Norwich — The whole Rushmore thing is becoming a sports cliché, but then, as a wise man once suggested, clichés are truth's most loyal friend. And so if we ever took a swing at such an apocryphal architecture here in our corner of the world, Bill Scarlata's mug would be a mandate.

It is with a sense of bittersweetness that we bid adieu to the greatest coach in the history of Norwich Free Academy, one of the true greats in Connecticut basketball history and perhaps a man owning the greatest attribute of all: The Guy You'd Love To Have A Beer With.

Scarlata announced last week that he's putting on the 18th green of his 27-year career that has produced 576 wins, 18 conference titles and seven state championships.

"When it gets to be a hassle coming into practice every day, I knew it was time to go," Scarlata said, his wry humor always tethered to him like the blanket behind Linus.

And that's the way he should be remembered: A man whose credentials are serious, but who never took himself too seriously.

Scarlata touched the lives of many young women over the years, but maybe nobody else who got him better than Maya Bell, a fairly recent NFA grad, who loved his sense of humor. Bell would launch into streams of consciousness about "Scars," as she called him, and really should have gotten paid for it.

"Sometimes you have taken a moment and go, 'wait, old man joke.'" Bell said once.

Bell, and many others, enjoyed their coach's comportment: keys dangling from his belt, toothpick rolling around his mouth, bushy mustache and at the end, a white beard.

"At the NFA basketball camp, each day is a different genre of dress," former point guard Stephanie Long said once. "One is Scarlata Lookalike Day. Becca (Rebecca DeWeese) does a hilarious rendition: white hair, cargo shorts, jingling keys."

But that was always his appeal. He was a walking dichotomy. The rumpled comportment (his friend Roger Bidwell actually bought him a sport coat from Goodwill that Scarlata wore a lot) suggested he'd allow details to elude him, sort of like the absent-minded genius. Except that nobody ever drove more miles to scout opponents, meticulously concoct game plans and have this inimitable ability to teach them in easy to understand Xs and Os. And this just in: It's a pain in the ascot to drive from Norwich to the hinterlands. Too bad he never got paid by the mile.

Scarlata would crack that basketball was always an excuse to get him out of the house so he could have a few, you know, sarsaparillas. That's where I got to know him best, the place he was at his best, other than the basketball sidelines: Postgaming at the 99 in Norwich, Mr. G's or the Bow & Arrow at Mohegan Sun. He wasn't the 7-time state champion in those settings. He was just Bill.

Bill: for whom some apps and a pitcher of something with foam on top beat a steak at the Ritz.

Bill: who loved talking sports with his friends.

Bill: who would rarely fail to mention he's really a hockey guy.

Bill: quick with a joke.

Bill: rolled his eyes at the task of teaching teenagers, knowing somewhere deep down that nobody did it better.

Bill: a walking billboard for knowing how to handle success. The great ones never remind you about their greatness. Others are happy to do it for them.

So now it's time for "Scars" to assign the task of teenagers to someone else. He began student teaching at NFA in 1973. He ran his race. Hoisted the trophy many times. And is probably the voice inside the heads of many of his former players.

Here's hoping he's not a stranger.

The greatest coach who would never admit it.

Happy retirement.

This is the opinion of Day sports columnist Mike DiMauro