Bryan Burwell RIP

http://www.stltoday.com/sports/columns/bernie-miklasz/bernie-bryan-burwell-will-always-live-in-our-hearts/article_729ce51b-92b1-5394-995d-72f1a8a4819a.html
Bernie on Burwell

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Bernie: Bryan Burwell will always live in our hearts

The first time I met Bryan Burwell, we were both kids in the newspaper business, working for competing newspapers in Baltimore. This was the late 1970s, and I was blown away by him. When Burwell walked into the room, he owned it. The man had presence. He was handsome, charismatic, engaging and had a way to put everyone at ease. His laughter could part the clouds and summon the sunshine to the spot where he stood. And he loved to talk. Goodness, did he love to talk. And I already miss that voice, and that epic laughter.

Back in the early days, I remember thinking: I want to be Burwell.

I wanted to be Burwell because he was such an immense, superior talent. He viewed writing as a craft, polishing every sentence in an attempt to turn his words into diamonds. I wanted to be Burwell because he was the coolest dude in the press box. Sportswriters circled around him. If Bryan didn’t initiate a conversation, it always found him, and soon enough he’d be at the center of it. The hub.

It always happened that way, because when you take someone that has so much love for sports, and so much love for other people, and so much love for his chosen profession – then the result is pure, irresistible magnetism. So you’d find Burwell in the middle of the crowd, where the energy swirled, dispensing his old-school wisdom and lathering that epic laughter on top of the conversation.

Day in and day out, Bryan Burwell was the happiest person you could find in any press box, or in a media work room. In a profession of notorious grumps, he was good for morale. You’d show up, and grouse about something, and Burwell would turn and smile, offer support, and then get to work on repairing your mood.

And you didn’t have to be a media star, or a colleague, or a longterm friend to get Burwell’s attention or empathy. He always treated nervous young journalists with respect and caring, giving them so much of his time you’d think these kids were Pulitzer Prize winners. Burwell didn’t care about your status, or where you ranked on the ladder of journalism. If you shared a press box with Burwell, you were his equal. And if you needed his advice, he would patiently and generously offer it. There was no time limit on his kindness.

Until the end of his life, Bryan maintained the kind of enthusiasm that often wanes when sportswriters and broadcasters have been in the industry for a decade or two. Well, it was impossible to diminish his joy or take away his laughter. Not until Thursday, when this great man and cherished friend and colleague died too soon at age 59, succumbing to the evil cancer that he couldn’t conquer.

We’re all in a daze now. Bryan’s special wife Dawn and their beautiful daughter Victoria are devastated by his death, and we ask that you please keep them in your prayers.

The last few months have been agonizing. Bryan had been diagnosed in October, suddenly and without much warning. It was cruel. And it was hopeless. But oh man, how he tried to fight it.

When I received the stunning news of the cancer, the Cardinals were playing the Giants in the National League championship series. I was at AT&T Park in San Francisco. I headed out to the McCovey Cove area above right field. The park wasn’t open to the public; the first pitch was several hours away. And I cried like a blubbering-baby fool as I wrote a heartfelt email to him.

Burwell’s response: “Stay positive. I’m going to kick this thing’s butt,” he told told me in a text message.

You see, this is how it worked with Bryan. He went out of his way to provide comfort and good cheer to others, even as he coped with the horrific, unavoidable reality of a terminal illness.

Sports columnists can be rivals, and the relationships can turn sour, but this was never the case with Burwell. No chance; he wouldn’t let it happen. We worked alongside each other at the Post-Dispatch since 2002, and we had two disagreements – and needless to say, I was at fault both times. But Bryan always forgave me … with a hug.

In his final weeks, members of the Post-Dispatch sports department became Team Burwell and made visits to his home, usually carrying food to help Dawn through such an excruciating time. On some days, Bryan felt well enough to greet visitors, and it was special to hang out with him for a few hours. At other times, he was too weak to welcome company.

As a staff, as friends, we did what we could. We peppered him with text messages during games. We asked him for advice on what to write. We told him how much we missed his voice on our sports page. We prayed that he’d soon return, to grace his profession and our lives.

The last time I saw Burwell, I brought him some Maryland-style crab cakes that I’d prepared (a mutual love of ours) and Bryan was full of energy and spirit. It renewed our hope, if only briefly. We knew this sad day was coming. But we weren’t ready.

How can you be ready for something like this?

Burwell saw the best in everyone, but he had the courage to take a stand and express a strong and unpopular opinion. And as you probably can understand, it wasn’t always easy being an outspoken African American sports columnist who didn’t hesitate to take a stand. I cringe at the memory of some of the emails he received; you can only imagine. He would show a few to me every now and then and it made me crazy with anger. But you know what? The nastiness couldn’t take Burwell down. The viciousness probably stung him more than he’d let on, but he’d brush it off and continue being Burwell. A first-class man, all the way.

Astounded by his relentless civility, I once asked him: Why do you respond to people who are so vile and hateful? I’ll never forget Bryan’s answer. “Because they took the time to write,” Burwell said. “That’s the first thing. The other thing is, I can’t change the world we live in. But by having a conversation, I can try to change one heart at a time.”

And he meant it. Burwell put that into practice, every single day.

Burwell never lost sight of something important: He was doing exactly what he wanted to do, and he savored every moment, and he never stopped appreciating the experience — all of it, the good and the bad.

Bryan gave an interview to a young journalist a few years ago, and summed it up perfectly.

“The funny thing is I’ve had all my dream jobs,” he said. “I’ve been really fortunate. I’ve done a lot of stuff in my thirty some-odd years in the business. I’ve covered countless Olympic games. I’ve been to the NBA Finals. I’ve been to every Super Bowl since Super Bowl XVIII. I’ve been a columnist. I’ve worked for Real Sports. I’ve worked for Inside the NFL, CNN and TNT. I’ve been very, very, very lucky. I’ve truly been blessed. I’m enjoying everything. When I look back, I’ll be able to say no regrets, man. I did OK.”

I’ll have to disagree with my dear friend one last time.

You did OK?

Please.

No, Bryan Burwell.

You did a lot more than “OK.”

As a journalist in newspapers, TV and radio, you were a giant in your chosen field, and you were the kindest person that we ever encountered in this ornery, complex, ego-overloaded business.

And that is why so many people are aching inside today. Your reach expanded from coast to coast, and touched more people than we could possibly quantify. You made our corner of the sports world a much better place.

Thursday morning, after the sad news of Bryan’s death made its way onto Twitter, the immediate outpouring of love from media colleagues, sports executives and athletes from New York to Los Angeles — and all places in between — was amazing. But not surprising. This was one helluva human being.

Now that Bryan is gone, the press box will never be as warm again. It will be a much quieter place. I’m headed to Atlanta for the SEC Championship, and I’d give anything to sit next to him one more time. During Saturday’s game I’ll probably close my eyes, and hope to hear that famous, wondrous Burwell laughter. This is impossible, and this is cruel, and this is crushing. But I do know this: The familiar echo of that sweet, soul-replenishing laughter will always live in our hearts. He’ll never really leave us.

Thanks for that post, Dak. Here’s more, from off the net

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Fearsome

Very classy move by the Redskins:

http://www.stltoday.com/sports/columns/bernie-miklasz/bernie-bit-redskins-will-honor-bryan-burwell/article_29291919-48cf-59a1-bfb0-1db8d338500b.html

A moment of silence for Bryan Burwell, and an empty seat in the press box with his name on it. Extremely classy move, and just another reminder that life is bigger than sports.

I had the privilege to meet Bryan several times, and everything that has been said about him is completely true. He was a very kind and warm person. Treated everyone with class and respect, no matter who it was. He will be missed.

RIP buddy

Peter King

http://mmqb.si.com/2014/12/08/jj-watt-houston-texans-mvp-nfl-week-14/7/

Bryan Burwell: A good man, and a model for future journalists.

Washington honored Burwell in the press box for Sunday’s game against St. Louis. (Twitter.com/Redskins)Washington honored Burwell in the press box for Sunday’s game against St. Louis. (Twitter)

Bryan Burwell, a longtime newspaper columnist, TV reporter, talk-show host and web trailblazer, died at 59 on Thursday, just two months after being diagnosed with liver cancer. He packed a lot of life into 59 years, and his death really hit me hard. Hit a lot of people hard, particularly in St. Louis, where he was an esteemed sports columnist and web personality for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch.

I last saw Bryan at Rams training camp in August. He had a tripod with him, and as we talked, he connected his smart phone to the tripod, and plugged in a microphone with an “stltoday.com” mike flag on it. We talked about how his job and all of our jobs in the media have changed.

“My job used to be 100 percent writer,” he said that day. “Now it’s 75 percent web stuff, 25 percent writer.”

This is why young journalists should learn from Burwell. Fifty-nine years old, and re-inventing himself with a smart phone and tripod and microphone, setting it up for an interview for his daily segment on the paper’s website called “Upon Further Review.” There’s another reason why Burwell’s a heck of a model for young media people: On this day, he was excited about talking to the seventh or eighth defensive lineman on the roster, an undrafted rookie named Ethan Westbrooks from West Texas A&M.

Who gets excited about talking to the 51st guy on the roster? On this day, Burwell was that guy. Two reasons: Because Ethan Westbrooks was a story to Burwell; every player in camp was a story to him. And Westbrooks was the player who might keep Michael Sam from winning a spot on the active roster. (Turns out Westbrooks, indeed, beat out Sam for a spot.) That made the story more interesting. But I can tell you this: Burwell was excited about speaking to him. It was a Wednesday in August, a dog day of training camp, and this former HBO correspondent and New York columnist and well-traveled media guy who counted Magic Johnson as a trusted source, was excited about interviewing a bottom-of-the-roster player using his phone and tripod contraption.

Now that’s an admirable person in our business.

On Friday, I spoke to Chris Long, one of the only veteran Rams, about Burwell, and his words confirmed what I believed people he covered thought of him.

“I never hung out with Bryan,” Long said. “But after I heard about what happened, it really hit home. He was a personable, cool guy. I liked his demeanor. You know, there are good football players and bad football players, good media people and bad media people. But you just like people who do their job with respect for other people. When I first got here, we were a pretty bad team, and he’d write about us and he knew the story—there was no sense killing us because he figured it out, that we had a long way to go. He was always very even-keeled. He’d talk to me, and I never really knew if it was on the record or off the record, but I didn’t really care. Because I trusted he got it—he got the big picture.

“Then, yesterday, to see all the outpouring from everywhere about him. I saw what Mike Wilbon said about him on Twitter and Facebook—and Wilbon’s one of the greats. I never, ever realized how big Bryan was. That’s because he never let you know it. He wasn’t one to talk about himself, or what he’d done.”

Over the weekend I went back to see his interview and report on Westbrooks from August. It’s a five-minute video, with an enthusiastic but professional Burwell smoothly intro-ing the interview with Westbrooks at Rams camp, letting it run two or three minutes, then coming back to talk about the strange face tattoo Westbrooks has—a tiny happy face/sad face near his left eye.

“I had to ask,” Burwell said on the video, breaking into a grin. “‘Dude! Was this just the result of a regrettable wild weekend in college, or did you really think this through?!’” And he told the story of Westbrooks and the tattoo, as well as pointing out early in the video that this is the man who could be the roadblock to Michael Sam. This is one big way today people are consuming news: through storytelling on video. Lots of people in the business—the vast majority young and flexible and smart—are making their mark this way. Bryan Burwell made his mark in so many ways, and it’s fitting the last way I saw him make his mark was smart, cutting-edge, informative and fun. Make him a lesson in journalism class, college professors and high school newspaper advisers. It’ll be a lesson your students will remember, a 59-year-old professional still learning at 59. I’ll miss the journalist, and the man.