by Pete Bodo
I'm not sure this is the right way to start a eulogy, but the bottom line is that Amy Haskew, known to most of us as Steggy, basically drove me nuts. Everyone should have someone like that in his or her life.
Our relationship began not long after I decided that I wanted to explore the possibilities of Internet-based journalism (specifically the weblog), and convinced the powers-that-be at Tennis that they ought to let me focus on that form almost exclusively. Being affiliated with Tennis and Tennis.com was a great leg up (I wish I had a dime for every brilliant, witty, talented person who started a weblog only to discover that all quality-issues aside, making your voice known isn't as easy as it ought to be. Anyway, Steggy was one of the core group of readers/comment posters who made me feel that this format had real potential.
Back then, I jumped into the comments a little more frequently than I do now, although those communications were more topical than social. But I quickly began to get a feel for my regular readers and pretty much from the start, Steggy stood out among them as one to whom I never had to explain myself - or my interests, tastes, and prejudices. Our first personal contact occurred when she posted a recipe for venison. Knowing that she was from Houston, I sent her a game recipe of my own, which incorporated the meat of my favorite plant, prickly pear cactus (if there's a symbol of the glories of the American west, it's this hardy cactus).
It was funny; up to that time, if I had to guess I would have described Steggy as a 40-or-50 something Houstonian, a player at some nice private club where wearing white is still required. She was an intriguing personality with peripatetic interests and compendious knowledge. Over time, I learned that she was about as far from my early impression as a person could get; she smoked cigarettes like she got paid for it, slugged Coke by the gallon, and played tennis like she meant it - spraying balls all over creation while trying to get her considerable bulk around the court, shod in a pair of Chuck Taylor Converse sneakers, held together with duct-tape. Amy was a great gift to TennisWorld, but I think this site was a gift to her as well - it slowly (for she was in some ways an extremely cautious and not entirely confident person) enabled her to be. . . herself.
In some ways, though, she personified the first-wave Internet habitue; that person who appeared to invent him or herself in cyberspace. Amy's on-line persona was not only unique, it was intriguing and almost shockingly misleading (for there was nothing about the "real" Amy that was as restrained, self-controlled, epigrammatic, and, well, seemingly pulled together as her on-line identity). I think being "Steggy" in cyberspace gave Amy a little respite from her demons - and this girl knew demons - but like most of us what she really most wanted down deep was to be herself, and accepted for it.
First thing I loved about Amy: She was crazy and didn't care about nothin'. I learned that quickly enough when we met face-to-face for the first time at the Palm Springs airport. We were there for the Indian Wells tennis tournament 2006. No sooner did I get the keys to the rental car that she grabbed them from me and told me to follow her. I shrugged and did as I was told. I'm a pretty careless driver (although I've gotten over a youthful fixation on yanking up on the emergency hand-brake while the person actually driving was taking a turn at 50), but Steggy drove like the car was an out-of-control bottle rocket, and she just happened to be the one hanging on to the wheel - at least to the extent that someone could do that with an ultra-ultra-lite Marlboro in one hand, a 48-ounce Seven-Eleven coke jammed between her thighs. and some ghastly hardcore punk band blasting on the radio.
The thought, "I'm too old for this. . ." warred with, "Hey, this is kind of fun" and guess which one won?
We stayed on the same floor at the Holiday Express hotel that week (Andrew Burton and Asad Raza, two great amigos, was also there with us), and we had a blast. By then, I had no illusion that Amy wanted to interview or even meet tennis players (The second thing I loved about Amy was that I don't think she gave an owl's hoot about the tennis players; she put her heart and soul into building the TW community). I once got her credentialed to a Champion's Tour event, and told her to interview Jim Courier. In order to make it as painless as possible for Amy, I made a point to talk to Jim about it, asking him to be patient and understanding if she seemed nervous or scared. I needn't have bothered; Amy was too shy to actually go up to Jim and say hello. He later asked me, "Whatever happened to that person who was supposed to talk to me?"
At the peak of the good times, Amy and I would talk on the phone three, four times a day; she was a 24/7 presence at the site, whether the readers knew it or not (they mostly did; Amy didn't do "anonymous" well). At times, I begged her to go easy on herself, fearing that she was going to burn out, or that she thought I expected her to pour her heart and soul into what was always a volunteer position. I tried to get her to be less emotionally invested in the site, but it did no good. In the end, it was her incredible degree of dedication and passion for the site that caused us to fall out. Amy was one of those seemingly tough but ultra-sensitive people who took everything to heart, even while pretending otherwise.
It's funny, I've wracked my brain thinking about conversations we've had or emails we've exchanged, and for some reason the moment I remember the most, and it brings a grin to my face every time I think of it, is writing her a fast, simple (pre-Twitter) email, asking, "Hey, whatcha doing?"
Seconds later came the one-line reply: "I'm sitting here wondering how much Greek food a woman can eat before she explodes."
This afternoon, I was down in the cellar here the farm and I came across a big plastic bin, containing a complete Lionel electric train set - the beautifully crafted, detailed, old-school kind, each car made of heavy steel, the powerful locomotive capable of shining a light, sounding its whistle, and emitting a robust puff of faux-steam when properly set-up. That train had arrived at my home on December 22nd a few years ago - a Christmas present for my then just-turned-four son, Luke.It was from Amy, who knew that Luke was in that Thomas the Tank Engine phase.
Many of the TWibe knew Amy by the nickname I coined, "The Hillbilly Princess." Thinking about Amy these past two day, I realize what an appropriate name that really was. Although she ended up living in Houston, I think of her as a Tennessee girl - that state having been the home and staging area for some of the biggest personalities and most bracingly original characters in American history (if you've read your early American history, you know whereof I speak). Davy Crockett was a Tennessee boy; my late friend Jim Range - a man whose charisma, drive and integrity were completely off the charts, was also from the state (He left us prematurely as well, this winter).
I'm glad that Amy is being buried at home; she'll always be the Hillbilly Princess to me.
BTW - I am not accepting comments on this post, and I thank all members of the TWibe who posted their thoughts at the Steggy's Call post on Friday. And here's an important note: This tragedy has been burdensome for Amy's husband, Bill Bradford - those of you who know how utterly Amy disregarded money and financial matters will understand. Anyway, while you may choose to contribute to the animal shelter identified in Amy's obituary, some of you may want to join me in contributing to help defray the funeral expenses for Bill, via Paypal. Just send what amount you choose through Paypal to mrbill@mrbill.net.