This Time, He Can’t Find Words

They’re about to get a fresh supply of one-liners in the Great Press Box in the sky. And down here, our craft has lost its superior craftsman, more than a mere genius at what he did, but a treasured friend.

Jim Murray was all of the above to me, and innumerable others, our friendship cemented by the close relationship of our two Lindas, our wives. I can’t recall the first time we met, but I do remember the pleasure of his company each time we were together thereafter.

It’s cruel irony that the shocking news of his death reached me in Whistler, British Columbia, where I was preparing to preside at the induction of Shoho Mitamura of Japan into the International Sports Writers Hall of Fame. The last time I performed such a ceremony, Jim was the honoree, six years ago in Bali.

I made the point that the level of skill involved was indicated by the location of the event. To find a place exotic enough for Jim’s induction, they had to seek out a spot halfway around the world. My induction had taken place in a town named Acme, Mich.

Jim was more than a sportswriter. He produced literature. No one in sports journalism was more revered, or more shabbily imitated. Trying to say how much he will be missed isn’t nearly enough, but I don’t know how else to say it.