August 16, 2007

The flash popped across the all-news channel Tuesday evening: &#8220Michael Vick,” the host blared, &#8220may plead guilty to reduced charges for dogfighting.”

The host proceeded to go into intricate detail of the 19-page indictment that claims acts so horrifying they are not suitable for words.

Michael Vick has everything, or at least he could get it. He makes those of us who get up for work every day to make ends meet want to vomit. He had the golden road in front of him, and he flushed it down the toilet to fulfill his violent cravings.

I should write more, but I am done. I am tired of wasting time on a clown like Michael Vick.

A couple of weeks ago I spent time and energy typing thoughts about an ungrateful, mean-spirited, athlete named Bonds. Why? He broke records. Well I say let him break all the records he can, because I’m done with him, too.

On the same day Vick was having thoughts of pleading guilty, another sports event happened that will, most unfortunately, get much less attention.

Phil &#8220Scooter” Rizzuto died late Monday night, and with it part of my childhood. Rizzuto called Yankee games throughout my youth. On WPIX, which advertised Yankee games as being &#8220on free TV, the way it oughtta be” during cable television’s infancy.

Known as much for his baseball knowledge as his sense of humor, often referring to players and coaches as huckleberry, he brought a quality to the broadcast booth that would have my brothers and me laughing, while Dad hollered for actual game information.

&#8220I just wanna say happy 40th wedding anniversary to Vito and Angelina Siniscalcho in Piscatawack, New Jersey,” he would say as Yankee baserunners rounded the bases with no information as to why they were rounding the bases. That would send Dad into a tizzy.

Rizzuto, an undersized dynamo who refused to take no for an answer, became one of the best shortstops in baseball. He served in World War II, cutting his playing career short.

He landed in the broadcast booth in the 1950s after his playing career ended, working with the great Mel Allen and Red Barber. He called Roger Maris’ 61st home run in 1961.

As he aged, you could tell things were leaving him. It was then that Scooter Rizzuto left his lasting mark on my brain. Top of the inning, camera panned the field after a commercial break. No announcers. Batter gets up, first pitch – no announcers. Second pitch – no announcers. Third pitch, batter hits a single, rounds first base and returns to the bag. Finally a voice. &#8220Oh, I’m doing play-by-play this inning?” Scooter said.

As far as I know, Scooter never did anything wrong. He never faced a federal indictment in the prime of his career. Standing only 5-feet-nothing and weighing 100 pounds plus three Krispy Kremes, I doubt he ever used performance-enhancing drugs.

He played baseball the way we all want it to be played – hard and fair.

Too bad I’m writing about Scooter in death. It sure is a lot more fun to think of sports and chuckle again.