6 a.m., Thursday
The eyes. I still remember the eyes.
His voice could raise and turn salty, the way the voices of most coaches can. The veins in his neck could jut out in frustration. The forehead would furrow in failure.
But the eyes. The eyes gave you a glimpse of the pain Richard Williamson was in. He would sit in his tiny office in the aftermath of another defeat, and he would try to figure out what had happened to his team this time. Once, a reporter tried to make a joke of a question following a loss to Detroit. “You know, John McKay once said he was in favor of executing his offense. Are you in favor of executing yours?'' And Williamson just stared at him, the pain evident on his face. You could have ripped out a lung, and the eyes would not contain any more pain.
Williamson died Wednesday, some 25 seasons after he left Tampa Bay. And immediately, I thought of those eyes. They were the eyes of a man who had seen the size of the demon.
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