Vin Scully died three days ago. The outpouring of eulogies, particularly those on sport networks, are exalting his career and his life. And deservedly so. Uniformly, his colleagues recount his achievements as a broadcaster and his worthiness as a human being. Fortunately, he did live to hear the accolades heaped upon him at baseball’s Hall of Fame ceremonies in 1982. But your guess is, however grateful he was for the attention, he thought the plaudits were overblown. You see, Mr. Scully was anything but vainglorious, especially in the broadcast booth. And it was only there you knew him. It was there you were witness to his craft, the foundation of which was his knowledge of and respect for the English language. It was there you heard the voice. If ever a voice was called charismatic, it had to belong to Vin Scully. It was an educated, cultured, unpretentious voice aimed at the heartland. It was a voice that painted pictures. If you weren’t there at the ballpark, you could still “see” and “feel” the game. It was a voice of a reporter, a teacher, a storyteller, a friend — who revealed the person behind the player. It was a voice that shunned sportscaster hyperbole, shunned the limelight and directed attention to the game, not to himself. It was the voice of an American who bled Dodger blue and figuratively wept to see his country chase after socialism and to see professional athletes kneel during the National Anthem. He spoke out about both. You choose to believe that Scully’s America lives in the minds and hearts of Her people. You know them, perhaps prone to missteps, prone to manipulation, too often apathetic and silent. But they are the unknown Americans. Nobody sees them and nobody hears them. They build roads and bridges and sewers and power lines. They grow your food. They design and build power plants, homes and small businesses. They are first responders. They are the most generous people in the world. They sacrifice for their kids and protect their families. If need be, they give their lives in defense of liberty. They believe in God. They believe in America’s innate goodness. But you make a mistake in believing that the America you see portrayed on television is a window to these people or to anything resembling reality. You make the mistake of assuming that television reflects the opinions and attitudes of the great silent majority. Vincent Edward Scully would be the first to tell you that television is an illusion, a brainwashing mechanism — operated by a very few people. He would advise you not to let it get you down. He would tell you to play the game of life honestly — to believe in yourself and your country’s ideals. It was those ideals that sanctified the nobility of freedom. You can hear his gentle voice now, suggesting to you that America is worth your enduring affection.

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