Phone numbers of certain sources must be viewed as if they are arrows in a quiver, not to be wasted. I had to pick my spots when using George Steinbrenner’s home digits. Is the story important enough? Will his mood be such that he’s receptive to an interview?

Answering the second question required checking whether the last thing you wrote about him shed him in a favorable or unfavorable light.

Eight years or so ago, Steinbrenner went through a several-month period of not talking to reporters. I decided to see if I could break the streak, not coincidentally one day after writing something deserving and very nice about him.

“You’ve always been fair with me,” Steinbrenner said after answering his home phone. “I’ll always take your calls. But don’t ever call me again.”

I stopped covering the Yankees not long after that, and that stood as my last conversation with him. Just as well. He never unintentionally could have said something that funny again, so his Yogi Berra moment will stay with me forever.

The shadowy Larry David impersonation of The Boss on Seinfeld was spot-on in terms of the way he’d ramble on without hearing anyone else’s voice, jumping from one subject to the next and alone deciding when the one-way conversation ended. I asked Steinbrenner if he got a kick out of it, and he said that he did but soured on the show when he was asked to film a scene as himself, flew to Los Angeles to do it and the scene ended up on the cutting-room floor.

Those who worked for the Yankees told stories of The Boss making a big production of leaving, making sure everyone saw him. Then he took his car on a quick spin around the block so that he could return to the office to catch employees with their feet up, an excuse to unleash the wrath he so enjoyed letting fly.

Nearly an impossible man for whom to work, he was impossible not to love if you happened to be a fan of the New York Yankees. He paid top wages to top talent, and he always kept it interesting by often letting his emotions get the best of his tongue.

Spoiled by the postseason production of Reggie Jackson, rightly coined Mr. October, he grew frustrated with Dave Winfield and labeled him Mr. May, a tough rap to pin on a man who would play his way into the Hall of Fame. But it’s not as if Winfield did anything to prove Steinbrenner’s mean moniker wrong. In 55 postseason at-bats with the Yankees, Winfield didn’t hit a home run, batted .182 and drove in just three runs.

Several years after uttering the Winfield insult, but still making the same fashion statement — white turtle neck sweater, navy blazer, tan sans-a-belt pants — Steinbrenner erupted when Japanese bonus baby Hideki Irabu failed to cover first base in a spring training game. The Boss referred to the pitcher as a “fat, pus-ie toad.” George’s instinct was that he had been had and signed a pitcher to far more money than he was worth. He was proven right. In six big-league seasons, the first three with the Yankees, Irabu lost more games than he won and compiled a blubbery 5.15 ERA.

Warts and all, Steinbrenner was a great professional sports team owner, even if he is firing Billy Martin for a sixth time right this moment.