Murray Enters Hall New World Where He Belongs

I couldn’t wait. There I sat in my usual booth at the corner coffee shop. Time . . . 5:48 a.m., the day after Jim Murray had been inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. Surely, this will be his greatest column, his moment of glory.

Hold it, the mood isn’t quite right. I’ll wait for my cup of coffee to arrive. Better read about the Dodgers first. What’s their problem, can’t they win at home?

Now . . . ? Not yet, better wait for the toast, let the anticipation build. Let’s see how the Angels did? I don’t believe it, they won another one. What’s this world coming to? Coffee’s here, toast is here, she knows I hate strawberry jam, better wait for grape . . .

Over the years, Jim Murray has made me laugh, cry and understand why there’s more to a man than just the words, “He got bombed again, having lost his fifth in a row.”

I once had dreams of being a sportswriter. I can type faster than Murray can, and I can use whiteout better than he can and I know and love sports. But I didn’t have those darn glasses. The ones he uses to look into the souls of men.

But what you don’t know, Mr. Jim Murray, is that you have given us all a look into your soul. You have let us feel some of your love and some of your compassion for fellow human beings who just happen to be better athletes than you and I. And for that, I am grateful.

I unwrinkle the paper.

“Cooperstown, N.Y.--I half expected Babe Ruth to come down off the wall and say, ‘Get that guy outta here!”’ The morning ritual has begun. The tears well up and another piece of toast is stuck in my throat. Thanks a lot!

RUDY URIBE JR.

Van Nuys