Imitators Were Pale Imitations

Jim was the only one out there doing what he tried to do. He swung for the fences every time out. I always felt he was going to hit the ball eight miles, or hit a second-serve ace. He always walked the edge when he wrote. He was the only one who had the courage to do it--thank God he had the talent to do it.

Now there were imitators out there. But they were pale imitations. Pale, pale imitations. It’s been said that Grantland Rice launched a thousand bad sportswriters. Well, Jim Murray launched 10,000 bad sportswriters. He was the only one who could do what he tried to do.

And he was never cynical. He had his favorites and the ones he didn’t like so well, but still enjoyed going to the ballpark or the golf tournament and found people who interested him, whom he admired. He was always open to the moments that educated and inspired.

I first came to know Jim in the late ‘60s, early ‘70s. I so enjoyed his company. I’ve seen where Bill Dwyre has said Jim had no ego. I think he had an ego, but he had it under tight control. He knew who he was, yet he always seemed genuinely pleased when someone would compliment him on his writing. He couldn’t fake that. He couldn’t fake anything. There was nothing fake about Jim Murray.

As good a writer as Jim was, he was even a better person. It’s a terrible loss--a loss for his family, a loss for the Los Angeles Times, but also, for me, a personal loss. Jim was one of the great people I have ever known in the business. There ain’t anyone out there like him. He was one of a kind. The idea that I won’t be able to see Jim on this side of the mortal coil is very sad for me.