Reeves’ Firing Brings Back Memories of Yesteryear

Here’s the deal today. I’d like to write about Dan Reeves, fired as football coach in Atlanta on Wednesday -- I know, like you really care about someone who never worked here, never won a Super Bowl and who is probably best known now for doing heart medication commercials and irritating John Elway.

But I know of no better tribute to Dan Reeves, my all-time favorite coach who has probably walked the sideline for the last time after 201 NFL wins, than irritating, frustrating and annoying folks who would rather read about the BCS or the Dodgers. Now why would anyone want to read about the Dodgers?

You see Reeves’ first day in training camp as an NFL head coach 23 years ago was also my first day in training camp as an NFL reporter. That’s when I began my experiments on what it takes to really get under someone’s skin. He knew all about “Survivor” before they made the TV show.

Early on he was always upset with the media -- or a certain reporter, and why I don’t know, because I didn’t treat him any differently than the wife.

He got so angry one time he accused me publicly of paying off the telephone company to bug the Bronco draft room because I wrote ahead of time who they eventually took in the first and second rounds. In those days I couldn’t afford to use a pay phone.

On another occasion I found out who he was going to cut, put the names in the paper and caught him hiding the newspapers from the players the next day. And then I wrote about that.

And Coach Karl Dullard thinks I’m picking on him.

We’re talking volcano temper here with Reeves -- don’t get me wrong, he never ripped a telephone out of the wall after we talked or threw a lit cigar at me like one of the Chargers’ former GMs, never blew his nose on me like Jim McMahon, put a garbage bag over my head like Elvis Patterson or threw candy at me like the older Spanos Goof, but he shouted a lot.

And the veins on his neck would stick out like they were going to bust, and that was just from saying, “Hi.”

OK, so I said “Hi,” while wearing a Silver & Black jacket to every Denver practice to remind him the Broncos weren’t as good as the Raiders. I was young in those days, and stupid.

Even when I tried to help him. I noticed his young son, for example, standing on a street corner a few hours before a Bronco exhibition game scalping tickets, and told the team’s publicity director he better get the kid off the street before the TV cameras had him on the evening news.

The PR guy returned, and said Reeves wanted me to know that he had sent the kid out on the street to unload the tickets.

You know me, if Kevin Malone wants to be known as “Dodger Boy,” as he told Stu Nahan a few years back on the radio, I’ll pass it on. If Dan Evans wants everyone to know how clueless he is, I’ll quote him.

So I wrote a column for the Denver newspaper urging the Broncos to have a great year for the kid’s sake, because knowing the old man’s temper, the kid would have heck to pay if he failed to unload the tickets.

A steaming Reeves came to me in the locker room and asked me to step outside. The players piled against the door, they told me later, hoping they’d hear my body hit the ground after Reeves decked me. He didn’t take a swing, but he yelled at me to never, never write about his family again. (Good thing the wife never thought of that.)

For the next month we said nothing to each other. (When his book comes out, I imagine he’ll refer to that as the best four weeks of his life.)

Later I spotted him eating lunch by himself one day. I find this happens to me a lot, too. After a grumbling exchange, Reeves just began to weep -- if I could only tell you how many athletes break into tears when they see me coming.

Reeves said the team’s captain had told him the players didn’t think he cared for their welfare. He was crushed. I was so taken aback by his sensitivity, I forgot to make fun of him.

I’d learn over the next two decades this was vintage Reeves -- the toughest competitor I’ve ever known, and maybe the most sensitive. I think I understand why he forced the issue with the Falcons on Wednesday -- if you don’t want me back next year, then let’s get on with it -- but then I think I also understand how painful it must have been to pull out of that parking lot for the last time.

We probably won’t hear much of him until his name comes up for Hall of Fame consideration. There are only five NFL coaches who have won more games, and they are all in the Hall. Reeves didn’t win a Super Bowl, and there are some numbskulls who measure success by one game rather than a career, so I worry he won’t get his due, although getting Atlanta to the Super Bowl with Chris Chandler at quarterback should qualify as a miracle.

As far as I’m concerned the man has always been on another level. He never lied, which already sets him apart from his peers, and never asked to go “off the record,” which is the only way most coaches know how to talk these days. You asked Reeves a question, he gave you an answer. A pro’s pro.

I was fortunate to be there for the start and victory No. 1 -- a squeaker over the Raiders on Sept. 6, 1981, and lucky to catch him smiling and celebrating an overtime win over Carolina on Sunday night on ESPN. Almost a happy ending.

I’m just sorry I missed the opportunity to be there for his final press conference, and one last chance to get under his skin.

Maybe I’ll give Dullard a call -- you know, just for practice.

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T.J. Simers can be reached at t.j.simers@latimes.com