Super Spectator


    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