The biggest reason for that died early Thursday afternoon when Head Coach Skip Prosser slumped over in his office from what is believed to be a massive heart attack, and apparently never regained consciousness.

The loss has staggered all who knew Prosser, and over the past six and half years I was fortunate enough to get to know him well. In what amounts to a confession for a professional reporter trained for more than 30 years to be objective, I’ll come right out and admit it.

I liked Skip Prosser. I liked him a whole lot.

It was hard not to. He made it so.

The one consolation I hang on to during these saddest of times is that Prosser died doing what he absolutely loved doing. He loved coaching college basketball. He loved the competition, he loved the challenge, he loved being in the fraternity of coaches, he loved the fame and attention that came from being an ACC coach.

I’ve never known a coach who loved being a coach more than Skip Prosser.

Most of all he loved being around others in the game, even sportswriters. He was the only ACC coach in North Carolina, if not the entire conference, who regularly opened practices to the media. More than that, he’d give you a hard time if you hadn’t dropped by for a day or two.

College basketball coaches, generally speaking, are exclusive. If they’re not to begin with, they soon become so. Their time is too precious to waste on some writer wanting to know who’s going to start the next game. Prosser was, by nature, inclusive. He let you know you weren’t only tolerated at practices, you were welcome.

He would thank you for coming by.

And he’d do whatever he could, within reason, to help you do your job. “I’m here for you,’’ he said, many, many times.

What I’ll remember best about Prosser was his boundless energy, that and how much fun he was to be around. On practice days, his favorite time of all, he’d come bursting through the door leading up from the lockerroom, bouncing on the balls of his feet and pacing back and forth, ready to go, ready to coach, ready to make his team better for its next game. At practice, he was where he was meant to be.

He gave his cell phone number freely, and never complained when or where you called him. Of the scores of times I left him a message, he never – not ever – failed to call me back. Even when you had something to ask that he had decided not to comment on, he’d call you back to tell you he couldn’t tell you anything.

One night during the spring of 2003 when I was chasing the story of whether Prosser was going to leave Wake Forest to return home to be the head coach at the University of Pittsburgh, my phone rang. It was Prosser and I could tell he was on his cell.

He had nicknames for those he knew well. Dean Buchan, until recently Wake Forest’s associate athletics director in charge of media relations, was The Dream. Bill Hass, who covered Wake Forest for the Greensboro News and Record, was Bullet. Because of the loud, garish shirts I’ve been known to wear, he called me Disco.

“Disco, this is Skip,’’ he said. Before I could ask him the question I knew he wasn’t going to answer he said, `Excuse me, Disco. How much is it? Fifteen dollars and 63 cents? Keep the change.’ ”

He was calling me from the drive-through at Pizza Hut, where he himself had driven to pick up dinner for the staff.

He was positively the most positive person I’ve known. He built people up, bragging on them whenever the opportunity presented itself. As Buchan, who has left Wake Forest to become the sports information director at Georgia Tech, related on Thursday, he couldn’t just introduce Greg Collins as the Deacons’ athletics trainer without adding that Collins was the best trainer on the planet. It was the same with the academic counselor, the sports information department, his staff, all he surrounded himself with.

Too many people see a compliment as a concession, as though it makes them somehow look small. Prosser was smart enough to know the exact opposite is true.

And I’ve never been around anyone with a quicker, sharper mind. Much has been made of his wit, and the classic quotes chocked with literary references and popular culture that made almost every press conference an memorable occasion. It soon became apparent that was his material, and it was good material.

But more impressive, and to me more humorous, were his deliciously wry, off-the-cuff retorts.

While coaching at Xavier, he drove a Jaguar.

“A Jaguar,’’ one friend remarked. “Skip, that’s not you.’’

To which Prosser replied, ``The hell it’s not.’’

Once during practice, he wandered over to talk, as he often would. Somehow the conversation ended up on how much criticism I had received for a recent article.

“Like I don’t know about criticism?’’ Prosser mentioned.

“But there’s one big difference,’’ I answered. “You make 10 times more money than I do.’’

With perfect timing, he said, `You’re right.’’ Then he walked back to center court to resume coaching his team.

After one loss to Duke, he was asked what he felt about the Blue Devils’ complementary players, and not their stars, making the key, decisive plays. Prosser knew the backgrounds of every player on Duke’s roster, and knew how hard so many coaches had recruited them for their own programs.

“Well those other guys, it’s not like they’re plumbers,’’ Prosser said. “Not that there’s anything wrong with plumbers.’’

Next time I saw him, I asked if his house had been picketed by the local plumbers union. He laughed heartily.

Prosser was not perfect. Imagine that. He was human. He couldn’t lose, at least not well. A darkness descended after a tough loss, over him and those around him. But he would shake it off and by the next practice would be back on the balls of his feet, ready to coach, ready to make his team better.

And he could be hard, extremely hard, on his players. He knew had to be. College basketball is a tough sport. Playing Duke in Cameron Indoor Stadium is not like competing in shuffleboard at the Lazy Days Retirement Home.

A favorite quote he repeated on occasion was from Emerson, which stated “Our chief want is someone who will inspire us to be what we know we could be.’’

One day one of his players was having a rough practice. After about the fifth mistake, Skip stopped a scrimmage.

“A minute ago I saw you get your (rear) beat down at that end of the court,’’ he blurted. “Now I see you get your (rear) beat at this end of the court. There’s no where I can go on this court I haven’t seen your (rear) beat.’’

Some might see that as abusive. I didn’t. But what I did see, about five minutes later, was Skip saddle up next to the player, say something consoling in his ear and give him a pat on the back.

There were times, during post-game press conferences, that I would ask him a question that provoked a sharp, some might say, sarcastic response. Invariably he would find me after the press conference.

“Disco, I wasn’t trying to be smart there,’’ he’d say. “I’m sorry if it came out that way.’’