By JOEY JOHNSTON

The Tampa Tribune

(c) Tampa Bay Times. Originally published March 31, 2001.

MINNEAPOLIS – You can’t miss the billboards. There’s one by the airport. There’s another along Interstate 35W, approaching downtown. And if you still haven’t noticed, there’s one across from the Metrodome, site of tonight’s Final Four.

The University of Arizona’s logo is overshadowed by a two-word message.

Four Bobbi.

“We saw them from the bus,” Wildcats guard Gilbert Arenas said. “We were just pretty much quiet.”

As Coach Lute Olson leads Arizona into the national semifinals against Michigan State, as basketball excitement sweeps through this city, he’s keeping the anguish to himself. Assistant coaches thought they saw tears forming in Olson’s eyes last week after the Midwest Region final against Illinois, but only briefly.

Now it’s the Final Four, for what would have been a wonderful homecoming. After all, he began his married life less than a mile from the Metrodome. Now this trip is bittersweet – actually more bitter than sweet. There are constant reminders.

If only he could forget.

He doesn’t want to forget.

Olson’s 65-year-old wife, Bobbi, succumbed to ovarian cancer on Jan. 1. In the end, she was surrounded by family. Everyone freely wept, even the medical staff. Watching Bobbi’s final hours, witnessing her enduring grace, one doctor described it as a “magnificent experience.”

That was her death. That also was life for Lute and Bobbi. A magnificent experience.

DON’T LOOK FOR a dramatic Final Four dedication to Bobbi Olson. Don’t look for Arizona players to write “Mrs. O” on their sneakers and point skyward after a basket. They don’t feel the need. They won’t trivialize her death to gain attention. She’s on everyone’s mind at Arizona. Ranks are closed. It’s largely unspoken.

“We really loved Mrs. O,” forward Eugene Edgerson said. “So I can only imagine how Coach Olson felt about her. We still feel her presence. I know he does, too. He just can’t hold her hand any more.”

Robert Luther Olson and Roberta Rae Russell married young and stayed young at heart. For 47 years, it was a nonstop Big Dance, an adventurous trail through Minnesota and California, through Iowa and Arizona. They rarely were apart, carrying on like newlyweds.

Of course, life changed. They went from a $3,200 salary to six-figure security. But really, nothing changed. They filled their home with five children and welcomed 14 grandchildren. They changed diapers and took turns with the dishes. They loved long walks together.

He was the dashing, dapper, shining knight, never a hair out of place. She was the beautiful bride, a vivacious woman with dazzling eyes, a light-hearted spirit and an ever-present smile.

If at times he seemed to be icy, formal or too presidential, she quickly added warmth. If he mourned a loss, she added levity, usually saying something like, “Lute, get a grip!” If he came down hard on a player, she was there to soften the mood, tell a joke or just listen. In recruiting, she charmed parents, memorized names of girlfriends and usually sealed the deal with her famous apple pancakes.

She wasn’t just a coach’s wife. She was a basketball partner. She was the team mom. Mostly, she was a friend.

Former Wildcats player Steve Kerr, whose father was murdered in 1984, was taken in by the Olson household. Still shaken weeks later, he was trying to relax in a hot tub. With the coach out of sight, Bobbi slipped a cold beer to Kerr.

Arenas once got into trouble during a road trip. “I’m talking suspended-from-the team kind of trouble,” he said. When Arenas gathered the courage to call Olson, Bobbi answered the telephone. She handled whatever needed to be handled. “Let’s keep this between us … I won’t tell Lute,” she said.

Arizona fans shared in their triumphs, like when the Wildcats made their first Final Four in 1988, when Bobbi ran on the court, left her feet and was swept into her husband’s waiting arms for an emotional kiss. And they openly mourned in January, when Bobbi’s memorial service was televised live, when the season momentarily lost its direction, when a single red rose was placed on the second-row seat she always occupied at the McKale Center.

“The thing that has gotten me through this is family and friends,” Olson, 66, said. “They’ve had to prop me up a little bit. It’s through them that we’ve all been able to survive this.”

Olson said he always wanted his program to have a family type environment. That always was his backbone. When he was a boy in Maryville, N.D., his father died and a brother was killed in a tractor accident. Life was harsh, but he learned not to complain. It was school and work, work and school. He was stoic throughout.

HE MOVED TO Grand Forks for high school, where he met Bobbi in a church choir. They spent lots of time at her father’s Dairy Queen. Olson left for a tiny Lutheran school, Augsburg College in Minneapolis, where he became a three-sport star. He married Bobbi during his sophomore year.

“They were the All-American couple – a handsome young guy and a beautiful young lady,” said Jim Plumedahl, Olson’s basketball teammate at Augsburg. “They were always smiling. I saw some magic there. They were so young. Of course, they were struggling. But they had a pot of gold in their future.”

The Olsons lived in a tiny igloo-like hut, the available campus housing for married students. While he attended classes, she worked as a secretary. He also worked nights and weekends at the 7-Up plant. In his spare few hours, Olson joined a gospel quartet. They’d tour the churches on Sunday, singing to raise money for their families.

“I don’t know how Lute did it,” said Ernie Anderson, 84, Olson’s basketball coach at Augsburg. “Playing three sports. Getting an education. Having a wife and children. He couldn’t have been getting much sleep.

“But he had Bobbi. Even then, you knew. You just don’t see two people mesh like that, hardly at all. Were they meant to be together? Absolutely.”

These were wedding vows with some meaning. For richer or poorer. In good times and in bad. In sickness and in health. Olson sometimes worked as a roofer or truck driver in the early days, just trying to get by. But he kept pursuing his coaching dream. Bobbi always was by his side.

Sometimes, Olson is overwhelmed by the volume of memories. Sometimes, he still expects her to be there. At home, it especially is difficult at the recently named “Lute & Bobbi Olson Court.”

Olson isn’t much of a golfer or fisherman. It’s pretty much family and basketball. These days, the two often intermingle.

And there’s new perspective, actually the life lessons that were Bobbi’s reminders. Can any defeat be that heartbreaking? Can anything written about you be that maddening? Can an on-court setback, even a Final Four loss, be described as tragic?

Lute, get a grip!

When Olson enters the Metrodome tonight, he’ll have that regal presence, that impeccably coiffed silver hair. His team, ranked No. 1 in the preseason, has regained its drive. No one would be shocked if Arizona wins this national championship.

This is the summit, the goal of all coaches. Forgive him if tonight doesn’t seem the same. He probably won’t even be overwhelmed by the moment or the 40,000-plus fans. For Lute Olson, crowds look the same these days.

One short of capacity.