Jim Murray lost some vision
And we all saw less.
Super Spectator in Spectator Country,
He was our human satellite
Scanning the sports world
From loft professional vantage,
Sending signals to us
At morning coffee in Malibu
Or on the 6 a.m. from Greenwich.
Orbiting galactic happenings —
The Derby, the Series, the Bowls.
Super Correspondent
Covering the star wars.
Transmitting no cold
Electronic images,
But word pictures to be
Digested, spiced by his prose and wit,
Warmed to taste
By his humanity.
His eyes, the eyes of millions.
Super Tourist from Tourist Country,
Telling tales of Russia in the
Summer of our Olympic discontent;
Bearding the bear in his den.
Thoughts to impact multitudes
With delight,
Even belly laughs,
Except in Moscow or Cincinnati,
Then it’s, “Send back the keys, Jim!”
One eye lost, gone
Like a friend deserting
The other uncertain.
He stood on the brink of darkness,
His sight dimmed, but not his gratitude
For memories of shining hours.
Memories that are our memories.
Gratitude that is our gratitude.
His loss that is our loss.
Jim Murray’s eyes were the eyes of all of us.
Bill Dowey