They will write about it — the sports commentators and the sports historians — and the fans, or the older ones at least, will talk about it when they talk of summer and baseball. I’ll write about Vin Scully’s voice too, that honeyed tenor voice.
It’s June in 1961, early evening with light still in the sky, but the bedroom I share with my older brother is filling with shadows. Our twin beds have matching Roy Rogers bedspreads, and the room’s wallpaper is a pattern of cowboys roping steers and riding broncos. Scully’s voice comes from the radio on the dresser in a meter and in a tone that seem to belong to us.
The voice had been keener, his cadence faster in calling games for the Brooklyn Dodgers. His voice mellowed, came at a more relaxed pace in Los Angeles.
