Photo courtesy of John Sieger
David Begel
David Begel
Last Tuesday, my wife Linsey and I were strolling through Atlanta’s High Museum when we got the call. David Begel, her uncle and my friend, had died that morning. It was a heart attack but it could have been any number of things. He’d been in poor health and, having fairly recently lost Susan, his wife and the center of the family, it was hard to go on.
If you knew David, you probably had an opinion about him. As a journalist working on TV and in the papers, he covered everything from the Packers and Bucks to politics and he didn’t mind stirring the pot—in fact, it seemed to give him great pleasure. But I never caught him punching down in the 40 years I knew him, and he couldn’t stand people who did.
Along the way, he ruffled some feathers. He had the nerve to take on Bart Starr, the Super Bowl hero who turned out to be less legendary as a coach after he hung up his cleats. Banned by Starr from training camp for pointing out the steep drop in production, David stood on the roof of his station wagon to report on practice, continuing to aggravate Starr.
I got to know him in the mid-‘80s when my band Semi-Twang was flying high. He was often out and about catching music, and I was surprised to look up one night to see him with Coach Don Nelson, checking us out. To me, they were both celebrities and I never dreamed I’d soon become part of his family—a wonderful, fun-loving bunch.
In 1988, a couple weeks after Semi-Twang’s first record was released, my sister Mary died suddenly, the victim of a brain aneurysm, leaving her two young boys without a mother. We were scheduled to play Green Bay the following night. I was heartbroken and in shock and didn’t know if I’d be able to perform. After talking it through with the band and close friends, my brother Mike and I decided that playing might be easier than sitting around doing nothing.
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David volunteered to drive—it was a route he was familiar with—and we made it there and back in one piece. All I can recall from that night is the drive and the temporary respite from the crushing grief it provided.
Dave was multi-faceted and judging from the comments I’ve seen on the Journal/Sentinel’s Facebook post honoring him, he was well-liked. He had a raucous laugh and a way with corny jokes he didn’t mind repeating. He lived large but also teared up easily; as sentimental as they come. A contradiction in many ways, but an entertaining one. It’s hard to believe he’s gone.
We’ll be celebrating his life with music and stories on Sunday, March 15 from 2-5 p.m. at Linneman’s Riverwest Inn. May he rest in peace.
