Always Imitated, Never Duplicated

When Jim Murray put his hands on the keyboard it was like Babe Ruth stepping in the batter’s box, Frank Sinatra taking the stage, Charlie Parker putting the saxophone to his lips.

If that seems like a pale imitation of Jim Murray’s writing, that’s because it is. Pretty much every sports column written for the last 30 years has been a cheap knockoff of Murray, the best, the greatest, the king.

I grew up in Santa Monica, and like so many other Southern Californians, the first thing I read in the morning was Jim Murray’s column. If earthquakes and smog are two of the perils that come with living here, then his column was one of the rewards, just like sunshine and the beach.

By doing what came naturally to him, Murray showed this aspiring sportswriter how a column should be written. In return I showed him, uh, the way to the Utah Jazz locker room at a Laker playoff game last May. Not a very fair exchange. But whenever I was around him (seven times, to be precise) I wanted to do whatever I could to help, trying to repay the debt. (All of those years of reading him at only a quarter a column. Best bargain since the Louisiana Purchase).

Mostly, however, I just wanted to stand near him, to hear some of his endless supply of stories and to maybe catch some of his talent--through osmosis or something.

Imagine playing on the same team as your favorite childhood sports hero. That’s the way it felt for me to work at the L.A. Times with Jim for the past year. The proudest accomplishment of my career so far was last September, when my column ran next to his. The designs of a layout editor accomplished what my writing could never do: put me on equal footing with Jim Murray.

I had the pleasure of meeting him, although I didn’t know him well. But all of us--from those who never saw him to his family members and close friends--suffer. We’ll never get to read him again.