For a long time, I thought a great idea for a book would be a collection of Bobby Bowden stories you’ve never heard. From people you’ve never heard of.

It would not include the famous tales from well-known players or high-profile games. A zillion of those have been published already.

These would be stories from the rival fans he charmed at a restaurant. And the golfers he befriended on the course. And the parents whose children he graced with a photo and five minutes of his time in a busy airport.

If you’ve lived in Tallahassee or been around Florida State athletics for any period of time, you know that everybody has a Bobby Bowden story. And they all warm your heart.

It’s why, upon the news of his passing Sunday morning, so many people wanted to talk about the man Bobby Bowden was, not the victories he piled up during 34 seasons as the Seminoles' head coach.

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More than any other person I’ve ever encountered -- in my personal or professional life -- Coach Bowden possessed this beautiful gift of making people feel as if they were the center of his universe. As if they were not only important to him, but that they were important to the world.

And then he would blow those people’s minds years later during chance meetings, when he would ask them about an ailing family member they once casually mentioned. Or when he’d bring up their hometown or occupation.

He had this knack for making people, often complete strangers, feel valued. And he was able to share that gift with so many because he was so accessible, in every aspect of his life.

I don’t know if they publish phone books anymore, but if they do, the name Robert C. Bowden (and accompanying phone number and address) is undoubtedly still listed -- just like it has been for decades.

Until very recently, in fact, longtime Tallahassee residents knew they could drop off Florida State memorabilia with a note on his back porch. And when they returned a few days later, they would find it autographed with whatever message they requested.

No fees. No questions. Just gifts and grace.

And he treated everyone the same way, including the media.

Remember when I mentioned that everyone has a Bobby Bowden story? Well, I have a few.

My first job out of college was at the Times-Enterprise newspaper in Thomasville, Ga. At the time, it had a circulation of about 11,000. Which in today’s newspaper world wouldn’t be half-bad, but back in the pre-Internet days, it was miniscule.

We covered mostly high schools, but since we were only about 45 minutes north of Tallahassee and since Thomasville’s favorite son, Charlie Ward, had just won the Heisman Trophy (this was spring of 1994), I called the FSU football offices asking if I could come down and write a story about spring football.

Miss Sue Hall, Bowden’s longtime assistant and one of the sweetest souls on the planet, answered the phone and said it would be great if I wanted to come down. She gave me a date and time to report, and said she would see me then.

In my 23-year-old mind, I assumed she had given me the details for Bowden’s weekly press conference. That’s how many college coaches operated back then. They would speak to reporters after practices, but they also would have a more formal weekly media event.

That’s what I was expecting.

Much to my surprise, when I arrived a few days later, Miss Sue ushered me from her desk directly to Bowden’s office for a one-on-one interview. It was just me, him and my little reporter’s notebook.

What in the ever-loving world?

Bobby Bowden had just won a national championship. I was making $7.10 an hour and had driven a 12-year-old beater to this interview.

My first instinct was to apologize, thinking there had to be some type of mistake. Certainly this time slot was actually reserved for some important national reporter flying in to write a big feature.

About eight years later, I would end up coming to Tallahassee as managing editor of The Osceola -- the long-running weekly newspaper with an office right across the street from Doak Campbell Stadium.

It was from there that I had the privilege of covering the final eight seasons of Bowden’s legendary career.

They weren’t the best years for Bowden. Not by a long shot. But what was so incredibly impressive was how he treated the media even in the darkest of times.

Always accessible. Always respectful.

After Bowden was forced to resign following the Florida game in 2009, it was determined that his final game would be the 2010 Gator Bowl against West Virginia. And with so many reporters asking for time with Bowden to reflect on his historic career, FSU’s sports information department came up with a plan to fulfill those requests during pre-bowl practices.

One by one, reporters would get to sit with Bowden in his golf cart and talk with him for about 15 minutes while he watched his players work out.

Thinking back, I’m not sure I even wrote a story from that conversation. I honestly don’t even remember what I asked or what he answered. I was just blown away that he was taking some of his precious final moments as Florida State’s head football coach to help us do our job.

Perhaps more than any other coach who has ever lived, Bobby Bowden treated reporters with the utmost respect at all times. He made his players and assistant coaches available. He took questions after every single practice. On Sunday mornings after home games, FSU hosted a weekly “Breakfast with Bobby” event, where reporters would gather in a small hotel conference room and ask him questions about the previous game and any future stories we were working on.

Nothing was off-limits. Even in the final weeks before he was forced to resign.

I don’t share that as a negative commentary on the way many coaches operate today. It’s just another example of the way Bowden valued others and made them feel important.

He knew the media had a job to do, and he helped in any way he could -- whether we were flying into town from the New York Times, or we were driving down from Thomasville in our 1982 Ford Fairmont.

If you'll indulge me, I have one more Bobby Bowden story I’d like to share. It actually took place after his retirement.

During Jimbo Fisher’s first few seasons as head coach, I was the main columnist at the Tallahassee Democrat. And I was pretty critical of Fisher on multiple occasions, particularly after losses during the 2011 and 2012 seasons.

I was especially harsh after the Seminoles’ 2012 loss to Florida. Probably too harsh, in hindsight.

Anyhow, I happened to call Coach Bowden a couple weeks later for a story, and at the end of a nice chat, he told me he had been reading my articles in the paper.

“You might want to take it easy on ol’ Jimbo,” he told me with a laugh. “They’re gonna run you out of town!”

I laughed immediately and told him I appreciated the advice.

To be honest, I was just honored at the thought of him reading my work. And while I’m not sure I wrote another critical column about Fisher during my time at the Democrat, it wasn’t because of Bowden’s advice -- it was because the Seminoles would go undefeated and win a national championship the very next season. And I would leave just a few months after that to become managing editor at Warchant.

Fast-forward a few years to 2018, and Bowden made a surprise appearance at a Florida State football practice. It was his first time back on the Seminoles’ practice fields since he retired more than eight years earlier, and when I saw him inside the Indoor Practice Facility, I waited for an opening and started walking in his direction.

For a moment, I felt like the nervous 23-year-old in his office.

Would he remember me? Should I introduce myself?

Bowden’s eyes lit up and he smiled as I approached.

“Coach! Great to see ya,” I said.

“Boy,” he replied, “I thought they ran you out of town!”

He laughed when he said it, but I’m pretty sure he literally thought that’s what happened. That Jimbo won the 2013 championship, and a few months later I was jettisoned back to Thomasville or somewhere, as penance for my sins.

I don’t know why that tickled me so much, but it made my day. Probably my week.

The fact that he remembered me was one thing. The idea that he recalled the phone conversation we had six years earlier -- or at least the context of it -- was mind-blowing. The thought that he might have genuinely been concerned about my well-being was inconceivable.

Allow me to be clear about something: I never had a close relationship with Bobby Bowden. I wasn’t Bill McGrotha or Gerald Ensley or Jerry Kutz or Steve Ellis or Bob Thomas or Craig Barnes or Jim Henry or Jim Lamar or any of a long list of reporters who got to know Bowden on a more personal level.

I was just a guy who would stand around his golf cart after practices and ask the occasional question.

Of course, that’s not how he made you feel.

If he got the opportunity, Bobby Bowden made you feel special. Like you mattered.

Not because there was anything in it for him, but because it was his gift.

And he shared it as often as he could.

Contact managing editor Ira Schoffel at ira@warchant.com and follow @IraSchoffel on Twitter.

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