AT APPROXIMATELY 2:57 ON OCTOBER 8, 1956, records indicate Hall of Fame broadcaster Vin Scully told his international viewing audience: “Let’s all take a deep breath as we go to the most dramatic ninth inning in the history of baseball.” The Armed Forces radio commentator between innings said, “I’m going to sit back, light up, and hope I don’t chew the cigarette to pieces.”

I tried to do what Vin Scully had suggested to his viewers once I reached the pitching mound. I fiddled around with the rosin bag. It suddenly felt like it weighed 50 pounds. Then I walked around the back of the mound trying to calm myself. My stomach was jumpin’ and my head felt like it was going to burst wide open.

I watched Joe Collins throw ground balls to Billy, Gil, and Andy. They seemed pretty nonchalant, but I knew they were nervous as hell. Martin bobbled an easy chance. I’ll bet he hoped that wouldn’t happen if a grounder was hit to him.

I glanced up near the press boxes. I was sure the sportscasters were trying to figure out what type of ending they would write for this day. Writing about a near-no-hitter was one thing. If I could get through the ninth, their story would be one to tell about for years to come.

As I mentioned, I later had to tell reporters that while I knew I had a no-hitter going, I never thought about what was called a “perfect game.” I didn’t really even know what that was. And I had just a two-run lead. I just hoped to finish the game, get the victory, and get the hell out of Dodge.

It was great to learn later on that in addition to the pressure on me, my defensive fielders, the managers, and the Dodgers’ hitters, Vin Scully was nervous as hell. In a recent interview, he said:

In the early days of television . . . this was the fourth year for the Series . . . the press always said the television announcers talked too much. During the Series, I therefore tried to talk sparingly.