Holy Cow!

One of my favorite Yankees passed away yesterday (on my Dad's birthday, of all days). Phil Rizzuto's running stream of consciousness (a.k.a. calling the Yankees games on WPIX) is the soundtrack of my childhood. As a kid, I tormented my little sister. So much in fact, that she was afraid to go to bed. My mom and dad figured the best way to avoid Pluto's screaming from the bedroom and in turn teach me a lesson was to send me to bed with her.

So here I was on summer nights, heading to my room while it's still light out. Hot summer nights, trying to sleep with what little breeze from the open windows, a radio under my pillow tuned to the Yankee game. I fell asleep to the sound of Phil's voice, crickets, and the bounce of a basketball as my friends continued to play on the court in the street out front.

I never got to see him play as he retired before I was born but he was still legendary around my house. Being somewhat "vertically challenged", it was encouraging to hear all that he accomplished despite being told by Casey Stengel that he should get a shoeshine kit instead of trying to be a ball player. Like him, I was never going to be a homerun hitter. But damn, I was going to be able to bunt like him, have a great on-base percentage, vacuum up anything hit in the infield and just be the best lead off hitter I could.

I spent a lot of nights with The Scooter. His candor and propensity to say whatever came into his mind just made listening to the ball games so personal. Almost like just sitting in the stands with your favorite uncle, watching the game, and shooting the breeze. I've never enjoyed listening to another announcer as much.

Yesterday, it was St. Peter's turn to call the game. I'm sure he came out with, "Holy Cow! I think he's going to make it!"