Harry Glickman summoned me last October for a sit down. He wanted to talk about the NBA franchise he founded, and also, about the Oregon Ducks and Oregon State. Also, Glickman insisted if Portland had only built the Delta Dome it would have an NFL team.
“We’d have had the Seahawks instead of Seattle,” Glickman said.
He sipped coffee, shared secrets and told stories. I took careful notes, trying to capture every nuance and detail, because as Glickman warned me that day, “You know, I’m not going to live forever."
I wish he were wrong.
But he rarely was.
Glickman died today. He was 96. The gravel-voiced founding father of the Trail Blazers is gone. But he’s left the world better than he found it. And I keep thinking about the last time I saw Glickman. I asked him to turn in the middle of the sidewalk and pose for a photograph as he left that day.
His caretaker stopped. Positioned his blue wheelchair just right. Then, moved aside as Glickman straightened up, folded his hands in his lap, and posed with a half smile. I wondered as I snapped the photograph if generations later this city would ever truly grasp the gifts Glickman gave to it.
The Trail Blazers, sure.
Also, professional hockey, and boxing, and there were a series of NFL exhibition games played in our city. One of them featured the Cleveland Browns and running back Jim Brown. Glickman pushed the boundaries, he made no small plans, and ultimately, in the end, his legacy is as heavy as a bag of bricks.
Glickman was smart and shrewd. He was a dreamer, too. I look around today, and see so many sports-minded entities that lead with a risk-averse mindset. Glickman would have dribbled circles around them with his plans. That day, over coffee, he pounded the table and wondered how Portland State might one day build itself a football stadium instead of playing its home games in Hillsboro.
“If I were only a little younger,” he said.
Then, Glickman got quiet, and stared off.
“All my friends,” he said, “are gone.”
That’s the sobering reality of a day such as this. Glickman’s health was deteriorating. His eyes were failing. His hearing was spotty. But that brain of his — the beautiful machine that powered him — was a speeding locomotive. It ran with precision and was always on time, too.
Glickman’s mind was always working on something, wasn’t it?
He lamented last October that Oregon State needed to finish the west side of Reser Stadium. He wondered if his beloved alma mater, Oregon, had enjoyed too much success in football for fans to be satisfied with a one-loss season. He told me he was at peace with the Trail Blazers being sold someday, “as long as they remain in Portland.”
Those were his sports wishes, folks.
Will you give them a thought for Harry today?
That’s what Glickman really did for us, isn’t it? He made us dream, and hope, and think. He gave us teams to root for, and games to attend with our children. Glickman understood that the proverbial mountain could be moved. Because he often picked up the shovel himself. And that day, over that coffee, Glickman laid out the blueprint for accomplishing just about anything in life.
“You just do what you need to do, one step at a time,” Glickman instructed.
Harry’s gone. He died on Wednesday. But I will forever think about the gifts he gave this city, his passion and confidence. And I’ll wonder, like Glickman maybe did over breakfast or reading the newspaper, if the men and women in charge of sports in our state have learned anything by studying his career.
Journalism major.
Big-time promoter.
Big-league founder.
Add, father, husband and friend to that, too. So many other things, also. Because great men are never easily defined.
I watched Glickman that day as he was wheeled away, toward his high-rise building. I wondered if it might be the last time we’d see each other. I clutched my notepad, and pored over his words, later, hoping to get the column just right. The guy was a treasure. Still is. If wishes and dreams live forever, Glickman will always be with us.