Nov. 17, 2019

It’s so fitting that the first South Dakota Law Enforcement Appreciation Dinner without its founder, Gene Abdallah, featured a quarterback as the guest speaker.

A leader.

A play-caller.

The one likely to put the team on his shoulders and get something done.

“The mark of a great player is one who makes everyone around them that much better,” Brett Favre said during his remarks at Wednesday’s 38th annual event.

He wasn’t talking specifically about Abdallah, but that’s who came to mind for me, looking up at two side-by-side banners: one welcoming the legendary NFL quarterback and the other remembering Abdallah, who died Nov. 2.

The long-serving U.S. marshal, state legislator and South Dakota Highway Patrol superintendent also had become my friend. And he did make people around him better for having known him – me included.

The law enforcement dinner, which Abdallah began for about 50 people in 1982, had grown to approach 2,000 by the time he called me five years ago for a meeting.

I had met him years prior as a reporter for KELO-TV who sometimes covered the Legislature, and I always enjoyed him and the guaranteed sound bites I knew he’d produce.

Then, I got to know him better when I served in city government for Mayor Dave Munson, Abdallah’s friend, fellow legislator and North-Ender.

So he called me in 2014 while I was business reporting at the Argus Leader, and I thought he had a story tip for me. At least, that’s what I’m pretty sure he told me to line up the meeting.

To be a bit more precise, it turned out to be more of a story idea. He thought I should write about the dinner. I thought better of it and just went with it instead of pointing out that it wasn’t exactly a business story.

Then, he started actually giving me a scoop. Of course, like many things he told me, I probably shouldn’t write it. But essentially he let me peek behind the curtain of the longtime event a bit. He showed me the seating chart, which he clearly had meticulously crafted. Then, he pulled out a handwritten list.

“This is important,” he said.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s the list of people who are banned for life.”

I nearly cried laughing as he walked me through each name and the various injustices done to warrant a spot on the list.

To be fair, it was possible to become removed from the list, as his son Scott later shared during Abdallah’s eulogy. I wouldn’t say common. But possible.

He told me gleefully how they had procured a moose for that year’s event. It took me a moment to register that we were meant to eat it.

The whole thing left me a bit nervous, from trying to capture something that clearly meant a lot to him to knowing I at least had to try consuming antelope.

But I published this column about what has become part of Abdallah’s legacy, and I just hoped he would like it.

He loved it.

Shortly after, this classic card arrived. It still hangs near my desk today:

But it didn’t end there.

The next year, he called again. But it wasn’t to ask for a sequel story. He was just calling to offer me a seat.

“We want you back at the table,” he told me.

“The table” is a true place of honor, saved for his wife, Judy, their grandchildren, close family and friends, and at least one priest – generally more.

My ticket has arrived every year since. I’ve sent checks in return. He sent them back. Once, he included the note, “You are a friend!” with a thick black marker that made it clear this back-and-forth was over.

But that was Abdallah. If you were a friend, he was loyal for life. He was firm in his beliefs – that was tactful, wasn’t it? – refused to suffer fools and was generous in ways I probably don’t even fully know. All qualities I came to love about him.

His dinner not only honors law enforcement year after year but also has raised significant funds for a variety of area nonprofits. The year I wrote about it, he insisted I mention the bicycles that every year are refurbished by inmates and offered to law enforcement to provide to needy families.

I took a photo of the bikes again this year, too, Gene.

And maybe it’s the time of year, just weeks from Thanksgiving, but returning to that event now brings so much familiarity that it feels more like a really big family dinner to me.

This year, right on time, my ticket arrived in late October. I told myself on Monday the following week that I needed to call Abdallah and thank him. I had heard his health was deteriorating. Well, the week slipped away, and before long it was Friday. I happened to stop for coffee at a place I would not have usually gone and happened to see Munson, who also would not have usually been there. And we happened to learn from another friend that Abdallah had just moved into hospice care at Ava’s House.

As it turned out, none of those things happened by chance.

I mentally berated myself for not reaching out sooner.

“As soon as I get to the office, I’m calling him,” I said. “Gene is glued to his cellphone. If he’s at all able to, he’ll have it even in hospice.”

He answered on the second ring.

“Jodi Schwan!” he exclaimed. “I’m talking to you from my hospice room.”

He didn’t sound like it, I told him – which was true. We talked a bit about who was already up to see him, and I told him how many people around town were looking forward to the upcoming dinner.

“Are you coming to see me?” he half-barked into the phone.

Well, I was then.

So I called Munson, who had wanted to hear how Abdallah was doing, and I said that he was asking for a visit.

“Let me know whenever you can go,” Munson said.

Well, I thought about going the next day. It would be a Saturday, and I had a lot less going on.

But something told me not to wait. Work could wait.

So, that afternoon, we went to Ava’s House and spent a good 90 minutes with him. He told story after story. He laughed and grumbled and shared more things I can’t repeat. He was every bit the Abdallah many of you remember.

His plan was to use a scooter and be at the law enforcement dinner.

“I really think I’ll see you there,” I said to him as we walked out.

By 9 o’clock the next morning, I’d learned he had passed away overnight.

I don’t know why I was meant to have the gift of that last visit, but it sure served as a reminder of all there was to like about him.

I later learned the only request he had for his memorial service was the final song: “My Way.”

If you weren’t there, pull it up and listen to it with Abdallah in mind. It perfectly encapsulates him, and it’s always been a favorite of mine. Yes, he did life his way. And an entire state is better for it.