What is the true legacy of a legend? 

We lost one of America’s great journalists with the passing last week of my friend Norm Clarke.

Following a hall-of-fame reporting career in Colorado, he decamped to Vegas where his celebrity-centered journalism became such a staple of daily life his column was promoted on billboards with just one word: “Norm!”

His obituaries, in media from coast to coast, focused on how he made his mark as a highly accomplished chronicler of American life — in the gritty world of sports and the glitzy world of Las Vegas. 

More lasting is his legacy, of how he seized and savored everyday life, constantly curious, never making a conversation about him. 

Norm formed fast friendships in every part of America: the famous, infamous and anonymous. Bold-face names, and no names. 

One of the completely anonymous, I met Norm somewhat by accident years ago. Each spring, Colorado entrepreneur, business leader and all-around great guy David McReynolds generously welcomes friends to join him for Arizona spring training baseball. When I arrived, McReynolds said another guest that weekend was a fellow named Norm Clarke.

He told me about the celebrity-chronicling columnist, a household name in Vegas, and I expected to be intimidated by Clarke’s accomplishments and overwhelmed by a big-deal reporter talking about himself. 

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Instead, in walks a guy, with his signature black eye patch, who was as full of energy as a bubbling bottle of champagne and as eager to get to a ballgame — another among thousands he’d attended — as a 9-year-old heading to his first game.

Before the car left the driveway, Norm asked me a dozen questions and in about 10 minutes we were friends. 

In Norm’s world, every person offered another chance to learn something and make a friend. He was a guy who could scoop the national media on Britney Spears’ 55-hour marriage and be just as eager to chronicle a colorful beer vendor at a spring training game. 

This enthusiasm extended to experiences most of us speed past without notice. Virtually every meal merited a photo, a review and a post. He was as over-the-moon about queso at a restaurant off Champa Street in Denver as a first-class steak prepared by a Vegas celebrity chef.

It was his passionate love of his craft that is also part of his legacy: no matter if you start out in a microscopic Montana town, seek out your true calling and then bust your backside to be the best. 

In his 60s, his national reputation cemented, he could have taken a few days off from reporting to hang out in Scottsdale or even fire off a so-so column to check a box.

Instead, if you were present when Norm was crafting a column, you watched and listened as he wrestled with every word, often with a string of expletives attached, when the perfect line eluded him. Each word was carefully placed like a piece of stained glass in a massive multi-colored window.  

A Norm column was more than highly polished, always spicy, sometimes cheeky, writing. What set him apart was his sterling reputation as a truth teller, whether being the first to herald the arrival of major league baseball in Denver or letting Vegas know Pete Rose was a lousy tipper (for which Rose publicly slapped him). 

There are more stories to be savored. Days before Norm died, McReynolds handed him the first copy of his memoir he labored over for years. Send an email to books@powerofthepatch.com and pay just the shipping and you will get a final treat from a rare talent. 

At the end of his life, the great rocker Warren Zevon was asked what advice he would share, and he said, “Enjoy every sandwich.”

Norm not only enjoyed every one of life’s sandwiches. He savored every baseball pitch, every conversation and every chance to craft, and tell, a new story.

Legends leave great lessons. Norm Clarke left a lifetime of them. 

Sean Duffy is a former deputy chief of staff to Gov. Bill Owens and Colorado-based strategic communications consultant. He now serves as vice president at a philanthropic foundation. The views expressed here are his own.