A friend of mine taught me the game in a café, on a piece of paper. And I went to a few — it was the great era of Willie Mays. And I went to baseball games, but not often. A family with children took me to the game five or six times. And it was paradise, because Willie Mays was running as fast as the ball, I never saw a thing, and the excitement, nothing happened, and then everybody is on their feet. It was incredible, but sports has a language world of their own. And crafts are disappearing, and languages are disappearing with them.
The tools, for example, that a shoemaker uses, we don’t know these words anymore, because there are no shoemakers, you buy them already made. And the sports world has a lingo, a language. And in the ’60s, there was a Los Angeles Dodger announcer, not the Giants. And his — Scully, I think, was his name. And people, I wasn’t the only one — he had an accent, maybe he was from the South, I don’t know, and a way to cover the game, he was really a genius.
I went to so many poetry readings.1 I gave some and I went to listen. Nothing can beat Scully’s speech on the radio. That for me is great. What is poetry? Why shouldn’t that be poetry? It’s language that moves you in ways you can’t explain. And this announcement was hypnotic. And now we listen to the games through his eyes instead of the — although I was on the Giants’ side to win, but I listened to his side of the story. And when they had Giants-Dodgers championship sometimes or at least late in the season, so it tightened up. And Scully was incredible. And this is, for me, a great experience; artistic, philosophical experience, it’s not just entertainment.