Larry H. Miller - Driven: An Autobiography

Unless otherwise noted, all photos are courtesy of the Larry and Gail Miller family.

2010 Karen G. Miller

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company, P. O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City, Utah 84130. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book Company.

Deseret Book is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Miller, Larry H., 19442009.

Driven : an autobiography / Larry H. Miller, with Doug Robinson.

p. cm.

Includes index.

ISBN 978-1-60641-656-3 (hardbound : alk. paper)

1. Miller, Larry H., 19442009. 2. Automobile dealersUtahBiography.
3. BusinessmenUtahBiography. 4. Utah Jazz (Basketball team) 5. MormonsUnited StatesBiography. I. Robinson, Doug, 1955 II. Title.

HD9710.25.U62A3 2010

381'.45629222092dc22

[B] 2010004202

Printed in the United States of America
Worzalla Publishing Co., Stevens Point, WI

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The Countess and the Impossible
(aka The Five-Dollar Job)

Where do I begin the story of this book?

Well, for starters, the book nearly died with Larry Miller.

Six times he almost died during the seven months we worked on it; five times he was resuscitated.

He was always eager to resume work on the book after each close call or medical crisis. He had something he wanted to share, and he was determined to finish this project just as he had finished so many others. But then he didnt come back that last time.

That might have been the end of it, but he didnt let me off that easily before he left.

The last time I saw Larry Miller was when I drove to his house to say good-bye. His wife, Gail, had called me on my cell phone while I was out for my daily run. She called to inform me of Larrys conditionshe told me he was dying. If youre going to see him, she said, youd better come today. The end is near. So I sprinted the last three blocks to my house, showered hurriedly, put on a dress shirt and slacks, and began driving north toward the Millers residence at the other end of the valley.

As I drove, I thought about all that had transpired. Seven months earlier, Miller had asked me to help him write a book about his life. It was something we had discussed on and off for seven years, beginning shortly after I had written a lengthy profile about Miller for the Deseret News. Regrettably now, both of us were preoccupied with other things, and the book became something we would do someday. People frequently asked him when he was going to write his life story, and his answer was always the same: I dont know; Im too busy living it. Then Miller was hospitalized for 59 days in the summer of 2008 with a heart attack and other serious health problems. After he was released from the hospital, he called me at home one day, and I knew why.

Wed better do that book now, he said. You never know.

We began meeting two or three times a week at his hilltop mansion. Little did we know that we were in a race against time. We talked and talked and talked. We talked at the kitchen table over Gails homemade lunches. We talked in his home office. We talked in the hospital while he underwent dialysis. We talked while he lay in bed in the upstairs bedoom of his home until he fell asleep in the middle of a sentence. We talked through the late summer. We talked through the fall. We talked into the onset of winter.

We talked until he could talk no moreuntil, finally, he was forced to spend all his energy fighting for his life.

Gail greeted me at the door with an embrace and showed me to the living room, where we sat for a few minutes while she explained the latest medical crisisthere had been so many these past few months. Then she led me upstairs to the master bedroom. Larry was lying on the bed with the covers pulled up to his chest, his head propped up by a couple of pillows. He was staring at the ceiling through half-lidded eyes. His arms and hands were bruised purple. It had been a long, weary fight. Doug is here, Gail announced. I approached the bed. Larry was weak and spoke little, and then only in a whisper. I took his cold arm in my handhis hands were too damaged to holdand leaned over his face so that I could look down into his blue eyes.

You never know, he whispered.

He remembered.

Here he was, exhausted, medicated, and dying, and he was being ironic. He was still sharp enough to recall, spontaneously, the words he had spoken to me seven months earlier.

I leaned close to his ear and expressed my admiration and love for him. Youre a keeper, he whispered generously.

I expressed my regret that we hadnt finished the book, and then he said the last words he would speak to me. I dont want to drop it. He said it again: I dont want to drop it.

I turned to Gail. He means the book, she said, confirming what I thought.

I had written nearly half of the book and still had notes from our old interviews that would provide material for many more chapters, but there was much more we had wanted to discuss.

Seeing that Larry was weary and fighting sleep, I took my leave, casting one last look back at the mana legendary figure in Utah historybefore I reached the door.

I knew what I had to do; I had to honor his wish.

He died the next day, February 20, 2009. He was 64.

Doug Robinson

By John Stockton

Larry Miller became a fixture in my life in 1985 when he began the rescue of the Utah Jazz. He completed that task a few short years later. The move was bold and risky for him and his family, but his love for the Salt Lake City community and his desire to keep the Jazz in Utah trumped his fears. It became clear that there was a new sheriff in town as his unique ownership style found its way onto the court and into the locker room.

Without hesitation, Larry would tuck himself into his own Jazz uniform and actively defend us (the players), bumping and shoving, screening out during the warm-ups of home games. Occasionally he would charge like a rhino, snorting and puffing, into our locker room after unpalatable losses. He would roar his contempt for our effort and stomp back out the door. We had never encountered this type of intensity by an owner, and it took some getting used to. I surely did not know the blessing that had just graced my life. My respect for him, as well as a friendship, grew steadily as I came to know Larry over the next 25 years.

One of my first personal experiences with Larry took place when my contract with the Jazz came due. In an unorthodox manner, we each wrote a salary number we thought was appropriate on a piece of paper and handed it across his desk. Both papers contained the same number, and the deal was done. For the rest of my career, we renegotiated my contract face-to-face when it came due. Each time, I knew I had crossed swords with a pirate. His mind was so quick and attuned to numbers that he was calculating deferments and percentages of the cap, amortizations, and a lot more, before I could register what my salary might be. He could have buried me any time he wanted. Like a big brother letting me score once in a while, Larry treated me fairly and honorably.

Over the years we shared many conversations in his office or while driving around in his vintage antique cars. On one occasion, he even took time off to take me on an extended drive to see a sick child. Being the boss, he could have said, Go! Instead, he put his own valuable time aside, picked me up at home, and drove an hour each way to take me there. It was a remarkable trip for both of us and, I think, for the child. He showed the patience of a father with me when I asked questions about life, sports, or business and even tolerated some insubordination at times with grace.