Bob Ottewill was the “commish” for everyone lucky enough to cross his path

I first met Bob Ottewill in the spring of 1983. He and his family moved in next door, a moment that would change everyone in the neighborhood for decades to come.

Yes, he was a bigwig with the Colorado High School Activities Association, a gig that is getting mentioned a lot in recent days as people remember Bob after his passing at the age of 79. But for those of us who lived in a little corner of Northglenn, Mr. Ottewill wasn’t the commissioner of CHSAA; he was the commish of our childhood memories.

His home was the center of activity for kids from blocks around. The Claire Sports Complex, as Bob dubbed it, was always hosting some sort of event. And the games always had a little extra flair to them.

We didn’t just play whiffleball in the yard. Bob built a backstop, created ground rules that incorporated every bit of the house (a ball hit into the flower beds that were situated around where a shortstop should stand was an automatic out) and created a home for the Colorado Whiffleball Federation. His team, the Melody Mothers, featured such stars as Pencils Robinson and Hot Ptau, both of whom were just Bob using different batting stances and swings.

We didn’t just play touch football. Bob created a game that used every square inch of the lot, as around-the-house football was born. A team didn’t have four downs to get 10 yards; they had that many plays to reach a corner of the house in order to keep a drive alive. And if they really needed a big play, an over-the-house throw was a no-look deep strike that could change the game.

We didn’t just play pickup basketball. Bob’s driveway was a place where the game was played right. Bad shots were called out and making the extra pass was encouraged. Picks were set and defense was played. Passes into the post needed to hit the outside hand. The backboard was a shooter’s friend. It was a clinic for how the game was supposed to be played.

And everyone was welcome. Every kid in the neighborhood had a chance to play. Kevin would swing for the fences. Big Al became a force in the low post. Bo would catch passes in our version of the West Coast offense. We didn’t run with these kids at school or at the mall, but we did at the complex; we were teammates with people of all ages and abilities.

It was a ton of fun, a dream come true for a sports-crazed kid. Bob taught us all to have imagination.

Anything could be turned into a game. Throw a cork between the blades of a ceiling fan. Toss a bottle cap into the carafe on the far end of the table. Predict what time the car would arrive in the driveway. Everything was an opportunity to keep score, compete and have fun, with everyone who was there.

His son, Doug, didn’t have birthday parties. Instead, Bob hosted “The Dirtball Olympics,” a nod to the nickname he had given his boy. We all battled throughout the day in various events, all for the honor of walking away with a whiffleball glued to the top of a plastic cup. The prize didn’t matter; the crazy games did.

All of us who grew up in this wonderland carry on this spirit to this day. Our kids have grown up in a similar manner; Independence Day has turned into the Whistlepig Olympics, featuring cornhole, Can Jam, bocce and all sorts of other events. The empty room in the basement has been outfitted with a backboard and a mini-hoop. And every dip in a pool ultimately turns into tossing whatever type of ball is handy around the horn in pursuit of a “world record.”

Not that the games matter. They never did.

None of us remember who took the gold, won the tournament or scored the title-clinching touchdown. But we all remember the spirit of what Bob was trying to instill.

We remember the camaraderie. We remember the joy of competing. We remember the thrill of winning and the agony of defeat, all with our buddies by our sides.

Bob Ottewill was an accomplished man. His career took him to great heights, where he made an indelible mark on the Colorado sports landscape. But that was only a small sliver of his greatness.

His biggest impact came in small moments – asking the shy kid from down the street to play hoops, giving a “great play” for fielding a routine grounder to the kid with hands of stone and turning his car hitting 100,000 miles into an event for everyone to celebrate. He spread the joy of competition to everyone he came in contact with, every single day.

This didn’t just happen when he was passing out trophies at McNichols Arena. It didn’t only occur on high school fields across the Centennial State.

For me, it happened at the house on the corner of Claire Circle. That’s where we hit home runs into Cujo’s yard in right field. That’s where we made tiptoe catches before tumbling onto the asphalt. That’s where we made the game-winning assist instead of taking the last-second shot.

Sports can be serious business. But they don’t always have to be.

Bob Ottewill taught us that sports are supposed to be fun. That’s a legacy that will live on for generations, as we all strive to pass on his grand love of the game, something I was fortunate enough to experience firsthand for more than four decades.

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