Like this:

I pretty much worshipped him.  We’d go to Kansas City once a year when the Yankees were in town to play the A’s.  My brother met him once at his Holiday Inn in Joplin, Missouri.  He brought me an autographed postcard with his photo.  Later in life I learned he was, for many years, a hopeless alcoholic and womanizer.  Mickey.

I watched him play several times, he was so fluid, so coordinated for a big man.  Such passion and happiness when he was on the court.  Then, just ten years ago, he stood in a hastily arranged hotel ballroom and told the press he had to stop playing NBA basketball because he had aids from a multitude of dalliances.  Magic.

He was the kind of guy you wanted your dad to be.  Honor.  Humility.  Work Ethic.  Doing Things The Right Way.  No one ever thought he’d retire; he’d just leave it all out there on the sideline one day.  Plain white helmets would gather ’round and look down on the man with more wins, done right, than another other man who ever coached in the NCAA.  Then we were told he didn’t help the child.  Papa . . . Papa Joe.

Yeah, I feel today like I did those other two times.  Like one of the old Percheron’s hauled-off and kicked me in the gut.  Will I ever get my breath back?  Tears aren’t enough.

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