Scenes from a life well-lived
Been watching a movie this week, over and over again.
It’s a movie playing in my memory, and the star of it is someone we’ve all known by his name and his face and by the sound of his voice.
Stan Savran died this week after fighting cancer and diabetes.
It’s surprising how the news of Stan’s decline and death unspooled all these reels of memory film for me. Although I’ve seen him a lot over the years – and have spoken with him even more – hearing that he’d passed unleashed images of some of the happy memories we’d shared as friends.
First scene, I’m a college intern, screening calls for Stan’s radio show at KQV. A few years later we both ended up at WTAE-TV. Some of us women in the newsroom had little crushes on Stan; he was handsome and charming and well-dressed, and funny. Once, a bunch of us were casting the newsroom movie and someone said, “Stan would be played by Sam Malone from “Cheers,'” and we all agreed. He had that polished confidence that one gets from knowing he’s good at what he does.
Media is abloom this week with public tributes to Stan, much of it about his intelligence and professionalism and talent. As a co-worker, I knew and admired that side of him; as his friend, I got to know even more.
Inside, Stan was all mush: as sweet and gentle as anyone I’ve known. He and I shared a love of the show “Thirtysomething” and Broadway musicals. I once looked over and caught him crying at Les Mis. You may be familiar with the essay he wrote about his mother, the one he delivered on TV on Mother’s Day each year. He had a hard time getting through it.
In another scene, we’re playing tennis, mostly doubles with an older couple who beat us every other set. Stan was graceful on the court, those big hands of his wrapped around the racquet, forehand and backhand.
The memory film is showing me the hands. Listeners couldn’t see, but his hands were part of his radio show, reaching for words and combing the air as he asked a smart follow-up question with a guest. When I was producing the “Baseball Boys” documentary about the Monongahela Little and Pony League teams, we invited Stan to the WQED studio to try him out as the narrator. As I sat in the corner of the audio booth, I watched as Stan read the script I’d written, using his big hands to punctuate a phrase or emphasize a word.
He didn’t end up narrating the program, but his many fans heard him telling sports stories in so many other places. I’ve enjoyed reading all the public tributes, knowing how much his fans appreciated his expertise and dedication to his craft.
Stan liked to meet for lunch. Being with him out somewhere was like dining with a movie star. Fans would stop by to talk about the Penguins or Steelers, and Stan was unfailingly gracious and kind to every one. He and I didn’t talk about sports, but we talked about everything else. He always asked about my parents and my kids. We never forgot each other’s birthdays.
Last we spoke, he was optimistic about his prognosis and itching to get back to work. How sad for him that he couldn’t. How sad for all of us. Stan was 76, and that sounds so young. Even if he’d died at 96, it would still be too young, too early, for a man like that to go.
Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.