--by Mike Murray

I never met Hal Lebovitz. But, like so many of his readers, I felt I knew him.

I didn't know him in the sense that I could tell you his favorite novel, movie, or meal. But Hal -- and I suspect that's what he would have wanted me to call him -- revealed much of himself through his always touching, always human, observations.

Having come to sports journalism long before the era of shock-style, in-your-face reporting, he was special. Covering athletes and teams as neither "homer" nor detractor, he nevertheless was an unabashed fan: a fan of the games about which he wrote, a fan of the participants who competed with passion -- the ones who relished the "taking part," the endeavor itself, more than any resultant fame or monetary compensation.

Hal was a man of fire, capable of expressing himself forcefully when necessary (such as when the Indians' management considered moving the team out of Cleveland). But he was possessed of very little of the kind of ego that often manifests itself in mean-spirited outburst.

It really didn't matter what employee hat he wore at the Cleveland Plain Dealer (as it was called in his time there) or the Lake County News Herald. Even when serving in managerial capacities, he was always a writer, first and foremost. His columns deeply touched readers.

His "Never Cut a Boy" piece was notable, and the one that many folks remember most fondly. I have a different favorite. It ran sometime in the late 1960s, I believe. In it he related events that unfolded at a high school track meet he had recently attended

In his column Hal told the following story. In a stirring relay race, the baton slipped from the hand of a runner. The boy watched in horror as the implement bounced along the track surface and passed outside the exchange zone, disqualifying his team.

The young athlete was inconsolable. He sobbed and sobbed. His teammates and coaches seemingly could do nothing to ease his anguish. He was upset for himself, and he was upset that he had let his teammates down.

A woman observed all this and was tormented on the runner's behalf. She wondered out loud if it (athletic competition) was really "worth it," given the emotional pain it was capable of inflicting.

I don't know if Hal responded directly to the woman, but he did so later in a column. In one of the most elegant, most moving essays I have ever read -- sports or otherwise -- he explained why, yes, in spite of all associated heartache, it surely is "worth it."

I hope the woman read the piece. If she did, I am sure that she found enlightenment. More important, she found solace.

Hal was capable of tough commentary. But he was also capable of wrapping a reassuring arm around his audience, of providing much-needed comfort. I will miss Hal's competence. But I will miss his sense of decency, his humanity, even more.

Save a place for us, Hal. Suffering difficulty in this world will have been "worth it" if we are ultimately reunited with souls like you in the next.

Copyright © 2005 Michael F. Murray -- All rights reserved.