Norm's credo: All-out, all the time

If we discover at some point that Norm Van Lier died of a broken heart, it wouldn't surprise many who knew him.

He was a man, above all else, who expected from every one of us the same effort he put into life, and the world only disappointed him, never able to match him sweat for sweat.

Some days, you could sense he was so upset by the lack of desire, or by the way some players approached their NBA careers, that you thought the letdown might kill him.

After all, some may have equaled him, but no one ever played the game harder, or attacked the game with more fervor, than Stormin' Norman.

Van Lier, who was found dead Thursday at the age of 61, was proud that he played with a ferocity, and he never hid the fact that he hit the streets with the same vigor.

He played hard, and he lived hard.

He was far from perfect and had plenty of faults to which he readily admitted, but nothing ever got in the way of being ready to fight the opposition.

If you never got a chance to see him play, it's enough to tell you he was the best pure point guard - and maybe the best defensive player and team leader - in Bulls history.

He's mostly known for his early years in Chicago, for his extraordinary backcourt pairing with another defensive genius, Jerry Sloan.

He played with the likes of Bob Love and Chet Walker on a team that suffered one of the most brutal playoff defeats in Chicago sports history, to Golden State in Game 7 of the '75 conference finals.

But my favorite memory of Van Lier is as the unquestioned leader of the 1976-77 Bulls that won 20 of 24 down the stretch to come out of nowhere and make the playoffs in the old Stadium that was never louder, and never shook more violently.

They were the Bulls of Van Lier, Artis Gilmore, Wilbur Holland, Scott May, Mickey Johnson and Crash Mengelt.

Unfortunately, their reward for that incredible finish was drawing Portland in a first-round, best-of-three series, which they lost, 2-1.

Portland went on to win the NBA title, but no team challenged the Blazers as did the Bulls that spring.

Bill Walton once told me that the Bulls were the only team could have beaten them that year, and that the Blazers were the only team that could have stopped the Bulls' late-season freight train.

Of course, Walton was the same guy who told the story of going to a Rolling Stones concert, and then was shocked to find Van Lier sleeping on his couch the next morning.

That was Norman, a man who never left the batter's box feeling cheated.

I have to say, if you'll indulge me, that Norm was one of my favorite people, genuine from the moment he woke up, to the moment he hit the pillow.

Old school from start to finish.

That got him into trouble, sure, as he would tell anyone what he thought, be it opponents or referees, team owners or teammates, coaches or fans.

On the court or on the air, he was tough, but he also loved people and he loved to teach - especially young people.

When he spoke at my high school, he noticed a few of us with torn jeans or ripped up shoes, and he really let us have it for dressing like slobs.

Think I ever wore those rags again?

Over the years, I would remind him of that and his eyes would grow as wide as his smile.

And every time I saw him, he talked of writing a book, desperately wanting to share his stories and change the way kids - especially basketball players - approach life.

He spoke often of his daughter, Heidi, a writer and filmmaker, and he was so proud she was making her own way in the world.

I hope when she puts aside her grief, she'll be proud of all her dad was, and all he accomplished. Mostly, I hope she recognizes what people thought of him.

Me, well, I was lucky. In recent years, Norm had too much stress and some health troubles, but he always had a hug for a friend and time for a few laughs.

I was glad enough just to know him, and I'm thankful for the memories, but I will surely miss him.

You had one heck of a run, Storm. One heck of a tough run.

Rest in peace.

brozner@dailyherald.com