When the Game Ends Too Soon

It was around 2010 when Bryan Samudio and I lost touch. Social media was the Wild West back then, too, before people knew what a “block” or “unfriend” could do to a fellow’s feelings.

Bryan decided my Conservatism wasn’t his flavor of conversation, and—poof—our digital friendship got benched. He even had “liberal” on his profile, so I wasn’t surprised when he made the call. Still, it stung. I liked the guy.

Fast forward to this week, and I find myself bummed in a way no “unfriending” could prepare me for. Bryan Samudio—the Hall of Fame journalist, the face of Northern Nevada sports for thirty years—passed away unexpectedly.

Fifty-two years old. That’s not a long life, it’s a life cut short in the middle of its season.

Bryan was one of the guys you could turn on the TV and trust. He wasn’t flashy, though he could tell a story with the same drama as a bottom-of-the-ninth home run.

He didn’t have to shout or strut—he had the goods. A graduate of UNR’s Reynolds School of Journalism, he spent more than a quarter-century covering sports across Nevada.

From Wolf Pack basketball to the 49ers, from the PGA to the world land speed record out on the Black Rock Desert—Bryan was there with his microphone, his grin, and his knack for finding the human side of the game. I admired that about him.

He could report on a Super Bowl one day and turn around the next to cover Tonopah’s Clown Motel or the Nevada Legislature, and it all came out with the same respect and warmth. That’s a skill—not just in journalism, but in life.

When I read that Bryan co-founded Nevada Sports Net, hosted Wolf Pack All Access, and even took home a Telly Award for a documentary, I wasn’t surprised. He always struck me as a guy who could spin a half-empty gymnasium into something you wanted to sit down and watch.

He retired in 2021, the most seasoned sportscaster in Reno at the time, and traded the press pass for service at the Washoe County Sheriff’s Office. That, too, was Bryan—still serving, just in a different uniform.

It’s funny how life gives us these characters who play a part in our story—sometimes just a tiny role, sometimes a big one. And then suddenly, their game clock hits zero, and we’re left holding our memories.

In Bryan’s case, he cared about people, and his features weren’t about stats and scores; they were about heart. A kid who fought his way back from an injury, a coach who doubled as a father figure, and a community that found its identity in a team.

I’ll be honest with you–I wish we hadn’t lost touch. I wish we had one more conversation, maybe even an argument.

There’s value in sparring with someone you respect—it keeps you sharp. But life has a way of shuffling the deck whether you like it or not.

Bryan’s passing reminds me that people are not guaranteed innings. They can be here one day, cracking jokes about a blown call, and gone the next. And when they go, what lingers is not their résumé or awards but the way they made you feel—trusted, entertained, maybe even inspired.

So here’s to Bryan Samudio, Hall of Fame journalist, master storyteller, sports fan extraordinaire. I picture him now in some press box above, leaning into the mic, voice steady, eyes twinkling, ready to call the next great play.

And me? I’ll be in the cheap seats, nodding along, grateful I got to know the man—even if only for a while, because in the end, life’s not about who unfriended you. It’s about the folks who made your world a little richer just by being in it.