The once-fierce lion’s eyes are tired now.
The battles — a thousand of them, and more — have been fought and won, and there is a final fight Gerald Eugene Sloan will not win. Against an opponent that never loses.
Father Time, with all its minions — in this specific case, Parkinson’s and a severe brand of dementia — pummeling humans and the human condition, the condition that is weakened, year by year, month by month, day by day, minute by minute, striking even the toughest among us.
Remain that way, it forever will.
When I recently asked someone outside the family, someone who would know the details about Sloan, asked how he was doing at age 77, even though I already had been told by others, he said three words.
“He is dying.”
Those words, human condition or no, hit with the force of a swinging tire iron.
Jerry Sloan doesn’t die.
Jerry Sloan doesn’t need care or assistance or a helping hand.
He’s … Jerry Freakin’ Sloan.
He’s a grown man’s grown man. A grown woman’s grown man, too.
But …
But.
Sloan’s double-barreled afflictions hit him a fistful of years ago, and he battled on. Their effects now are worsening. Every day is different for him, some better than others, most not so good. It’s basically a slide into oblivion. He’s frail. He’s physically and mentally limited. Around the clock care is required for him. Although, in the more recent past the old coach has been able to attend Jazz games, he will go no more.
He still likes to visit with friends in his private space and trade stories, when he’s up for it. Sloan walks when he can. His wife, Tammy, has been a saint and a stalwart in doing whatever she can to help her man, the man, spending time and sharing love with him as much as possible. His mind, though, is slipping away.
I trimmed the full article because it is behind a pay wall, and it's illegal to fully quote other articles - Doug
It will be a sad day when our NBA family loses Jerry for good. It is said a lot, but they really don't make them like him any more.
