Whenever there is a resounding support of a person, place, or thing — an almost universal appreciation — there inevitably comes the backlash. The collection of people who — due to lack of parental love or proper medication, perhaps — find a need to attempt to take something down, to curtail the fire hose of love being applied to said person, place, or thing. They look down and scowl at all the people looking up and smiling. They tamper with the lug nuts on the bandwagon.
I have yet to see that happen to Vin Scully. He gets mentioned a fair deal in this dank corner of the Internet. Certainly, he’s not every single person’s favorite broadcaster — in fact, there may actually be one person on Earth who doesn’t care for him — but he’s managed to avoid the pitfalls that bacon and American Idol and Carson Cistulli could not. People never got sick of him, or his hype. Even people who say they hate Vin Scully don’t hate Vin Scully. They hate themselves.
Vin Scully is famous enough that he could have just walked in to Wrigley Field this day, wheezed some words, and everybody would’ve gone crazy. He pays tribute to Harry Caray in both name and action. He sings — really sings. He modulates his voice to approximate the necessary pitches and he enunciates the words. He gives a flying fuck. This song and what it represents is too important to the game and that ballpark and to him to be half-assed.
It will be a while before we hear Vin Scully again, and soon it will be forever. I can’t help the latter. But perhaps attempting to truncate the former will help us all trudge through the snowbanks of this off-season. Just step in the old foot holes. It will make it easier.
(h/t to Joe_TOC)
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