Boyd Robertson
I asked Boyd Robertson what it was like to sit a foot from Vin Scully for twenty-eight years, and I thought I was ready for the answer. I wasn’t. What followed was a masterclass in humility, rhythm, and reverence—for Vin, sure, but also for Dodger Stadium itself. I asked about the booth, the dinner room, the goodbye. I asked about the crowd, the calm, the closed scorebook. And Boyd answered with the kind of quiet awe you can’t fake. This isn’t just about baseball. It’s about what happens when a ballpark becomes a sanctuary—and the voice beside you makes it sacred.
Alrighty. Boyd, let’s start with this. Twenty-eight years. You stood a foot or less from Vin Scully for twenty-eight years. Looking back now, how do you put that experience into words?
Unique. That’s the first word that comes to mind. Vin worked alone—no analyst, no sidekick. That meant there was an empty seat beside him, and I got to sit in it. It was tradition, going back to Red Barber: the announcer speaks directly to the audience, not to a broadcast partner. Because of that setup, I got to sit right next to Vin, about a foot away, for twenty-eight seasons.
So when you were there with Vin—day to day—what was he like? What was his demeanor?
Consistent. You couldn’t tell if he was tired, sick—he was always prepared, always professional. He’d walk in, say hello, ask about your kids, your life. He’d bring in his iPad, his laptop, his clippings—highlighted articles. Even at the end, he worked. A 7:10 game? He’d arrive around 3:30. That’s when the day started.
Let’s go to 2016—his final year. Everyone could get a picture with Vin. I have mine framed. Why did he do that? Why open himself up like that?
Because he wanted to say goodbye. Not in a formal way—just a moment, a picture, a handshake. He knew it mattered. I helped coordinate those pictures. The lighting was preset. The camera was ready. It was controlled chaos. We made it work until mid-September, when he said, “I don’t have time to take any more with our crew.” I had told people: get your picture early. Because the booth was packed with players, umpires, celebrities—anyone who wanted just one more moment with him.
That booth became something sacred that year, didn’t it?
It did. But it always was, really. The Vin Scully Press Box—when people walked in, you could see it in their faces. I remember a woman once told me, “My grandfather said I have to call him Mr. Scully.” I said, “He prefers Vin. He’ll correct you.” And sure enough—she said “Mr. Scully,” and he smiled and said, “Call me Vin.” He did that for everyone. Especially the kids—he’d ask them their names, what position they played, then say their names again before they left. He wanted the moment to last.
Do you remember anyone famous who came through that really stood out?
Big Papi. Bryan Cranston. John Williams. Ray Charles. The composer John Williams was a longtime friend—same golf club. But it wasn’t the celebrities that stood out. It was the people who walked in holding their breath. People like you, Robby. People who don’t get starstruck—but when they met Vin, they were.
You and I know this—but for the people reading this—Vin ate dinner in a private room, right? Not with the rest of us.
Right. Not because he was elitist—it was the opposite. If he ate with the media, he’d never eat. Everyone would stop him. That little room was sacred space. Quiet. He could just be. If his wife came, she’d sit with him. Jaime Jarrín, too. I rarely interrupted him—but if I had to deliver a message, he always responded graciously. “Tell them I’ll be out in five minutes.” Then he’d go—shake hands, do the meet-and-greet, and return to prep. The booth, the dinner, the game—it was all part of a rhythm. And it mattered to him.
You were with him on his last day at Dodger Stadium—and then again in San Francisco for his final broadcast. What do you remember?
Two goodbyes. The first was at Dodger Stadium—that one hurt. The second was in San Francisco. After the game, Vin was still writing in his leather-bound scorebook—the same one he’d used for forty years. The game had ended. I stood a foot away, watching him fill in the final totals. Then he closed the book.
That moment—it’s when it really hit me. This was it. He was done. His wife was there, even though she wasn’t well. I hugged him goodbye. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t say a word.
How was he, physically, at the end?
Very good. Still sharp. Still dignified. He was about to turn eighty-nine. He knew it was time. His wife’s health had declined, and he had always said, “Nothing lasts forever.” He meant it.
Boyd, how do you sum this all up—the booth, the games, the quiet time, the crowd noise outside—what did it mean to sit beside him for twenty-eight years?
I was never supposed to be there. I’m from a town of six thousand in Oklahoma. I had a transistor radio and a Cardinals calendar on the wall. The first big-league game I ever saw? Willie Mays hit a line-drive homer off the scoreboard at Sportsman’s Park. That’s where the magic started.
And then—somehow—I ended up next to Vin. I watched him treat everyone like they mattered. I learned how to do my job, and I learned how to carry myself. I watched him close his scorebook for the last time.
I got to sit beside greatness. Every day.
NOTE: The above was edited for clarity and length.
You can read the full transcript here.