His Columns Were Never Small Town

In the early 1960s, I was fresh out of journalism school and covering the Hambletonian, the big trotting race, which was being held in sleepy Du Quoin, Ill. That’s where I met Jim, who was part of a Los Angeles entourage that included Chick Hearn.

I couldn’t wait to find one of his columns about Du Quoin.

“Du Quoin’s in no man’s land,” he wrote. “We got here by flying from Los Angeles to St. Louis. But we almost didn’t get to the race in time. We went from St. Louis to Du Quoin by dogsled, and the lead dog started to chase rabbits.”

Another year, several days before the Kentucky Derby, it had been a particularly hot, humid day at Churchill Downs, and four or five went to the hotel bar. I quickly downed a Heineken beer.

It came time for the second round, and the waitress said: “I’m sorry, sir, but we’re all out of Heineken.”

“Whadja do,” Jim said, “ice up a six-pack for Derby week?”

I could visualize Murray warming up for another of his classic anti-Louisville columns. I believe this one began with the dateline: “LOUSYVILLE, Ky.”