He says there might be a moment when he needs to call on such a thing. He'll be ready.
I don't tell him my dad loved Shakespeare. No reason to creep him out.
We discuss "Homeland," Grouch Marx movies and this is the way it should always be. I tell him so.
"I don't take myself that seriously," he says. "I don't think if I'm not here people are really going to miss me. Let's face it, I grew up with the great Mel Allen. He's gone and the Yankees haven't missed a game."
I start to tell him he's a part of everyone's family, but I realize I mean it in a different way. I bet if we played golf he wouldn't let me win either.
"I would be frightened if I retired," he says when asked about the prospect. "I don't know what I would do."
So how does he get through an off-season?
"I have one little secret," says Scully, who will be bringing his wife to work Monday. "I know I'm going to work again.
"You know it hasn't all been beer and skittles," he adds. "We've had heartache and pain. I think I need these fans far more than they need me."
Scully is 85, so many nights spent away from home and the memory of Don Drysdale dying in a hotel room in Montreal is still painful as he recounts that day.
"When I'm in a hotel room I hear my own meter ticking," concludes Scully. "That's my life: tick, tick, ticking away in a hotel room.
"But it's also being Irish and from the moment you can understand anything you're told you're going to die. I know it all can be gone in seconds, so I'm living it.
"I had one of our beautiful grandchildren, K-K, crawl onto my lap, cuddle and put her little hands around my face. Inside I'm thinking I'm king of the world and she says, 'Grandpa?'
"Yes honey, I tell her. 'You're old,' " she says.
"You bet I am, I tell her."
"And she says, 'Grandpa, you're going to die.'
"Bless your heart,' I tell her, everyone, even the flowers, are going to die. But look how lucky I am."
Aren't we all.