Late Utah Jazz owner Larry H. Miller never made peace with unsettling childhood

This is the second of an eight-part series on "Driven: An Autobiography" about the life of Larry H. Miller written by Deseret News columnist Doug Robinson in collaboration with Miller. Each begins with Robinson's personal observations and experiences from the project, followed by an excerpt from the book. "Driven" is available at Deseret Book.

As I began to interview Larry H. Miller for the book, we soon developed a routine. I usually showed up at his house late in the afternoon, and we would talk for two or three hours, then I would return to my home and write a chapter using the notes from the day's discussion. For some reason, I found myself doing much of the writing while sitting up in bed with my laptop from 11:30 p.m. to 2 a.m. or so. Without fail, as I wrote, I made a long list of follow-up questions on a notepad next to my bed, and when I met with Larry a couple of days later, I would ask him questions that covered many of the same points we had discussed in our previous meeting, except now I wanted clarification or deeper answers or more detail.

"I see a pattern here," Larry said one day. "We talk about a certain subject, then you write and come back with more questions about that same thing and it gets me to talk more in depth about it. I like it. It forces me to think and to delve deeper into things."

This proved to be especially true in the matter of Larry's childhood. The more we talked about it, the more he seemed to explore it in a way he hadn't previously. There were several incidents in his youth — including twice being hauled from his home by police — that troubled him to the end of his life, even to the extent that he returned to visit with his childhood bishop in a futile attempt to understand them. He felt paralyzed and set adrift by his disconnected feelings at home. He believed these incidents shaped him and perhaps accounted for his driven nature to succeed.

One night during the summer of my 16th year I returned home to find my world turned upside down. It was late, close to 11 p.m., and I had walked home through the summer night on Capitol Hill as I often did after being out with friends. It was a typical evening, with a cool breeze stirring the maples overhead. I counted my steps as I walked, which remains one of my odd habits. As I approached our house, I saw three sacks on the porch and wondered what they contained. I walked up the stairs and onto the porch, peeked into the sacks and was stunned by what I saw. They were filled with my clothes.

I was confused. What was going on?

I tried the front door knob. Locked. I walked around to the side of the house to try the walkout basement door. Locked.