University of Arizona head coach Lute Olson's resignation has Tucson divided into three groups: the people who love the basketball Hall of Famer and hate to see him go, the people ticked off at him for quitting just as the season was getting started (and just before Homecoming, no less), and those who really don't care.
I don't fit neatly into any of those groups, because as a TV news producer in Tucson, I'm supposed to care even if I don't.
Still, I have a lot of admiration for the man who turned a lackluster team into a national player and racked up an enviable win/loss record. Lute is the game's textbook gentleman, the polar opposite of Bobby Knight even though he still drives his players hard. Most people will also overlook that gripefest press conference he held last spring, where he dumped on several newspaper guys after coming back from a leave of absence.
Lute inspires awe in people, and he will continue to do that well into the future. He may not be a god of basketball, but there was this time that I ended up kneeling before him.
November 23, 2002: I'm helping the KOLD News 13 sports department grab some post-game interviews at McKale Center. The Wildcats are playing the same Saturday as the Tour De Tucson bicycle race and our resources are stretched thin. I've volunteered to help our sports director out while he cuts game highlights for a live shot on the 5:30 newscast.
The press room at McKale is a shark attack. All three stations are there, plus Fox Sports, plus a girl from KJLL radio and at least one other camera I couldn’t place. People crowd all over the small room to get sound from one player at a time, sticking mics wherever they can. Only a curtain separates the room from the locker area, and the guys shout trash in the background while you’re trying to get an interview.
Getting sound with Coach Olson is only slightly better. He has his own press room, but it’s still small. Juan the photographer and I set up there with a wireless mic on the table several minutes ahead of time, and everything looks good to go.
Coach Olson enters the room like a judge stepping up to the bench. A woman stands behind him and guards the door. He silently walks up to the microphone-loaded table, sits down, and starts reading from his stat sheet.
“Too much depth, and too much quickness,” he says, opening his statements on how the Wildcats just pummeled some non-conference team in the usual pre-season tradition.
Alarm creeps over Juan's face. Audio isn't coming from the lapel mic on the table, even though I’d tapped it to make sure it was working. We have to switch to a wired mic. Now. Juan quickly digs into his bag for it, plugs it in, and I sneak it down the narrow, reporter-lined aisle to the front, hoping I can daintily lay it on the table.
The cord isn’t long enough. So I fall on my knees at the front of the aisle, my right hand extending upward. I hold the mic as close as I can to Tucson’s god of basketball while praying at the altar of audio. I can’t believe the sound is clear and loud enough to use on the air.
Coach O. barely takes his eyes off the sheet through the entire session. He didn't snicker or make light of my precarious position. He answers a few questions, and then he's gone.
That's my brush with a legend, one who probably didn't even notice I was there despite my unintended reverence.
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