Basketball has known all sorts of great coaches: from the magnificent purists such as Dean Smith, Larry Brown and Mike Krzyzewski, to the warrior-kings Bob Knight and Pat Riley, to the philosopher-king Phil Jackson.
There were three, however, unlike anyone before or after, with personal values as important as their accomplishments.
One is UCLA's John Wooden, whose records will never be approached and whose spirit would inspire his players long after they were through playing.
One was the Boston Celtic Godfather, Red Auerbach, who built the NBA's greatest dynasty, and longest-running extended family, on street smarts and will.
The third was Pete Newell, who died last week at 93.
Newell's accomplishments -- an NCAA title at California in 1959, an Olympic gold medal in 1960 with the Dream Team of its time -- were impressive, but his impact went far beyond that.
Gentle, unassuming and without an ounce of self-promotion, Newell crossed over into professional basketball, casting a long shadow over both worlds.
He was the coaches' coach, shaping generations of players at his Big Man's Camp, serving as surrogate father to greats as disparate as Jerry West, the NBA's Logo, and Knight, the college game's winningest coach.
Appropriately, Newell died at a friend's home in Rancho Santa Fe, waiting eagerly for the arrival of an old friend.
It was West, working on a new book and eager to introduce his co-author to Newell, who, as Lakers GM, had talked him off so many ledges at the end of his playing days.
Driving down from Los Angeles, West arrived a few minutes late, to find Newell had died, only minutes before.
"I got distracted and I went by the exit," West said. "I missed it by two exits, so I turned around and came back. . . . I went through the gate and they were standing on the porch with tears in their eyes.
"He had just passed away. I missed him by about two minutes. I walked in there and he was sitting there in a wheelchair. I walked over there and put my arm on his shoulder and said what I thought should be said, to myself. . . .
"He and I were probably a lot closer than people thought. He really meant a lot to me. He was very much of a father figure for me.
"He knew how I blamed myself for losses, not anyone else, and he was always there to kind of put a hand on my shoulder and say, 'Hey, look, you couldn't play better.'
"And I'd try to explain to him, maybe I couldn't play better, but we didn't win.
