We used to share an alley with Neil King, his wife Shailagh Murray and their two lovely daughters.
Neil would throw a tennis ball down the alley for his dog to chase down and we would talk about the latest events in the world.
Neil was a great conversationalist. He had an active mind, wasn’t one to fall for anybody’s spin, and he was willing to engage on topics, big and small.
At the time, we were trying to figure out the best place to send our young son, Jack, to school. Sometimes Jack would be in the alley with us, running around, learning to ride a bike, kicking and throwing whatever balls were around.
Neil was a reporter for the Wall Street Journal and I knew him through Shailagh, who was also a reporter for the Journal. I loved Shailaugh because she had an Irish sensibility to her and she was far more accessible than her gruff colleague, David Rogers. I could pitch stories to her when I worked for the Speaker and she wouldn’t completely dismiss me.
I don’t know exactly how Neil and Shailagh met, but I knew they spent some time as foreign correspondents together. That was back when being a foreign correspondent was glamorous and in their own way, they were a glamorous couple. Neil was tall, dark, handsome, slender, Shailagh was an Irish beauty. They must have had fun in places like the Prague and Paris.
Both of them recommended St. Peter’s school for Jack and he was initially put on the wait list (I think he whacked somebody during his play date), but they pulled some strings and Jack got in for Pre-K. He would end up graduating from St. Peter’s during the beginning of Covid, and then spent four years at Gonzaga and now he is playing baseball for Duke, so their advice worked out pretty well.
Neil was one of the movers and shakers in the Concerned Fathers of St. Peters, a collection of dads who would find an excuse to go to a local bar and have a few beers, usually the Tune Inn where another St. Peter’s dad was the bartender. The biggest concern seemed to revolve around who would buy the next round.
The Concerned Fathers still exists, thanks to the hard work of Topher Cushman, who has made it a more formal but equally fun organization. The St. Peter’s Concerned Fathers Fish-Fry is a now a must see event, for example.
Neil would also invite me to some of poker games that he would host, along with his buddy Woody, and at times Tom Edsall, who is now a New York Times Columnist. If you want to lose money playing poker, play with Edsall and King.
We didn’t play Texas Hold ‘em, which is the favorite game of younger poker players these days. We all called our own games. Neil’s favorite game is what he called Creedmoor, a name he based on a mental institution based in New York. It’s a high-low game with lots and lots of wild cards, and it could drive you crazy trying to figure out if you should stay in the game. Only those with a strong mental makeup had the fortitude to win at Creedmoor.
Neil was a man of deep faith and he would often be a reader at the 11 am Sunday Mass at St. Peters. His booming voice and precise erudition made him one of the most valuable of lectors. I would look forward to his renditions of the biblical passages and at times wish that he could give the homilies as well.
That voice masked a deeper issue with his throat. It was discovered that he had developed esophageal cancer, and soon his booming voice turned into a whisper. It was heartbreaking, but Neil took it all in and fought back hard.
At the height of Covid, Neil came up with an audacious idea. He would hike from Washington DC, all the way up to New York City. It was an urban/suburban/rural walk through the history of America, warts and all. I was honored to be on the list of folks who got the daily missives of his journey.
He would later turn that journey into a book and that book, I think, will be turned into a movie. If not, it should be.
Neil was the perfect person to make such a journey. He knew that life was precious and he also knew that each person he engaged with, whether they were black, white, Republican Democrats, Christian or non-believer, had their own story they were living out and their own community that they were living in. He told their stories as he told his own.
I haven’t seen much of Neil lately. We moved 6 blocks away from our old house ten years ago, and we don’t share that alley any more. And on Capitol Hill, six blocks away might as well be 6 miles away. We don’t have any kids at St. Peters, and while I still participate in the Concerned Fathers, Neil’s generation of dads have largely moved on.
And every once in a while, Tom Edsall invites me to a poker game, but with all of the kids activities and work responsibilities, it’s hard to find the time.
I knew Neil wasn’t doing well, but I didn’t realize he was playing his last cards in life. He died over the weekend.
Here’s to you, Neil King. You were one of a kind. You will be missed by all who knew you and many who didn’t.
I listened to Neil's book, "American Ramble: A Walk of Memory and Renewal" and it was inspirational on many levels. Your article today was a fitting tribute. I wish Neil did more walks that I could learn from. Thanks for sharing all his background. We should all be a little like Neil.