CHARLOTTE, N.C. — Before hitting the links, Marty Schottenheimer offers a warning.

"The coach in me always comes out," he says, his big blue-grey eyes bearing down with a sudden intensity. "I can't help myself."

Then he's out the door, shaking hands with people who call out, "Coach! Coach!" as he steps into a golf cart and zips off, past the tennis courts, toward the driving range.

This is where a man goes after 20 years as a NFL head coach, after 200 regular-season wins but none of the rings that matter. He heads to this stunning spot on the water at least twice a week, figuring things out day after day on strips of undulating green beauty so tough to play it makes you cringe to look at it.

"Golf has always been my refuge," he says happily. "My escape."

Everyone knows what he's escaping_the years in Kansas City and the missed opportunities, the lack of a Super Bowl ring and the question of whether he'll return to the NFL.

But that's for later. Right now, the 65-year-old insists on seeing you swing the club.

It isn't pretty.

"Oh, hold on, hold on!" he says, his voice kind and supportive but still impossible to argue with. "We need to work on some things."

He grabs his club to demonstrate, bends his knees and talks about balance and hitting with the core and, his favorite, turning away from the hole before facing the hole, a mantra you better get used to. He explains the arms are the enemy, about clearing the head, about all the little things that can turn a bogey into a birdie.

It's no use trying to tell him that this is one competition he can't win_one player so bad he can't be coached.

"Nonsense! We just need to work on a few things!"

There's no point arguing. Because Marty Schottenheimer has latched on with all his energy to a golf reclamation project. And that project is you.

"You've got great natural athleticism!" Schottenheimer says enthusiastically. "We just need to correct some of these problems! Do that, and you can be a very good golfer!"

Like he said: He just can't help himself.

The Schottenheimer era ended in Kansas City the way it often did for the emotional coach: sitting in an office with his owner, Marty's stubbornness and pride playing a part in what was about to unfold.

Under Schottenheimer, the Chiefs went 7-9 that last season in 1998. He wasn't happy, and he'd decided he was moving on.

"I talked to Lamar (Hunt) in Kansas City," Schottenheimer says. "And he said, 'Marty, I don't want you to do this. I'd like you to at least think about it a few more days.' I said, 'Fine, I will, but I feel pretty strongly about it.' "

Schottenheimer flew to Dallas about six days later. He walked into the Hunt Thanksgiving Tower, took the elevator to Lamar's floor and headed to the owner's office.

"He wanted to know if I'd had any different thoughts, having reflected on it," Schottenheimer says. "I said no. I was kind of hard-headed."

Schottenheimer looked Lamar Hunt in the eye. Lamar thought his coach was being impulsive. No matter. Marty made it official.

Telling the story, Schottenheimer suddenly stops. He coughs loudly. There's an awkward pause before he finally speaks again.

"And I should never have left."

Schottenheimer's other exits from head coaching jobs were less voluntary.

From the Cleveland Browns after going 10-6 in 1988 : "The last game's over and (Browns owner) Art (Modell) wants to see him, and Art's very emotional and he wants Marty to get rid of some of his coaches_including his brother," says Chiefs president/general manager Carl Peterson. "And of course words get heated, and he says, 'Listen, Art, if you want to get rid of me, you'll have to fire me.' And so, boom! He fired him."

From Washington after going 8-8 in 2001 in his only season on the job: Owner Dan Snyder met with him and explained he wanted more control over personnel issues. Schottenheimer said no. "He said, 'Well, I want to do it,' " Schottenheimer says. "I said, 'Well, you do what you have to do.' And he said, 'I'm going to have to fire you.' "

Which he did. Right then and there.

And, finally, from the San Diego Chargers after the team went 14-2 in 2006 before exiting the playoffs early, a common problem for Schottenheimer teams, which went 5-13 in the postseason: "The owner came into my office, closed the door and sat down and said, 'Marty, you know, I'm going to make a change,' " Schottenheimer says. " 'I'm going to fire you. I can't go on with this conflict that's going on between you and the general manager.' "

It was during those last two coaching jobs that a sick feeling began to creep into Marty Schottenheimer's head: Leaving Kansas City had been a terrible mistake.

"As it went along, I thought, 'What have I done?' " he says.

When asked whether the Chiefs' future would have been brighter had Marty remained as its head coach, even Peterson acknowledges, "Very probably that would have happened."

For Schottenheimer, the second-guessing is more emotional. He says he knows now that an owner is everything to a head coach. And Lamar Hunt was one heckuva owner.

"My deep affection was for Lamar," he says. "I ... I..."

He pauses. His neck tightens. Apologizing, he begins to cry.

"I miss Lamar," he whispers.

He's much more emotional when the topic turns to never having won a Super Bowl.

Asked point-blank how much that failure bothers him, he says, "I take great pride in the fact, more so than the wins and losses, that for the most part I treated people the right way. That is, has been and will always be very important to Marty Schottenheimer. Because I think living life is all about relationships."

So, again, isn't it hard to know you haven't, and probably won't, ever win the whole thing?

"No. It's not hard at all."

The truth turns out to be more complicated.

For starters, Schottenheimer never guessed that San Diego — and the opportunity for a championship it presented — would end the way it did. He knew someone had to go. He just thought it would be the general manager, A.J. Smith.

Second, a person can't be as competitive as Schottenheimer and not care about that hole in the resume, no matter what he says.

Just ask those close to him.

"There have been times of disappointment over that," says his daughter, Kristen Turner. "We all have our times when there's a goal we've been after and we haven't been able to get it and you fall short and you feel that."

Peterson knows as well as anyone how that feels.

"It'll always be there," Peterson says. "It played on him. It bothered him. Certainly. I saw it more times when we played Denver_he did not like Denver. He hated (John) Elway so much. It was a longtime nemesis for Marty. I'm sure that, yeah, it'll be there. It has to be terribly frustrating."

So strong is the sting of never reaching the goal he chased for 20 years, the longing for it is embedded not just in him, but in his family as well.

After Schottenheimer was fired by the Chargers, his 7-year-old grandson Brandon was watching a football game on television. He turned to his mother.

"Mama," he asked, "Why isn't Papa coaching anymore? Doesn't he want to win a Super Bowl?"

Kristen, Brandon's mom, says she was speechless. So Brandon went on.

"Shouldn't he win a Super Bowl? He works so hard to do that_doesn't he deserve to win a Super Bowl?"

Then the little boy started to cry.

"We'd never talked with Brandon directly that that's what you're supposed to do (as an NFL football coach)," she says. "But that little boy felt in his heart that disappointment my family has for not having accomplished that goal."

Not that there isn't life — and perspective — after accepting that.

"Now he's had a chance to step back," Peterson says. "You hope he looks at all of his works, the breadth and depth of them, the quality and the wins of that, the rest of his life, and he has to be proud."

Marty Schottenheimer has looked back. He has thought long and hard about these things. And, as it turns out, he found something just as important as any Super Bowl ring right here in Charlotte.

His old self.

Let's get this out of the way: Marty Schottenheimer has always loved his family_his wife, his children, his grandchildren. Of that the family has no doubt.

But always — always — there was the NFL. And that takes something from you, those long hours and the searing stress. Something that can prevent you from giving what others can.

"It's a year-round thing," Kristen says. "You come home after being around that for all of those hours and it's still (always on his) mind."

That changed when Marty stopped chasing that trophy and moved to Charlotte with his wife, Pat. They wanted to be near Kristen, her husband and their two children.

"I don't think I've seen him this happy in a long, long time," Kristen says.

Schottenheimer suddenly had time. Time for Brandon's soccer games, where Papa couldn't help but slip into coach mode. Time to sit with the grandkids and help with homework_the old coach has a real knack with teaching spelling with flashcards. Time to hang around with his 2 -year-old granddaughter and enjoy every moment of her tantrums and fits.

"Even my husband has commented on how much more he's seeing of my dad's personality," Kristen says. "He's very much more how I remember him from when I was a kid. Being silly, singing songs. He's just goofy in a way he wasn't before."

Today, you can't go 30 minutes around Schottenheimer without hearing him giggle. It's a high, silly, happy sound.

He talks constantly about family. One moment he's lacing up his golf cleats, the next he's explaining how much he loves his family, how great is to have time to let his life be about them. Then he's crying again.

"What you will find out, as we all do, is that with age comes wisdom," says Pat Schottenheimer. "You also realize what's really, really important in life. And I think he has realized that a man is not defined by a championship alone."

So there it is. He has found peace with his career. And has time to spend with his loved ones. And discovered the fact that football isn't everything.

So he's done with the NFL. Wouldn't field a phone call about a head-coaching job from, say, the San Francisco 49ers. Would never contemplate returning to Kansas City as general manager once Peterson has moved on, a daydream Chiefs fans have begun to entertain.

Marty Schottenheimer's days in the NFL are absolutely behind him.

Right, Coach?

Schottenheimer sits in a comfortable chair in the bar at one of the seven golf courses he belongs to across the country. He's about to answer that very question when he's interrupted.

"Marty!" a man yells, a developer whom the former coach talked to about the price of some six-figure land. "You need to take up coaching again to pay for all this!"

"No way," Schottenheimer says as he stands up to visit.

"Come on, Marty," another guy says. "Some team out there needs you. You could go to the 49ers."

"No, thanks."

"How about some part-time coaching down at Clemson?" another man asks.

There's a crowd now.

"No way. It's too much aggravation. Hell, (talking to you about it) is too much aggravation."

Schottenheimer sits back down. He waits for the laughter to die down.

"You know," he says, "my approach has always been I never say never and I never make a decision until I have to."

That doesn't exactly sound like I'm done with the NFL .

Then he tells you he fielded a call about a coaching job a year ago. And he demurred, not because he didn't want to coach, but because his son was a candidate. As for being a general manager ...

"You know, (Bill) Parcells has done it." He pauses. "I've worked in professional football coaching for 30 years, six years as a player. But I'm just at peace with where I am right now."

Pause.

"But I never say never."

Another pause.

"Let's play some golf."

Schottenheimer stands on the first tee, repeating his mantra:

"Turn your back to the hole. Face the hole. Turn your back to the hole. Face the hole. Turn ..."

He wants you to hit the ball from the center of your stance. Even though you hit from the front. Here goes.

The ball dribbles 3 feet in front of the tee.

"That's OK, that's OK!" he shouts. "We're not here to keep score. It's just fun. It doesn't matter if you shoot 36 or 200."

Speak for yourself.

"Try again!"

And, again, the ball sputters and dies a short distance from the first tee. Schottenheimer might as well be playing with his 2-year-old granddaughter.

"You're doing great!"

This is how it goes for most of the round: This famous football coach staying positive, pumping you up, showering you with tips about facing the hole and the arms being the enemy and hitting that ball from the back of your stance no matter what happens.

Hole after hole, stroke after stroke. You're looking at a nine-hole score much closer to 200 than 36, en route to losing 17 golf balls. But you do start to see both sides of Schottenheimer.

There's the guy who loves people and really does enjoy the time with his family — he peppers you with stories about them, gets emotional thinking of them, beams when he brings up their names.

Then there's the coach. And as he coaches intensely and kindly and without pause, you recall what he said earlier: "For me, the excitement of coaching was to be able to take the knowledge I had, impart it to a player or group of players ... and then stand back and vicariously watch them perform, knowing my input and insight played a role in what they were doing."

Well, this moment smacks more of coaching Lin Elliott than Derrick Thomas, even if Schottenheimer stays chipper, happy and supportive.

Then we're at the last hole, a par-5, a last chance.

You line up. You put the ball in the center of your stance. You know a duck-hook or a dribbler or something worse is coming, and then ...

Wow.

A beautiful shot, straight and low and humming the way it hasn't all day.

"Great job!" Schottenheimer booms. "You did it! See? I knew it would work!"

You can feel the coach's excitement growing at the prospect that he can coach even you to victory of a sort.

Shot two. You stand over it. Again, Schottenheimer's words come in a steady flow: "Turn your back to the hole, face the hole. Turn your back to the hole..."

Another great shot, sailing through the air, gorgeous.

"Yes!" the coach screams.

Forget the disappointments, forget the failed field goals in 1995 and Elway in 1997, forget the missed chances and today's brutally painful first eight holes. Marty Schottenheimer's about to coach the most helpless golfer this course has ever seen to a par.

The approach shot: 80 yards out, a huge inviting green. Except ... it's guarded by water.

"What water?" Schottenheimer purrs.

You step over your ball.

"Center it," he breathes.

You get ready to swing as Schottenheimer whispers, "Turn your back to the hole, face the hole. Good. Good." And then, quieter. "This is for everything. This is for all your dreams. This is to win the U.S. Open ..."

You blade that sucker right into the water.

There's a pause before Schottenheimer says, "No problem! No problem!"

He says try again. He's calm and positive. This shot is for everything. This shot is what Schottenheimer has invested this round in.

Right. Into. The. Water.

Another pause, and then ...

"---- me!" Schottenheimer screams.

You wince. You turn toward him. You think you see a flash of real anger. Then he's smiling, laughing, giggling and, as a man who'd know better than anyone, saying:

"Oh, don't worry about it. It's just a game!"