Stig: As MAD of a Coach as You'll Find.
It was a brazen, almost ridiculous, borderline rude thing to do.
Call the state's highest-paid public employee and ask him for an immediate favor. Out of the blue.
But, I called. When you're a desperate television reporter on a strict deadline, you make the call, praying the person will merely answer, let alone agree to an interview.
You expect no answer, because people with important jobs are busy at 10 a.m. on Wednesdays.
In this case, the recipient knew it was me. I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
South Dakota State football coach John Stiegelmeier and I had our history — mostly good, but with a patch that could have been rocky and lingering with grudge, had he let it.
There were a few times during the several years he appeared on my Sioux Falls sports talk show when I put his feet to the fire. It was during those rare moments when the Jackrabbits or Stig weren't flying high or receiving bouquets from the masses.
"My wife says you ask tough questions, but you're fair," he once texted me after a tense back-and-forth after his darkest hour as head coach.
Whenever SDSU news broke, or I felt I needed an immediate comment from him, he would always swiftly respond to my texts or calls, and always be willing to be put on the spot.
Two months into the pandemic, in May 2020, I lost my radio job — which I loved — due to the pandemic. Two months after that, I was working promotions for the Sioux Falls Canaries. I called Stig out of the blue to ask him to drive down to Jackrabbit Night and throw out the first pitch. He gladly agreed.
That night, he brought his wife, Laurie, a couple of his kids, and several grandkids to stay and enjoy the game after he threw out the first pitch. Dressed ridiculously as my ballpark character "Harry Canary" — impersonating late, beloved Chicago Cubs announcer Harry Caray, with those giant, square-rimmed, Coke bottle glasses, and a gray wig — I approached the Stig clan to introduce myself, and the coach invited me to take a seat and hang out a bit.
He introduced me to everyone, and then asked me how my spirits were after losing the show, which he knew I poured a lot of passion into, and how I liked my new gig. We talked about his job in a way that was different from our on-air discussions. He looked me in the eye and listened. You can't fake compassion face-to-face.
I could feel what made him such a successful recruiter, boss, and coach. And beloved husband, father, and grandfather. The listening, the engagement, the care.
That night, and almost any time I needed him, Stig showed that he was the real deal to any critic who thought his down-home, awe-shucks nature was an act. That the acronym he used constantly: "M A D" — "Make a Difference" — wasn't some phony catch phrase, but his way of life.
So, two years later, on this fine Wednesday morning, Stig likely knew I wasn't just calling him to ask about the wife and grandkids. Or to congratulate him for beating rival and long-time nemesis North Dakota State a few days prior.
He probably knew I needed a favor. Another one.
He answered after one ring, and in a friendly tone.
"Hi, John. What's up?"
He's a straight shooter who appreciates one.
"Well, as you know, I'm a now TV reporter for Dakota News Now."
"Yeah, I saw that. Congratulations."
"Thanks. Well, I'm going to Brookings today to do a story about this radio host in Fargo who is an NDSU fan and lost his own public bet — that he'd move to Brookings for a week if SDSU won on Saturday. Sorry for the short notice, but can we pop in and interview you today? Just need a few minutes."
"Sure, you bet."
"Really?! Thanks! I know you're busy."
"It's fine. Just give me a 15-minute heads up."
But when BOB 95 FM host Chris Hanson and I arrived at Stig's expansive and cluttered office a couple hours later, it turned out to be way more than a pop-in.
It was a fun, heart-warming hour I will never forget. An hour that perfectly captured the essence of Stig more than any monumental win, or loss, ever could. Here is a link that TV story:
I told him that Hanson had come to be publicly "pardoned" by the coach, so he could go back home to Fargo.
Stig laughed. "OK."
I stepped back and let the two "enemies" get to know each other. The two bonded over having grown up in small towns. Hanson was taken by a large, framed photograph of one of the trailers Stig and fellow coaches used as their offices in the days of Coughlin-Alumni Stadium, well before the move to Div. I, the 12 playoff appearances, the modern and spacious football office facility they now work in, and the sparkling new 20,000-seat stadium that faced us out the window.
"All my coaches have that picture in their offices," Stig said, "so they won't forget where we came from."
They talked about the epic rivalry between NDSU and SDSU. About how in 2003, the schools decided to make the bold move from Div. II to Div. I together, leaving behind their rivals at USD and UND. About the meeting on a farm on the border to establish "The Dakota Marker" trophy, a replica of a quartzite stake that marked the border. Stig was there.
"We needed each other," Stig said.
Stig shared how NDSU's otherwordly success — nine national titles in nine national title games over the last 11 seasons — and all the heartbreak NDSU dealt the Jacks over the years was a major reason SDSU grew to national contender status.
I asked Stig if it was OK for me to take Hanson down to the $32 million indoor practice facility. The head coach gladly became our tour guide.
We walked past the massive weight room and into the Sanford-Jackrabbit complex. The Bison fan and Jacks coach marveled about both programs' facilities and how absurd the college football arm race has become.
We shot more breeze, Stig did the quick interview, and then we walked back up to the football office lobby. Next to the Dakota Marker trophy the Jacks had just retained, Stig "pardoned" Hanson on camera.
A handshake and words of "good luck" were exchanged. Before we left, Stig made sure to tell me to call him if the Canaries needed him to throw out a first pitch again this summer.
During the interview, I asked Stig if he would have entertained this silly little TV bit — with a self-admitted obnoxious fan of the evil empire — on a busy day, in season, a few years ago when the Bison owned SDSU. After all, it is easier to be a gracious ambassador when your program has won the last three meetings and five of the last seven.
Stig admitted he probably would not have in his younger days, "but right now, I'm old enough and seasoned enough that my life does not revolve around winning football games, or football seasons.
"Life is about making memories, and this is a neat experience to be a part of a bet, and a visit, and to get to know him a bit, and to hopefully continue the relationship."
Three months later, in the greatest hour of Stig's career, the Jacks beat NDSU again, handing the Bison their first title game loss. Convincingly. Stig finally hoisted that elusive national title trophy on a stage, with thousands of fans — many who likely wondered if Stig would ever win the "big one" — full of tears and smiles and screams.
His coaching legacy was finally complete. His summary of it all?
"Life is about making memories, and we made a memory today."
He retired 11 days later, on Thursday.
On that day in October, Stig — who may or may not have already been carrying the comfort of knowing he was soon to retire — told us it was no skin off his back to make unplanned time, and that the head coach wasn't as busy as most would think, because he had such a strong staff that did most of the heavy lifting.
This is just who John Stiegelmeier was — just a dude. I mean that in the best way possible.
More appropriately, a humble servant, always willing to help others. You've probably read and heard about that a lot.
He made the TV piece, and he made our day. He made a lot of people's days in 45 years of coaching.
He "Made A Difference."
He MAD. One of the MAD-dest people you'll ever meet.
