In 1952, my parents moved west from Boston and, like so many others, settled in the orange tree-laden paradise of Los Angeles, just six years before the Dodgers arrived from Brooklyn and brought with them a young announcer named Vin Scully.
It was a perfect match, a town hungry for Major League Baseball at just the time transistor radios were becoming the rage. Fans, including my parents, would sit in the stands at first the L.A. Coliseum and then Dodger Stadium, listening on their transistors to Scully call the game they were watching, and slowly falling in love with that mellifluous voice.