By Ron Richards

The longest tenured coach in the NBA happens to call Utah his home. He may live in Illinois for a couple months in the summer, but Salt Lake is where he practices his livelihood, lives his dreams, and year after year achieves pinnacles in coaching that only a handful of coaches have ever approached.

If you want numbers, wins, losses, playoff appearances--mundane statistical analysis that is not only boring, but endlessly repetitive--stop reading right now. I mean it, just stop.

This is not a treatise supporting Jerry as the all-time greatest coach with statistics galore to back up my premise. Statistics can and will say anything you want them to. In that respect, they resemble loan officers, car salesmen, Yankee fans and gun control advocates and opponents alike. Numbers don't mean squat. Ask any Red Sox fan. How many years did the "Bambino's Curse" last? It doesn't really matter because it never existed in the first place. All it took was a team with heart. Heart is the operative word, Jazz fans.

Heart is a duplicitous word in the English language. Normally defined as the tireless body organ that pumps blood endlessly to every organ, tissue and cell in our bodies, its secondary usage is associated with courage, character and content. Throw both of those definitions in the general proximity of Jerry Sloan, and they fit. To a T.

Jerry Sloan is the heart of the Jazz. Jerry Sloan, Jazz. The words are interchangeable, congruent, and inseparable. One doesn't start here and stop there. Pour a little Jerry Sloan solution in a bottle of Jazz syrup, and watch them miraculously blend into the elixir of basketball legend.

Jerry wasn't the greatest basketball player of his time. His talent was average, his shooting skills respectable; in short there was nothing remotely outstanding about his game at first glance, his tenacious and fierce defense excepted. Ah, but the second glance! It was the little things, as Jerry likes to say. If someone was diving for a loose ball, taking a charge, prowling the passing lanes for a deflection, moving his tired feet to get great defensive position, doing all the blue collar dirty work that almost no one notices, that someone was Jerry Sloan.

History tends to repeat itself. It was no coincidence that a slender young man from Spokane with slightly more physical skills became the greatest point guard of all time. Every time John Stockton dived for a loose ball, set an elbow studded pick against a man twice his weight, and then got up off the ground with an evil light in his eyes, Jerry had to hide his smile on the sideline. It was a knowing smile, for that is how Jerry Sloan played and now coaches basketball.

When a Jerry Sloan team plays basketball the way it's supposed to be played, the other team hates it. It's not run and gun with matador defense. It's claw and scratch, set hard picks, and if someone makes an uncontested layup without getting smacked, Jerry is not amused. Shortly later, the Jazz defender is not amused, sitting on the end of the bench. He may have hit four sweet jumpers in a row, but if you don't play hard-nosed basketball on Jerry's team, you pay a penalty. Most of the time it's not pretty basketball. Casual fans don't understand it. Some of his players don't understand it. They tend not to last long.

Jerry's teams normally shoot very high percentages from the field. That's because the shots he likes are in the offense, normally a wide-open shot after a hard pick or double-down. It looks easy when it works. It looks confused, clumsy and cluttered when it doesn't. It doesn't take overwhelming talent to succeed in Jerry Sloan’s system. It takes hard work, a willingness to get your nose bloody, and a small slice of the rock hard toughness that exudes from Coach. Jazz fans wonder why marginal players like Jarron Collins keep making the team year after year. It's simple. They're willing to do what makes the team concept work. They're not fun to watch, and it's hard for the average fan to understand why Jerry plays them. It's only when they have the physical skills of Karl Malone and John Stockton, and then play his offense, that it becomes apparent that magic is happening on the court. John and Karl could run the pick and roll over and over again, with complete success, and no one could stop it when it was executed perfectly. A team of underachievers believed and ran the offense two years ago. They won 42 games, a remarkable achievement from a team projected to win twenty if they were lucky. One expert thought they might set the all time low for wins in a season. They were all wrong. I mentioned to Jerry that he was doing it with smoke and mirrors and it was a miracle. He told me the answer was simple. "They're just working hard." And it is that simple. Believe, buy into the Way and Ye shall win.

No one coaches a team for almost twenty years and survives without criticism. Some of it is earned. He has made mistakes, some serious. Coach is usually the first one to admit it when he makes a mistake. If that isn't refreshing in this day and age of accountability avoidance, I'm not sure what planet you're on. The “sun was in my eyes, I was injured, it wasn't my fault” crowd left the Delta Center on the first bus. There are no excuses, and the only second chances result from picking yourself off the floor, wiping the blood from your nose, and sticking it in front of a three hundred pound monster attempting to dunk.

He can't relate to the young players of this generation. I heard that ten years ago. Hopefully, I'll hear it until the sad day when he decides to retire. Jerry relates to men of all ages, as long as they understand one thing. Work. If you are going to win games in this league without the talent of Tim Duncan, Michael Jordan, Dwayne Wade or LeBron James, work is required. Jerry has no problem with someone free lancing outside of the offense as long as it works. But it better work most of the time. At last look, there wasn't anyone like that on the Jazz. Even then, if it makes the offense bog down while they're watching someone perform magic tricks, Jerry will not be smiling.

Jerry relates to players of all ages as long as a few ground rules are understood. The players who can't or won't understand are usually the ones I have a hard time watching without winching. Funny how that works. And while Jerry is respected, admired and even loved by his players, he is not their buddy. He is their coach. Coaches are forced to tell players they are being traded, cut, or benched. Jerry is too much of a softy to enjoy telling a young man he's not going to be a NBA player and wreck his lifelong dreams. It's easier to keep a little distance so it doesn't hurt as much seeing the pain in their eyes. It's all about character. Jerry exudes it. If he tells you something, bank on it. Spin is a setting on the dryer at home, and not linguistic camouflage.

His time has passed him by. He's too old. He can't nderstand the new NBA. His system doesn't work anymore. I've heard it all and take it with about the same seriousness as the latest bigfoot sightings. In fact, I'd rather hear about bigfoot sightings. At least that would be interesting and might contain a speck of truth.

One other thing. Not surprisingly, Jerry hates to lose. This last season must have been particularly hard for him, struggling with personal problems that were insurmountable and a team that suffered through an injury-ridden campaign unmatched in Jazz history. Is there anyone who seriously believes that will happen again? I don't think this team as constituted has the personnel to win a NBA championship, not without a little seasoning, maturity, and a few key role players to solidify the lineup. But the future looks bright. The core is young, solid, exciting and should make teams on the top now start looking behind them, as they say, for someone may be gaining on them. Take a close look, and a tall, distinguished grey-haired man will still be leading them. And I'm damn glad he is.

His name is Jerry Sloan, but to a few tall and talented young men who wear the Jazz uniform, he's simply known as Coach.