He may no longer be an AFL coach, but don't expect the mercurial one to fade away, writes Steve Waldon.

WATCHING Kevin Sheedy's news conference yesterday, I was reminded of the man's capacity to shape not just his own destiny, but that of others who have come in and out of his orbit.

Which is something he has been doing to me since I was a teenaged Essendon supporter, crying out from the concrete steps at Windy Hill for someone — Rotten Ronnie Andrews, preferably — to knock Sheedy senseless. That was Kevin Sheedy, the veteran Richmond ruck-rover and back-pocket, the Tiger antagonist other teams' fans despised. We called him dirty, but as long as it is now time to tell the truth for posterity, he was more cagey than underhand — a cunning football mind in a hard body, capable of frustrating you by being a better footballer than you thought he looked.

I first met Sheeds in 1978, when he was a columnist for Inside Football, a weekly Fairfax publication produced in The Age's Spencer Street building. He entered the room, called out to another young football writer, who turned his head just as a Sheedy backward-spinning handpass arrived to give the young feller a blood nose.

No one knew what to say, but Sheeds was aghast.

Of course, he apologised and took responsibility, and I only mention it now because taking responsibility is a critical component in the make-up of Sheeds' complex character, and today may be the only appropriate chance I will have to publicly assemble memories of the various encounters I have had with him over three decades.

In 1981, his first year as Essendon coach, I was assigned to ghost-write his weekly column, a task I had until 1984. I formed the distinct impression that I was an unremarkable blip on his radar.

Looking back, why would I have been anything more? An immature 24-year-old with playing credentials as modest as a few matches with the Essendon Baptists-St John's under-13 seconds, and a few for Essendon High School under-16s. The relationship was always awkward for me, though I have no reason to believe Kevin Sheedy gave any thought to it, as long as I listened to what he said and didn't embarrass him in print.

In 1981, he was well on the way to becoming "Sheeds". The transformation from recently retired player, still with resin under his fingernails, to futuristic thinker who confounds footy stereotypes was embryonic, but gaining momentum.

He called me one night and told me to meet him at his Glen Iris home the next morning.

He munched on home-grown capsicum and tomatoes on toast, in no hurry to reveal why my presence was required.

Then we drove to an Eltham home, where we watched training videos of American sports teams, which coaching staff used to analyse and prepare better. The thinking Sheeds immediately saw the possibilities for Australian football, and Sheeds the innovator was on the path to success. I don't think it's outrageous to say that it took until the Bombers' 1984-85 premierships for other coaches and clubs to fully comprehend that outfoxing Kevin Sheedy required mental agility.

In 1982, pre-season, with Windy Hill still required for district cricket, he had the Bombers training at Cross Keys Reserve, about one kilometre away.

We caught the last hour or so, and when Sheeds sent the players jogging back to their home ground, we offered him a lift. He sat in the back seat with our daughter, just a few months old, tickled her and asked how we felt as parents. Later that year, I asked Sheeds if we could have a kick-to-kick, fully expecting a "no" from the busy and elusive pimpernel. But he mentioned a field near the Junction Oval, and told me to be there at 10.30am two days hence. My brother and I were put through a testing session.

Later that year, it was time to discuss his column, but Sheeds could not be found. His wife, Geraldine, knew only that he had driven up bush for the day.

Don't worry, the editor said, you know how he thinks and talks — just write something that sounds like him. On the morning of publication, Sheeds read "his" column, and fixed me with a cold stare. "Why did you write that?" he asked, with a vaguely menacing tone. "I wouldn't have said that." I was nonplussed. The bloke being paid for his views hadn't provided them, but somehow I was guilty of treachery.

That Sheeds is idiosyncratic is accepted. I have watched his coaching career through the eyes of a supporter who was given some unique insights early on, but did not really understand how they fitted.

A few years ago, we renewed our acquaintance when Sheeds visited The Age. After entertaining the canteen staff, he sat and drank tea (with a bun). The conversation ranged from studying theology, to Kosovo, to growing up. Anything but footy, and he steered the chat with the ease of someone used to being in charge. "What are the most important things you've learnt?" he asked, fixing me with that inquisitive stare I remembered from 20 years earlier. My answer was inconsequential, but I was flattered that he thought it worthwhile to make me think hard.

What has happened is that Sheeds, mischievous and enigmatic though he sometimes is, has developed a sense of perspective beyond the philosophical or comical veneer he enjoys using to bamboozle us.

I suggest that if you think football is his life, you need to reconsider his singular determination to grow, and encourage others to do so. As he showed us yesterday, life is his life.

Steve Waldon is a senior writer.