Who was this man, this Vincent Lombardi, the molder of men and maker of champions, this man who said "I've been written up as a beast, as a lot of things. I don't know what I am."
You ask the people who knew him. You asked who this man was.  You ask Marie Lombardi and Jim Taylor and Frank Gifford and Pete Roselle. You ask Lee Howell and Jim Ringo and Paul Hornung and Sam Huff.  You ask Vince Lombardi Jr. and Forrest Gregg and Larry Brown and Ethel Kennedy. You ask his players and his friends and sometimes you ask his enemies. 
Then  you put it all together, and you find that there are many answers to the question. There is a coach of course.   Five National Football League camp championships are not easily forgotten.  But more than a coach, there is a man, a human being,  a complex human being. A man filled with incongruities.
 The man who demanded discipline like best the players who had the least respect for it. The man who abhorred personal criticism thrived on dishing it out.  The man who talked about demanding love from his players and then said "to play this game you must have that fire in you, and there is nothing that strokes that fire like hate"
But to complete the portrait of Vince Lombardi, you need more than words you need pictures, and they are indeed worth 1,000 words. You have to see the snarl and the smile before you can really know. 
Finally, you ask America's foremost poet, James Dickey to put down his thoughts about Vince Lombardi.
The result is an epilogue of searing intensity. 
And then you give it a title. The only title you can give it. 
You call it Lombardi.