He proved to be very wrong. Quickly word spread through the kitchen that Bora Milutinovic was in the house. Soon a group of busboys and dishwashers had congregated close by and were peering around the corner at our alcove. They could hardly contain their excitement over the presence of this soccer legend, the former national coach of Mexico, who had crossed the border to coach the host American team at that summer’s World Cup. Interrupting his meal, Bora beckoned the young men over to our table. Then, with scant regard for decorum, he whipped out a soccer ball, tossed it into the corner and delivered an impromptu clinic in protecting the dribble from double-team defense.

There are a whole host of excellent reasons why reporters and the sports figures we cover don’t become friends. Frankly, but for our mutual affection for sports, we usually don’t have that much in common–not by dint of background, education or, most certainly, income. There is also the high-minded notion that we should always keep a professional distance from our subjects, lest our tough judgments are tempered by our emotions. For the most part though, friendship isn’t even a realistic option, given the frequent, corrosive intersection between journalists and athletes.

With Bora none of those issues ever came into play. I was certainly, at times, critical in my judgments on his tenure. Like most reporters, I was frustrated by his refusal to answer the simplest questions. He made Bill Belichick seem forthcoming. If you asked Bora a question in English, he answered in Spanish. If he thought you understood Spanish, he’d descend into an incomprehensible Spanglish before slipping into his native Serbian or any of a hodgepodge of the dozen world languages that he half-speaks. I let his players vent about how clueless Bora was when it came to Americans, his naivete in thinking that Yanks, like their European or Latin counterparts, would live and breathe soccer 24 hours a day. And I wasn’t enchanted by the cautious, defensive style his team played, though Bora believed–and he was vindicated–that it offered the best chance for America to advance past the opening round of the World Cup.

But I confess I was totally smitten with the man: his warmth, his graciousness, his sparkle and his wit, which somehow didn’t require translation. (In fact, it doesn’t translate at all. I couldn’t possibly explain why last night Bora wound up calling our very American waitress “Russian girl.” Or why it was both charming and amusing.) Almost every encounter with Bora rendered some memorable anecdote. One night in 1998, when he was again coaching Mexico, I arranged a dinner at a Boston restaurant for Bora and his team. I brought along Jimmy Duggan, who was my coaching archrival in a suburban kids’ soccer league. Jimmy, who was never at a loss for words while defending the venal, the just plain guilty and, even occasionally, the innocent in criminal court, was speechless before the master. Bora put an arm around his shoulder and said, “So Jimmy, you tell me strategy for big game you beat Mr. Mark 4-0.” Jimmy couldn’t shut up, from his decision to play an offensive-minded 3-4-3 alignment to his choice of defender to mark my top scorer to his opting to take the wind in the first half. All the while Bora kept nodding enthusiastically, as if Pele himself were sharing a few insights. “You one smart coach, Mr. Jimmy,” Bora assured him.

Bora was back in Boston this week for the first time since that visit six years ago. “Estoy muy contento de estar de nuevo en Boston,” he e-mailed me, knowing I would mostly understand. The occasion was his American debut as coach of Honduras. His new team was playing a “friendly” in Foxboro against the United States, the last warm-up game before both teams begin the unfriendly competition to qualify for the 2006 World Cup. “Muy dificil,” he would confide about his team’s prospects over our late-night dinner after the game. Yet though Honduras has never won a World Cup game and has only qualified once–back in 1982–nobody would bet against a Bora team reaching the Cup final in Germany in 2006.

In an extraordinary and peripatetic career that makes the Detroit Pistons’ Larry Brown look like a stay-at-home guy, Bora has coached five different nations–Mexico, Costa Rica, the United States, Nigeria and China–at soccer’s last five World Cups. Each of those national teams, under Bora’s tutelage, reached unexpected heights in the quadrennial championship. In fact, Bora’s teams often sprang huge upsets at the tournament: Costa Rica 1, Scotland 0 in Italy 1990; U.S. 2, Colombia 1 at the Rose Bowl in 1994; Nigeria 3, Spain 2 in France in 1998. (In 2002, China didn’t manage a win. But just getting the world’s most populous nation to the World Cup final for the first time was Bora’s triumph.)

I might never have had the guts to fess up to my great affection for Bora (and, thus, my breach of journalistic protocol) had he not effectively outed me in front of my colleagues during the World Cup in France. Nigeria had just stunned the powerhouse Spanish team and I, along with hundreds of other journalists, had made the trek down into the bowels of the stadium for the postgame press conference. Bora was about to start his ramble when he spied me entering the room. At what many regard as the pinnacle of his career, Bora abruptly stopped in midsentence and said, “Excuse me, I must give someone hug.” And he climbed down off the podium and over the restraining chain that kept the press at bay and enveloped me in a bear hug.

Honduras’ effort last night wasn’t exactly hugworthy, as the U.S. routed Bora’s boys by 4-0. Over a steak (with a little guacamole, a tortilla, a couple shrimp, a slice of pizza and an apple crisp), Bora explained his mixed feelings he had after the game. He was thoroughly disgusted with his own team’s play, but proud of the U.S. team that still boasted several key players from Bora’s regime a decade ago. “So many good players today,” he said. “I do leave–how you say it–a legacy.” So on behalf of American soccer fans everywhere, I gave him a hug.

SMARTY JONES

I want to thank several readers for inspiring this column about Bora. All credit goes to those who wrote, “Don’t you have anything nice to say about anyone?” These dyspeptic times have put me in curmudgeon mode. So I racked my brain and came up with two candidates for “nice,” Bora and Smarty Jones. Given the timing, two days before the Belmont Stakes, my editors would have preferred the horse. But I realized I had nothing to say about Smarty that I hadn’t said about Funny Cide last year and War Emblem the year before that. So this time I will simply say, “Smarty, Godspeed.” And, of course, bet on one of his rivals. Because in horse racing that’s what a smarty does.

NBA PLAYOFFS

Finally, for those readers who took issue with my lament about the quality of the NBA playoffs, I present in evidence the most recent nightmare: Detroit 69, Indiana 65. Even the analysts couldn’t restrain themselves. Steve Smith called the first half the worst exhibition of basketball he’d ever witnessed and suggested recruiting some decent AAU players. While last week’s column complained about absent offense, this game didn’t even pivot on defense; the turning point was a cheap-shot elbow by Ron Artest to Richard Hamilton’s protective facemask. (At least we’ll be spared any more stories on Artest’s newfound maturity.) Detroit is game but so offensively challenged that I fear the NBA finals will once again be a dud. Larry Brown is a superb coach, so he may figure out how to steal a game from the Lakers–but no more than one.