I’m sitting here in front of this screen trying to figure out the best way to express what someone meant to me. You’re supposed to do that in person. To their face. By looking them in the eyes and saying the words.
I wanted to. I made plans to. Something always got in the way. The honest truth is I always let something get in the way.
Legendary Omaha World-Herald writer Steve Pivovar passed away this morning.
The day all of us who got to know him were dreading is here, and now there is just a lot of sadness and regret. I’m sad that he’s gone, and I regret that this is the only way anyone will know what he meant to me. I wish I had one last chance to tell him instead of the rest of my life to tell all of you.
There are already too many “I’s” and “me’s” in this. This isn’t about me. This is about him. The man he was. The job he did. The way he did it, and the way he inspired the man half his age to follow in his footsteps.
I’ll never forget the first thing he said to me. It was the afternoon of November 10, 2012. The Creighton women’s basketball team was getting ready to play Oklahoma at D.J. Sokol Arena. I ignored the placards on the table and sat in the first seat I saw walking through the tunnel under the bleachers. I set up everything I needed and got ready to cover my first women’s basketball game at Creighton.
After a few plays I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I turned to see Piv standing over me. You always wonder what you would say to someone you look up to if you get the chance, but they always seem larger than life don’t they? You feel unworthy to say anything to them. As a young writer who grew up reading his stories that’s how I always felt when I saw Piv.
But now here he was about to start a conversation with me! What a day this was going to be…
I looked up at him and heard the words I will never forget, “you’re in my seat.”
That’s all he said. I got up, moved down one chair to my right and sat in my own shame for the next two hours. While the Sooners were beating up on the Bluejays (they won 69-48, for the record), I was doing the same thing to myself. I thought, “nice first impression, genius. Now your hero thinks you’re an imbecile who can’t even read a name tag.”
Once the game was over and post-game interviews were wrapped up I went back to the utility closet/media work room and saw Piv packing up his things. I thought I’d give this another try. I walked up to him and apologized for sitting in his seat — yes, two and a half hours later — told him my name and managed to spit out some gibberish about being a big fan of his work. It barely registered as English, but you can’t rewind real life, so…
He said, “thanks” simultaneously as he turned to the door and left me in the room alone. I started writing my game story, then started to think about how I was going to tell my editors at White & Blue Review that I was quitting.
I obviously didn’t go through with that. Instead I turned that interaction into a great lesson: I can’t just be something because I show up and look the part. I have to earn it.
There would be more memorable moments for me when I was with Piv. There was that time after a press conference with Seton Hall head coach Kevin Willard when he went off to the side to get some extra quotes, but mistakenly grabbed my recorder for the interview instead of his own.
Or the time when CenturyLink Center security tried to prevent us from getting to the locker room for post-game interviews even though we had our credentials. I stopped, but Piv just walked right on by as if the security guard didn’t even exist. When I caught up with Piv he said, “I’m on a deadline. I don’t have time for that bulls#@$.”
Every day with Piv was a job to him and a lesson for me. Five years of following his every move and soaking up as much as I could from a man who, to me, did the job better than anyone. It wasn’t just his writing or his soft-spoken, matter-of-fact questions. It was how he interacted with people when the recorders were turned off. He built relationships with everyone.
One time Piv and I were invited to speak to a small classroom of students about how we do what we do. I stood, leaning against the board in front of the class while Piv sat next to me in a chair, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded as he smashed question after question out of the ball park like it was his own personal home run derby. What was I doing up there? I should be in those seats with the rest of the people in the room.
That’s the way it was every day. I was sitting in class. Piv was the professor. The entire time that he thought we were both doing the same job he was actually teaching me. He was the master. More than that he was a loving family man. Several times in the last year when he knew he was sick he would either go sit in the stands with his family or bring his little granddaughter Aurelia to sit with him on press row.
I will always regret never telling him how much he inspired me and how much he taught me without even realizing he was doing it. I never got a chance to thank him, so this will have to do.
He shared so many memories with so many people. He was the voice of Omaha. He always will be.
Goodbye, Piv. I’ll see you again someday, my friend.
