester, remarkably funny. The first thing I remember is his smile, and then it’s his laugh. He’s the only guy I knew who could laugh while he talked. It was more like a cackle than a laugh, but that cackle was unmistakable.

Standing 6 feet 10 inches tall and weighing 220 pounds; everything about him was oversized, even his hands. If he walked into a room, it was like the sun came in right behind him. You could feel the energy in the air on game day. This guy was born to win. You may not have liked him, but you admired him. The man was sometimes hard to accept, but he was rarely dull. He was not a touchy, feely kind of guy. The man was serious, never smiled, gave short answers, everything about him was defensive, and there was something about his eyes. He never backed down from anybody. This fellow played mean. His stare would land you on the disabled list. If he said he was going to get you, then he was going to get you. In Boston, basketball mattered. Being #1 is earned. Luck has nothing to do with it. You could tell he was going to turn things around right away.

He was the kind of guy you could build a team around. Even as a center, he could run the floor and dribble the basketball. He had tremendous focus and anticipated everything that was going to happen on the court. He was the first professional to play the ball instead of the man. Others watched their opponent. Bill never took his eyes off the ball. Bill Russell was in constant motion and helped create the Celtics fast-break offense. In the early 1950s, the Celtics had always been a high-scoring team, but lacked the defensive presence needed to win tight games. Russell became famous for his shot-blocking skills, man-to-man defense and rebounding. It was Russell to his left, Russell to the right, Russell down the middle. He became the guy who allowed the Celtics to play the so-called “Hey, Bill” defense. Not only did he guard his man, but whenever his teammate requested additional defensive help, they would shout “Hey, Bill!” Russell was so quick that he could run over for a quick double-team and make it back in time, if opponents tried to find the open man. He was able to do this all while protecting the basket.

It has been said that the criteria for greatness and being the best at what you do or what you’ve ever done, is to ask if the history of what you did be written without mentioning your name. Think of how much history could be written without mentioning Bill Russell’s name. The answer: very little. Bill Russell was the ultimate winner. His name to this very day defines the Boston Celtics. The fire in Bill Russell never went out, not until the day he passed away. That day was Sunday, July 31, 2022. He was 88.

Andy Purvis