Dean Knuth / Arizona Daily Star 2005

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Jim Livengood sat at the front of a stuffy interview room Sunday with all the gravitas of a father delivering bad news to his kids.

Everything is OK, he pre-emptively reassured us. Lute Olson is not sick, he said, but will be gone for an indefinite period. The program is in good hands, the UA athletic director said, and will welcome Olson back when he is ready.

Tucsonans flipped out.

We may never know why Olson left, but the fact that his departure stirred something in us — Was it appreciation? Fear? Sadness? — shows the impact the UA basketball coach has on Tucson.

Olson, and his winning teams, make Tucson relevant.

More so than anyone in town — or maybe anyone in the state — he embodies the niche Tucson seems to have found on a national scale.

What makes sports unique is that it gives us something to talk to perfect strangers about at a coffee shop or bar. Regardless of your feelings about Olson, Arizona basketball has been undoubtedly our major topic of discussion for the past 20 years.

Olson is a reason for provincial pride. We talk about it not only because we care, but because we feel like the country is watching. The UA basketball team might be the only subject in town you could say that about; most people don't chat about the UA's science achievements over cups of coffee.

Tucsonans assume Olson will return — and they surely have speculated about the reason why he left. In the meantime, they have probably thought about Olson, and his future, more than ever. Their thoughts of Olson do not constitute a love letter, or a requiem. It's somewhere in between, incomplete.

What's funny is that Olson isn't like anyone we know. He contradicts Tucson's perception of itself.

Olson moved here at 48. Many come to Tucson for college or to retire.

Olson dresses like a presidential candidate. Tucsonans are overdressed if they go to dinner in anything but khakis, jeans or shorts.

Olson is at home on the country's biggest stages. Some Tucsonans live here because it's not the metropolis of Phoenix.

Olson is one of us, but he isn't. He's the polished, public face Tucsonans are glad to put out to the nation.

Phil Johnson, an Olson lieutenant from 1994-'98 who now coaches at USC, struggled to come up with a comparison to Olson's impact on Tucson. He settled on Oklahoma football coach Barry Switzer, who owned Johnson's home state when he was a child.

When you're young, sports figures are gods, seemingly 12 feet tall and untouchable.

"When I was growing up as a kid, the state of Oklahoma loved Barry Switzer," he said. "To this day, they still celebrate him. That's the only way I know how to relate it.

"It may be even bigger. In Tucson, that's U of A basketball. Lute's the face of U of A basketball. It's the way he's conducted himself on and off the floor, and the great success and what he does for the city."

Tucsonans suffered with him when his wife, Bobbi, died in January 2001, and rejoiced when the UA won the national title in 1997. They have met him when he takes part in local charities.

But we don't really know Olson. Like fans do with all coaches, we appreciate the victories more than the man himself.

Still, we call him Lute, like he's a member of the family.

"Even if we don't know him, you just feel a part of it," said Sylvia Lopez, a 61-year old Tucson native and basketball fan. "I think he's a very good person, a genuine person. What you see is what you get right there. From watching the TV and him being the type of person he is, you don't know him — but you think you know him."

Nationally, basketball fans don't get it. Because of the Pac-10's television contract, Olson doesn't appear on ESPN as much as Duke's Mike Krzyzewski or North Carolina's Roy Williams or Connecticut's Jim Calhoun. Fans nationwide have seen Olson, but rarely hear from him.

"It doesn't surprise me that it's a giant story there," said Rodney Tention, an Olson assistant from 1997-2005 and now the boss at Loyola Marymount. "Because of who he is and what he's done not only for the U of A, but college basketball. That's a national story."

On television, he looks like a congenial man with a sparkling smile. His players describe him as a father figure. But he is a disciplinarian, too; last week, assistant coach Kevin O'Neill joked that he still sits up straighter when Olson walks in the room.

"He's a great communicator; he's a winner," said Scott Thompson, an Olson assistant from 1983-'87. "I don't care what community you're in, that is a combination that endears him to many people."

We appreciate Olson because he wins, but there's more to it than that.

Olson gives us all a common point of interest. He brings us together. On a given evening, Olson unites the two polar opposite major factions of Tucson — students and retirees — at McKale Center.

"It's a retirement-type community, and they appreciate classiness," said University of San Francisco coach Jessie Evans, Olson's assistant from 1988-'97. "He has always had a great affinity for Tucson. Tucson is such a great place. You want to do good things there. The university is so supported by the community that you feel like you're a part of it."

Tucsonans, in a way, feel like they're a part of it, too.

And even in his absence, Olson has given us something to talk about.