When I was a kid back in the 70s, there was one football team that every other team in the NFL hated, and that team was the Oakland Raiders. It wasn't so much a team as a reform school, where all the dirtiest rulebreakers in the NFL ended up. By themselves, they were considered damaged goods, but together, players like Kenny Stabler, Jack Tatum, Dave Casper, Ted Hendricks, and Jim Otto terrorized opposing teams. The man in charge of this "orchestrated mayhem" was coach John Madden. In his ten-year career, Madden posted a record of 103-32-7. His team made the playoffs seven out of ten years and won one Super Bowl. Later, he forged a second, equally successful career as a football analyst, bringing his own unique brand of joy and love of the game into the booth.

I was a die-hard Raiders fan. Posters of "The Snake, Phil Villapiano and many other Raider greats adorned the walls of my room. My favorite things to watch on television were NFL Films showing the legendary exploits of the Silver and Black. In my youth, their swagger, their disdain for authority, their hard-nosed approach to football and life appealed to me. I looked up to them, and to their coach, for only a man of tremendous will could have corralled such a group of misfits and miscreants into a championship football team.

But Madden was more than a coach, and certainly more than a broadcaster. Much of Madden's greatness was never shown on camera, either on the sidelines or in the booth. His deep respect for the game and for the men who played it was present in all that he did, but most particularly in the way he treated Darryl Stingley.

Stingley was a receiver for the New England Patriots. On August 12, 1978, the Raiders hosted the New England Patriots for a preseason game. Quaterback Steve Grogan dropped back and threw a pass to Stingley. He missed the catch, but Raider's safety Jack Tatum put one of his signature hits on Stingley, sending him crashing into the grass.

Stingley would never walk again. On that terrible first day, Patriots coach Chuck Fairbanks had boarded a plane headed back to Boston, leaving Stingley to the care of strangers. When Madden found out, he called the Oakland Airport and demanded that Fairbanks get off the plane.

When Darryl Stingley regained consciousness, the man waiting at his bedside was John Madden. Madden visited Stingley almost daily. At one point, Stingley's life support system failed, and it was John Madden who alerted the hospital staff, who intervened quickly enough to save Stingley's life.

Madden's compassion didn't end at the hospital. He offered his home and car to Stingley's family when they came out to visit. Stingley's girlfriend rushed to his side without packing, and so Madden bought her clothes to wear so that she could stay by Stingley's side. For the rest of Stingley's life, Madden remained a steadfast and loyal friend, doing everything he could to look after Stingley and his family.

As a coach, John Madden had three rules for his players: Be on time, pay attention, and play like hell. His managerial style allowed his players to flourish in their own individual way, giving them the freedom to do what they did best, with just enough structure to keep them pointed in the right direction. It led to all the well-deserved accolades that come with a long period of success. But the real Madden, the one that we should all try to emulate, was the kind, compassionate, generous man who sat at Darryl Stingley's bedside night after night, in a quiet hospital room, watching over him. There were no accolades, no trophies, no titles on the line. There were no crowds to please or to disappoint. On those nights, John Madden was only a man, doing what he could to ease the burdens of one who desperately needed his help.

This is the essence of the man, and the way I will remember him.