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Vin Scully: the Voice that still Echoes through Chavez Ravine

LOS ANGELES — There are some voices that never really leave us. They linger in the warm hush of summer nights, in the crack of the bat, in the pause between the windup and the pitch. And tonight, as fans fill Dodger Stadium and clutch their Vin Scully bobbleheads—each one depicting the Hall of Fame broadcaster in his familiar blue blazer, looking young and dapper—it was clear: though he may no longer be with us, Vin is still very much here.

Bobblehead giveaways are often lighthearted affairs, and rightly so. But this one carries a different weight. It wasn’t just a collectible—it is a keepsake, a kind of talisman for those who spent decades welcoming Vin into their homes, their cars, their childhoods. It is a way to hold onto something that’s already part of you.

Vin Scully wasn’t just the voice of the Dodgers. He was the voice of baseball, of Los Angeles, of civility and class. From Jackie Robinson to Clayton Kershaw, Vin bore witness to nearly 70 years of baseball history—not as a passive observer, but as a narrator whose words elevated the moment. He was the common thread that connected generations of fans, calling perfect games and quiet losses with equal grace.

The GOAT.

For many Angelenos, Vin’s voice is woven into their earliest memories. For others, like me, who moved to Los Angeles later in life, he became an unexpected companion, someone you stumbled upon and quickly came to cherish. You might not have known all the players yet, or understood the rhythms of Dodger Stadium, but you knew enough to sit up and listen when Vin began to speak.

He had that rare ability to tell a story while still calling the game—seamlessly and without ever missing a pitch. One minute he’d be recounting a bit of World War II history, the next describing a 3-2 curveball down and away. Somehow, your brain kept up with both. It felt less like a broadcast and more like a conversation you were lucky to overhear.

And it wasn’t just the big moments—Kirk Gibson’s home run in 1988, Sandy Koufax’s perfect game, Hank Aaron’s record-breaking blast—that made Vin special. It was the quiet moments. The pauses. The space he gave to the game. Where other broadcasters might fill every second with noise, Vin knew when to let the crowd speak. He trusted the game, and he trusted us.

The Dodgers honor him officially tonight, just as they did at his passing in 2022. On the first game after his death, all players gathered on the pitching mound to pay tribute to the man whom they all came to love. The scoreboard flashed familiar images—Vin at his desk, Vin in a convertible waving to fans, Vin in the booth smiling gently as he signed off one last time in 2016. There were no long speeches. There didn’t need to be. The tribute that mattered was in the reverent hush of 50,000 people rising to their feet as the lights dimmed and the familiar phrase echoed through the stadium once more:

“It’s time for Dodger baseball.”

A small but significant moment occurred before the game, when manager Dave Roberts once again pointed to the booth high above home plate, where a permanent tribute now hangs beneath Vin’s old window: “Vin, we’ll miss you.” Six words, simple and true. And beneath that sign, Joe Davis and Orel Hershiser stood silently, heads bowed—two men who know full well that there will never be another like him.

There never could be.

Vin once said, “I guess I’m just one of those people who’s grateful for everything.” It was that gratitude that infused every broadcast. Whether the Dodgers were flying high or bottoming out, he never phoned it in. He found joy in the small details, in a well-turned double play, in a fan with a great sign, in the privilege of telling the story.

And now, it falls to us to tell his.

Somewhere tonight, in a backyard game or a late-night radio broadcast, someone will try to mimic that cadence, that warmth, that effortless rhythm. They’ll fall short, of course. But that’s okay. Because the point isn’t to replace Vin.

It’s to remember him. To carry him with us.

And we do.

In every call of “Strike two!” with just the right rise. In every story that winds through an inning. In every little kid who falls in love with the game just by listening.

There will always be baseball, Vin.

And because of you, there will always be something more.

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