Steve Bornfeld, former Las Vegas Sun Accent editor: Mike was about people, first, a refreshing anomaly in the high-pressure circus of a daily newspaper, where rabid competitiveness, tight deadlines and covering all manner of human misconduct can leave reporters and editors not only hardheaded but hard-hearted. Or, at the very least, forgetful of the niceties.
Not Mr. O.
Case in point: On the occasion of the departure from the Sun of an assistant features editor—a charming, modest young woman who kept a low profile around the newsroom—a good-bye party was planned, with everyone in the features department and a few other friends set to attend. Unsure of protocol (i.e., whether to invite all the paper's editors, including those in other departments with whom she rarely had contact), she opted to invite them all—Metro, business, sports, upper management.
Only Mike—the biggest editor in the joint—bothered to show up. And though employees are routinely skittish about letting their hair down around bosses, around Mike—executive editor, ex-governor and bear of a man equipped to fiercely intimidate virtually anyone—we were all loose and laughing. Though he was leagues above us, he was us. Armed with his legendary stories, yes, but also engaged with us—really listening, taking an interest, interacting, rather than holding court.
And after a couple of hours passed like minutes, Mike snatched the bill and paid it for the 20-plus of us.
I've spent 20 years in this business, and had never seen such a commanding man with such a common touch. And I haven't seen it since.
You remember people as much for the small gestures as the grand accomplishments—of which Mike, a civic giant, had tons. But often, it's the little things that speak the loudest.
Stacy J. Willis former Las Vegas Sun reporter: Somehow I mentioned in passing to Mike O'Callaghan that I was named in a civil lawsuit months after a car accident I had. The next day, I came into the office, and there were two messages on my voicemail. One was from the Governor, saying he had mentioned my troubles to an attorney friend of his. The next message was from the secretary at Harry Claiborne's office. O'Callaghan had set me up with a legendary powerhouse criminal-defense attorney—a man famous in Nevada. Although ultimately I didn't need that kind of representation, it made something very clear: O'Callaghan had my back. And he was that way to everybody. If you had a problem, no matter how far down the totem pole you were, he'd help you. No questions asked.
• How does a man whose reach extends to the Middle East, who is on a first-name basis with President Carter, who is the former governor of Nevada and a Korean War hero and an active force in today's politics have time to call me when I'm sick? That's what I wondered when I hung up the phone at my apartment a few years ago, fever, nausea and a splitting headache several days in the works. "This is Mike O'Callaghan," he had said. "I'm calling to check up on you. Are you all right?" He gave me his home telephone number in case I needed anything.
• We argued, Mike O'Callaghan and I. We wrangled about little editorial issues, I can't even remember what they were now, but I'd sit in his office and respectfully disagree—his balding head sticking up from behind a couple of feet of dog-eared papers stacked on his desk. Our debates irked me to no end, and I'd be thoroughly agitated by the time I figured out there was no swaying him and leave his office. And then, an hour later, he'd come out into the newsroom and take me to lunch, the way that he took untold dozens of reporters to lunch. You'd get in the front seat of his beater Cadillac, or later, his new Cadillac, and he'd drive the speed limit all the way to a restaurant, and no matter where you went, the staff would know him and love him. While you ate, he'd ask about your family, and then he'd pick up the tab, drive slowly back to the office and say, "Thanks, kiddo." You couldn't stay mad at him long.