The One-Eyed Newsman Who Saw It All

Norm Clarke

Norm Clarke had the instincts of a bloodhound, the nerves of a riverboat gambler, and, lest we forget, the unmistakable eye patch that made him look as though he had just stepped off a pirate ship and straight into a press room. It was not merely an accessory; it was the badge of a man who had seen much, lost much, and yet never stopped looking for the next great story.

Departing this world at 82, Clarke spent his days chasing the big tales—from the crack of the bat in Cincinnati to the neon glow of Las Vegas, where he reigned as the scribe of sin and spectacle. He was a man of ink and hustle, trained by the hard edges of life before finding his true calling among the stars and scoundrels of the Strip.

His “Vegas Confidential” column was not so much a gossip rag as a chronicle of the absurd, a running diary of the high-heeled, high-rolling, and often high-flying antics of the rich and reckless. He was the first to report on Britney Spears’ 55-hour marriage, which lasted about as long as a Las Vegas sunrise, the return of Michael Jackson to Sin City, and the moment Elton John turned his temper into a projectile, sending a stool and a glass of water into the audience.

If a celebrity was being bad, Clarke had the scoop before the ink was dry on the arrest report. But make no mistake—Clarke was no mere peddler of idle chatter.

He was a reporter first, last, and always, a fact he made clear to anyone who dared call him a gossip columnist. His work was legendary.

When a fire devoured the Beverly Hills Supper Club in Kentucky, Clarke ran a mile through gridlocked traffic to be the first reporter on the scene. When the MGM Grand went up in flames, Clarke’s words served as a witness to the event.

He covered the Big Red Machine of the Cincinnati Reds, tangled with Pete Rose over contract disputes, and took a slap to the face when he dared list baseball’s all-time hits leader among Vegas’ worst tippers. If there was a fight, Clarke didn’t just cover it—he was in it.

Even away from the newsroom, Clarke had a taste for adventure. He ran with the bulls in Pamplona twice, which suggests he was either immensely brave or had a loose definition of self-preservation. His luck ran out in Tecate, Mexico, where a bull got the better of him, but a good reporter knows that sometimes you take the hit and get back up.

Born in Terry, Mont., Clarke’s life was one of resilience. He lost his father to cancer at ten and his right eye not long after, but none of it slowed him down.

His first break in journalism came for the princely sum of five dollars, covering a basketball tournament that ended with a buzzer-beating half-court shot. He became hooked from that moment on.

Writing wasn’t just a job—it was salvation.

His memoir, Power of the Patch, was published this month, and he wanted it placed in schools and libraries where the next generation of ink-stained dreamers might find it. He understood, perhaps better than most, that words have power and the right words at the right time can change the course of a life.

And so we bid farewell to Norm Clarke—newsman, storyteller, and, as Forbes once called him, the sheriff of Sin City’s wildest beat. He leaves behind a legacy of ink and intrigue, a trail of scoops and stories that stretch from the dugouts of Cincinnati to the casinos of Las Vegas.

He saw it all, and what’s more, he made sure we saw it too.