Tark’s death gets me to thinking about the man — and my old man

UNLV Rebels basketball coach Jerry Tarkanian watches his team during a game in Las Vegas, Dec. 8, 1981. (Scott Henry/Las Vegas Review-Journal)

There’s something in the sports writer’s code, an unwritten rule, about not asking for autographs.

I have been a sports writer in Las Vegas for 28 years. I have asked for three autographs. None wound up on eBay with a letter of authenticity.

The last time it happened was last year when the Dos Equis beer guy was in town for the NASCAR race. Should by chance I bump into him, a pal asked, would I mind asking for his autograph? The Dos Equis guy signed a beer bottle for my pal as he was heading into the men’s room.

Before he knocked out Michael Moorer to recapture the heavyweight title at age 45, I asked Big George Foreman for his John Hancock. It was my sister-in-law’s birthday; she was a big fan. I asked Big George to make it out to Penny. He made it out to Polly.

The only other autograph I asked for was Jerry Tarkanian’s.

It was such a long time ago. There’s no way he would have remembered it, even if it wasn’t such a long time ago.

It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, at some function at an old sports bar on Maryland Parkway across from the UNLV campus that Tark had lent his name to, at least until somebody got stabbed or shot there late one night.

Tark was holding court with Al McGuire. Christmas was coming up; I didn’t know what to get my old man. Sometimes when miles and years put distance between you and your old man, he becomes hard to buy for.

A book about Tark, written by Terry Pluto, had just come out. I asked Tark to sign the inside cover for my dad, whose first name was the same as mine.

When I heard that Jerry Tarkanian had died Wednesday morning, asking him for his autograph when I was a young sports writer was one of the first things that popped into my mind.

Yes, I thought about the 794 career victories, too. The blowout of Duke in Denver in the national championship game. The ceaseless battles with the NCAA. The Hall of Fame selection.

The better-late-than-never and Glory, Hallelujah! Hall of Fame selection.

What a legacy this man leaves.

The relentless pressing defense. The towel, the sad eyes, the white shirt. The short sleeves on the white shirt. The bronze statue outside the Thomas & Mack Center that I have seen kids climb on before games against Air Force.

The bronze statue where people prayed for Tark before the Rebels game against Fresno State on Tuesday night.

You think of the lives he touched, especially those of his players. Father Flanagan, that’s what Dick Vitale called him.

And, yeah, maybe you think of the hot tub photo, too, although I didn’t linger on the hot tub photo. Kids do stuff they’re not supposed to sometimes, even when they know better.

Sometimes when a person dies, you remember things about them that make you smile.

Like when Tark said the NCAA was so mad at Kentucky it would probably slap another two years of probation on Cleveland State.

Like before the 1990 championship game against Duke, when the Rebels feared that playing at high altitude might hinder their ability to run and gun and throw down dunks on Bobby Hurley and Christian Laettner.

Tark told his guys not to worry about the altitude. That’s outside, he supposedly said. We’re playing inside.

Great story.

Hilarious story.

True story?

I never thought to ask him.

I did think to ask if it were true that TV’s Grandpa Munster helped him recruit Sidney Green, as Sports Illustrated and others have claimed.

When the actor Al “Grandpa” Lewis died a few years back, I called Tark to ask about the Sidney Green story. He said: “Who’s Al Lewis?”

I tried to explain it, that Al Lewis had been a basketball bird dog scout back East as well as an actor. When I told Tark that this was the same man who had played Grandpa on “The Munsters,” it seemed to ring a bell.

“Oh, that guy,” Tark said.

“Never heard of him.”

So I thought about those stories, too, the ones that stick with you for some reason and make you smile, and all the other things, and I thought about Tark’s daughter Jodie, with whom I have become friends. But mostly I thought about asking Tark for his autograph on the inside cover of Terry Pluto’s book when he was holding court with Al McGuire.

Long after the fact, I learned that my old man had taken the book about Tark to the steel mill. He showed it to his co-workers — showed them the best wishes from Tark on the inside cover.

I was told my old man was proud of that autograph, proud that his son, the sports writer, knew Tark the Shark out there in Las Vegas under the bright lights in the Far West Region.

Today was the first time I thought about that since 1993, after my father died and my mom was going through his things and she found Terry Pluto’s book with Jerry Tarkanian’s signature on the inside cover.

She thought I might like to have it back.

Las Vegas Review-Journal sports columnist Ron Kantowski can be reached at rkantowski@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0352. Follow him on Twitter: @ronkantowski