The confetti had just fallen, and Queen was blaring throughout Charles Schwab Field. The Tigers were, in fact, the champions, my friend.
It was the eighth time LSU had conquered Omaha, and as I peered over the scene from the elevated press box, I saw a wheelchair cruising foul territory greeting every player, coach, family member or otherwise.
It was 86-year-old Skip Bertman. He’d made the trip one more–now, one last–time.
Tens of thousands of LSU fans filled the stadium that afternoon. Many of them on their first trip to Omaha. Many of them closer to their tenth. All of them there because in 1984 a South Florida fixture at the high school and college levels decided to take a chance on LSU and, over two decades, built the greatest program in the modern history of the sport.
Now, in Baton Rouge, the surest signs of spring are the smells of boiled crawfish and the ping of the metal bat. The surest sign of summer is a trip to Nebraska. LSU baseball has become a way of life. Before Bertman, it was an afterthought.
Even into his 80s, Bertman reciprocated the love LSU baseball and its fans had for him. He routinely attended fall practices and made many games. He couldn’t walk more than three steps at The Box without being greeted by another adoring fan. He never ceased to light up and enjoy the interactions. The number of photographs taken and autographs signed sailed into the thousands, and his energy never faded.
In the press box, he loved to talk about the development of that Tiger team and what Paul Mainieri or Jay Johnson were thinking with this player in left field or that pitcher’s role on the team.
He was a wealth of baseball knowledge with an authentic personality whose infectious energy and smile made him incredibly engaging.
In my line of work, I’ve spoken to championship coaches, national media personalities, NFL and MLB players. Bertman trumped them all. He felt, in every sense of the cliche’, larger than life. Five championship rings will do that, but it was much, much more. His ability to command a room, tell a story and control a conversation were second to none.
Bertman’s list of accomplishments would have been impressive had he just been married 63 years to Sandy, hired two national championship coaches, spearheaded fundraising for create the golden era of LSU football, raised four daughters and helped a team to an Olympic medal. He did all of that beyond winning 870 baseball games and five national titles in purple and gold.
His legacy goes so, so much further than a street sign on campus or a diamond off Nicholson. It’s in the people he touched, and there were thousands.
One of the things that has always struck me is the way Bertman’s former players speak about him and spoke to him. There was a palpable love in every interaction. I’ve seen it in the press box with Doug Thompson, Ronnie Rantz, Ben McDonald and Todd Walker. I’ve seen it at First Pitch Banquets and at championship reunions. When you win five, those are almost an annual occurrence.
Bertman didn’t just meet, hire or coach people, he impacted them.
There’s a hole in the Baton Rouge community now. It will be there forever. So will Bertman’s legacy. Soon enough, the crawfish will hit the pots, and those pings will fill the air. Skip’s statue will stand tall looking over Championship Plaza, and the Intimidator will hover above Skip Bertman Field. More than 10,000 will file into Alex Box Stadium.
Like the thousands smiling and hugging in Omaha last summer, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, brothers and sisters will bond over LSU baseball like they have for 40 years.
They’ll have one man to thank for that whether he’s in the ballpark or not.
