El cid, a remembrance. (Here Below).

THE PASSING OF A GIANT IS a melancholy thing, and if he happens to be someone you have known and admired for a lot of years it can wound very deeply.

As it did with us when we heard of Sid Gillman's passing at age 91 in early January. It was strange. We had known he was in poor health for years, but his passing overwhelmed us. In our mind's eye he had been as enduring as the seven blocks of granite.

Gillman was vibrant and magnetic, a presence, and an immense creative force in football. We could never claim him as a close friend. But we did have one great shared experience. Two weeks in Orange County, California, in the middle of the summer of 1960-the first Charger preseason football camp.

Al Davis had been the stork who brought us there. He had been an obscure young line coach at an obscure little college in Nowhere, America when he had an article published in Scholastic Coach.

It opened a lot of doors for him... The Citadel, then Southern Cal, and then the pros--first as an assistant coach, then a head coach, then a league president, and then an owner. All in a period of about 10 years!

For a brief while, he had become type cast as a world-class recruiter, which he was. But the label had also become an albatross. Diminishing him as a coach.

It was Sid Gillman who spotted the facile mind, the breadth of his knowledge, and the prodigious work ethic. He invited Al to become his end coach with the Chargers in the newly formed AFL. And he did not protest when his rookie coach invited his editor to the Chargers' training camp.

Even at this stage in their careers, it was obvious that the matching of Sid Gillman and Al Davis could only have been made in heaven. Gillman was the guru, Davis the lightning rod. They lived and dreamed and schemed for just one thing--win football games.

Sid was the first football man who really knew what Al Davis was all about: "The little -- thinks he's the smartest coach in football. He isn't... but he's going to be."

Sid became special to us for three reasons:

First, when we asked him whether we could attend the classroom lectures and coaches' meetings, he told us: "Go wherever you want, ask all the questions you want, write all the lies you want, stay as long as you want, and eat with the coaches."

Second, as a going-away present, he gave us his coaching cap, shirt, and windbreaker which (43 years later) we still have. Sid actually never used them. His camp uniform consisted of a T-shirt (with no logos), low-cut white sneakers, and a knee-high pair of shorts that showed off the hugest, most muscular calves west of the York, PA, gym.

Third, when we asked him whether he'd be interested in writing a book on his offense, he laughed: "Hey, I'm a coach, not a writer. If you're looking for something to read, I'll get you a library card."

Several days later, he approached us after lunch and told us he had decided to write the book. "I'll put it all down on tape and mail it to you in New York. You can transcribe the copy, edit it, and then make the deal with a publisher. We'll split the advance and the royalties."

Al Davis coached for Gillman for three years, recruited Lance Alworth. as a going-away present, and then joined the Oakland Raiders to build a dynasty and a legend. In 1966, he took a year off to take over the presidency of the AFL and force the NFL to accept the new league as equal partners.

We loved our two-week vacation with the Chargers, and we will never forget our first afternoon in Sid Gillman's office. Five people coming together on a venture into the unknown.

Who would have dreamed that three of them (Gillman, Davis, and the other rookie assistant coach, Chuck Noll) would wind up in the pro football Hall of Fame; that the fourth person, quarterback Jack Kemp, would become a member of the President Ronald Reagan's cabinet, and that the fifth person, the editor, would set a record for permanent pre-season guesting (six Charger-Raider camps in a row)!

Over the years, we'd touch base with Sid Gillman from time to time and would never go away without learning something intriguing about the game.

Although he went on to win acceptance as a super coach and the father of the modern passing game, he never was the same after retiring from coaching. Each time we called, he would ask, "Are you still working?" We'd say. "Full time." And he'd always say, "God, you're lucky."

We understood. How can a coach retire from his passion for living?

P.S. He never wrote that book, to the surprise of neither of us.