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The Most Artful Dodger
Steve Rushin
August 19, 2002
"When I was a kid of seven or eight," says Vin Scully, in a voice like drawn butter, "we had a big four-legged radio in our living room in New York. And I loved to get a pillow and a glass of milk and a plate of saltine crackers"—on his tongue, "saltine" sounds sumptuous—"and lay with my head on the pillow directly under the loudspeaker of that radio. It was probably some meaningless Alabama football game, but even so: It was as if the speaker was a showerhead and the roar of the crowd was pouring down on me."
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August 19, 2002

The Most Artful Dodger

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Which reminds him of a story. "One time in San Diego," says Scully, "we showed two kids, nine or 10 years old, fishing for a ball that had been forgotten on the warning track after batting practice. They were trying to retrieve it with a tin can on a string, and we showed them periodically. 'Are they gonna get it? Oh, yes! They have it halfway up! Yes! Oh, no-o-o! They dropped it!' This went on for quite a while. And finally, 'Yes! They did it!' And when they finally got that ball, you were oh so relieved. I mean"—and here Scully's eyes actually mist up—"it is so charming. So charming. Just look around. There is nothing more charming than the innocence of a child."

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