Gene Upshaw died at age 63, too soon to finish the job and certainly too young to perish. Pancreatic cancer does that, though. It strikes with brutal and usually lethal force. On Thursday, it overpowered one of the most dominant and influential figures in modern professional sports.

What makes the late Upshaw so compelling, distinguishes him from Marvin Miller, Donald Fehr, Larry Fleisher, Ed Garvey and Billy Hunter, as well as former colleagues enshrined in the Pro Football Hall of Fame, is a legacy featuring two unique and richly textured chapters.

In an era when this country was a far less hospitable place for ambitious African Americans, the legendary Raiders lineman excelled in his chosen field not once, but twice. Positioned alongside close friend and teammate Art Shell, he helped chisel the face of the formidable Raiders of the 1970s. Later, after 15 seasons, he became the voice of his colleagues, continuing to preside as executive director of the National Football League Players Association during its increasingly lucrative years.

Indeed, while the NBA, NHL and Major League Baseball experience economic ebbs, work stoppings and ratings fluctuations, the NFL remains the wealthy uncle; its popularity, television contracts and other revenue streams leave the lesser leagues in a state of chronic envy. Because he oversaw and then sustained the tranformation, Upshaw belongs in the same conversation with the most effective sports negotiators of recent decades.

"The thing that people will remember about Gene Upshaw," said Peter Roby, a consultant with Northeastern University's Center for the Study of Sport in Society, "is that he was not afraid of controversy or conflict. He was a combative player, and he was the same way when he fought for the players.

"But he also was a visionary. That, too, is his legacy. He was smart enough to recognize that if you make progress at someone else's expense, that can come back and haunt you. If you get a deal that is so sweet it leaves others wanting, what have you really accomplished? You have to leave something on the table."

Like other powerful union leaders, Upshaw endured his own share of successes and failures. Hired by the union in 1983, he guided his constituents through the 1987 strike that resulted in the hiring of replacement players. Ultimately, with the former Raider pressing for a court settlement, the league agreed to terms that allowed for free agency, implemented the first salary cap and resulted in labor peace and unparalleled financial bliss. Player gains have become so substantial, in fact, that the owners last May opted out of the current agreement.

Nonetheless, there are those who argue Upshaw enjoyed too cozy a relationship with former NFL Commissioner Paul Tagliabue, too easily acquiesced on non-guaranteed contracts and approved inadequate retirement, disability and pension plans.

Aware of the increasing threat to his stewardship and determined to retain his position, Upshaw recently had sharpened his message to NFL owners while continuing to swing back at his disgruntled ex-colleagues. Upon learning in April of a coup attempt by Baltimore kicker Matt Stover, he angrily told ESPN, "I would never leave until this (new) deal is done."

If not beloved by all, there is no doubt Upshaw was respected immensely. A giant of a man in life, he was no less so in death. On Thursday, his peers and adversaries reacted similarly to the news. Shocked. Devastated. Saddened.

One Sacramentan called The Bee to relate a more personal story: Jethro Ross of Elk Grove said he contacted the union office when former Raider and Sacramento resident Alva Liles died in January 1998. According to Ross, Liles had three children, a wife and no funds for a funeral.

"Mr. Upshaw's secretary spoke to him, then called back within a half hour," said Ross. "She said, 'Of course he remembers Alva,' who was his teammate for a year. They paid for the funeral but didn't want any publicity."

Quietly, Ross added: "I know he (Upshaw) is receiving a lot of criticism from older players, but I wanted to share something showing how he helped people. He cared."

Call The Bee's Ailene Voisin, (916) 321-1208.