Some of the more fortunate among us were born and raised in
Southern California. But the truly lucky did all that while also
being Americanized by the voices of Vin Scully and Chick Hearn. The
former moved from Brooklyn with the Dodgers and he's been calling
their games ever since. Now in his mid-seventies he's without a
doubt the greatest baseball announcer there ever was and ever will
be, an artist and craftsman as great and democratic in his way as
any combination of Caruso, Pavarotti, Rembrandt, Monet, Homer,
Shakespeare, Sandy Koufax, Babe Ruth and Henry Aaron. He is, for
starters, gentlemanly, cultivated, well-spoken, engaging, charming
-- and consummately professional. In his telling, each game is a
unique event in a season that will prove unique, and so on and on
year after year, decade after decade, and he's been there to
capture the flow of each phase and recapitulate its turning points,
or squandered opportunities, or heroic or sometimes fluke
recoveries. Better than anyone he captured the rhythm of baseball
and its natural place in American daily life -- at least when it
was still a game and thus a way of life.
Early on L.A. fans understood that the worst thing about going
to a Dodger game was not being able to listen to Scully describe
it. So they began to bring transistor radios to the Coliseum, even
before the move to Dodger Stadium, so as not to miss an inning in
his company.
This isn't really the time to write about Scully, but he's been
in the news since the death Monday of his longtime L.A. Laker
counterpart, Chick Hearn. His tribute to Hearn was
characteristically gracious -- if a reflection of everything that
could be said about him as well:
"Though we have lost a dear friend and a true broadcasting
legend today, I would like to offer a prayer of thanksgiving for
having been able to enjoy his work for all these years. Chick had
immense talent that was driven by a tremendous work ethic and an
insurmountable passion for the game and his trade. His personality,
character and professionalism will be greatly missed, yet his
spirit, importance and impact will live forever."
And no doubt it wasn't for Scully to note that Hearn was never
really thought to be in his class -- Scully has never been one to
draw attention to himself, the very thing Hearn thrived on. In
retrospect, though, it's easy to see how the two complemented one
another. Scully arrived in Southern California as a representative
of the national pastime. Hearn joined the Lakers a few years later
when professional basketball was still a secondary sport; without
the huckster element he provided it might never have taken root in
the nation's entertainment capital. But in a day when most games
were never televised, his brilliance over the radio captured
imaginations in a way no highlight reel of Michael Jordan ever
will.
It all began with a rat-a-tat delivery that could keep pace with
a fast moving game, and a clear, confident seeing-eye voice that
didn't miss a thing. His spontaneous imagination created a vivid
lexicon for a rising sport. Tuesday's obits mentioned some, and
others come to mind. Dribbling the basketball he called "yo-yoing
the ball" -- though I seem to recall his use of "tattooing the ball
to the floor" to describe Oscar Robertson's style of dribbling,
which perhaps only Magic Johnson has emulated since. He invented
the term "air ball" for a shot that didn't draw iron. Wilt
Chamberlain's awkward reachout shot was a "finger-roll." A pass to
the low post was "in deep." A pass to a streaking dunker was an
"alley-oop." "Slam dunk" was an early Hearnism. "In-and-out,
heartbreak shot," spoke for itself. So did "it's good if it goes"
apropos a would-be buzzer beater, Jerry West was, who else, "Mr.
Clutch."
Eventually Hearn invented the "simulcast," broadcasting at once
for radio and television. Here he clearly outdid Scully, who knows
better than to waste his descriptive gifts on a camera-dominated
setting. To his credit as well, Hearn's language was all his own.
You'd never hear him say, "he eyes it, flies it." But you would
hear him repeat, however nonsensically, "The Lakers are going left
to right across your radio dial." My best friend recalls the time
Wilt Chamberlain and gangly 7-footer Mel Counts collided and fell
to hardwood. "There's 14 feet of basketball players on the floor,"
he quickly remarked. When someone quipped that the high-jumping
Chamberlain could grab a quarter from the top of the backboard, he
added, "Yeah, and leave 16 cents change."
Where Scully has gotten along famously with sidekicks, it took
the longest time for Hearn to accept anyone as a junior partner. He
was showtime in Laker Los Angeles long before Jack Nicholson, Dyan
Cannon and the Laker girls LaLa-ed the franchise. My friend recalls
how Hearn would interview someone on TV by thrusting a mike in
front of him, ask the question, and roll his eyes around the arena
while the fellow tried to answer. He liked to tease in a not always
charming way -- but woe to the anyone who teased back. Hot Rod
Hundley lasted maybe one season with him as color man, before
moving on to become lead announcer for the now Utah Jazz. On air
he'd always call Hearn "Chickie Babe." No one has since.
In a performance Silent Cal Ripken could not have pulled off
even if his mouth had been his bat and glove, Iron Man Hearn
broadcast 3,338 consecutive games for the Lakers into last season.
It was an unthinkable achievement, by a man who at age 85 was not
about to retire. He was smart to know he had no other life.
topics:
Trade, Television
