Vin Scully treated everyone like family. Those who listened to him broadcast a game felt as if their uncle was telling them stories as they watched the game. He had that same effect when you met him. 

I had the opportunity to meet him on April 4, 1999, when the Yankees were in Los Angeles to play the Dodgers in an exhibition before the start of the season. Leading up to simply shaking his hand, I was incredibly nervous, anxious about meeting this broadcast icon. In fact, I could feel my heart beat rapidly as I thought about introducing myself. Vin Scully was royalty and you just don’t walk up to royalty and say, “Hey, what’s up?” But with Scully, you could actually do that. 

As I debated how I would approach Vin, I saw Scully’s longtime friend, Keith Olbermann, and he graciously said, “I’ll introduce you.” And he did. 

And immediately, Scully made me feel as if he had known me for years. He would not accept being called “Mr. Scully,” insisting you call him “Vin.” He immediately disarmed me with stories and spoke about our connection, having both gone to Fordham. In a moment, he was a friend, and his demeanor told you that he was happy to meet you and actually was delighted to spend time talking. 

He graciously took a picture with me on the bench, and I felt as if I had been touched by the hand of a broadcasting god. And I had. 

In an era of hot takes, in which debate shows argue about the greatest this and the greatest that, there is no debate that Scully is simply the greatest sports broadcaster who ever lived. No one can come close to his talent and his ability to communicate so easily with his audience. 

Scully had an amazing way to weave incredible stories throughout a baseball game while still keeping the focus on what was happening on the field. His use of words was precise, and his presentation was free of gimmicks or signature calls. 

His broadcast style was one of grace and elegance, and his calls were laced with a poetic style that seemed lyrical. In truth, if you put music to some of his iconic calls it would sound like a joyous baseball anthem. 

In fact, when Vin Scully said hello to you, it almost sounded as if he were singing his greeting. Thus was the gift he was given all those many years ago when he was born in The Bronx in 1927. 

Although he became part of forever in the City of Angels, he began his journey in New York and was a child of the city. He fell in love with sports as he nestled under the big radio in his family home, listening to broadcasts and letting the sound of the crowd wash over him. Those happy childhood moments for him led to the happiest of moments for those who listened to him. 

His was a gift from the gods. A lovely, soft, easy voice and a disarming manner that made him sound like a friend and not an authority figure giving you the score. 

Scully’s journey took him to Fordham University, where he played outfield for two years on the school baseball team before giving up the sport to concentrate on the student radio station, WFUV. And at the incredible age of 22, he went into the Brooklyn Dodgers broadcast booth and only stayed 67 years. And when he finally decided to walk away, a nation, incredibly enough, wanted more. We were not finished listening to him. 

One of the amazing things is that his style transcended generations. Although it’s somewhat sacrilegious to say, some of the broadcast icons of the past would not make it in today’s world. If you listen to how some called a game in the ’50s, you can question if they would even be hired by today’s execs or, more importantly, accepted by today’s audience. Scully was just as good and relevant in 2016 as he was in 1950. There is an incredible genius to that accomplishment. 

The length of his career gave him a breadth of stories that he was easily able to apply to what was happening in present day. He was friends with Jackie Robinson and Gil Hodges, and he carried his encyclopedic knowledge of the Boys of Summer and made it relevant when announcing a Clayton Kershaw start. 

Listen to his call of Sandy Koufax’s perfect game, and it is a master class in broadcasting. He added the perfect touch to Hank Aaron’s 715th home run and was pitch-perfect as the ball rolled between Bill Buckner’s legs in 1986 at Shea Stadium. Those tapes should be studied by college broadcasting classes for the rest of time. 

He was, quite simply, what we in this business all aspire to be. Tops in his craft, creating an unapproachable legacy. 

The broadcasting business is full of some of the biggest egos that you can ever imagine, yet there is no one with the hubris to even think he or she is as good as Vin Scully. No one. 

And in a business with its share of vipers, you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone that has a negative thing to say about this man. 

He was that special. 

Personally, I am honored to have used the same studios at Fordham’s WFUV as Scully used in the late 1940s. A generation of Fordham broadcasters view Scully as the patron saint. He is ours. And when we have playful debates with our Syracuse friends about each school’s assembly line of broadcasters, all of us simply say, “Vin Scully went to Fordham” and we dramatically drop the mic. No one tops Scully. Game over. 

Scully’s was a great American life. A life well lived from coast to coast. And his words will live forever despite his voice being silenced Tuesday night. 

Scully would open each broadcast by saying, “Hi everybody, and a very pleasant good evening to you wherever you may be.” A mournful business now says, “Rest In Peace, Vin, wherever you may be.”