JimmyCsays: At the juncture of journalism and daily life in KC

I don’t know what, but something jogged my memory last Friday or Saturday, and I got to thinking about Timothy O’Leary, a former Jackson County Circuit Court judge, who before and after his 20 years on the bench practiced law in Kansas City.

Then, as bad luck would have it, I went to The Star’s Sunday obituary page, and the first paid obit was that of “Timothy Dean O’Leary.”

I took in a short breath, and my heart sank. I have such fond memories of Tim O’Leary, who was always smiling, telling funny stories and making unpredictable comments.

Here was his career in capsule: Graduated from UMKC Law School in 1956; was a practicing attorney until 1969, when he was appointed to the Circuit Court; resigned as a judge in about 1989 and joined the law firm of Shughart Thomson and Kilroy, which became Polsinelli. He worked at Polsinelli until 2018, when he was 90.

Tim O’Leary

I got to know Tim in about 1971, two years after I had arrived in Kansas City and shortly after getting my first major “beat” with The Star — Jackson County Courthouse reporter. At the courthouse, I covered politics and government and civil and criminal courts. It was a tremendous beat, and I loved it.

The press room — mostly inhabited by just us Star reporters — was on the fourth floor mezzanine, 4M, between the fourth and fifth floors. You could take the elevator to four and walk up a half flight or take it to five and walk down a half flight. It was a two-room office, very adequate for our purposes. A tall, wide window afforded a great view of the majestic, 29-story City Hall directly across 12th Street.

(Toward the end of my seven-year run at the courthouse, I’d sometimes look over at City Hall and think, “That’s where I want to be.” I got my wish in 1985, when I began a 10-year run as a City Hall reporter.)

I was actually working for The Kansas City Times, “the morning edition of The Kansas City Star,” and my hours were generally noon to eight, or whenever a particular day’s story was wrapped up.

A few people, including a couple of judges, would sometimes drop by the office about 5:30 or 6, after they’d finished work and were about to head out of the building.

Tim and another judge who later returned to the law, Paul Vardeman, were regular visitors. These days you wouldn’t find many judges dropping by press rooms to shoot the breeze with reporters. (In fact, you don’t find many press rooms in courthouses these days.) But back then it was commonplace.

I called him Judge, and he called me “Scoop” — a nickname that tickled me.

Tim would always be wearing a coat and tie and a natty, short-brimmed hat. He’d stand next to that big, wide window while we chatted, and he’d often smoke a cigarette — a habit he later gave up. He spoke unhurriedly and in a mildly gravelly voice. We’d talk about everything, from court cases to what was going on in our lives. As a young reporter, I leaned on his every utterance, looking for insight into whatever subject came up.

I remember only one of those conversations vividly, however. I remember it because it wound up with him coming out with a line I’ve used ever since.

He got to talking about youth basketball and the fact that he had recently started coaching somewhere — not a school, as I recall, maybe the YMCA. I had played grade-school basketball and was a big fan of the game, so I was very interested in the subject. I asked him if he’d played basketball in school, and I don’t remember if he had, but, regardless, he said just about anybody could teach the fundamentals, of basketball — passing, dribbling and shooting.

And then he turned the subject around on me. “You ought to try it,” he said.

“What?” I said.

“Coaching kids basketball. It’s fun and would give you something else to do.”

“No, no,” I said, “I don’t know enough about it, even though I played when I was younger; I certainly couldn’t coach.”

“Well,” he said, “you ought to do it; it would take your mind off your fat self.”

…I’d never heard a line like that in my life. I knew he wasn’t speaking literally because, for one thing, I wasn’t fat. I understood he was simply emphasizing, figuratively, how important it is for all of us to get involved in something that gets our minds off ourselves and, instead, helps us engage and interact constructively with others.

I don’t remember if I laughed when he said that, probably did. But in short order our chat wound up, and off he went down that half flight of stairs.

I never did give serious consideration to coaching youth basketball, but I never forgot that line.

After I left the courthouse beat in 1978, I didn’t see Tim regularly, but I’d run into him occasionally because we both lived in the Brookside area and were members of Visitation Catholic Church. Once I saw him tailgating at an M.U. football game. (He was an M.U. grad.) I would usually call him “Judge,” and he would usually call me “Scoop.” It was always good to see him and his lovely wife Darlene, with whom he had five children.

Until a few years ago, I believe, he played golf with another retired judge, Forest “Frosty” Hanna. And they walked the course.

**

I can’t tell you how many times, over the decades, I’ve told someone — sometimes in jest, sometimes in the vein Tim said it to me — “You need to get your mind off your fat self.”

When I told Patty about Tim’s death after reading Sunday’s obit, I related the story of that nearly 50-year-ago conversation in the press room. “So that’s where you got that line,” she said. “You’ve used it so many times; I never knew where it came from.”

…The man who turned the phrase is gone, but the line lives on. And of course it’s still true: We’re all better people when our minds are not consumed with our fat selves.

The late Darlene and Tim O’Leary