Phill Casaus: A farewell to a journalist, a farewell to a man
Oct. 16—I used to work with a newspaper columnist whose capacity to enrage his audience was exceeded only by his ability to keep them reading to the very last word.
You'd probably call it a love-hate relationship, except with Richard Stevens, it was always hate-love. And he was cool with that. He'd blaze his way through 24, 25 inches of copy, torching sacred cows and sainted New Mexico Lobos along the way, then saunter out the door as if he'd just, I dunno, cleaned his glasses.
It looked easy. It must've felt that way, too, because Stevens knew he'd always keep 'em coming back for more.
I wish I could read another one of his columns today. Sadly, I can't. Stevens, the longtime sports columnist for the Albuquerque Tribune, died Wednesday at the age of 70.
The echo in the journalism world of New Mexico is profound.
He'd taught or influenced some of the brightest young sports writing talent in America as it meandered through the state. In a lot of ways, he was Crash Davis, the weary and sage hero in the movie Bull Durham. The kids he advised were Nuke LaLoosh types — all wild fastballs and unchained energy, just waiting to be helped or developed or put in their place.
You probably watch a guy named Jeremy Fowler talking about the NFL on ESPN. He used to sit in the same desk pod with Stevens. Rick Maese is a star and stalwart on the Washington Post's sports staff. Did his apprenticeship with Stevens. Edgar Thompson is covering the University of Florida athletic department at the Orlando Sentinel. Stevens schooled him. Iliana Limón Romero, the deputy sports editor for the Los Angeles Times, says a lot of what she knows she got from the guy some of us called "Slick."
There are others, too many to list. But from the shock and hurt in their voices and texts, it was obvious there was something about Stevens that drew people — readers, colleagues, friends — to him, and not just his talent. He could write with a remorseless, two-fisted clarity, but he also was kind and sensitive to those who needed or deserved a gentle lift.
He just had a way.
I can't count how many thin-skinned and thick-headed University of New Mexico coaches told him to go straight to hell, swearing they'd never speak to him after he'd emulsified them in a column glazed with a writing style that could be described as elegantly vicious — and absolutely true.
And then, a day or two or 10 later, the very same men and women would seek out Stevens, asking for a chance to draw him toward their way of thinking.
Such was his talent. And maybe, power.
I knew him for decades — first as a competitor, then a colleague, then a boss. I still marvel at the ease with which words and thoughts came to him. After a game, he could sit down at a computer, peer across the newsroom for maybe 10 seconds, then machine-gun a column that often would be the best — or certainly most emotion-provoking — thing in the paper. Water-cooler talk for a day or two.
For many years, The Trib ran a weekly feature during the high school football season called The Lindsey Line and later, just The Linz.
It was supposed to be a predictions column — you know, Albuquerque Manzano 22, Las Cruces Mayfield 16 — but Stevens turned The Linz into his imaginary friend, an alter ego that was more about humor, a rim shot, than prep football. The Linz would award the loser of an Albuquerque High-Santa Fe High game a weekend in Gallup, or almost as appetizing, an all-expenses-paid meal at the Allsup's in Deming. People howled with laughter.
I know a couple of high school coaches who wanted to punch Stevens in the mouth for the things he'd write in The Linz. I knew many more who'd leave their locker rooms to rush to the Circle K when The Trib, an afternoon paper, arrived in stores at about 10:30 a.m.
When The Tribune folded in 2008, I sorta lost track of Slick. He went to work for the University of New Mexico athletic department for a time — oh, the irony — and worked on another publication. I suspect the moments he treasured most, the reason he lived, were the days spent with his two kids, Trevor and Kelsey. He was a superior father.
What was most interesting to me about Stevens was his unique ability to find an almost undetectable fissure in your ego and magnify it for a laugh. No one was safe. Not the governor. Not a university president. Not a $500,000-a-year coach who couldn't figure out the last two minutes of a ballgame. Not even a 22-year-old rookie on the sports desk.
Anyone else does that, and they're eating alone at Thanksgiving. Trust me: Stevens always had somewhere to go. Columnist was just a role he played, a talent he had. It had little to do with who he was.
No, the guy people loved — the guy people came back to — was a dad to two, a friend to many. He was a fellow who offered his colleagues a little advice, and maybe, a little humbling we all need from time to time.
A character.
A man.
Phill Casaus is editor of The New Mexican.
