In the stands for the first home game of the UCLA baseball
season, Gary Adams was lost. After spending 30 years in the dugout
at Jackie Robinson Stadium, the former UCLA coach felt out of place
in his new role as spectator. “I just had so many mixed
feelings,” Adams said of that first game back in January.
“I felt very uncomfortable. I was feeling depressed.”
Adams almost never came back to Jackie Robinson Stadium again. He
almost never returned to the place where he was an icon for three
decades. “It wasn’t anything like I expected,”
Adams said. “It was very weird.” Which was all very
natural. He had watched hundreds of UCLA games at Jackie Robinson
Stadium, all from the dugout. Not in the stands. He had spent all
those games surrounded by players, coaches and opponents, where his
decisions directly affected what happened on the field. In the
stands, he had none of that. It was still UCLA baseball. But it was
different. It wasn’t his team anymore. “I was always
telling my players to shake themselves,” Adams said. “I
too had to look at it in a different way. I had to give myself some
pep talks.” The man who has coached dozens of major leaguers
had to coach himself. And he did. He has been to a handful of games
since then, including some on the road. While in Arizona, he caught
a major league game between the Arizona Diamondbacks and the San
Diego Padres, which featured two of his former players, Troy Glaus
and Dave Roberts. After the game, he chatted with the pair for so
long that the security guards had to kick them out of the stadium.
“I really do cherish those great memories of the past,”
Adams said. And more of those memories from the past come out as
Adams has gotten more used to being a fan in the stands. He is a
natural now. Gone are the feelings of being out of place. Adams
enjoys games now. His only problem these days is trying not to be a
distraction. Which is hard, because everyone loves the guy.
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Back on April 29, I had the opportunity to attend a UCLA home
game with Adams. I couldn’t pass up a chance to spend a night
with the man who was UCLA baseball. He is a walking UCLA baseball
history book. He has a story about every player, coach, game and
season. On top of that, Adams is also the nicest man I have ever
met. Everyone is his friend, and he probably doesn’t have a
single enemy. The minute Adams walked into Jackie Robinson Stadium
that night, everyone wanted to say hi and talk to him. He’s
becoming used to his role as a fan. But he will never be just the
average fan ““ he’s loved by too many people.
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Before the end of the first inning, Adams introduced me to a
fellow Bruin fan, Greg Medici, the older brother of current Bruin
outfielder Jonathan Medici. Greg had tried out for the UCLA team
himself, but Adams cut him. It’d be easy for Greg to be
bitter toward Adams for giving his brother a chance and not him.
It’d be easy for Greg to criticize Adams for never playing
his brother a year ago. Yet he, and rarely anyone else, ever does.
“I’m very grateful to you for giving my brother a
shot,” Greg said. “I really want to thank you with all
my heart.” Adams, who might be the most modest man in the
world, quickly reminded Greg that he was thanking the man that had
cut him, and the man that never played Jonathan.
“You’re the one who gave him a shot,” Greg said.
Adams, being modest as usual, pointed out that Jonathan was the
second-fastest guy on the team. The conversation then switched to
Greg, and what he was doing ““ just like other fans at the
game would do in between pitches. Greg is currently a law student
and will graduate this month. “See, it’s a good thing I
cut you,” Adams joked. “If it weren’t for me
cutting you, you might never have gotten your law degree.”
Ңbull;Ӣbull;Ӣbull;
Adams doesn’t sit at UCLA games. Instead he stands and
walks around the walkway area above the bleachers at Jackie
Robinson Stadium. “Walking around is better for your
back,” Adams said. Not once during Friday’s game did
Adams ever sit down. And it was a long game, lasting three hours
and 20 minutes. And even if he wanted to sit down, it would have
been difficult. There were so many people Adams wanted to talk to.
And there were even more people who wanted to talk to him. Over the
span of the game, at least a dozen parents of players came to talk
to him, on top of other UCLA administrators, grounds crew people,
former umpires, random fans and even parents of players on the
opposing team, Cal. And then there was Rodney.
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No one knows Rodney’s last name, although he frequently
attended games throughout the Adams era. The middle-aged man with
shoulder-length black hair and a pointy goatee was wearing a UCLA
baseball jersey underneath a NASCAR jacket. “Rodney, when are
you going to get a haircut?” Adams said jokingly. Rodney, who
last had his hair cut a year ago by former Bruin baseball player
Matt Thayer, said that every conversation between himself and Adams
starts this way. The two talked about how different Bruins were
doing in the minor leagues, names that include Josh Arhart. Adam
Berry. Casey Janssen. Thayer. “You know, Thayer just got
called up to Lake Elsinore,” Adams said, referring to the
Padres’ high-A minor-league affiliate. Later, Adams politely
listened to Rodney as he talked about horse jockeys. Rodney was
rambling about some recent bets he made at the track that
didn’t pay off. Though Adams doesn’t know a thing about
horse racing, his eyes and attention never wavered. Despite this
and other distractions, Adams always knew what was going on in the
game. When catcher Chris Denove made a good throw, Adams pointed it
out in the middle of a conversation. When the defense was shifted
towards the lines, Adams made a note of it. When a Cal baserunner
and UCLA’s Brett McMillan collided on a play near third base,
Adams immediately knew it was runner’s interference before
the umpire called it that way. Adams was being a fan the only way
he knew how.
Ңbull;Ӣbull;Ӣbull;
Jim Wilson was one of the many Bruin parents who came up to
greet Adams, but one thing distinguished him from the rest. Wilson
still attends UCLA baseball games even though his son is playing on
the other side of the country. Kyle Wilson, who pitched at UCLA a
year ago, was drafted by the Dodgers last year, and is now playing
on their high-A affiliate, the Vero Beach Dodgers. Jim and Adams
reminisced about Kyle’s days as a Bruin, and the coach in
Adams was ever so slightly returning. “I always told him not
to nibble around the plate so much,” Adams said, while Jim
nodded in approval. “His pitches have natural movement. I
always told him to aim it down the middle and his pitches
won’t end up there. But that’s when he gets in trouble.
When he nibbles the corners.” “That’s what I
always tell him, too,” Jim said in complete agreement with
Adams. Later in the game, Kyle, whose team had just won its game
that night, called his father’s cellphone, and Jim handed it
to Adams. “You’re up past your curfew,” Adams
joked, at about 11:45 p.m. Vero Beach time. “There’s no
way I’d let you pitch your next game.” Once a coach,
always a coach. “You don’t have to nibble so
much,” Adams told Kyle. “Babe Ruth is dead now.
He’s not in the league anymore. Just go after the hitters.
“You know, they pay your defense too. You don’t have to
strike every one out.” Adams’ concern for his
players’ education and well-being off the field still
emanates from this Bruin legend. “I’m going to keep
harassing you every year at Alumni day until you get your
degree,” Adams told Kyle. Adams was always very big on
getting his players who left to the pros early to come back and get
their degree ““ and many of them have.
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Just as Adams listens intently to everyone he encounters, his
players always responded to him as a coach. Early in the 2003
season, his Bruins were only 8-9 heading to the Kia Baseball Bash
in Fullerton, where they would have to face then-defending national
champion Texas, No. 21 Tulane and No. 2 Cal State Fullerton. So
Adams shaved his mustache. “I told my players, “˜If I
can make an adjustment and shave the mustache I’ve had for 33
years, you can all make adjustments, too.'” And the
players did adjust, beating Texas 12-2 and Tulane 13-2, before
losing to Fullerton 7-1. “I’ll take two out of three
against those teams any day,” Adams said. Adams has remained
mustache-less since then. Ңbull;Ӣbull;Ӣbull;
Brennan Boesch starred for Cal the night I met with Adams, going
5-for-5. Though Boesch was bashing the Bruins with his bat, Adams
couldn’t help but give him credit. Adams and Boesch had known
each other since Boesch was a 7-year-old enrolled in Adams’
yearly summer baseball camps. Every time Boesch got a hit or made a
good play in center field Adams would always jokingly say,
“If only I hadn’t been so good to him and made him hate
baseball, he wouldn’t be beating the Bruins.” But
Adams’ philosophy is to teach everyone to love baseball. And
because of it, Boesch almost came to UCLA. Boesch really did want
to join the Bruins, according to both Adams and Boesch’s
parents, Phil and Vivian. But Adams was honest ““ he
couldn’t guarantee Boesch that he would be around for long at
UCLA. Honesty is something often thrown out the door by many
coaches when it comes to recruiting. But not by Adams. For Boesch,
it was Adams, not the university, that was the selling point at
UCLA. So Boesch went to Cal, where he has become a key hitter on a
team that may make the NCAA Tournament. Still, Boesch’s
parents love Adams. Phil thanked Adams for all the coach had taught
his son. Meanwhile, Adams stood in the stands, mumbling on at least
five separate occasions, “I should’ve made him hate
baseball and he wouldn’t be beating the Bruins.”
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Steve Weiner, father of former Cal player David Weiner, also
came to talk to Adams at the game. “This is the nicest and
most respected man I’ve ever met at any level of
baseball,” Steve Weiner told me, referring to who else but
Adams. “And I’ve been at every level of
baseball.” Adams tried to deflect the praise as much as
possible. “Let’s see, I think baseball is the only
sport at UCLA never to win a championship,” he replied,
trying to be modest, as usual. “No,” I corrected him.
“Women’s rowing hasn’t won one either.”
“Great,” said Adams, referring to the newest varsity
sport at UCLA, implemented in 2001. “Let’s keep adding
new sports.” It was Adams, not Weiner, who then brought up a
bitter memory of Adams’ past. In 2002, David Weiner hit a
walk-off grand slam against UCLA in the bottom of the 15th inning.
“I would have never said it to my players, but if anyone had
to beat us, I’m glad it was David,” Adams said.
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The toughest part of watching the April 29 game for Adams came
at the end, when the Bruins had lost, 7-1, with UCLA’s record
falling to 9-29 on the year. “My heart aches for them,”
Adams said. “I know how hard they work. They’re all
wonderful young men with great character.” The Bruins’
season is getting to Adams both as a fan and former coach. “I
have to tip my hat to them. They’re still sticking together,
not bickering or fixing the blame on each other.” This is one
of the worst seasons in UCLA history. Many fans see a losing team
and think they could do better as a coach. Still, Adams
doesn’t put any blame on first-year coach John Savage, saying
the team might even be worse under him. The former coach
doesn’t criticize the personnel moves or second-guess umpires
anymore. It just shows how acclimated he’s become to his new
role.
Ңbull;Ӣbull;Ӣbull;
Adams won’t be at too many more UCLA baseball games. This
summer, after he finishes coaching his team of alumni in an
international tournament in Paris, he plans to move to Bear Valley
Springs, located between Mojave and Bakersfield. That’s a
much further distance from UCLA than his current home in Agoura,
which will likely restrict the number of games he can get to
annually. He has a lot of land there, has some horses he wants to
raise, and he says his daughters will be off to college anyway. A
man who for decades represented UCLA baseball will be less and less
visible at UCLA. Last year, UCLA lost its coach. Now the team may
be losing its No. 1 fan.
E-mail Quiñonez at gquinonez@media.ucla.edu