http://www.commercialappeal.com/mca/grizzlies/article/0,1426,MCA_475_3489763,00.html
==================
As much as Poier felt blessed, so did those blessed to know him
By Ronald Tillery
Contact
January 22, 2005
I can still hear him.
Not the rainmakers.
Not the can-opener jams.
Not the spirited chastising of referees.
I can still hear Don Poier laughing.
That's what he did the most, you know.
He laughed. He smiled. He loved. He encouraged. He rooted passionately for the Grizzlies.
Each and every time I saw him. Never a dull moment. Never a sour disposition.
That was the essence of his spirit.
And I will always feel it too.
Poier, 53, is no longer with us. He succumbed to an apparent heart attack Friday while sleeping in his Denver hotel room hours before the Grizzlies played the Denver Nuggets. He leaves behind a dear wife, Barbara, and the eight children they shared together from previous marriages.
And then there are the memories he so generously shared through his colorful, one-of-kind broadcasts of a Grizzly game.
That is what we fans can hold on to.
Poier didn't simply own the gift of gab. He truly was gab's gift -- a pro's pro and passionate broadcaster who thanked God each day for the blessing to talk about the NBA and the Grizzlies. He was one of only a few people to have been with the team since its inception. He was more than Mr. Radio for the team, having worked a simulcast for many years as the radio and television play-by-play voice.
Poier had just one request when Matt Devlin, the team's television announcer of three seasons, departed for Charlotte before this season.
Negotiations for Poier to move to TV hinged on something that may seem rather simple to most but meant everything to Poier.
He had to be able to work radio whenever games weren't televised. The provision ensured that he would attend every game -- 82 regular-season and eight exhibitions.
He went to practices. He attended shoot-arounds. He sat around the trainer's room. He didn't see race or creed or color.
"I just want to always be with the team," Poier once explained with his trademark smile and those cheerful eyes dancing behind his glasses.
Yep, I still see him.
He'll always be one of the more optimistic images I'll know.
Poier was many things.
A master chef.
A comedian.
A handyman who once designed plans for former Griz coach Sidney Lowe so that Lowe could build his mother a wood deck.
"1-800-Call-Don," Poier said jokingly after installing a screen door at the home of this tool-impaired scribe.
Above all Poier was a gentle man with tremendous faith and someone who saw the good in everyone. He always embraced hope. He seemingly waved at negativity from across a busy highway, daring pessimists to cross over.
To many he quickly became a true friend and confidant.
I called him Mr. P. or The Real Donald.
His greeting was usually less formal and always more affectionate.
"Hey, buddy!"
And he meant it.
Mr. P became my first Memphis buddy and it happened no sooner than we moved here. He worked for the Grizzlies in Vancouver. But Poier's roots are in the Seattle area where I had worked for five years.
He knew Seattle Sonics president Wally Walker well because they worked as a broadcast team calling college basketball games decades ago.
Walker told me I had to meet Don Poier.
Little did I know Walker told Don Poier he had to meet Ron Tillery.
The Real Donald phoned within two weeks of our arrival. Coincidentally, we lived less than five minutes from each other and I've heard "Hey, buddy!" ever since.
Then again, that pales to the years he has given his family, lifelong friends and an NBA franchise.
The Grizzlies didn't simply lose their voice.
I know this for a fact: This team lost its best friend.
A sweet man, that Poier.
He's the guy who joyfully coined the phrase "Only in the movies and in Memphis."
And this is the scene that makes you cry. -- Ronald Tillery: 529-2353
==================
As much as Poier felt blessed, so did those blessed to know him
By Ronald Tillery
Contact
January 22, 2005
I can still hear him.
Not the rainmakers.
Not the spirited chastising of referees.
I can still hear Don Poier laughing.
That's what he did the most, you know.
He laughed. He smiled. He loved. He encouraged. He rooted passionately for the Grizzlies.
Each and every time I saw him. Never a dull moment. Never a sour disposition.
That was the essence of his spirit.
And I will always feel it too.
Poier, 53, is no longer with us. He succumbed to an apparent heart attack Friday while sleeping in his Denver hotel room hours before the Grizzlies played the Denver Nuggets. He leaves behind a dear wife, Barbara, and the eight children they shared together from previous marriages.
And then there are the memories he so generously shared through his colorful, one-of-kind broadcasts of a Grizzly game.
That is what we fans can hold on to.
Poier didn't simply own the gift of gab. He truly was gab's gift -- a pro's pro and passionate broadcaster who thanked God each day for the blessing to talk about the NBA and the Grizzlies. He was one of only a few people to have been with the team since its inception. He was more than Mr. Radio for the team, having worked a simulcast for many years as the radio and television play-by-play voice.
Poier had just one request when Matt Devlin, the team's television announcer of three seasons, departed for Charlotte before this season.
Negotiations for Poier to move to TV hinged on something that may seem rather simple to most but meant everything to Poier.
He had to be able to work radio whenever games weren't televised. The provision ensured that he would attend every game -- 82 regular-season and eight exhibitions.
He went to practices. He attended shoot-arounds. He sat around the trainer's room. He didn't see race or creed or color.
"I just want to always be with the team," Poier once explained with his trademark smile and those cheerful eyes dancing behind his glasses.
Yep, I still see him.
He'll always be one of the more optimistic images I'll know.
Poier was many things.
A master chef.
A comedian.
A handyman who once designed plans for former Griz coach Sidney Lowe so that Lowe could build his mother a wood deck.
"1-800-Call-Don," Poier said jokingly after installing a screen door at the home of this tool-impaired scribe.
Above all Poier was a gentle man with tremendous faith and someone who saw the good in everyone. He always embraced hope. He seemingly waved at negativity from across a busy highway, daring pessimists to cross over.
To many he quickly became a true friend and confidant.
I called him Mr. P. or The Real Donald.
His greeting was usually less formal and always more affectionate.
"Hey, buddy!"
And he meant it.
Mr. P became my first Memphis buddy and it happened no sooner than we moved here. He worked for the Grizzlies in Vancouver. But Poier's roots are in the Seattle area where I had worked for five years.
He knew Seattle Sonics president Wally Walker well because they worked as a broadcast team calling college basketball games decades ago.
Walker told me I had to meet Don Poier.
Little did I know Walker told Don Poier he had to meet Ron Tillery.
The Real Donald phoned within two weeks of our arrival. Coincidentally, we lived less than five minutes from each other and I've heard "Hey, buddy!" ever since.
Then again, that pales to the years he has given his family, lifelong friends and an NBA franchise.
The Grizzlies didn't simply lose their voice.
I know this for a fact: This team lost its best friend.
A sweet man, that Poier.
He's the guy who joyfully coined the phrase "Only in the movies and in Memphis."
And this is the scene that makes you cry. -- Ronald Tillery: 529-2353
Last edited:
