Krause just wanted to succeed. Desperately.

Jerry Krause wanted to succeed more than any sports executive I ever met.

When he finally did succeed, all he ever wanted was to be recognized for his achievement.

Krause, the former general manager of the Chicago Bulls, died Tuesday at the age of 77 from complications related to several health issues. I got to know Krause during the years I covered the Bulls for the Daily Herald from 1988-1999.

The relationship between the media and basketball executives in the 1990s was far more open than it is today. Back then, you could actually get useful information out of a general manager or coach from time to time.

However, that was never true about Krause. He would joyfully tell you stories about his early days as a baseball scout, or his time with the Baltimore Bullets prior to joining the Bulls. But if you had a question related to anything having to do with the Bulls, Krause was not going to provide you with an answer.

He was very strongly principled in that way. He knew if he answered one question and did so truthfully, he would be required to answer the next one, either with truth or with lie. He didn't want to lie, so he would just solve that problem by saying nothing. Ever.

During the time we worked in conjunction with each other, Krause never told me anything I could use, never revealed a company plan, a simple consideration of what his next move might be, or what his thinking process was. And I was one of the reporters he liked.

I was witness, however, to the pain of watching a man succeed at his chosen task and never able to fully enjoy his success. He wanted very badly to be recognized for his accomplishments as the architect of six NBA championship teams, but because of his interpersonal skills and the prideful choices of those he worked with, he never received the accolades he desired.

Krause was treated with contempt by Michael Jordan, Scottie Pippen and others for no reason other than he was, as Bulls current vice president of basketball operations John Paxson noted Tuesday, an "easy target." He was squat, and in poor physical condition, surrounded by young men in the prime of their physiques. He was brusque, and fully aware of those who did not respect his station among team officials. He was secretive, and his role as contract negotiator put him at odds with the players.

The mocking he suffered was hard to watch. He was bullied, is what it was, by people who were supposed to be adults.

The worst was on those occasions when I was on the team bus. The players all sat in the back, the media got the third or fourth row of seats, and Krause would sit up front. When he got on the bus, immediately someone in the back would mimic his habit of coughing when he spoke. You would hear his unkind nickname "Crumbs" whispered (he had a tendency to have food stains or remnants on his sports coat or shirt from time to time). I never knew of him barking back at his tormentors; that would be unseemly, and Krause would never do anything that would reflect poorly on Bulls owner Jerry Reinsdorf, who always had his back.

There were people in the organization who befriended him. Assistant coach Tex Winter, the designer of the triangle offense whom Krause forced upon Phil Jackson, was one of his friends. Bill Cartwright, the player Krause traded for Charles Oakley and earned Jordan's never-ending ire, would be a frequent dinner companion of Krause.

Krause spent an inordinate amount of time on the road scouting college and pro players because that is what he loved doing the most, and he could get away from the world that should have been his kingdom but wasn't.

He wanted Jordan to say "thank you" for giving him quality teammates. He wanted Pippen to say "thank you" for acquiring him so he could have a Hall of Fame career. He wanted the city of Chicago to cheer him for creating not one but two championship squads around Jordan's talents, but the city knew how Jordan felt, and he was not going to win a popularity contest against Jordan.

One afternoon, Krause and I went to lunch following practice. We went to his favorite deli on the north shore, and when he first picked up his sandwich, a drip of condiment fell and landed on his tie. I looked away, pretending I did not see it happen, and I heard Krause say under his breath, "Will you look at that?"

He wanted to be known as "The Sleuth." Too often he was called "Crumbs."

The good news is that his legacy is represented by the banner in the rafters at the United Center, and that says what needs to be said about his time with the Bulls.