George Kimball III (1943 – 2011)

George Kimball died in 2011.  Without question, George was America’s premier boxing writer.  He also covered golf’s majors, the New England Patriots, the New England Revolution, and to a lesser degree the Celtics and the Red Sox, all for the Boston Herald, where he was both a writer and later,  a widely read columnist.  And he was also a columnist for the Irish Times.  He had ten times more friends than anybody you or I know, or ever will.  Trust me on that.

George,
You, my old friend, were among those who were not able to see this new year rung in.  Your passing is noted and notable.  Maybe there will be a posthumous Pulitzer, it would not surprise me.  Your life is all down there in black and white;  the stories, columns, articles, and yes, the books.   You left yourself a legacy.  One hell of a legacy, pal.  I will remember you with good thoughts.  What I think of is the traveling, off and on, over the years that we did, mostly golfing, with a Super Bowl trip, and pubs, clubs, and concerts thrown in here and there, but mostly I recall the golf.

Remember that time we played Pinehurst #2 in the snow that early February afternoon?   We had the whole course to ourselves, literally.  Play away sir, the course is yours.  Those caddies probably were planning on sitting near the heater in the caddy room when they woke up that morning to flurries.  It was an easy day at the office until we rolled in.  Walked all eighteen in light snow flurries, we did.  We weren’t really dressed for it either.  The cold I can’t remember anymore.  The round I’ll never forget.  And you had them comp us in the pro shop.  Hey, It’s free, we’re here, it’s The Deuce, so let’s play golf.  For the record, we were excellent tippers.

Only after you died did I read about your wilder days.  Stories about your civil disobedience, and your having been on the ballot for Sheriff  in Kansas, and the hanging out with Hunter S.  Stories about the Eliot Lounge were fun to hear. You did have your share of adventures.  I think you had at least one whole bucket list checked off.

And you were an honest-to a-fault golfer, optimistic enough to  play every shot like the Open Championship was at stake.   Forgive me for saying that you weren’t exactly playing at scratch.  I think you probably knew that,  yet your errant golf shots seemed to always shock you.  And your golf stance was excellent; legs splayed like one was in Boston and the other in Worcester.  You had that repeatable lash swing.  That you only had one working eye may have been a contributing factor.

You should be forever thanking me for saving you from killing Marlene Floyd’s (sister of Ray Floyd, and a former LPGA player) little peek-a-poo, or whatever the hell it was, that time down in North Carolina.   There you were on the tee, stance taken, starting your downswing  just as a small white dog ran from behind, straight toward  your teed up golf ball.  I saw it, you could not have.   That the dog didn’t perish on the spot was miraculous.  I can see Marlene running, in slow motion, trying to save her dog,  realizing that she was not gonna make it.  My observational skills, such as they were, must have kicked in instinctively;  I lunged toward you, at great peril to my person,  and I must have yelped as you were in the second half of  your always quick downswing, with the aforementioned dog two nanoseconds from coinciding  with your ball at the moment of impact.  Then it was over.  Marlene in tears, thanking YOU when she should have been thanking me.  Correct me if I am wrong, but it was you George, wasn’t it, who taught Tiger to stop his downswing on a dime?   You’re welcome old friend.  You’re welcome Marlene Floyd.   You too Tiger.

We were both IIIs and we had a good laugh about it, and about our missing trust funds.   After you passed, I read the obits and testimonials.  Praising, amazing, and hair-raising.  If I had known you in your early days, we wouldn’t have connected most likely.  I couldn’t have kept up, from what it sounds like.  So it’s good that we met only after we had both lost two or three miles per whatever off our fastballs.

I don’t want to fail to mention your rather notable lack of patience.  Lord knows, you didn’t suffer fools.  On The Scale of Life’s Patience Meter, there would be the Dalai Lama on one end and George Kimball on the other.  In the same breath, I want to say that you did not have a mean bone in your body.  You were hard on yourself,  you won the lion’s share of your arguments, and you rarely stopped to relax.  I don’t expect any rebuttal from you.

In the days just after you died, Bob Ryan wrote a really nice appreciation column about you, ditto Michael Gee and Kevin Cullen.   Charlie Pierce’s hilarious trip down memory lane was a worthy homage. He knew you when.   Unprepossessing as you always looked,  your world included pretty much everyone in sports, politics, literature, music, and the field of good company.

Everyone remembers you in superlatives.  They miss you in Boston.  They miss you in New York City.  Ireland will be missing you dearly.  No one had more friends in more places than you did George.  You were among the most interesting people I’ve known, a sentiment shared by others in their eulogies and remembrances.  So, fairways and greens, pal, and take a lesson.   I’m raisin’ a cup to you tonight, Champ.  And it’s a Guinness.

My heart goes to Darcy and Teddy, Marge, and to Sarah as well, to George’s mom, Susan, whom I met a time or two,  and who gave George his brains, his sense of justice, and the literature of Tennessee Williams.  To his sister, Jennifer, down in Nashville,  George was proud of you and your music.

Harry Lipson III,   HarryShots.com