A Life Remembered - William Nack

1941–2018

- Tim Layden

HE WAS sitting in the darkness, silhouetted by blue light from a first-generation portable computer. Nearby we all drank deeply from glasses and bottles and cans and talked a little too loudly about the events of the day. It was August 1981, at a house party in Saratoga Springs. The Travers had been run that afternoon, and the celebration of the race had carried into the summer night. We were finished with our work, but in a cramped study off the kitchen, Bill Nack was still doing his. I stood outside the door and watched as Bill typed, wondering what genius might be unfolding in his words. He was 40 years old, three years into a remarkable 23-year career at Sports Illustrated. I was 25, a writer at The Schenectady Gazette, dabbling in horse racing coverage. Bill called me in and asked for a clarification on a quote from that afternoon. I haltingly provided it, and Bill thanked me. I stole a peek at his screen.

Before the night was over, Bill would finish his work and join us on the deck. He made the night better, as he made every night better, filling the humid air with stories about Bill Shoemaker and Woody Stephens and Secretariat. Always about Secretariat. In the small hours, Bill put one arm on the railing, raised his chin and recited—no, performed—the last page of The Great Gatsby, not for the first time or for the last. It was stunning and fun, and it was magical.