For the first six of John Giannini’s eight years at the University of Maine, I was the men’s basketball beat writer for this newspaper.

Over that time, as you might expect, Giannini and I spent hours and hours talking about basketball, the university, and his goals for the program.

But after his first whirlwind year, during which he was too busy trying to get his new program in order to engage in a whole lot of small talk, most of our conversations began with a single phrase you might not expect.

“Have you done any fishing lately?” he’d ask, leaning forward in his office chair, eyes lighting up.

If I answered in the affirmative, his response was automatic: “Tell me about it.”

Giannini, who left UMaine this week for La Salle University in Philadelphia, was a knowledgeable basketball man. You don’t get paid several hundred thousand bucks a year to coach the sport unless you are.

But one of his true passions – one that he’d talk endlessly about even if other interviews awaited, and even if other tasks beckoned – was fishing.

The relationship between the hometown paper’s beat reporter and the State U’s coach can be an intense one.

Giannini understood that. A few years ago, he proved that fact when he invited me into the team’s locker room on the first official day of practice – something he’d never done before.

“This is Mr. Holyoke,” Giannini told his team. “He’ll be covering us all season. If you play well, he’ll make you sound like a hero. And if you screw up, he’ll make you sound like a jerk. Remember that.”

About that time, our roles well-established, Giannini and I began fishing together. Not often – both of us realized that the deliberate distance inherent in the reporter-coach relationship was important to maintain.

We limited ourselves to one fishing day a year. He liked bass. I liked lake trout and salmon.

He lived on Pushaw (“POO-shaw,” he always called it). I trolled Green Lake regularly.

And one afternoon each year, we’d grab our gear, hop in his boat or mine, and head onto the water.

We each agreed that fishing together so infrequently wouldn’t be a problem. In fact, it allowed us the chance to talk about our respective jobs in ways that we wouldn’t otherwise have done.

On those days, we simply did what anglers often do when they share a boat: We talked about triumphs and setbacks, and tried to learn, a bit better, what made the other tick.

And we fished.

On our first trip, Giannini taught me how to “lip” a bass. The next year, I showed him how to sew on a smelt, and helped him catch his first togue.

I also lost the largest lake trout I ever saw on one of those days, when I refused to let a mere bass angler from the Midwest handle the net after I’d hauled my trophy fish to the boat.

“You should have let me net him,” Giannini still tells me, nearly every time we see each other.

A few years back, as Giannini’s name was being mentioned in another high-profile job, he allowed that at some point, he might have to take the step.

The security he’d gain by tripling or quadrupling his salary, he told me, might eventually pull him away from his beautiful adopted home just a few long casts from Pushaw Lake.

“What’s the worst-case scenario if I go somewhere else?” he asked me that day.

Failure, I told him. What if you move away from a comfortable situation, try as hard as you can … and end up like the other coaches who’ve gone to the school: Unappreciated. Unsuccessful. Jobless.

Giannini isn’t one of those men who considers failure an option. He considers it an obstacle to be avoided through preparation, hard work, and attention to detail.

Still, he gave my question some thought. And he answered it. I still remember him sitting in his office, shrugging his shoulders, and grinning.

“Well, I’ll have earned as much money in three years as I would in 10 here,” Giannini said. “Then I’ll come back here, think about my next move, and we’ll fish all the time. And I’ll buy lunch.”

At the time, I was sure he was joking. As time has passed, I’m not nearly as certain.

It’s been awhile since Giannini and I went fishing. We had talked about heading north on a trip, but those conversations were like many we anglers share: Long on hope … short on reality.

Giannini wanted to catch a few muskies, and he told me that no matter what, if I set up a trip, he’d go.

“Even if it was recruiting season?” I asked.

“For muskies? You tell me when, and I’ll be there,” he said.

La Salle is getting a good basketball coach. That part, most will agree, is obvious.

More important, I figure, is this: They’re getting a good man.

Perhaps least important (to some, at least) they’re getting a pretty fair fisherman, too. Even if I’m pretty sure he still doesn’t remember how to sew on a smelt.

Hopefully, Giannini can find a few places to wet a line – and some time to do so – in his new home.

When I finally head north to fish for muskies … someday … I’ll think of the man everyone calls Coach G. And if I’m lucky enough to hook one, I’ll let someone else handle the net.

Just like the coach taught me.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.