Looking back

Love columns like this because they present sports figures in much more of a totality than fans ever experience.

Bernie Miklasz is leaving the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and recently wrote about his interactions and relationships during his time as a columnist. Do read the entire article but here are three excerpts:

TONY LA RUSSA:  Most tenacious competitor I've ever covered, or will cover. And probably the best at cultivating a team culture. TLR was relentless, his teams were relentless, and don't even think about throwing at one of his players. He couldn't go half speed, couldn't drop his guard, wouldn't give an inch. If there was a competitive advantage — psychological or otherwise — TLR would find it and use it. I have no idea how TLR sustained his intensity and single-minded purpose — the pursuit of victory — over his 33 years of big-league managing. Including the postseason he managed 5,221 games in his Hall of Fame career, and never let down. Never showed up at the ballpark with anything less than 100 percent hunger to win that night's game. He was fearless, across the board. And that includes some of his choices — hitting the pitcher 8th for example — that made so many people goofy with anger.  What I learned: The value of preparation, and the benefits of thinking outside of the box. I also learned — and this was important — that baseball postseasons tend to be random in nature and being the best regular-season team means nothing when you enter the playoffs. La Russa, after all, won his first World Series in St. Louis (2006) with the least imposing team he'd taken into the October tournament. I also came to appreciate La Russa's self-deprecating humor; he was much looser than what you saw on TV — that perpetual image of the grim, dark and menacing figure standing in the dugout. TLR was the Last of the Lions among baseball managers. The job has changed dramatically in recent years, with GMs choosing managers that are willing to implement strategy and personnel calls based on advanced metrics supplied by front-office analysts. The days of the all-powerful manager are gone.

and

RICK MAJERUS: I just wish I would have spent more time with the late St. Louis U. basketball coach. We had a lot in common: mood swings, prone to too many emotional highs and lows, the curse of a lifelong battle with obesity, and an ironic personality trait of being harder on ourselves than any strangers could be. We shared a love of politics, film, books, newspapers, world events, music. During our enjoyable dinners the one thing we never talked about much was basketball. But make no mistake, Majerus was a basketball genius. I thought I knew the game until hearing Rick deliver a lecture on the "Triangle and Two" defense. Maybe that's why we had so many deep discussions about the meaning of life, and the daily struggle to find inner peace. If we talked hoops I couldn't hang with him. Rick was an enigma, and I didn't understand why he did certain things — like going out of his way to alienate someone in the media for no good reason, or banning the team's loyal broadcasters from flying on the SLU chartered flights. But I'm also an enigma, and perhaps that's why I connected with Majerus so well. If he was your friend, he would do anything for you, 24 hours a day. Just amazingly kind and generous in ways that weren't always visible to the public. There was also a poignant sadness about Rick that could break your heart. When he moved to St. Louis, I was driving him around early one evening, before we feasted at Lo Russo's. I was showing Majerus the various city neighborhoods. As the driving tour was winding down, he asked to see where I lived, so we drove to my home and parked in front. Rick said he didn't want to go inside; he just wanted to take a look. He began talking about the choices he made in his life. He had one brief marriage, and no children, and lived in a hotel. A basketball lifer. But a part of Rick longed for that family life, and wanted to live in the old house on a tree-lined street. So he sat in my SUV, turned and told me that I was very blessed, and that I should always be devoted to my wife, and I should never put my job before family. As we drove away from my home, Majerus said, "I think I'll buy a house like that, this is really a nice neighborhood." And we both knew it would never happen. Rick was a tormented man, but this internal conflict also generated a sensitive soul that wanted to ease another person's pain — even as he tried to find a cure for his own unrest. The term "one of a kind" is overused, but Rick Majerus was definitely one of a kind, and I'll never know anyone like him again. What I learned: Everything, really. More than I can adequately explain. 

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DICK VERMEIL: The most optimistic and upbeat team leader I've encountered. A source of brightness and positive energy. DV was a refreshing alternative to the standard NFL-coach profile at the time. Unlike just about every other coach in the league, Vermeil wasn't a brooder, wasn't cold, wasn't paranoid and didn't think anyone outside his inner circle was an enemy, never to be trusted. DV is a happy warrior who truly loves people, and he showed that every day at work at Rams Park. When he won the Super Bowl as coach of the unforgettable 1999 Rams, DV was genuinely more happy for others than he was for himself.  What I learned: Good guys can finish first, and thank God for that. And when you make it a priority to see the best in people — instead of obsessing on their worst traits — you give them confidence, inspire them, and draw out their finest qualities. And that will help them succeed. And your team will be better for it.