In Vin Veritas

Scully has made a life for himself, and for some millions of listeners, exploring the tension between the mundane and the heroic, maintaining a dignified presence all the while, no rooting for him, no consorting with players, knowing just what to say and when to shut up. In his mind, he's the host who welcomes you to the party, takes your coat, makes introductions and then stands apart to moderate the chatter. It's his voice alone that's been floating out over this impossible sprawl, 50 years, gathering everyone under the net, a couple of hours a night, enforcing a community of shared excitement, or puzzlement, or disappointment, Azusa to Temecula.

Several years ago Scully, who admits to an Irish introspection, found himself in a hotel room in Cincinnati and suddenly heard a clock ticking—he has 18 grandchildren, for God's sake—and asked for, and got, his schedule reduced by half of the U.S. He only works west of the Rockies. In any case, he's not a baseball fan particularly and doesn't miss the games. He's sat in the stands just once, and that was at an owner's invitation. It occurred to him long ago that the players come and go. The last one he formed an attachment with was Ralph Branca, only because Scully could fill out a hand on a series of double dates, and look what happened there. Shot heard 'round the world.

Still, he remains vulnerable to goose bumps. When the Dodgers made news in late July, obtaining Manny Ramirez, Scully was properly blas�, saying, "I'm not jumping in the air." He didn't expect Ramirez to be a Dodgers fixture, wouldn't do 50 years, that's for sure. On the other hand: the cars circling the stadium, another balmy night in the offering, and who knows what might happen? "Nothing like the bottom of the ninth, tying run on base, Manny in the on-deck circle," he says, as if the thought had just struck him, invigorated now. "Imagine the roar."