There Was No ‘I’ in Murray, Either

Jim Murray was writing for this paper before I was born, and in 1993, I stood in line at a staff reception to ask him to sign his autobiography.

I was a sportswriter working in Orange County and our paths rarely crossed.

Jim signed my book, “To Robin.” I was disappointed, I admit, that our Pulitzer Prize winner didn’t seem to recognize my name--then again, it has even been misspelled in my byline in The Times.

Then last year, at a USC game, Jim turned and, rather oddly, I thought, asked me my address.

A few days later, a package arrived.

“Robyn,” he wrote. “Some years ago at a luncheon I autographed a book for you. Some weeks later, I picked up a paper and saw your name. I immediately thought, ‘Oh Lord! I think I wrote it ‘Robin.’

“Well, I finally got ‘round to trying to correct the mistake. (I did make one, didn’t I?). . . . Never do today what you can put off for a year or two. Murray.”

Enclosed was a book, signed, “For Robyn--Press box colleague, fine writer, and spells her name with a a ‘Y.’ ”

I’ll keep it on the highest shelf.