His Words Were an Inspiration

Growing up as a teenager in Pomona, I had one daily ritual that would shape my life: get the Los Angeles Times in the morning, find sports section and before anything else, read Jim Murray.

This would be no casual read. This would become an adventure of the mind. Words coming to life. Phrases creating images. A storytelling magic carpet ride. Jim Murray was my Hemingway. There was no athlete worship for me, no “I want to be like Mike.” For me, it was “I want to be like Jim Murray.”

Each column would be carefully dissected more than any science project. The dictionary and thesaurus--foreign objects in English courses--were allies in unlocking the pleasures of a Jim Murray column. The column would be read over and over. This would often be followed by the tortuous task of sitting at the typewriter and trying to emulate my idol.

Funny how the words would never flow, the phrases were always clumsy and corny. But I kept at it. If anything, I learned perseverance--which became a handy thing to have once I did embark on a journalistic journey that miraculously led me to the same newspaper whose pages Jim Murray graced.

When I learned Monday that Jim Murray had died, those memories of trying to measure up to a literary giant came rushing back. I laughed at the thought. I always knew there could be only one Jim Murray--and I wasn’t alone in knowing that.