Columnist Dean Juipe: O’Callaghan always had story to tell

Dean Juipe

Tuesday, March 9, 2004 | 10:24 a.m.

Dean Juipe's column appears Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday. His boxing notebook appears Thursday. Reach him at juipe@lasvegassun.com or (702) 259-4084.

The story caught Mike O'Callaghan's eye, as many often did, not so much for its overall significance or veracity, but because of its subtleties and affectionate quirks.

It had just the right ingredients: a fighter, an unsung Nevadan, a rural setting and an implied hostility in a neighboring state.

When I wrote about Yerington's Jesse Brinkley getting ready to fight Cleveland Corder in Worley, Idaho, last year, O'Callaghan was at my desk before the ink was dry.

"Tough town," he said of Worley. "Logging town. Tough guys. There's a little bar there where everyone used to get into fights.

"Of course," he added after an effective pause, "sometimes we'd go up there just for that reason."

The implication was clear: O'Callaghan so enjoyed a battle that he would go out of his way to find one, which he did repeatedly throughout his life as both a man's man and a statesman. Tough guys in Worley? Nah, he could handle them and anyone else who might come along, one leg or not.

No one was tougher than Mike O'Callaghan, who died suddenly Friday at 74, and if everyone is allowed to list their father as an exception, it might well be that no one was greater. Through a catlike nine lives and incredible hardships, he rose not only to become a two-term Nevada governor but a man of endless influence, philanthropy and charm.

When he didn't make his usual trip through the newsroom Monday, the new reality of his passing hit home. The Sun had lost the only member of its staff who was irreplaceable.

Who else spoke with his expertise? His candor? His devotion and sense of loyalty?

Who else is going to have such easy recollect of so many wide-ranging experiences? Or be so willing to share with an ever-changing cast of newspaper reporters?

I was at this paper for less than a week and O'Callaghan had already bought me lunch, stuck as I was working the desk on New Year's Day 1986. From that day forward I not only cherished his daily visits, but came to miss them on those occasions when he was elsewhere for whatever reason.

He was a rarity from almost any perspective, mingling as easily with world leaders as he did exiles at a homeless shelter. Whether you wrote laws or broke them, he saw you as an equal and offered no unsolicited opinion on your choices.

He was someone you could go to in times of trouble -- which I did at least once -- and someone you could enjoy while sharing a sandwich -- which we didn't do nearly enough.

He liked newspaper people, which is teasingly odd, and he liked anyone whose word was their bond. He liked dependability and trustworthiness and the ability to laugh at yourself or your own idiosyncrasies, never taking anything so serious that it couldn't be downgraded for the sake of perspective.

He'd rib me if he thought I was wrong on a given subject, just as I could rib him for his undying allegiance to someone such as Pete Rose. He liked fighters and people who had been through the mill at least a time or two, whether they emerged from it for the better or not.

He was everything a great man should be and then some.

And now that he's gone and won't be passing this way again, you had better believe it's a void that will never be filled.