For the last 12 years my office has been on the main concourse of the Wells Fargo Center. Throughout those years, Comcast SportsNet has grown into a television force, the place for sports fans to turn for everything Philly. The building has given me a front row seat to some incredible events and performances. Michael Jordan’s last game. The Flyers' playoff runs, college hockey’s Frozen Four. Winwood and Clapton, then Dylan.
But without a doubt, the best thing, for me, about that building was the time I spent in the basement. In the office of Harvey Pollack. He indeed was that man, that myth and that legend all rolled into one.
I first got to know Harvey when I produced a feature story about him and his life’s work. The Sixers statistician who had seen it all, and let us know about it. The man who helped tip off with the NBA in 1946. The guy who counted each one of Wilt’s points, all 100 of them, in Hershey in 1962 and then told the world. But, I was lucky to get to know the man who collected T-shirts, offered me coffee from his new Keurig and peanuts that were shipped from his granddaughter.
Harvey was my respite. He gave me a place to go when my day needed a lift. He was always there. In at 9 and out at 5 ... that is, when the Sixers weren’t playing.
Our conversations varied from sports to movies to what was on TV. He loved watching David Letterman. He told stories about his family. He also loved talking about all the movies that he would review for a chain of local newspapers. He seemed to always be working. I kept thinking, “This guy is 92 years old ... why is he still working?”
But I am glad he was. He was someone who loved a good joke, loved to dish it out and laughed when you gave it back. He shared with me stories about the Warriors, Wilt and Dr. J. Once, he made me call Chamberlain’s sister and tell her about how funny Harvey was. He would personally hand me a Christmas card every year ... addressed to “Comcast.” I would try to photograph Harvey every time I saw him. He loved to have his picture taken. I would take it in an office that was littered with Tastykakes, T-shirts and box scores. This was a place where he was right at home. His young, 20-something interns would just marvel at how this man would plow through his day. The numbers, the phone calls, the appointments. Harvey made and kept them all.
When my father turned 86 last year, I had Harvey record a message for him to celebrate his birthday. He said, “Congrats, you’re just a young pup, you have a ways to go to catch up with me.” My dad smiled with that message, and I know that Harvey was glad I asked.
NBA
A few years ago, we were honored with an Emmy award for telling Harvey’s story. I took it down to his office and showed it to him and took some pictures. I asked him how he felt about being an “Emmy winner,” and with a deadpan look said, “How could we lose? I’m quite the story ... that was a no-brainer!”
When I received a call about my friend Harvey, it hit me hard. People on the concourse at the Wells Fargo Center knew that he was like my great uncle that I never knew. I can’t picture not having the chance to go downstairs anymore and talk to the man that would always have time for me. The man who would always make me a cup of coffee and make me smile. The man who would take what was dished and give it right back.
His days and nights were filled with numbers. But he was more than that. Through all those shooting percentages, assist columns, point averages and triple-doubles, he was simply a man that loved basketball, people and his job. I once asked him what his favorite number was and without hesitation he said, “13, Wilt’s number.”
He was 93, but he was one of a kind to me.