On Vin Scully Missing Opening Days 1 & 2

As another Dodger game goes by without the comforting sound of Vin Scully's voice, I feel the unease of a mother with a child in a war zone.  I do not know if I will hear it again.  Scully's words are local lore, and even in Monday's paper there was a quote, as if funneled through a sports lover's wormhole, about Sandy Koufax's 9/9/65 no hitter:

"On the scoreboard in right field it is 9:46 p.m. in the City of the Angels, Los Angeles, California. And a crowd of twenty-nine  thousand one-hundred thirty nine just sitting in to see the only pitcher in baseball history to hurl four no-hit, no-run games.  He has done it four straight years, and now he caps it: On his fourth no-hitter he made it a perfect game. And Sandy Koufax,  whose name will always remind you of strikeouts, did it with a flurry. He struck out the last six consecutive batters. So when  he wrote his name in capital letters in the record books, that `K' stands out even more than the O-U-F-A-X." Poetry. Thanks to my daughter, who was a Jr. Dodger announcer, I had the privilege of meeting Vin twice.  The first time I had wanted to tell him about the time when I lived in Japan and was giggling like a maniac on a train at his commentary of Game 7 between Toronto and I don't even remember who.  What I soon realized was that every parent and a lot of kids each had their piece of Dodger lore to thank him for.  Not because he did anything on the field, but because he poured the wine of the field into our glasses and brought out all of its flavors with his love of each vine and vintage.  I passed on trying him with another "I remember when..." story.  I said I was glad to meet him and let him lead my daughter to the press cafeteria where they ate Dodger Dogs together.  He was as down to earth as a pair of suspenders and my daughter was momentarily fooled into thinking that all adults are given the gift of eloquence when talking to a 9 year old. The second time my daughter called a game for the Jr. Dodgers was the final day of the British Open and Tom Watson was leading.  I walked into Vin's press box and he was watching it with 3 other staff members. Vin was spinning golden yarn about his own round at St. Andrews while waiting between players' shots.  I foolishly broke the spell by commenting on a Watson shot from a previous Open and was deservedly ushered out by one his assistants. For all of you people who look down on those who adore sports icons, here is what you have been waiting to hear and loathe: I don't regret a moment of it. It was a brush with eloquence and grace that I treasure to this day. There is more I wish I had said, but, like many moments in life, I was glad to just be there. As the calendar turns and tomorrow is the last game of this home stand, I look forward to hearing Vin back at his post.  I know the tree does not have many leaves left on it, but I will enjoy its color and majesty until winter finally strips it bare.  With the chill in the air and the brightly colored leaves growing fewer, I know that I appreciate each call more and await the warmth of Vin's return.  As I watch each leaf fall, I see more and more each vein and drop of color. Such is the magic of master craftsmen that, while we soon tire of other people's work, theirs makes us stare and study. We look closely at each leaf after we have made a pile and jumped, laughing into it. Tomorrow, if all is right with the world, I will take a long walk through spring gardens and when I get home, I will hear Vin and wonder that I ever thought winter would come at all.