Bohls: Texas' Coach Gus was a complete winner and totally beloved ... by all

Anyone who has ever hit a single letter on the keyboard of their Royal typewriter or their MacBook Air computer is more than aware that there is never any cheering allowed in the press box.

It’s so understood that the internal public-address system at every stadium makes that formal announcement before every football game in case any needed a professional reminder.

But that sportswriter mandate never addresses crying in a press box.

There are tears today for the passing of legendary Texas baseball coach Cliff Gustafson, a man I had the privilege to know better than any other coach for half a century. Tears of sadness for our loss and his family’s loss. Tears of gratitude for his life well lived. Tears of relief that he will suffer no more from Parkinson’s disease or congestive heart failure.

The latter claimed him in the early hours of Monday morning with his beloved daughters, Jann and Jill, at his bedside.

We, on the other hand, were blessed to have him for 91 years, almost a third of which were spent in a Longhorns baseball uniform. And I was blessed to call him friend.

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I was no different than most of the 7,695 fans who packed UFCU Disch-Falk Field last June 3 and gave him a standing ovation. Gustafson, taking in his only game of the year from his wheelchair in a private suite with legends of their own like Greg Swindell, Doug Hodo, Kirk Dressendorfer and others, beamed as the cheers washed over this giant of a man. He deserved all the acclaim and more. He may well have been the greatest coach Texas has ever had in any sport.

I loved Coach Gus. I truly did.

I know we’re not supposed to, journalistic professional detachment and all. But I spent 20 years covering his every game and many of his grueling practices as a beat writer from 1975 to 1994 and two more seasons as an American-Statesman columnist. Coach Gus, or “18,” as some reverently called him with reference to his jersey number that he wore in that third-base coaching box forever, was the most down-to-earth, affable coach I’ve ever been around.

He so wanted to be the Longhorns head coach after six high school state championships at South San Antonio, he took a $500 paycut with the offer from Texas athletic director Darrell Royal. But he was so astounded to even get the phone call from DKR that after the initial greeting, a dismissive Gus said, “Yeah, and I’m Roy Rogers.”

For all his 1,466 wins that made him college baseball’s all-time winningest coach — he now sits at 15th, but eighth among Division I coaches with a staggering, best-ever .792 winning percentage — and two national titles, he was a simple man, given to simple tastes like peanut butter and honey sandwiches and corn chips for darn near every lunch he ever had and his favorite Blue Bell vanilla ice cream before Type 2 diabetes objected.

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But he was a dedicated man who gave his all to the University of Texas, who’d religiously run several miles every day on the Disch-Falk warning track and a devoted husband to the late Janie, his second wife Ann and his three children, including his late son Deron, who died in 2008. Gus defined excellence.

He touched countless lives and often believed in them more than the players sometimes did themselves. He was tough. No doubt. He pushed them hard because he cared so much. He let nothing slip through the cracks.

He’d win a game by forcing a balk with a man on third in the ninth, he’d win a game by giving a take sign on a 3-2 count, and he’d win a game sometimes by squeezing every last pitch — and I mean every — out of the guy on the mound. That was Gusball, a tag I gave his winning brand of baseball.

But he was also brutally realistic. When iconic trainer Frank Medina expressed his frustration with getting Keith Moreland to run drills and adhere to the rules, Gus said, “Frank, I can always find another trainer. But I can’t find another All-American third baseman.”

The well wishes poured in on Monday. Even the governor sent his condolences to the family of the man who went to the College World Series 17 times in 29 seasons.

I always remembered the one time I asked Gus what he would have been, had he not chosen coaching, and the soft-spoken man with the dry wit and deadpan approach from Kenedy, Texas, said he had wanted to be an auctioneer, just fascinated by the fast-talking gibberish at cattle auctions, which was interesting because no one ever talked or walked slower than he did.

I’d drop by his office some days after a loss and he’d say, “That was a pretty crappy story you wrote today.” I’d reply, “Well, that was a pretty crappy game you coached.” He’d laugh and then we’d visit for half an hour.

He got furious in 1975 — the year of his first national title — when our newspaper ran a story on Page C5 about backup second baseman Danny Dinges quitting the team before Omaha, so it wasn’t all peaches and cream, but he had his tender side as well.

One day during one of his extended workouts as we sat alone in the dugout toward the middle of his career, he told me, “I love you.” I was completely flummoxed, didn’t know how to respond and finally sheepishly said, “You know how I feel about you.”

I loved Coach Gus. So did so many others.

He was easily the most genuine and honest coach I’ve ever been around. He was always the same. He was so totally unaffected by his fame and accomplishments but so driven by winning the next game. I’ve been in the locker room when he’d berate players and question if they were good enough to play at this level. He almost always knew what buttons to push to get results.

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He didn’t befriend his players during their playing days, but they became devoted to him afterward with an abiding appreciation for how he helped them become men who lived with purpose and without excuses. He wasn’t wild about excuses.

Relief pitcher Jimmy Tompkins became incredibly close to Gus. He rightfully fought hard to have Gus’ name attached to the stadium, a goal that still needs fulfilling.

“For someone who was such a strict taskmaster on the field, he had the most incredible tender heart,” Tompkins said. “I will always cherish the years we spent nearly every afternoon telling stories and playing guitars. He created a family that we are all a part of, and he was the centerpiece.”

Outfielder Doug Hodo Jr., whose son also played outfield for Texas just a season ago, completely adored the man he himself played for in the ❜80s, helping him win his last CWS crown in 1983. We spoke Monday, and he said poetically, “I just hope there’s peanut butter in heaven.”

Hey, not to worry. Gus probably packed some for the trip. He always prepared for everything.

In the 1980s, the golden era of Longhorns baseball, Gus won the College World Series in 1983 and finished second the next two seasons. In 1989, Texas limped into Omaha with one of his least-talented teams ever, paced by ace Kirk Dressendorfer and slugger Scott Bryant, and was runner-up again, this time to Wichita State.

That was the year when Texas A&M had maybe its best team ever but fell at home and didn’t make it to the CWS. After accepting the regional trophy at Disch-Falk Field, Gus leaned into the microphone at home plate and said, “Where are the Aggies now?” He immediately regretted it, this bastion of good Texas manners and gentlemanliness, but he was caught up in the moment.

We shared his precious peanut butter and honey sandwiches in his tiny cubicle of an office beneath the third-base stands at Disch-Falk before the Longhorn moved to the first-base side. I treasured those days.

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He had won so many Southwest Conference baseball championships — 22 in all — that he used one as a doorstop and others stood scattered around his office on filing cabinets and the floor.

It was in 1975 when I first saw the huge sign in the locker room that said, “Winning shall not be entrusted to the weak or timid.” Others have used that mantra since, but no coach ever lived it as he did every single day of his life.

He didn’t even want to lose intra-squad scrimmages. His drills were so honed down to the last detail that his players responded like robots when such moments arose during games. Arkansas coach Norm DeBriyn once was awestruck as his Razorbacks were about to knock off the Longhorns at the College World Series when a Hogs batter hit a fierce comebacker to the mound that the Texas pitcher calmly fielded before firing home for a 1-2-3 inning-ending double play. Routine stuff. Just like they’d practiced. It’s what winners do.

His nephew, John Turman, told me Monday, “My favorite quote was when someone told Coach Gus you can’t win ❜em all, he said, ‘You can if you’re good enough.’“

Coach Gus was more than good enough.

He was the best. And I loved him.

This article originally appeared on Austin American-Statesman: Texas' Cliff Gustafson, as a coach and man, was beloved ... by all