Jim Murray, uncensored

Posted Oct 1, 2011 by Linda McEwen

Updated Oct 1, 2011 at 05:16 PM

        Jim Murray was simply the best sports writer in the newspaper business.

            No, he was simply the best writer who wrote sports, primarily, in recent years.  But, he was selfless, without ego, helpful to young writers whose names he always committed to memory and flattered by calling them by name on second meeting.

            Oh, I am not qualified to say who was the best, but during his days in the 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s, with the Los Angeles Times as his home base he was out flagship in sports writing, so many thought and still think.

            Yes, Red Smith was comparable wonderful, so admired and copied, but he had a completely different approach, as did the greats a bit longer ago, well, remember the Four Horsemen?

            All were heroes to their peers, and are still.

            Red Smith said he only wrote with the blood that poured from his fingers, he said. Runyon wrote fiction facing a bare wall, so as not to distract, but he wrote live beautifully from his pressbox seat, especially at fights and horse racing, and, as we all know, wrote fiction Broadway in the present tense. Almost all loved horse racing, especially Rice, Runyon and Cannon. Cannon and Grizzard drew on their own experiences, or those contrived.

Grizzard specialized in humor of this Southland and became a standup entertainer, until an early death interrupted his matchless career.

            Grizzard was a sports writer who wrote sports, then moved over to the news side and wrote of his own experiences, took shots at himself always, mixed fact and fiction, with comedy foremost always.  He died too young and at his peak and of the heart disease he wrote so often and so lightly.

            Smith loved fishing along with baseball and horse racing. Fly-fishing enchanted him, as did boxing.  Murray loved horse racing, football and golf, primarily golf, at which he was lousy, but so perceptive.

            Smith lived and wrote from his New York City, as did Cannon, Rice, Runyon, and many of the other greats, notably those of the wire services, such as Will Grimsley, Frank Eck, Milt Richman, and an endless list. But, won’t get stuck here. Easy to do that.

            Grizzard was from rural Georgia, with the Atlanta Constitution/Journal (of Furman Bisher) his homebase. He spent a few uncomfortable years in Chicago, but could not stand the arena and returned to his more natural habitat, Gaw-gaw, and thrived. Grizzard was a genuinely funny man, in print and speech.

            All of these writers were far beyond me and my readership. However, all writers in other days loved to come to Florida for the winter, for baseball spring training, the golf tour, horse racing in Tampa and Miami, tennis, indeed all sports which swung through the Sunshine State in the winter and early spring. Some years back, they all headquartered for a part of their time in Tampa, my town, because of the location, a fine airport, easy access to a dozen big league baseball teams in spring training, and because of the good Western Union services in the days stories were transmitted to their papers by wire.

That meant, they read my newspaper, for news, and for ideas. Believe me, most writers read widely for those ideas, to (1) steal, (2) suggest others. So, I knew all of the great ones personally. It was a treat. It was special. It was an honor. It was fun.

            Long years ago at a banquet, I introduced myself to the great Red Grange. He said, smiling, “Oh, I know you, Tom. I read you every day,’’ and I did write six days a week for 33 years. “I live in Indian Lake Estates and commute from your great airport to Chicago to do the Bear games on television and radio.’’

            Now, since I wrote a daily column (The Morning After) and ran my growing sports department on a major Florida newspaper, I was asked to do seminars several years at the American Press Institute, then held at Columbia in New York City. It was a bigger deal than I thought it was, and I probably was far underqualified. But, I did it, leading the sessions in different years on sports writing, column writing, and sports editing.

            About a half dozen years, or more, after appearances there, a Tribune associate, Nick Pugliese, and I were in Atlanta covering a Southeastern Conference basketball tournament. I suggested, the work done, we go to Bulkhead an eat dinner at a restaurant called Vic’s, I think. It was a spot former Georgia Tech and Florida Gator Coach Ray Graves and the college crowd favored, with a piano player doing the college songs and the crowd singing, as they did in Pat O’Brien’s with twin pianists in the New Orleans. But, this night in Atlanta, the cab driver let Nick Pugliese and me out near the old Vic’s restaurant. It was closed, and had been for a time.

            We started walking and came upon a small restaurant which had a big black limo parked in front. Seated inside, I quickly saw columnist Lewis Grizzard at a nearby table with a lady, just as a waiter came up to us and said:

            “Mr. McEwen, Mr. Lewis Grizzard would like to buy you a bottle of champagne. Do you have a choice, sir?’’

            I said, “his favorite.’’

            Minutes later, I went to the Grizzard table and said: “Thanks, old friend, but why the champagne.’’

            “I owe you, Tom. Do you remember several years ago when you led a sports writing seminar at Columbia University in New York?’’

            I nodded. I did. I did not remember that Lewis was in the session, for about 30 were, from all over. It was an honor to know now he had been.

            “It was a Saturday morning,’’ said Grizzard, a ##### laude in partying. “We had been out late the night before. We were hungover for the 8 a.m. seminar. We did not want to be in a class but had to go. When we walked and sat down at the long table, you were ready in the center. You had a portfolio in front of us, a pencil, a pad, and God Love You, a miniature of Smirnoff vodka, ice in a glass, a bottle of tomato juice, and a lime slice for our Bloody Marys. You saved our lives. We loved you. Thanks again.’’

            When the champagne came, we toasted the lessons of Columbia University again.

            And Jim Murray, the best, two golf involvements come from memory.
          
  At Salisbury, N.C., playing with furniture host John Carter, with Olympic sprint legend Jesse Owens, and me, on the third hole, Owens broke wind, and loudly, on Murray’s backswing. Murray’s tee shot sliced out of bounds.

            “Damn, Jesse, no wonder you were so quick out of the blocks.’’

            “Yeah, yeah,’’ laughed the Owens, causing him to break wind again, and just as loudly, “but no penalty. Hit another. Call it by the book, interference with an outside agency.’’

            Murray didn’t need any coaxing. He took another, stayed in bounds, but took another double bogey.

            Then, at his home course at Riviera,  where the stars played (James Garner was ahead of u), we put our clubs on his electric cart. He couldn’t get it started, turned to me and deadpanned;

            “My God, Tommy, I’ve bogied the golf cart!’’

            Noble profession, sportswriting.