'Driven' is emotional journey

Let's get the disclaimer out of the way first. I was a friend of the late Larry H. Miller pretty much since the day I met him in 1985 when he bought into the Utah Jazz. And fellow Deseret News columnist Doug Robinson is one of my very best friends.

So it is with that bias that I submit that their collaboration in writing Larry's life story before he died has produced, in my opinion, the best autobiography since J.R. Moehringer assisted Andre Agassi with his.

"Driven," released this month by Deseret Book, is Miller's story, as told by him, to Doug, from the proximity of his deathbed, which, beyond the obvious disadvantages, provides a most relevant vantage point for clarity and perspective.

What you don't get in this book is the trivial or the mundane. Or even much lowdown. There's no, "Why I took Ostertag back after I finally got rid of him," or "Derek Fisher: Friend or foe?" or "What was the deal with me and Checketts, anyway?"

There's not even, "Why did I cry so much at press conferences?"

What you do get is what Larry, after all was said and done, found important: the events and adventures, the relationships and decisions, the hard knocks and lessons learned, that shaped him as a person — the parts of his 64 years on Earth he considered most worth preserving.

And let me warn you up front, the love story is going to make you cry like Larry H. Miller.

The book is full of alternate bashing and praising.

Miller balefully scolds himself and freely confesses his personal challenges and shortcomings. He talks about his temper, about his obsessiveness over success. He details how he worked longer hours than a lighthouse, how as a result he neglected his health and his children — they went to his ballgames instead of him going to theirs — to the point that you can come to only one conclusion:

His wife, Gail, is a saint.

He also praises. He chronicles the many accomplishments of the Jazz since he bought them; he talks about his loyalties, his philanthropy, his devotion to his church; about the joy of raising his grandson; the benefits of staying out of personal debt. He tells about how, were it not for the converted parts man who rescued them, they'd either be the Minnesota Jazz or the Miami Jazz.

There's little self-indulgent name-dropping. He includes a chapter each on Stockton and Malone but says scant about the NBA or his fellow owners. (Although he does manage to get in a nice shot at Mark Cuban.)