A friend who knows the news business called Saturday night to give me a heads up.
"Pat Summitt is near death," he said.
Just two weeks earlier, I had wondered about her. Her birthday is June 14, the same as my brother's. So ever since she was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer's disease in 2011, I have been as mindful of her as my brother on that date.
Two weeks ago, I thought about the call that would come, probably sooner than later. When the call finally came, my first memory had nothing to do with basketball.
I remembered a stranger standing in front of the JW Marriott on Canal Street in New Orleans, a few days before the 2004 Final Four.
He wanted to know when the Lady Vols would return from practice. He was prepared to wait as long as necessary.
He had met Summitt twice before. But it was the second meeting that left an everlasting impression. He was stunned that she remembered their first meeting.
That wasn't surprising. Summitt didn't just relate to players, recruits and anyone else who would help her become the winningest coach in her sport. She could relate to almost anyone.
"She treats everyone the same whether he's the president or the janitor," a friend of hers once told me.
Virtually all coaches are immersed in the present during a game. But Summitt rarely strayed from the present in a public forum. When you asked a postgame question or asked for her autograph before she left the arena, she could connect with you, even if it were for just a few seconds.
Alzheimer's steals that connection from everyone. Even from someone as strong as Summitt.
I last spoke to her during the 2014-15 season. I was getting off an elevator at Thompson-Boling Arena as she and several companions were about to get on. A friend mentioned me by name, and there seemed to be a hint of recognition in Summitt's expression.
Or maybe I just wanted to think that.
We all owe Summitt a debt for how long she stayed in the public eye, raising money and awareness to fight an insidious disease that steals your identity before it takes your life. But while I applauded her efforts in print, I never liked seeing her at the arena, because it reminded me that the coach I had covered for so many years wasn't really there.
A doctor who had treated Alzheimer's patients early in his career once told me a conversation he had with all of his patient's families when the disease had begun to take hold.
"You need to understand that your loved one is already gone," he would tell them.
I remembered the talks I had with my mother before she died eight days short of her 90th birthday. She didn't have Alzheimer's but she had suffered small strokes that affected her mentally.
She still recognized me. We still had conversations. But when I told her my first wife and I were getting a divorce, she said with no emotion: "That's too bad."
Our connection, so strong for so long, had been lost.
I imagined how Summitt's family and closest friends must have suffered during the past few years as their connection with someone they loved slipped away. I called one of those friends Saturday night.
Jim Campbell is old enough to have followed all Tennessee sports since the 1930s. He started with football and men's basketball. And not long after Summitt took over the women's basketball program in 1974, he decided to check that out, too.
Summitt won him over right away. The next thing you know, he was buying season tickets, following the team on the road and attending practice. He and wife, Betty Reid, became good friends with Summitt. He still can recall details from their post-practice conversations they had on a variety of subjects.
Like Summitt, Campbell's father was raised on a farm. Campbell remembered his father telling him how he worked to develop social graces, just as Summitt did when she went to college. That further strengthened their connection.
"She was such an open person," Campbell said. "She would tell us just about anything. And she never thought she knew it all."
As knowledgeable as Campbell is on numerous subjects, he never pretended to know much about basketball Xs and Os. However, he was so comfortable in his relationship with Summitt that he could make personnel suggestions that would lead to a meaningful conversation, rather than: "I'm the coach and you're not."
Those conversations ended long before Summitt was diagnosed with Alzheimer's.
Campbell's wife got the same diagnosis in 2004. And she already was dealing with other life-altering diseases.
Until Betty Reid died last year, Campbell spent most of his time caring for her. He was in the middle of that when he heard about Summitt.
"That made it doubly difficult," he said.
Summitt's public plight magnified the disease for everyone. There's sadness and pain with that. There's also a world of good that will come from it.
But I don't want to think about that now.
I prefer to remember the stranger on Canal Street eagerly looking forward to a third meeting with Summitt. I also remember all those moments at basketball arenas both near and far when she cut down nets, sang "Rocky Top," stared through an official, and provided countless concise and meaningful postgame quotes that only a sportswriter on deadline could fully appreciate.
And, of course, I'll remember coaching alongside her on game night in 1992 when the U.S. women's basketball Olympic team played an exhibition game at Thompson-Boling against a team of former Vols and Lady Vols.
I was the designated celebrity coach. Summitt was the real coach.
We were allowed only two or three male players on the court at the same time. As the Olympians gained momentum, Summitt turned and asked if we should go with our full allotment of males.
It was only an exhibition. It wouldn't count against her historic won-lost record. But I could sense she had no intention of losing.
"Whatever you think, Coach," seemed like the best response on my part.
In went another male player. We won the game.
And I left the arena thinking how Summitt and I had out-coached those Olympians.
