He Really Needs No Introduction

It was 35 years ago this week that he walked into the minds and hearts of Los Angeles sports fans. Walked is probably the wrong word. More liked barged.

His name was Jim Murray, and his first offering as a sports columnist for the Los Angeles Times, Feb. 12, 1961, was a fastball down the middle. Perceptive readers knew right away that this guy wasn’t going to throw changeups or nibble at the corners.

Murray’s first lead paragraph was: “I have been urged by my friends--all of whom mean well--to begin writing in this space without introducing myself, as if I’ve been standing here all the while, only you haven’t noticed. But I don’t think I’ll do that. I think I’ll start off by telling you a little about myself and what I believe in. That way, we can start to fight right away.”

And so it went, from that day forth. Los Angeles, a city like no other, had a sports columnist like no other.

It is very likely that, in 1961, readers of sports pages were not quite ready for Murray. It was the tail end of the cliche era. When the bases were loaded in baseball, the hassocks were drunk. There weren’t foul balls, only cackle clouts. Nor were there left-handed pitchers, just flossy fork-handers.

Murray was literate, stylish. The English language, so often abused on the sports pages of America’s newspapers, was the vehicle Murray used. Newspaper editors and college professors hailed his arrival. Others weren’t so sure.

In the days before computers and modems, newspaper copy was sent from press boxes by Western Union operators, who would take the typewritten pages from the writers and retype them to be sent directly into the writer’s newsroom.

One such Western Union operator, a veteran of “round-trippers” and “frozen ropes,” paused for a long time over copy handed to him one night by Murray. Finally, feeling the need to help out this relative newcomer, he took the copy back to Murray at his press row seat and asked, “Do you really want me to send this crap?”

Sent it was, and Los Angeles sports journalism, as well as American sports journalism, has been better for it all these years, with more to come.

It is hundreds of journalism awards later now. Murray has been the national sportswriter of the year 14 times, plus a National Headliner Award winner twice. He won the second Red Smith Award, the year after the legendary Smith himself had been so honored with the annual prestigious award from America’s sports editors. And he is a member of the writers’ wing of Baseball’s Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y.

Oh yes, Murray also won a Pulitzer Prize, something given to sportswriters in America about as frequently as politicians tell the truth. He cherished his Pulitzer moment, and while others in the business echoed the sentiment that the only thing wrong with his selection was that it had been so long overdue, Murray found his usual self-effacing way to deal with the moment.

“I never thought they’d give out a Pulitzer just for quoting Tommy Lasorda correctly,” he said.

There are writers who are quick-witted in person and dull-witted in print. Murray has the great first step, whether he is writing or talking.

In that first column in 1961, he wrote:

--”I’m glad the Rams traded Billy Wade. . . . I have seen blockers make ballcarriers look bad. Wade was the only ballcarrier I ever saw make the blockers look bad.”

--”I think Jim Brosnan is the best writer in baseball. I think Cincinnati would be gladder if he were the best pitcher.”

--”I hope Steve Bilko has lost some weight. The last time I saw him in the Coliseum, the front of him got to the batter’s box full seconds before the rest of him.”

Those, of course, were only a few warmup pitches.

In person, the fastballs come just as fast, the delivery just as smooth.

He was honored at one of those $300-a-plate fund-raisers at the Beverly Hilton Hotel a few years ago. It was a black-tie event, a packed house, hosted by Merv Griffin, with Peter Ueberroth speaking and Tony Martin singing. It went on and on, each presenter topping his predecessor with accolades for Murray, who appeared to be stunned and bemused by it all.

Eventually, it came time to call Murray to the podium, and doing the honors for that were former President Reagan and his wife, Nancy. Murray slowly made his way to the microphone, squinted out at the audience and asked, “Did I die?”

In my first year as sports editor here, I was invited to play a round of golf with Murray. I was still somewhat in awe of him, even though bosses can’t show those things. I was also fairly nervous, since I’m a terrible golfer. We were playing on the sacred grounds of Riviera (before the new greens) and I assumed, since he wrote so much and so expertly about the game, that Murray was a great player (wrong).

On the par-five first hole, Murray was on the back of the green in four, but had a winding, dipping, downhill putt of about 90 feet for his par. He stepped over the ball, stroked it nicely and it went left, right, up, down, bounced three times, changed directions twice over spike marks and rolled into the cup.

Murray said nothing. He walked slowly to the hole, picked his ball out of the cup and walked back to the cart.

Stunned, I five-putted or something, walked back to the cart and sat down next to him. He adjusted his glove, marked the score, took a long sip of his drink, leaned back and said, “Sometimes I miss those left.”

Murray actually came to the sportswriting business at mid-career. Before joining The Times, he worked for Time Inc. as a West Coast correspondent and was among those responsible for the start-up of Sports Illustrated.

As a Time Inc. correspondent, he interviewed and got to know personally many of the movie stars of that era. He can start a sentence, “The night I had dinner with Marilyn Monroe . . . “ and be talking about an event, not a fantasy. At this year’s Rose Bowl, Charlton Heston stopped by to say hello to him. A young writer, whose previous best press box celebrity sighting was probably Dick Vitale, mumbled, “Geez, Moses was here.”

When Murray interviews athletes, they almost unfailing refer to him as “Mr. Murray.” The rest of us, they refer to in terms unusable in a family newspaper.

In a city that seems to move too fast to erect many, Murray is a Los Angeles institution. For 35 years, he has seen it all, written it all. He has told us about Walter O’Malley and Peter O’Malley, about Tommy Lasorda and Tommy Bolt.

From him, we have learned new things about West and Wilt, about Magic and Michael. He enjoyed a Rose, less so a Strawberry. The Baylors, Elgin and Don, have brought some columns. So have the Robinsons, Jackie and John. He has seen Clay become Ali, Foreman become young. He has been through Montana, and many Washingtons. He has written about the Great One, the Big O, Shaq and the Wizard of Westwood. And all along, Hogan has been his hero.

Best of all, he keeps on doing it, remaining ever a champion of the written word.

Recently, Murray posed a question that should warm the hearts of those who still want their morning coffee accompanied by the faint smell of ink.

“What’s the Internet?” he asked.