Now that he’s gone, no longer around to stare daggers into my heart, I can say the truth about Dan Reeves, who passed away Saturday at age 77.
Coach Reeves was a real pain in the butt, prickly as a cactus and too proud to admit he was wrong, even when botching my name.
“Hey, Kriz-el … Kissler … whatever your name is. Where do you come up with this stuff you write,” Reeves would angrily mumble back in the early 1990s, wondering how a no-nothing columnist could criticize coaching decisions in a sport too complicated for a knucklehead like me to understand.