Vin Scully’s voice
On the tube,
The TV, the color television,
A dying breed,
An old, serviceable piece of equipment,
Too slow and surly to change,
Or notice or negate change,
Heavy and dense,
Full of relevant information,
Light on trivia,
Concerned with little but what is known.
Vin follows and breaks the rules of broadcast journalism
As would a scientist and scholar:
Tell the score,
Describe the situation,
Announce the outcome.
But his science is an art:
Like a manager’s decision
Like an umpire’s call,
Sometimes questionable but almost invariably,
The state of the game,
Never the results,
Is a foregone conclusion covered by bloggers,
Radio jockeys and mouths who know no better
Than to open and disperse their toxins with and to the world.
Doubt, they say, is for losers.
Foul balls, hit hard or soft, are simply not in play.
If you’re selective in what you choose to watch and report to the masses,
Similar to Scully,
Alone or surrounded by admirers,
Be careful how you choose your words
To describe the play-by-play,
Color commentary is needed
It seldom is used for effect,
And even then,
The color – the fascinating, intriguing, interesting tidbits
Of the man’s intelligence
That makes every baseball fan’s blood pulsate
Is offered in a straightforward, factual manner.
Much of life should borrow a page
From the Vin Scully book of thought:
Keep it real,
Keep it relevant,
Keep it pure,
Keep it precise.
The rest is merely
Grey, lifeless commentary,
As seen on the TV,
The Boob Tube,
Where Vin Scully is eternal
And life is a sorry imitation of divine art
Like a fastball hurled high and tight
To a pinch hitter in the bottom of the ninth
With two outs and the bags jammed
And only the most loyal of stooges still in attendance
Rooting for the players on substance
The players of substance.
[Poetry Break Editor Note]