My company had a sponsorship deal with the NBA's Los Angeles
Clippers in the 1990s. Clippers owner and Beverly Hills real estate
mogul Donald Sterling would every season host a late summer sponsor
party at his beach house in Malibu, which had been owned at one
time by Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. It was a class operation,
right on the beach.
I was sitting there one year, feeling a bit uncomfortable in
my required "Malibu whites," when I looked across the patio and
spotted the legendary Los Angeles Times sports columnist
Jim Murray. One of only four sportswriters in history ever to
win a Pulitzer Prize, Murray had long been a favorite of mine.
Jim was sitting by himself, wearing huge, dark sunglasses, and
enjoying a drink in the afternoon sunshine. I'd heard the aging
writer was having serious sight problems. I decided I'd go introduce
myself.
"Jim Murray, how are you? My name is Tom Walsh, and I've been
pissed off at you since 1966, for an article you wrote called
"Tie One for the Gipper." A warm hand shot out instantly, followed
by an invitation to sit down and join him for a drink.
"Tom, before you tell me what you're pissed off about, let me
tell you, I suffer from Irish Alzheimer's myself."
"What do you mean, Jim?" Having skillfully maneuvered the hook
into its proper place, the master angler now set it.
"I've forgotten everything but my grudges," he replied.
With that began one of the warmest conversations I've ever had
with someone I didn't know. We talked a bit about the 1966 Notre
Dame-Michigan State game, a 10-10 tie that some still consider
one of the finest college football games in history. I made my
point that Ara Parseghian had arrived in East Lansing with an
undefeated, number one team, to play the number two Spartans.
The Irish kicked a field goal to tie the game, I believe late
in the third quarter. Over the years the story has been inaccurately
portrayed as a last-minute-attempt to escape with a tie. Parseghian
had some concerns about the physical well-being of diabetic quarterback
Coley O'Brien as the game proceeded, and he surmised (correctly,
I might add), that he'd leave Lansing still in first place if
the Spartans didn't beat them. Ara was right: the Irish were National
Champions that year.
Murray then told me of a time when he was a young reporter, and
certainly not as well-credentialed as he later became. One of
the big weeklies, and I don't recall whether it was Life,
Look, or The Saturday Evening Post, ran an uncomplimentary
article on legendary Notre Dame coach Frank Leahy, and his "vicious"
midweek practices. The article was accompanied by the now-trite
photograph of the team bending over in an oval huddle, with the
photographer lying on his back, shooting upward at their faces.
A number of Leahy's lads were missing teeth. Of course, this preceded
the days of the face mask and mouthpiece. Murray made the point
that some of these kids may well have lost teeth in farm accidents
or other ventures, but the clear implication was that Leahy's
practices were the sole cause.
I cannot remember which magazine he told me he was working for
then, but they sent him to South Bend to do a follow-up article
with the University. Upon presenting his credentials, and asking
to talk with Father Ned Joyce, the University's vice president
of athletics, he was told by the receptionist, in a rather offhand
way, that, since the University was a private school, they opted
not to speak with him about the article.
Surprised, and more than a bit daunted by the brush-off, Murray
tried to restate his request in a more positive fashion. Once
again he met fierce resistance from the keeper of the gate. Alarmed
by now, and facing the wrath of an unrequited editor upon returning
home, Murray thought for a moment, and looking around, saw the
half-opened door to a pretty plush office.
"I looked in through that partially opened door and saw very
nice carpeting," he told me. "I could just see the corner of a
fine desk, and a soft glow from what had to be a desk lamp, probably
sitting on the other end of the desk. I had to think quickly,
as I'd already more than worn out my welcome.
'Well Ma'am, let me get this straight then. When a young Irish
Catholic writer with a growing family goes back to my editor and
tells him I couldn't get the story, I'll lose my job. How will
I explain that the mighty University of Notre Dame helped contribute
to the demise of my family?
"No sooner did I finish, and I heard a half-growl, half-grunt
from inside that office. 'Send him in here, right now, please!'
"Tom, that was the beginning of a relationship with a great man,
Father Ned Joyce, which has lasted and flourished for over 40
years now. I've met a lot of wonderful people over my career,
but Ned Joyce has to be near the top of the list."
The rest of that afternoon visit with Murray is a bit of a blur,
but I remember that every word the man said seemed steeped in
integrity.
Murray wrote the following about jockey Willie Shoemaker; "Watching
Shoe ride a horse was like watching Gene Kelly dance or Gauguin
paint. It was art. You had the feeling he could win the Kentucky
Derby on a Brahma bull."
When visiting an aging and nearly blind Jackie Robinson, Jackie
said, "Oh Jim, I wish I could see you again." Murray's response:
"No, Jackie, I wish we could see you again."
Already ailing when I met him, Jim Murray passed away in his
Brentwood home on August 16, 1998.
There are a million stories about Murray. For one lovely afternoon
in Malibu I got to meet and talk with him. That is my Jim Murray
story, and there's precious little I'd trade for it.
(January 2005)
