THE only time I ever met Jim Murray was a night when fate decided to throw us together at a prize fight in Las Vegas. Ringside seat with Murray
made lasting impressionSugar Ray Leonard and Thomas "Hit Man" Hearns were meeting for the final time in one of those contrived bouts where both boxers had the prime time knocked out of them years before.
Murray was seated at a ringside table with hardly anyone around. I had a general idea where I would be sitting at the outdoor arena at Caesars Palace, but my heart skipped a beat after realizing Murray and I would be press partners for the next few hours.
He glanced over through those magnifying lenses called glasses, acknowledged me with a slight nod and a small wave, then went back to staring off into space.
I didn't attempt to strike up a conversation with one of the founding fathers of Sports Illustrated, who had called the Los Angeles Times home since 1961. In a couple of years, he would become only the fourth sports columnist ever to be awarded a Pulitzer Prize.
But on this night a decade ago, he was thinking about boxing days gone by when names like Sugar Ray Robinson, Joe Louis, Rocky Marciano, Floyd Patterson and Muhammad Ali ruled the ring. His mind was not at this arena built for high rollers and their L.A. women on the back parking lot of Caesars. Instead, he was at The Garden surrounded by blue-collar workers with their rolled up sleeves, Popeye forearms exposed.
MURRAY was brought out of his reverie by boxing promoter Bob Arum. A few months earlier, Arum was named a guest columnist for the Las Vegas Sun, the paper I worked for, and he asked Murray if he had read any of his columns.
"Can't say that I have, Bob," Murray said with a touch of sarcasm that Arum apparently didn't catch. The promoter walked off, shaking anyone's hand he could find, leaving Murray silently shaking his head.
"Just what the world needs," Murray said looking over at me. "Somebody else pretending to be a sports columnist."
He went on to ask me who I was, where I was from and what paper I worked for. It was during this brief conversation that he told me of some of the great boxing matches he had covered.
And not in a superior way, but in a manner that made you feel a part of the conversation. I don't think I said much. Compared to him, I was in Boxing 101.
AS the night wore on, more and more journalists arrived who Murray knew. He forgot I was there and eventually began to compose a column about the Hearns-Leonard fight that ended in a draw.
After doing various interviews with Hearns and Leonard, I came back to collect my things. Murray glanced up and said, "Nice meeting you young man. Hope you go far in this business."
I thought about that conversation earlier this week after reading that Murray had died. I'm sure there are countless writers across the country who remember similar encounters with him.
Mine took on a more unusual slant, however, when the next day I learned from the West Region director for the Heisman Trophy that I had been added to the list of some 900-odd voters. The only way a voter can be named is if someone dies in that region.
"As you know, we lost one of our most prominent members yesterday," region director Chuck Benedict said of Murray's death.
I didn't comprehend much else Benedict said. As it did 10 years earlier, my heart skipped a beat once more. I could only hear Murray's last words to me about going far in this business.
Granted, my career can't compare to his and what he managed to accomplish during his 78 years with mere mortals. After all, he is among the best sportswriters of all time.
But I can remember his legacy and honor it every time I vote for the Heisman Trophy, and quietly thank him for fate throwing us together one final time.
Paul Arnett has been covering sports
for the Star-Bulletin since 1990.