TAKING NOTE

 

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 24, 1982, SPORTS

Copyright 1982/THE TIMES MIRROR COMPANY

JIM MURRAY

There’s Been No Change of Heart

  When Lefty Gomez was going in for open-heart surgery, the old Yankees pitcher was worried. He wanted to know which way to bet, as usual. “What are my chances?” he asked. “Aw, don’t sweat it, Lefty,” the doctor told him. “A piece of cake. We have a 98 percent success rate.”

  Suddenly, Lefty went home. Almost immediately, his phone began to ring. His cousin from Visalia called. Her brother had the operation, and he was out climbing mountains. A neighbor called. Same thing. His father had the operation and he was years younger. An old friend called from New York. He had come through with flying colors. An ex-teammate called. He had it and was OK.

  Suddenly, Lefty broke into a cold sweat anyway. “I suddenly realized I was up to 68 percent. Two more phone calls and I was an underdog. I shut off the phone.”

  I bring this up because, I, too, recently had heart surgery. But it wasn’t well-meaning friends who gave me sleepless nights. It was the medics. For openers, the surgeon, Dr. Jack Matloff, the old Yale football player, came in the night before and told me all the things that could go wrong. He made it sound as if I should get points in this game. “First of all,” he said, “you could die.” And that was the good news.

  Part of the bad news was, they were going to replace my worn-out valve with a pig’s valve. My doctor, Gary Sugarman, was quick to see the obstacles in this. “That means you’re ‘trafe,’ ” he said. “That means you can never go in a Beverly Hills delicatessen again as long as you live.”

  “In that case,” I told him, “this will be the first operation in history to save a heart and a gallbladder at the same time. Irving Caesar used to say that pastrami killed more Jews than the Pharaohs.”

  Another doctor on the case, Jeffrey Helfenstein, was even more helpful. “Look at it this way: When your readers write in that you’re a pig, they’ll be part right.”

  But, my problems were more metaphysical than medical. What I was worried about was the big picture, the effect all this would have on my career. I reasoned this way: The heart is the seat of the emotions, right? Now that I had a new set of emotions, how would this affect my whole approach to life? I mean, would I now become Mr. Nice Guy? No more Mr. McNasty? Would I now start seeing two sides to every story? Would I start to admit it when I was wrong? Would I stop being an opinionated jerk? Would I get that fatal columnists’ disease, fairness? Would I start to like Cincinnati?

  The thought was too appalling to contemplate. Would they scalpel malice right out of my system, and leave me a journalistic eunuch? One of those guys who says, “On the other hand . . .?”

  You know, when I went in for the operation, a lot of the wags were ready: “Jim Murray had a six-hour heart surgery. Took ‘em one hour to fix it and five hours to find it.” And so on.

  You know, when I first came to California way back in ’43, I realized I would have to guard against the local diseases — cheerfulness, optimism, tolerance, sympathy, orange juice poisoning of the brain, kind of like you watch out for malaria in the tropics. I guarded against the symptoms night and day. When I covered the movies, for instance, I didn’t like any of them. I even ripped Academy Award performances. Especially Academy Award performances. I only liked pictures nobody went to see. If Spencer Tracy wasn’t in it, I knocked it.

  Then, when I got into sports, I was horrified at the attitude of the fans out here. They were, if you can believe it, well — “understanding” is the word. Patient. Sympathetic. Terrible flaws in a sports fan.

  I used to sit behind them and heard them implore: “Please, Steve, don’t strike out.” Good Lord! This is no way to spectate. Brought up in the Polo Grounds and Ebbets Field, I knew the real procedure: “Hey, Steve, strike out so they’ll know you! I hear you’re writing a book, ‘My Greatest Days in Baseball.’ It’ll be thinner than the Texas social register. Hey, Steve, is your nickname ‘Popeye’ or ‘Pop Fly?’ Hey, Steve, one more strikeout and that school they named after you is ‘Lincoln Junior High’ once again. Can they carry out decimals in that school far enough to find your batting average? Hey, Steve, does your Rolls Royce have stained-glass windows — or just a chair in the back and incense? Do they call you ‘goody, goody’ because you’re bucking for saint or because that’s what the pitchers say when you come up? The next time you go to Lourdes, bring your bats.”

  You can sit there, as fans do here, and murmur encouragements like, “We’re with you, Fernando, baby!” You have to go for the jugular, shake him up. “Hey, Fernando, show us how to throw a home run. Hey, Fernando, who takes care of your pet gopher when you’re on the mound? Hey, Fernando, two more pounds and they have to tether you. They’ll put a propeller on you and take pictures over the Rose Bowl next New Year’s. Hey, Fernando, the movies want you! They’re doing a remake of the Hindenburg disaster. You’re gonna play the Hindenburg. Hey, Fernando, how do you say ‘ball four’ in Spanish? Better learn, you’re gonna be saying it a lot!”

  In horse racing, the accepted form of cheering in the stretch here is, “Come on sweetheart, stay there! Only an eighth of a mile, you can do it, baby!” The universal hate form on the other hand is, “Don’t die now, you damn dog, you got all my money ridin’ on ya! Hold on, you bucket o’ glue! Jockey, hit that snivelling quitter — or are you in on the fix, too?!”

  Soft-heartedness is the graveyard of sportswriting, too. The minute you think, let alone write, “Well, the poor fellow was doing his best,” you are through. The instant you lead off with “Steve Garvey gave it his all yesterday, but took a called third strike to write finish to the Dodgers’ pennant race,” you are ready for the copy desk and the condo in Chula Vista. You have lost the hop on your hard one.

  If life, they say, “No news is good news.” In journalism, they say, “Good news is no news.” You have to put a stone in your heart and a sneer on your lips and write, “Steve Garvey liked the pitch so much he couldn’t bear to bruise it. So he stood there like a guy getting his first look at the Mona Lisa, overcome with awe and admiration. He looked as if he had come to paint it, not hit it. Of course, the Philistines were screaming, ‘Swing, ya dummy! It’s a strike, not a work of art!’ But what do they know of works of art?”

  I took up the problem with Dr. Sugarman, when he found fluid around the heart. “You don’t think it’s the milk of human kindness, do you?” I wondered anxiously. Gary shook his head. “No,” he said.

“You can tell that from the stethoscope?” I pressed.

“No,” he said, “from the column you wrote about the St. Louis Cardinals.”

Reprinted with the permission of the Los Angeles Times

Jim Murray Memorial Foundation, P.O. Box 60753, Pasadena, CA 91116

———

What is the Jim Murray Memorial Foundation? 

  The Jim Murray Memorial Foundation is a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization, established in 1999 to perpetuate the Jim Murray legacy, and his love for and dedication to his extraordinary career in journalism. Since 1999, JMMF has granted 104 $5,000 scholarships to outstanding journalism students. Success of the Jim Murray Memorial Foundation’s efforts depends heavily on the contributions from generous individuals, organizations, corporations, and volunteers who align themselves with the mission and values of the JMMF.

Like us on Facebook, and visit the JMMF website, www.jimmurrayfoundation.org.

——

A dozen years ago, Linda McCoy-Murray compiled a book of Jim Murray’s columns on female athletes (1961-1998). While the book is idle waiting for an interested publisher, the JMMF thinks this is an appropriate year to get the book on the shelves, i.e., Jim Murray’s 100^th birthday, 1919-2019.  

Our mission is to empower women of all ages to succeed and prosper — in and out of sports — while entertaining the reader with Jim Murray’s wit and hyperbole.  An excellent teaching tool for Women’s Studies.

Proceeds from book sales will benefit the Jim Murray Memorial Foundation, a 501(c)(3) not-for-profit organization providing sports journalism scholarships at universities across the country.

Sports Illustrated cut more than 40 members of its staff on Thursday, Oct. 3, as part of a restructuring plan. There is more right here.

Jim Murray, who worked as a California correspondent for Time and Life, was reassigned to New York in 1953 to help produce that new magazine, Sports Illustrated.

Magazine magnate Henry Luce, who was called “the most influential private citizen” in the America of his day, launched and closely supervised a stable of magazines that transformed journalism and the reading habits of millions of Americans. Time summarized and interpreted the week’s news; Life was a picture magazine of politics, culture, and society that dominated American visual perceptions in the era before television; Fortune reported on national and international business; and Sports Illustrated explored the world of sports. 

Luce chose Jim Murray because he had written profiles of actors and athletes in the California bureau. Murray’s career at Sports Illustrated ran from 1953-61 where, in SI’s infancy, he sold ads, created dummy layouts, reported/wrote and promoted the magazine. SI saw itself as being high quality letters — Hemingway, for instance, wrote for the magazine from time to time.

——

OCTOBER 19, 1997, SPORTS

Copyright 1997 /THE TIMES MIRROR COMPANY

JIM MURRAY

Magazine Illustrated Sports’ Importance

   When Sports Illustrated first came out, it had a hard time identifying with the hardcore sports public. I know. I was there.

   Dan Jenkins, who later rode to its rescue, dismissed its early editions as “a slick cookbook for your basic two-yacht family.” Still others saw it as “a coffee table item for polo players’ living rooms.” A colleague wondered when we would publish a lead story, “Falcons Are Fun,” referring to the peregrine kind, not the Atlanta football team.

   An editor at Hearst’s Cosmopolitan, Jack O’Connell, used to ask us regularly at the bar at Toots Shor’s: “When are you going to stop wasting Harry Luce’s money on jock straps?”

   Even in the company (Time Inc.), the chorus of doom was deafening. The

editor first tapped to get it off the ground, Ernie Havemann, gave up on it and wrote a 26-page memo, intending to inter it.

   Only two men believed in it: Sid James, who came down from the flagship of the Time Inc. fleet, LIFE magazine, to take over from Havemann. And Harry Luce.

   Luce had learned the hard way that sports were important. Though sports illiterate himself — he was raised in China — he grew vexed when top-level dinner talks with prime ministers and foreign ministers turned to sport.

   “If it’s that damn important, why don’t we have a magazine on it?” he

demanded.

   The extraordinary story of the watershed magazine is explored in a new book, The Franchise, a 434-page history of the 43-year old magazine,

written by Michael MacCambridge after detailed research.

   It’s impossible to downplay the importance of the magazine on the incredible explosion in sports in the last half of the 20th century. Consider that one player, the great Joe DiMaggio, was paid as much as $100,000 in that benighted era. Today, high school kids make more than any Rockefeller then.

   Sports Illustrated came out in the era and the aura of television, the great Aztec god of games. I remember some of us were leery of the challenge. TV already had begun to bring down the cash cow of the company. LIFE, whose still pictures couldn’t compete with T V ’s moving, talking pictures.

   James was reassuring.

   “TV will show them how they won. We’ll tell them why,” he said.

   I was right in one exchange with early days management. The assistant publisher, Dick Neale, told me confidently one day why the mag would be a success.

   “We can buy the subscription lists of the New Yorker and the Saturday Evening Post and find the readers,” he said.

   I was dubious, warning, “You better be sure the writing is of a high order.”

   It was. The publication reached out and found the country — and the world — awash with poets of the playing fields. It mined Texas and found the incomparable Jenkins in Fort Worth, giving the country a writer comparable and in every way the equal of Ring Lardner.

   Quoting Jenkins’ leads of one-liners became a favorite indoor sport of a

thousand locker rooms. He became the signature hole of the magazine. He

verified it, put the stamp of literature on it the New Yorker might envy.

   He was followed by others. Today a Jenkins clone, Rick Reilly, anchors the tradition.

   But MacCambridge’s book lists the casualties of that never-ending war between talented editors and talented writers, nuclear outbursts that no one won — and the world and the magazine lost.

   When Jenkins and editor Gil Rogin got in each others’ gun sights, they both wound up in orbit, Jenkins going to a golf magazine and his novels, Rogin to wandering, bewildered, in the corporate halls, finding no place to light.

   The book is replete with office gossip, scorecards on the pitting of one editor against another in an obscene public struggle for one job. Management called them “bakeoffs” but they resembled nothing so much as replays of the Christians versus the lions, with the publisher playing Nero.

   As someone wrote, the talent was so Vesuvian, it’s no surprise that the lid blew off periodically and the editorial offices got covered with lava.

   The cast of characters of the men in charge ranged from James, without whose optimism and dogged spadework the magazine would have died in its crib, to Andre Laguerre, a Frenchman who had been Gen. de Gaulle’s first lieutenant, to Mark Mulvoy, a stage Irishman with a sure instinct for what the fan on the street wanted from S.I.

   Pro football was a presence but not a religion when Sports Illustrated hit the scene. Major league baseball was declining precipitously in attendance, going from 21 million in 1948 to 14 million in ‘54 when S.I. hit the newsstands. Last year, attendance was 29,718,093 in the American League and 30,379,288 in the National.

   Pro basketball was an acquired taste, like the olive martini, before S.I., and college basketball was attended only by students — usually for the dance afterward.

   We all played a part in making golf a sport that Tiger Woods could come along and take over, but none more than S.I. It did more for golf than Arnold Palmer.

   How much did one magazine play in the boom? Plenty, thinks MacCambridge. It has survived, even thrived, in a field since saturated with T V. When we started it, we were afraid we might not even meet the 350,000 in circulation that was guaranteed advertisers. Last time I looked, its weekly circulation was 3.2 million.

   On my wall in my living room is one of my prized possessions. It’s a letter from Henry Luce, sent me the day after Christmas, 1953, just after we had pulled together the first three advertising dummies for the new magazine.

   He wrote: “Fingers must always be crossed but it does indeed look as if we had a good magazine coming up.”

   We sure did, Harry.

Reprinted with the permission of the Los Angeles Times

Jim Murray Memorial Foundation, P.O. Box 60753, Pasadena, CA 91116

———

What is the Jim Murray Memorial Foundation? 

  The Jim Murray Memorial Foundation is a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization, established in 1999 to perpetuate the Jim Murray legacy, and his love for and dedication to his extraordinary career in journalism. Since 1999, JMMF has granted 104 $5,000 scholarships to outstanding journalism students. Success of the Jim Murray Memorial Foundation’s efforts depends heavily on the contributions from generous individuals, organizations, corporations, and volunteers who align themselves with the mission and values of the JMMF.

Like us on Facebook, and visit the JMMF website, www.jimmurrayfoundation.org.

——

A dozen years ago, Linda McCoy-Murray compiled a book of Jim Murray’s columns on female athletes (1961-1998). While the book is idle waiting for an interested publisher, the JMMF thinks this is an appropriate year to get the book on the shelves, i.e., Jim Murray’s 100^th birthday, 1919-2019.  

Our mission is to empower women of all ages to succeed and prosper — in and out of sports — while entertaining the reader with Jim Murray’s wit and hyperbole.  An excellent teaching tool for Women’s Studies.

Proceeds from book sales will benefit the Jim Murray Memorial Foundation, a 501(c)(3) not-for-profit organization providing sports journalism scholarships at universities across the country.