Dean Bailey, or ‘Bails’ as everyone knew him, was widely respected as a smart coach who cared.

Paddy Steinfort was lucky enough to work side by side with Bails, a relationship first forged during their time living together as they transitioned to new positions at the Crows.

But when Bails was diagnosed with cancer on the eve of pre-season, they were driven to tackle one final challenge together in his hospital room - building a gameplan for life, learning and leadership.

The resulting book, Breakfast with Bails, is the unforgettable true story of a man who was always committed to making others great, even in his final days.

All proceeds from the project will be donated to Dean’s family - Caron, Mitch and Darcy Bailey.

Click here to find out more about Breakfast with Bails or order your own copy of the book today.

Read an excerpt from the book below:

He was always active, this “old” coach. Whether he was dragging himself through the water, swimming laps once the players were gone, or riding to and from our training base at West Lakes in Adelaide, come sunshine, rain or level 3 hurricane. On more than one occasion, each of the other coaches made some quip about the old guy they almost knocked off the road, bent over the handlebars, powering away with knees out like a schoolboy.

But after returning from a great off-season trip between the 2013 and 2014 seasons, something started slowing him down.

It was a simple cough at first: a bit chesty, and presumably a result of the combined fun he had during the break. He had attended a High Performance sports conference in London with the team's head coach, Brenton Sanderson - Sando to those close to him - and then followed that up with an extended holiday in Europe, one he and his wife Caron had thoroughly enjoyed. After a harrowing few of years involving power battles, a sacking, a league investigation and subsequent suspension for Dean, it was a welcome relief for the couple. Caron had been through almost as much as Dean, and they immersed themselves in the getaway.

The cough seemed a pretty open and shut case that didn't take a genius to work out: x number of weeks over y number of cities with an infinite number of red wines = lowered immune system. Add the constant air conditioning on the flights, and it was obvious this was just a cold that would be kicked as soon as we were back at base and into the healthy routine again.

And with the plans he and Sando had hatched for pushing the boundaries of the training environment this pre-season, Bails would be more active than ever. The time the two coaches spent together at the conference was invaluable, allowing them to formulate a plot that would take the team back to the top end of the table, where they both thought the talent level belonged.

They had talked strategy and handling of certain players, then designed new drills and rituals that would increase pressure on players and prepare them mentally for when games were on the line. Most of these strategies were based on competition with consequences, but the two competitive beasts were particularly pleased with the idea of a Players vs. Coaches challenge, where the coaching group would compete with selected players, with a penalty riding on the outcome.

The enthusiasm was obvious in emails to the other coaches still on holidays, and as soon as the pesky little cough was gone, Bails would be all in.

But this pesky little cough wasn't that easy to shake.

Cough syrup didn't do it at first, so he took more. He carried a bottle with him to work after the first week back, mostly because it seemed to keep it at bay long enough to allow him to talk about what he loved - football - without a cough interrupting his flow. When he was in the zone, Bails could talk for hours about the game or a certain player's strengths or weaknesses.

Like a player coming up through the ranks, the cough was graduating levels as the weeks progressed. It was moving up from “pesky” to “annoying” now.

The bike riding was the first thing to go, simply because the crisp morning air left him even more cough-ridden for the rest of the day.  There weren't many players around just yet, so he hoped that taking it easy for a week would allow him to get on top of it, primed for when full training resumed.

But it didn't.

A week or so after the players were back in full training, the new tradition of Coaches vs. Players challenge was a hit, and both groups had been equally cocky and nervous heading into a goal kicking challenge. Players A, B, C and D were matched against coaches W, X, Y and Z, and on the line was a “Malcolm”: a relatively innocent 20m shuttle run that would be a cinch for any suburban athlete, but for the fact that every ten metres you were forced to drop to touch your chest on the ground and push back up to keep running. If the selected competitors lost, the whole group was doomed to feel the burn.

As the final kick for the coaches sailed wide, the players celebrated with enthusiasm and bravado, trash talking the dejected coaching group before they had even lined up for the first minute. As a penalized member myself, this was my first Malcolm, and pretty soon I was aware of nothing more than my thumping heart rate, shrunken airways and burning chest.

Even the ache in my legs faded into the background as I willed my way to the end; it would be a cardinal sin, a failure as a man for a coach to not get through this. You couldn't stop, unless you were comfortable with the ribbing you would get for the next twelve months.

By the time the torture was over, I could barely think beyond the burn in my throat, the thumping in my chest, and the voice in my head: a mix of curse words and questions. How the hell had I gotten so out of shape?

I knew the answer: like many coaches and managers in pro sports, I had spent my “holiday” buried in the search for The Secret: the magic pill that would separate us from the pack. We were chasing the ultimate goal, sporting immortality, and it was our job to build plans that would make those dreams come true.

It wasn't until we came off the track, still breathless, that someone told me about Bails.

He had stopped midway, claiming he couldn't actually breathe, and headed into his office. There he sat, gasping for air and not having much success.

He saw the club doctor, who pressed a stethoscope around various points on his chest and in quick order suggested he get to a hospital to see a specialist. Within hours, an x-ray had revealed fluid on his left lung, and he was diagnosed with pneumonia.