Miller consulted LDS Church President Gordon B. Hinckley and industrialist Jon Huntsman about the idea, but his purchase of the Jazz was still an act of sheer financial insanity by a guy who merely was a casual basketball fan and borrowed $8 million to buy a franchise that had lost $17 million in its 11-year history, including $1 million in its best year, "and we had no definable plan as to how we would turn it around and break even." Oh, yes, and Miller's net worth at the time was just $2 million. He had no equity in the deal; he wanted to borrow 100 percent of the money. Perhaps most remarkably, he convinced a consortium of conservative bankers to take the risk with him. He literally crashed a board of directors meeting at a Salt Lake hotel to make his plea to one bank. In another meeting with the Zions Bank board of directors, chairman Roy Simmons asked Miller why they should lend him the money, then smiled afterward and told Miller, "Before you came in here, I had told these gentlemen that I could not think of any answer you could give that would change my mind. You changed my mind."

Bottom line: In nine days, he raised $8 million for a sick business. Today it is worth an estimated $211 million.

Given his golden touch, Miller has been urged at times to seek political office. "Look, I'm not puffed in this, but I have unique, if not rare, elements about me," he says. "I can organize human and financial resources to make things happen. If I were in government, it would taint something about what I do and how I work. I now have broad access to people in government. I can talk to Democrats and Republicans, city people, county people, state people. Many doors are open to me now. It's the way that I can accomplish certain things that others can't."

Others in Miller's position might be tempted by political office to soothe their egos. Not Miller. The philanthropy, frugality, work ethic and even his wardrobe and hands-on attention to details are at least partially driven by a long-held fear that money would somehow change him. "I don't mind getting big," he likes to say, "I just don't want to act like it."

In his spare time, Miller teaches a Sunday school class and a weekly three-hour entrepreneurial class at BYU. (Ironically, the former high-school flunky now has four honorary college degrees.) On the last day of class he hands students a collection of poems and favorite quotes and stories that inspire, teach and motivate. Miller carries a pocket-size notebook in which he jots topics for dissertations, which later he expands into an essay in another notebook he carries in his briefcase. He plans to write a book as a legacy to his family. Maybe he is a hard-driving businessman, but Miller is a soft touch. He cries as he describes books he has read and art work he has seen and children he has missed.

Miller has tried to heal the wounds of his family. All five children — and 16 grandchildren — live in the valley. They meet one Sunday each month to hold a Family Home Evening and to celebrate the birthdays for that month. The entire extended family takes vacations together annually.

Acknowledging his mistakes, Miller says, "That's why I feel so fortunate. I have a good relationship with all five children. It could have been permanent (damage). Things are better than ever. We work hard on this. The kids feel like they can speak up and express their feelings now. They probably are angry. We've worked on communication so I don't think it's something constant gnawing in them."