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Part of my childhood died today. Hall of famer, Yankee legend Phil Rizzuto has passed away at the age of 89. While I’m much too young to ever have witnessed the amazing feats credited to him on the ballfield, his announcing, both on radio and TV, was part of my life from the 70’s until he retired in 1996.

Watching (or listening) to a game called by Rizzuto was like watching a game with your Grandfather, rather than just one called by an announcer. He added a personal touch, and really made the listener feel they were part of the proceedings. Whether it was taking a break in the commentary to offer birthday greetings to a listener, to update everyone on his latest visits to his grandkids, or to talk about some cannoli’s that someone had brought by the broadcast booth for him, he provided a direct connection between himself and the audience which no other announcer could ever match.

Even his miscues were legendary. Ever the Yankee fan, every long fly ball had a shot at going out of the park, and his sadness when it didn’t matched your own. “Oh, Holy Cow, that’ ones outta here. No, wait, he caught it at the warning track. Can you believe that? I thought for sure it was gone”. Once broadcasting partner Bill White noticed an annotation on Scooter’s scorecard that he didn’t recognize. “Hey, Scooter, what’s that “WW” for?” “Oh, that means I wasn’t watching” was Rizzuto’s unabashed response.

Ever a humble, unassuming man, that was part of his charm. He would greet a stranger on the street with the same warmth he would a longtime colleague. His frequent recollections and anecdotes of his playing days with the Yankees that he peppered his commentary with made you feel you had a connection not just with the team you were watching on the field, but with all the long and proud Yankee history, especially important because for many of those years, the teams on the field simply weren’t that good. Yet Phil, like all fans, believed deep down that somehow they’d pull out a win every day. And, like all fans, he’d be disappointed if they didn’t. He shared himself and his emotions with his listeners as if we were all part of a large, extended family.

I suppose that was his greatest gift, above any of his performances on the baseball field; the ability to turn hundreds of thousands of people who he never actually met into what felt like close friends, if even for just a few hours a day. And I suppose that’s why so many of us are so saddened by his passing. Goodbye, Scooter, you entered our homes and our hearts, and you will be missed greatly.