He Always Knew How to Milk a Laugh

If you think Jim Murray was an enjoyment to read, you should have had the pleasure of traveling with him. Knowing him, and living with him, as I did during the 1990 British Open in St. Andrews, was one of the treasures of my years as a sportswriter.

Our bed-and-breakfast hideaway was 50-odd miles through the back roads of Scotland. Jim was the navigator, I was the driver.

The problem was Jim couldn’t see very well and I had never driven on the “wrong” side of the road.

On one stretch of farmland where tall hedgerows crowded the road, I nervously glued the car as close to the left side as possible, causing Jim--sitting on the left-hand side--to complain that I was too close.

“What’s the matter, I’m not hitting anything,” I said.

“No, but if a cow sticks her head through the bushes, I’m so close she might kiss me,” he answered.