The Great Sam Adams, 1931- 2010

U.C.S.B. A slice of heaven made even more heavenly by the class and style and dignity of one Sam Adams.

One of the great surprises to me in reading about the passing of two great coaches, UCLA’s John Wooden and San Diego State and Charger’s Don Coryell, is finding out how wrong I was about them.

Watching Wooden and Coryell while growing up in Chicago, I assumed that, because their teams were so flashy, stylish and exciting, and the fact they lived in Southern California, I assumed Coryell and Wooden had to be flashy Hollywood types themselves.

Yeah, I know. Assume? Make an ass of u and me.

It was my pleasure to have met Don Coryell and, although it was briefly, I could tell how kind and down-to-earth he was. Far more so than the players he made legendary. Although he was born and raised in the state of Washington, Coryell was the epitome of a Midwesterner: loyal, modest, honest, unpretentious. The fond stories of Coryell paint a picture of a man, although undeniably brilliant and an offense/passing visionary, who was also a loveably absent-minded professor.

And John Wooden was the very embodiment of the old-fashioned Midwesterner that he was. Again, I only attended a speech given by Wooden and shook his hand, but I was surprised at how humble and deeply religious he was. He struck me as the loveable, corny grandfather he was. His bromides seem so corny when you heard them, but they burrowed into your brain like a boll weevil:

Failing to prepare is preparing to fail.

Do not let what you can’t do interfere with what you can do.

If you don’t have the time to do it right, when will you have the time to do it over?

Personally, I was lucky enough to have a coach in college who could change your entire life for the better, like Coryell and Wooden. The late, great UC Santa Barbara track coach, Sam Adams, also had life-affirming messages:

Practice doesn’t make perfect, practice makes permanent.

Like Coryell and Wooden, Sam Adams outstanding character is what made him such a great coach. He genuinely treated everyone exactly the same: perfectly.

Every now and then some egomaniac world-class decathlete or celebrity would blow on to the track expecting Sam to cater to him and coddle him. It didn’t take long for them to figure out Sam wasn’t having any of that.

As a coach, Sam took great athletes and made them the best in the world, Bill Toomey and Jane Fredericks, but he also took mediocre athletes and made them very good. Sure, Sam coached Olympic gold medalists, but you didn't have to be around him long to realize Sam took just as much pride in coaching a 5,000 point decathlete into a 7,000 point decathlete.

Sam Adams was chosen to be the man in charge of running the entire decathlon at the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics. As mind-boggling as that responsibility was, he still took the time to run over to talk after I, a mere spectator, waved at him.

Sam was also far, far ahead of the curve when it came to plyometric and core training; he had us run on the beach, run downhill, use our body weight in addition to lifting weights, and most important, Sam always remembered to make training fun. Although a strict and demanding coach, Sam also loved throwing beach barbeques. After meets we'd have potluck picnics and talent contests on our beloved ethereal, eucalyptus-lined UCSB track at sunset.

Although a serious and stoic man, some of the fondest memories of my life are when Sam tried, in vain, to stifle a laugh from one of my horribly inappropriate, god-awful and smart-ass jokes. Honesty, however, compels me to admit the more typical reaction by Sam to my jokes was to close his eyes, bow his head, hold the bridge of his nose, slowly shake his head and sigh deeply. So very, very deeply.

But you didn’t mess with Sam. No sir. Sam had a strict rule about joggers staying to the outside lane. Once some snotty and self-important professor started jogging on the inside lane. When we, the decathletes and heptathletes, tried to warn him, the too-neatly trimmed bearded professor angrily and loudly demanded to know who we thought we were telling him, a professor, what to do?

Sam arrived on the track and firmly commanded the offending professor:

“Move to the outside, now.”

You've never seen a dork move so fast to get to the outside lane nine. You could almost see the cartoon-smoke shoot out from his feet to the sound of a rickashay'd bullet. We all roared with laughter and joy at the sight of the pompous schmuck getting put in his place by, as we lovingly called Sam, The Rock.

Far more so than E.F. Hutton, when Sam Adams spoke, people listened.

No doubt about it, success in sports is great, but it pales in comparison to the honor and experience of being coached by a great coach who is an even greater person. And I know the difference. In high school, I had a football coach who was the opposite of Sam: despicable, stupid and sadistic. My time with Sam cured all the scars caused by my high school coach.

In my book, I put Sam Adams up there with Don Coryell and John Wooden. And that is saying something. Not for Sam, it is saying something for Coryell and Wooden. When it comes to great coaches who were greater human beings, Sam Adams was second to nobody.

Sadly, I don’t think they are making them like that anymore.