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Coach Spicer

By Rhonda Westfall

My friend said good-bye this week.

Like so many other mid-Michigan residents, I've spent the past several days trying to come to terms with the void left by Steve's passing. Tributes and accolades from friends and colleagues are mingled with heartfelt anecdotes, each person choking back a sob or brushing away a tear as they recall the truly unique individual who touched their life in a positive way.

My own final memory of Steve is not entirely of my own making. In fact, left to myself, I would have put off last Tuesday's trip to Room 821 at Sparrow Hospital for another week - or two, or three. My mind would have continued to compile excuses - too much work, a hectic holiday schedule - anything to suppress the reality of a situation I was attempting to deny.

But, Someone had a different scenario in mind.

One of the first things I saw at work Tuesday morning was a picture of Steve taken several years ago and submitted by his daughter, Tammy, as a birthday greeting ad for "Grandpa" - who was proudly holding grandson, Joshua.

"Where did this come from," I asked, and was told that the cleaning lady had "found it."

Well, the cleaning lady may have been the messenger - but no one will ever convince me that the Sender had a local address. Clearly, it was time to make that trip to Lansing.

To provide an understanding of how difficult this was, it's probably important to note that for me - like so many others - a professional relationship with Steve, which in my case began back in 1985 as a sportswriter covering Fowler athletics, grew into deep-seated admiration and genuine respect. I can only echo what anyone else who knew Steve felt - he was a special individual who cared passionately about people around him and the ideals he believed in.

How do you say good-bye to that?

As it turned out, I didn't have to - Steve said it for me.

Oh, I made a pretty good effort. Buoyed by the strength of Becky - his "hero" as he called her - and with assistance from Mike standing by his Dad's bedside, I managed somehow to give Steve the picture and explain its sudden appearance. Although he spoke no words, his eyes shone with recognition and a slight smile played on his lips as he looked at the photo of beloved "Joshie" with Grandpa.

Becky pointed to brightly colored drawings of Christmas trees that Joshua and Lauren had made for Grandpa, and we talked of happy times: The image of Coach Spicer patrolling the sidelines, talking incessantly on his headset to Mike and Neil in the booth, the phone cord snaking behind him being whipped from side to side as the team moved down the field.

All those "morning after the game" telephone calls from this reporter, initially getting game stats, but eventually building into a rapport based on mutual trust.

His pegging me as "Assistant A.D." after I mentioned once how much time he spent as athletic director, and telling him how he could use some help.

No vocal response - but a clear indication that the visions were equally vivid in his mind's eye.

And, as I prepared to leave, and made a final half-choked attempt at saying good-bye, his voice rose loud and clear across the room, "Good-bye, Rhonda."

He knew his time was near. He did for me what I could not do.

Now, three days later, his final message still rings in my ear - and he's given me the courage to answer.

Good-bye, Steve. I will never forget you.