Talking Story with Arlo: Dodgers Schedule

Talking Story with Arlo

By Arlo Agogo

Me, Mum, Grandma & Vin Scully

How Tea, Transistor Radios, and Dodger Magic Made Me a Fan for Life

Picture it: the early 1960s in our modest Montebello, California home.

I was a wide-eyed five-year-old, small enough that the world still felt enormous and full of wonder. The house carried the comforting scent of fresh-baked scones mingling with the warm California sun filtering through the windows.

Our little family blended old British traditions with the new American life—tea served precisely at four o'clock, the Union Jack hanging proudly next to a poster of Sandy Koufax in grandma's room winding up for a pitch, and the Los Angeles Dodgers serving as the joyful rhythm of our afternoons.

This is the story of how I became a lifelong Dodger fan.

It's rooted in steaming cups of Earl Grey, the tinny hum of a transistor radio, and the golden, storytelling voice of Vin Scully that made every game feel like a personal conversation.

My parents both worked long hours to support us, leaving Grandma alone for much of the day in her quiet room. She was often by herself, dealing with the aches of arthritis and the solitude that comes with age.

That's where I stepped in. At just five years old, my

mum asked me. Arlo, love, would you make your prime job—taking care of Grandma love of the Dodgers?" The one job my parents gave me with genuine pride and trust—was taking care of Grandma love of the Dodgers.

It wasn't seen as a burden; it was my special responsibility, my way of contributing to the family. I spent countless hours hanging out with her, helping in small ways that felt big to a little boy: fetching her a glass of water, straightening her quilt, or simply sitting beside her bed chatting about whatever came to mind.

But the real highlight of our days was Dodger baseball.

I always made sure she could hear the game clearly. That little transistor radio was our lifeline to Chavez Ravine. I'd keep a ready supply of 9-volt batteries on hand, tucked away in a small tin by her nightstand.

If the sound ever started to fade or crackle, I'd quickly pop in a fresh one—no interruptions allowed when the Dodgers were on the air. The ritual was sacred: I'd carefully carry the radio to her bedside, adjust the antenna just so, and tune it to the right station.

Then, when Vin Scully's warm, welcoming voice filled the room with his signature opening—

"It's time for Dodger baseball!"—Grandma's face would light up.

The pain in her hands seemed to ease for a while, replaced by that spark of excitement. We'd share proper British tea during those games—mine loaded with extra milk to make it just right for a child, hers with a splash of strength to keep her going.

I'd dip graham crackers into our cups, careful not to let crumbs scatter on her quilt, and help her take small bites. We'd laugh softly at the silliness of it all, two companions in a cozy world of our own while the game played out in the background.

Those afternoons were pure comfort and connection. With Mum and Dad at work, I had Grandma to myself for hours.

We'd talk about little things—the weather, stories from her younger days in England, or whatever funny thing had happened that morning.

She was still mobile but I'd help adjust her pillows when she needed to shift, or read aloud from the newspaper if her eyes were tired.

All the while, the radio provided a gentle soundtrack. Baseball on the radio was different from other sports. Football and basketball demanded your full, intense focus—every snap or shot pulling you in with urgency.

But baseball was entertainment in the truest sense: a relaxing break from the daily grind of work and responsibility. It was a background sport, something you could enjoy while going about other things.

You listened casually, following the score, catching key moments, but mostly you let it flow around you like a familiar melody. And with Vin Scully calling the action, that melody was always soothing, positive, and rich with insight.

For modern-day children in their twenties and thirties, Vin Scully might be just a name from history books, old highlight videos, or grandparents' stories. But to those of us who grew up with him, he was the unmistakable voice of the Dodgers for 67 incredible years—from 1950 in Brooklyn all the way through his retirement in 2016 after the team had long settled in Los Angeles.

He started at just 22 years old, quickly becoming the lead broadcaster and holding the record for the longest tenure with any single team in professional sports history. His distinctive tenor voice, lyrical descriptions, and genuine warmth made him far more than an announcer—he was a teacher, a companion, and a beacon of positivity.

Scully described plays with the elegance of poetry.

Always knowledgeable yet humble, turning ordinary moments into vivid, memorable tales. Hearing his voice meant something good was about to unfold on the broadcast—comfort, joy, and a sense that the world was right for a few hours.

When the games ran long into the evening and Grandma began to drift off, lulled by the steady rhythm of innings and Scully's calm narration, I'd tiptoe back into her room in the early night. The final out had been recorded, the broadcast wrapping up with post-game chatter.

The radio would still be murmuring faintly. I'd gently reach over, turn the dial to silence so she could sleep peacefully, and set the little set back on her bed stand, ready for tomorrow.

Sometimes I'd linger a moment, listening to the quiet, already anticipating the next day's ritual. Every morning started the same: I'd dash outside to grab the LA Times from the stoop, flip straight to the sports section, and squint at the tiny print to find the game time. I'd rush back to report proudly,

"Game's at one today, Grandma!" Then, come that hour, I'd repeat the setup—radio by the pillow, fresh battery if needed—and we'd settle in again. Together we lived through those magical seasons: Sandy Koufax pitching with wizard-like precision, Maury Wills stealing bases like a whisper in the wind, Don Drysdale bearing down with intimidating heat.

Scully wove it all into stories that made every double play, every home run, feel personal and profound. Looking back, those days were my first real lessons in love, patience, and the quiet strength of caregiving. Grandma's smile when the radio came alive, our shared giggles over tea-soaked crackers, the simple act of being there—

it all wrapped me in a warmth that has never faded.

Fast-forward through the decades, and I'm still that same Dodger fan at heart. Life has brought its share of changes—jobs, moves, the ordinary hustle—but the Dodgers remain my north star. Late at night, when the house is quiet, I'll pull up recent highlights on YouTube:

Mookie Betts gliding into base with effortless grace, Freddie Freeman crushing one deep into the stands, the crowd roaring in unison. Instantly,

I'm transported back to Grandma's bedside, to the scent of tea, the feel of graham crackers, and Vin Scully's voice filling the room like an old friend.

The Dodgers are more than a team to me; they're a lifelong thread of joy, positivity, and deep connection. They remind me that even in a fast-paced, often overwhelming world, there's always room for a gentle escape—a background melody of summer, a crackle of radio static, a voice that brings comfort and lifts the spirit.

So here I am, still cheering from afar, still grateful for those transistor-radio afternoons and the woman who made them magical. And whenever I think of Grandma and our shared time, I can almost hear that familiar, beloved voice once more, crackling through the years:

It’s time for Dodger baseball!

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

Sponsored by .....