Several times, the old coach told the running back to give it shot, go ahead.

Walter Reyes, after three years of galloping up and down the Carrier Dome, had earned the honor, after all, and the old coach wanted to reignite a tradition.

It’ll be a great idea, Walter. Tell Coach P you want it, that you’re ready for it. He’ll give it to you.

Walter Reyes thought about it and considered approaching football head coach Paul Pasqualoni. Former Syracuse coach Dick MacPherson had let Reyes in on the secret, that if he wanted to wear the No. 44 jersey for Syracuse, the one made into legend by Jim Brown, Floyd Little and Ernie Davis decades before him, it was his for the taking. All he had do was ask, but Pasqualoni wouldn’t ask him.

He hemmed and hawed. Did he deserve it? Could he handle it?

Fullback Rob Konrad, the last player to wear it, approached Reyes at a team function at Turning Stone.

What do you think, Walter? You going to wear it? You could do it, man.

Reyes thought hard. In the end, though, he couldn’t bring himself to switch from his customary 39. The burden, you see, of being anointed a legend is not a comforting prospect when you’re on the brink of senior year.

‘You know, I had enough pressure on myself already,’ Reyes said. ‘If I put that number on, I might have gone off the deep end. It’s so hard to live up to what they did.’

Indeed it is, and never will another 18-year-old be forced to handle that pressure. Daryl Gross announced yesterday that No. 44 will be put under glass for good, retired so that no Orange football player will ever wear it again.

That means there are some lucky running backs lurking high school and Pop Warner fields today. By properly honoring the past greats who wore 44, Gross has also ensured no fresh-faced recruit will need to live up to their legend.

‘I think it probably should be (retired),’ said Brown, speaking with only reason, not boast. ‘I think it’s very difficult to try to pick an individual prematurely that’s going to be able to fulfill the shoes of 44.’

It truly has been difficult. No one since Konrad graduated has taken on the prestige and pressure that comes with 44, a number only 11 football players have worn for SU. Damien Rhodes, a senior to be who grew up in Syracuse, fully aware of the honor, turned down the chance to wear the famed number. He was being deferential, sure, but he saved himself a career-long trip under a microscope.

Look at some of the names that came after Davis hung up his No. 44 in 1965. After a long-time on the shelf, the jersey came out and onto the shoulders of local, highly prized recruit Mandel Robinson. He ended up transferring to Wyoming within two years.

The immortal Glen Moore followed him as 44, and spent his career mostly backing up Joe Morris.

Konrad helped salvage the number starting in 1995, producing a tough-nosed career that earned a spot in the first round of the NFL Draft.

As good as Konrad’s career was, it would not exactly fall under the legendary category. Still, the glory of No. 44 has survived, and even thrived.

The student bookstores on campus still carry loads of 44 jerseys. During the past year, a book and a documentary have come out celebrating the number. Before it changed to Konrad’s, there was bar named 44’s on Marshall Street. If you want to reach anyone on campus, you have to dial 4-4 at least once.

So, why, then, has it taken so long for the number to be retired?

While MacPherson and Pasqualoni coached, former SU director of athletics Jake Crouthamel left it up to them whether or not the jersey be retired. Both liked to use the 44 as a recruiting tool, boosting the esteem of recruits who wanted to follow the legacy established by the backs of SU lore.

‘You can say what you will about retiring numbers,’ Crouthamel said yesterday from his office at Drumlins. ‘It was definitely a recruiting tool, used successfully at times.

‘Is the 44 jersey qualified to be hung up and taken out of the mix? Absolutely. When you look at the players who wore it, absolutely. But, it takes something away from the recruiting bag in my mind.’

At times during his 26-year tenure, Crouthamel broached the idea of retiring 44.

‘Absolutely,’ Crouthamel said. ‘As soon as the football staff said they wanted to keep it, I didn’t take it any further. If Daryl wants to retire it, then that’s his prerogative to do that. And that’s fine.’

So don’t blame Crouthamel for not retiring the number. In fact, blame is the wrong word to even bring up. If the move shows one thing, it’s that Gross will be a much more active, hands-on athletic director than Crouthamel was. Whether that’s good, bad or indifferent remains to be seen.

But this isn’t an occasion to blame or praise. It’s a time to appreciate, to remember.

‘Greatness,’ Reyes said, speaking over the phone from his home in Ohio, when asked to describe what the number meant.

He paused, trying to come up with something else to add. He didn’t have to.

‘Just … greatness. That’s the perfect word I can think of.’

It was perfect. Brown, Floyd, Little, as great a triumvirate at any one position any college in the nation can claim.

Greatness. Simple as Brown was powerful, Little was graceful and Davis was fast. And just as beautiful.

Greatness. Perfectly fitting. Though not quite as stylish as what Reyes thought up next.

‘You think about some badass running backs,’ Reyes said. ‘Throw badass in there. Just hard-nosed and tough.’