(APR 2, 2005) Saying Good-bye to an old friend. Sports Writer/race caller/pal Jack Welsh was found dead in his apartment on Monday Evening. He was more than a figure on the sporting scene in Las Vegas he was a true “one off” as they say in England. He was a 18th Century Gentleman forced to live in the 21st Century and doing very well thank you.
Jack was a graduate of the University of Kentucky which meant that he always carried that touch of gentleman around with him. He proudly served in the United States Marines. The time frame for that could have been in any period of time from the Spanish American War up to and including Korea. At times he wrote for newspapers in Montréal and Philadelphia with stops in between. He was a flac for a minor league hockey team in Detroit and called harness race’s in Ohio. He covered boxing, football. Gaming and horse racing. If that were the extend of Jack Welsh he would have been a remarkable person.
It was the personal Jack that set him apart from the crowd. Jack Welsh was a 100% certifiably character. AT the time of his passing it’s was hard to determine his age cause he wasn’t into the age thing. When others “Old goats” where whining about their aches and pains (and he had plenty) he was getting on with his daily routine. He read four or five newspapers each and every day except Sunday. He got mad at the local
Sunday paper cause it was so big with so little in it. His TV was always on. If he found something that he though you should be watching he’d give you a call. His phone calls were legend. He had a love hate relationship with his telephone.
The phone would ring. “Is this Howie Reed the handicapper ?”, he yell. That was the typical greeting from Jack Welsh. His opening greeting was the only part of a Jack Welsh phone call that was predictable. He always yelled cause he also had issues with his hearing aid. “Jack I can’t hear you ?” “CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW? I got to get a new phone. You must have the same cheap phone I have.” Once at lunch with a group
of other scribes Jack was talking really loud. “Jack you’re talking really loud.” “CAN YOU HEAR ME? I’VE GOT THIS NEW HEARING AID.” “Jack turn your hearing aid down we hear you fine.” On night the phone rang, “Is this Howie Reed the handicapper ?” “Yes Jack.” ‘What television show am I watching ?” “Jack I don’t know. I’m not there?” In one phone call Jack informed me that an 18 ounce can of Miller Genuine had more beer in it than a 12 ounce can. Always good to know stuff like that.
Jack loved his MGD (which I will take credit for introducing him to), a nice cigar and talking about anything. Many night after a fight we would adjourn to the refreshment area and talk away what was left of the night. Jack may have been a Kentucky Gentleman but he was also one tough son-of-a-gun. In his early Vegas days he covered a NHKL game at the outdoor facility at Caesar’s Palace.
Leaving the press box high above the rink he tripped. He broke his shoulder and other parts of his body. National Radio Talk Show Host, a struggling beginner in Las Vegas at the time, Pappa Joe Chevalier told of the incident one night at dinner. “Yea we saw jack
rolling down the stairs and thought, “That’s it. We’ll never work another day in our lives. We’re rich now.” But no Jack. “I didn’t need that much. They paid for the hospital.” “If it had been me it would be called Pappa Joe’s Caesar’s Palace now.”
Jack was in his late 70’s but never claimed or applied for social security. “I didn’t need it.” Finally he was convinced to apply. “Is this Howie Reed the handicapper? You won’t believe how easy it was to apply for social security. They had all my records. I don’t get much but it will pay for the apartment.”
Jack would talk about the past with the relish of one that had lived a full life. Even though he was a throw back to a more gentler past he was always looking ahead to the future. In the years I had the honor to know him, I never saw him get mad or say anything negative about another person. It just wasn’t in his nature. To Jack everyone was his friend. They were.
Last Friday night he and I were to hook up for a few MGD’s, a cigar and some Kentucky Derby talk after the Friday Night Fights at the Plaza in downtown Las Vegas.
This would have turned into a replay of the Friday night before the Derby in 2002. It was May 3, 2002 and we were celebrated the fact that I had a $42.00 dollar winner in that afternoons Kentucky Oaks. I had given Jack the filly Farda Amiga which he didn’t bet.
This was a chance for a few MGD’s and a little Kentucky Derby talk. In the Derby he liked War Emblem.
“Jack the sports book is only 50 feet, walk over and bet it now. Then sleep in tomorrow.” “I’ll do it in awhile.” As the hour’s passed , the spirits flowed and the smoke billowed I would peak at my watch ever so often. Finally at 5AM I had to call a time out. “Jack
I got to go. Going to a Derby Party tomorrow, well actually today, and have to go home and get pretty. Meeting at the hotel at 9 AM.” “Have just one more.” “Can’t.” “Jack do you want me to bet War Emblem for you today ?” “No, I’ll get up.”
The Derby Party was a success. That is if you judge success by having way too many adult beverages and never cashing a ticket. Finally got home about 5:30 in the afternoon much the worse for wear. I was greeted by a ringing phone. “Is this Howie Reed the handicapper ?” “Yes Jack.” ‘What times the Derby on?” “Jack it’s over. War Emblem won and paid $43.00.” “I knew it.” “Jack, did you bet it ?” “No was doing some
other things.” I learned that “doing some “other things” was code for falling asleep. Jack could never understand why anyone would eat dinner before 8 or 9 o’clock. “I don’t understand how you can eat so early ?” “Jack it’s 6:30. Normal people eat at this hour.
Normal people don’t stay up all night.” Jack Welsh wasn’t normal. He was a character in a world with too dam few true characters. Make no mistake he was a darn fine writer. He could find, report and write a story with the best. His journalistic integrity was the
best.
Many a night I have been ringside with Jack when the venue is silent and the boxing traditional ten count is rung for one “of our own” who’s passed on. It’s boxing’s way of remembering those that have been a part of and served the sport. Friday night I though
about what might have been. Beer, cigars and good fellowship. A dissection of the Kentucky Derby on the next Saturday. When that day arrives and the University of Louisville Band plays My Old Kentucky Home, I’ll think of my friend Jack Welsh as I sip a Mint Julep, puff on a fine cigar and whip a tear from my eye. Each year when the Derby comes around I’m going to remember Jack Welsh and what his friendship
meant. How much he loved life and how life loved him. I know he’s watching from above. I can almost hear him on Friday night as the ring bells tolled out his
absence asking ,“ Is this Howie Reed the handicapper? Who are those Bells tolling for ?” “Jack my friend this time the bell toll for you. Go with God.”