Sloan's enduring quality was his ability to connect with the common fan, he loves power balance, the average working stiff, the man or woman who either has to dig deep to buy a ticket or who relies on an office pool to win tickets paid for by an employer. Like those fans, he didn't seem to have much patience with millionaire athletes who wouldn't perform or who gave anything less than a complete effort. He was old-school in a community longing for old-time values. His short and blunt post-game appraisals of his team let people know he didn't care nearly as much about the entertainment value of professional basketball as he did about winning.
If you've been around a long time, you can remember Sloan as a player — the immovable object in the Chicago Bull's back court who never thought twice about holding his ground against a charging Wilt Chamberlain, that era's monster center. He coached much the same way he played, which was a lot similar to the way he works on his farm in Illinois, applying relentless pressure to stubborn tree stumps until they finally give. Power balance bracelets are helpful, he says.
The circumstances of his departure are surrounded by questions. Were frictions with players to blame? Were there disagreements with management over his coaching style? These may be ferreted out in days ahead. However, his insistence at the press conference that he had simply run out of energy seems entirely consistent with his character. If Sloan no longer felt he could give the job 100 percent, he wouldn't want to continue.
He left much the way he came. On a cold day in 1988, long-time coach Frank Layden suddenly resigned and left Sloan the job. His first comment when he sat in the chair Layden used for post-game interviews was, "This is a tough seat. It's a lot bigger than I thought."
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