Education and Autobiography of Steven Travers
- August 21, 2010
In 1990 I asked Uncle Charles to speak to his good friend, Oakland A’s owner Walter Haas, about hiring me to work for the club I once played minor league ball for. Uncle Charles refused. I began the process of looking into baseball work again. I released by Oakland in 1982, briefly volunteered when Al Endriss coached at College of Marin (1984) and also volunteered when my pals Phil Smith and Terry Marks coached USC’s junior varsity.
In 1990, when I was Bill Boerum’s campaign manager, I knew the job would end on election day in November. After nothing came of the entreaties of my uncle regarding the A’s, I looked into other opportunities. I contacted head coach Bob Milano, already a baseball legend at the University of California. He agreed to bring me on his staff for the 1991 season. Ralph Chatoian of the Marin Independent Journal featured me in his column. He said I was the former “ace” of the greatest of all Redwood baseball teams. That was when Mickey Meister saw it. He had quite the fit.
This in some ways “redeemed” me with my family. It would have if those outside my parents cared less. I went gone rogue attending USC, the hated rival of the Golden Bears. Now I was officially a Golden Bear, even if it was temporary.
Milano was a true baseball man. He was cut out of the Casey Stengel mode, although better educated and well spoken. He was from Oakland, a catcher at California before getting into coaching. After success at the high school level, he became an assistant under the great Jackie Jensen, probably Cal’s greatest athlete. He coached at his alma mater from 1974-77.
In 1977 Jensen stepped down. The reason was a terrible fear of flying. He was unable to conquer it in all his years of college ball, a big league career including the 1957 American League MVP award with the Boston Red Sox, and his coaching experience. The Golden Bears often played at Hawaii, a trip scaring him to death.
In May of 1977, Redwood’s Al Endriss interviewed for the Cal job. He was so sure he got it, Al announced the day we played Hayward for the CIF-North Coast Section championship he was taking the position. A week or two later I read in the paper Bob Milano was hired. Endriss stayed at Redwood, moved to Santa Clara for a year, back to Redwood, then to College of Marin until 1995. Milano paid his dues, coaching fast summer teams like the Humboldt Crabs. Endriss never did that sort of thing.
Greg and Gary Zunino played for Milano in the late 1970s. Milano loved Greg like a son. When asked of Gary he said, “(Deleted) Gary Zunino.” Despite his great talent, Gary smoked weed, flunked out of school, and was everything a Cal baseball player is not supposed to be.
I also asked Coach Milano about my old pal Steve Hoffmire. Hoff was an All-Northern California selection in his senior year with the national champion 1977 Redwood Giants. He was a great ball player. He was not as spectacular as Greg Zunino, but he was pretty darn good. He could play for anybody. He was not on a full scholarship at Cal, but there was no doubt he was a guy who could thrive in the program.
“I don’t know why he quit baseball,” Milano told me. “I guess he wanted to concentrate on academics and his fraternity. Some guys come to a place like Cal and really want to experience the college life. Baseball is a big commitment, a sacrifice. Had he stayed in the program he probably would have earned a full scholarship and been a starter by his junior or senior year. Certainly a key player on the team.”
In 1980, Milano led Cal within one game of the championship contest of the College World Series. I faced his teams when I pitched at Nevada. His 1988 Cal team, featuring Darren Lewis and Jeff Kent, made it to Omaha. He coached the U.S. Olympic team that year. By 1991 he was considered one of the most respected baseball men in the nation.
Milano went by the nickname “Seven” a reference to his uniform number. He was smart, but old school, slightly out of place in the academic atmosphere of Berkeley. He told me a funny story about attending a Cal-USC double-header in 1968 after graduation.
“I show up with my six-pack of beer and I’m lookin’ forward to a double-dip with the Trojans,” he said. “Suddenly it was like a war was set off. Sirens, cops, tear gas. They were protestin’ the war and they had to call the game off.”
Milano had a craggy face and big ears. He was short and stocky, an ex-catcher. He chewed tobacco but not snuff. He loved to drink but had a metabolism allowing him to get up at six in the morning no matter what he did the night before. Seven swore a blue streak, which defined the team’s culture. Everybody had a foul mouth; coaches, players, trainer, sports information guy. I was slightly disturbed by it. It seemed a little out of place in the hallowed halls of academia. It reminded me, after being out of baseball several years, how crude the game was. Milano called me “Stud.” The fact my Uncle Charles was one of the most important people at Cal did not have the slightest influence on the way I was perceived.
Milano did not like the fact I graduated from USC. I had a USC license plate holder on my car. He said that “drives me crazy.” I never removed it. He claimed he “hates USC,” although he and Rod Dedeaux were good friends. He was a great admirer of Dedeaux.
I found this attitude a little strange, although understandable. Two of his assistants, Alan Regier and Bob Ralston, played at the University of Arizona. They were always talking about their Wildcat baseball experience under coach Jerry Kindall. The pitching coach, Dave Lawn was a former UC-Santa Barbara Gaucho. Nobody ever took issue with their alma maters. USC produced jealousy.
The main assistant and recruiter, Regier was kind of a pretty boy. He cultivated a tan, worked out, admired his body, had curly hair and classic features. He played for Kindall’s 1980 national champions at Arizona, then did a brief stint in the Seattle organization. He was with Milano about nine years. Al also managed summers in Alaska, a prestigious position and major stepping stone in baseball coaching circles. Regier lived out in the Walnut Creek area. He was married with a family. I never met any of them. He spoke of a period in which he broke up with his wife, causing him to hit the notorious Walnut Creek bar scene with gusto. He patched up the relationship. I could never get a handle on Regier. He seemed to treat me okay. I do not think he respected me. I think he bad-mouthed me to Coach Milano.
Milano’s pitching coach was Dave Lawn, a total workaholic. With all due respect, he was not a good pitching coach. Lawn did everything right on the surface. He put his pitchers through the paces. They were in great physical shape. He kept them on a strict regimen of workouts. He was as organized, disciplined a coach as I ever saw. But he simply did not have a great eye for the art of pitching. Pitchers are a very psychologically unstable group. The handling of them is a delicate process. Lawn watched the films, spent countless hours with his troops, and was as serious as cancer, to the point of unfriendliness. However, by and large he did not produce great pitchers.
He was a solid pitcher at El Cerrito High under coach Larry Quirico. He played for the El Cerrito squad that upset the great Mickey Meister in the 1979 North Coast Section championships. Al Endriss and Redwood baseball engendered almost the same reaction as USC in the baseball office. Milano never hid his disdain for Endriss. I think he felt he was a pedantic dictator with a Napoleonic complex. I could not really argue. Lawn knew I played on the legendary 1977 champions. The fact his 1979 team knocked off the great Meister was seemingly viewed as an equalizer of sorts.
He went to Laney Junior College, then pitched with success in a good Santa Barbara program. Lawn injured his arm and never went pro. Lawn picked up his bachelor’s degree from San Francisco State, becoming the pitching coach under Gary Powers at the University of Nevada before Milano hired him. He was married with a little girl or two. I was jealous of him. My daughter lived in Orange County. I did not see her nearly as much as I wanted to. It seemed as if there was a conspiracy against my getting to spend time with Elizabeth.
“You don’t know how lucky you are,” I told Lawn. “At least I hope you know. You get to go home every night and see your little girl. I don’t get to see my little girl and it sucks.”
Lawn was a “control freak.” He was very ordered. It was his first year on the job. I think he was very paranoid and insecure, masking that through a ceaseless work ethic. I was the bullpen coach. Very early on I made some minor suggestion to a pitcher named Matt Toomey. Lawn almost had a cow, making it clear I was not to actually “coach,” even though he did call me Coach Travers. My job was to hit fungo grounders to infielders; pitch batting practice off the mound and in the cages; and to sit in the bullpen, telling pitchers to either get loose or sit down, depending on Lawn’s signal. The experience reminded me of the Kevin Pollack character in A Few Good Men. After being assigned as a lawyer to a “loser” case he announces, “I have no responsibilities here whatsoever.” Mainly, I just sat with a back-up catcher named Dan Trump from Rolling Hills High School. He enjoyed hearing my stories from the San Luis Obispo Easter Tournament.
The next assistant was Bob Ralston, a former All-American from the University of Arizona. He played double-A in the A’s organization. Bobby and I became good friends. He lived near Walnut Creek. I occasionally went out there, hanging out with him. He and his wife tried to set me up with an attractive friend. It never went anywhere.
Howard Gibian also lived in Walnut Creek. I stayed at his place, too. Howard and I play tennis at Club Sport in Pleasanton after Cal practices. We showered, ate and hit clubs like Croghan’s and Bobby McGees. Bobby McGees was beyond belief. They held bikini contests. It was close to Hermosa quality. Sometimes Kevin McCormack came out. He knew Ralston because his younger brother, Tom tried out at U. of A. when Bobby starred there.
Ralston’s wife, Colleen was an aerobics instructor and very beautiful. Rollie had a great sense of humor. We got along well. He was a feisty guy, kind of like Moochie Terry, the second baseman I knew at Nevada. Rollie told a great story about his college coach, the legendary Jerry Kindall. Once Rollie disputed a play at second base, getting in the umpire’s face. He called him every name in the book.
Coach Kindall came to get Ralston out of there. Then he spoke to Bob. He had a kind, mellifluous sort of Midwestern drawl, telling him, “Boh-bay, Boh-bay, you must not speak in such manner to another man like that, Boh-bay. Those are not Christian words, Boh-bay. Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain, Boh-bay.”
Ralston, a Catholic with a real conscience, was mortified, appalled that he disappointed his coach in such a way. “It was awful,” he said, shuddering. Bobby always used the word “awful.”
Cal baseball had a long, storied history. If one were to compile an “all-time top 25” of college baseball programs, at that time Cal would have made the list. The program owed its original greatness to Clint Evans (1930-54). My father played for Evans in the 1930s. In 1947 Cal participated in the very first College World Series, held in Kalamazoo, Michigan. In the championship game, the Golden Bears defeated Yale University. Yale’s first baseman was George Herbert Walker Bush. In 1991 he was President of the United States. George Wolfman took over the program in 1955. While Cal’s overall athletic program took a dive over the next 20 years, he maintained baseball excellence. In 1957 he led California to their second national championship. In 1966 Cal’s captain and catcher was Rocky Shone, a San Rafael High product I got to know. Rocky was instrumental in developing the professional Italian baseball league.In 1969 my father arranged for me to be Cal’s batboy. That team finished 31-19. In 1973, when my dad took me to an Oakland-Yankees game, celebrating my graduation from junior high school, we ran into Coach Wolfman. He just completed his last year at the helm. Told the game was my “graduation present,” Wolfman’s wife asked if I, then 14 years old (but standing six feet tall) went Cal. In 1974 Redwood’s great catcher, Doug Hartman, and third baseman Phil Bacigalupi entered Cal. Doug had a fine career. He was team captain his senior year. Phil flunked out after his freshman season.
Cal had plenty of history. At one time, the Golden Bear football program was the best in the nation. Their Wonder Teams of the early 1920s have been called the greatest dynasty in college grid annals. Led by coach Stub Allison and All-Americans Vic Bottari and Tamalpais High’s Sam Chapman, the 1937 Bears beat Alabama in the Rose Bowl, taking the national championship. But under coach Pappy Waldorf in the late 1940s, Cal missed out on their bid for greatness. Three straight times they went to the Rose Bowl. Three straight times they came back with their tale between their legs. Given the chance to establish themselves as a national power on par with Michigan, Notre Dame and USC, instead they failed to uphold the honor of the Pacific Coast Conference. For years the Rose Bowl was dominated by the Big 10.
After the recruiting scandals of the mid-1950s, followed by the Bates-McKeever incident, Cal sued USC, allowing sports to be downgraded. Their “last hurrah” was a 1958 conference championship. After a blowout loss to Iowa in the Rose Bowl, they never returned. Cal once was a big-time track power. In 1970 they won the NCAA title. It was stripped because of an ineligible athlete. In 1959 they won the national title in basketball. They never approached that level of success again. When Cal became second tier in sports, they lost a sense of panache. They never reasonably hoped to ascend, or stay close to, the upper echelon again. Despite many advantages, the second tier status of its football team affected the baseball program. Milano could recruit and bring in winning players, but he was always at a disadvantage against powerhouses like USC, Arizona State, Arizona, and by 1991 rival Stanford.
Evans Diamond was no help. It did not have lights. While a quaint, historic yard, it paled in comparison to the baseball palaces at USC, UCLA, the Arizona schools and Stanford’s wonderful Sunken Diamond.
Cal’s liberal reputation was no help, either. Zunino told me about a big pitching recruit from Orange County arriving in Berkeley. He drove up University Avenue. After one look at all the weirdos, he turned around and drove home. The campus architecture was very traditional, but the politics turned the place into a freak emporium. I grew up rooting for Cal because of my dad. I could never bring myself to respect the school. It offered fabulous academics. The student body was impressive, but they allowed themselves to become an ally of Hanoi and Communism in the 1960s. The stupid reaction of Cal students to USC – dumbly waving credit cards, essentially finding fault with greatness because they lacked it themselves – could not be ignored.
Athletic director Dave Maggard recently left for the University of Miami, replaced by Bob Bockrath. We shared a dressing room with the basketball coaches. Lou Campanelli was the head coach at the time. His assistant was Todd Bozeman.
We chewed Copenhagen morning, noon and night. The whole team chewed tobacco. USC and Stanford were the conference favorites. Cal was not predicted to reach the post-season. Early in pre-season practice I was highly impressed with the talent. We had an unusual group of big, strong players. Weight training was really becoming a major part of the baseball regimen. Most of the guys developed tremendous strength. They were a bunch of dedicated, workaholic players who could “mash.” That January, before we played a game, I told Milano this could be a “special” team that would surprise the prognosticators. I was right.
Early on a number of Cal’s professional players worked out with us prior to Spring Training. One was a right-handed pitcher named Will Schock. Schock followed Bryan Price from Tamalpais High School to Cal, where he was a star. Drafted by Oakland in the 22nd round in 1987, he pitched five years professionally, going 43-36 in the A’s and Reds organizations. He reached triple-A Tacoma that year (1991). I saw Will when I worked out at Gold’s Gym. He became a scout.
I often threw batting practice to Kevin Maas before the team came out on the field. He was an incredibly impressive athlete. Big, tall, powerful and handsome, Regier called him “Zeus.” Maas came out of Bishop O’Dowd High School. After Cal he signed with the New York Yankees. In 1990 he hit 21 homers for the big league Yankees. For a brief period he was the talk of baseball, hitting homers in bunches, creating huge excitement. He hit 23 homers for the 1991 Yankees. He played five years in the bigs, 10 in minors, where he hit .280 with 113 homers.
Darren Lewis worked out with us, too. A product of Moreau Catholic High School, he played for Cal’s 1988 College World Series team. He went on to play 13 years for the A’s, Giants and other teams. He was considered one of the greatest defensive players of his era.
Jerry Goff from Ran Rafael High and College of Marin also was around the program. Jerry played at Cal and reached the big leagues with Montreal.
We had an excellent alumni game before sending all those guys off to training camp. I got to know a lot of them at a little dive bar, the Kingfish, which was not unlike the “Five-oh.” It was not far from the 580 Freeway. Milano and Cal sports figures hung out there. I also went to a barbeque place a few miles from the campus, on the Oakland-Berkeley border. That place had the best barbeque I ever tasted. Ralston and I went to a fair number of Cal basketball games. I was shocked at the lack of attractive women on that campus. Something like 30,000 or 40,000 students, but a dearth of talent.
There was talent on that pitching staff, but the success we achieved was not from mound excellence, which marked previous great Milano teams. Brad Brown and Mike Cather were our “aces.” Neither was a star. The team ERA was an unimpressive 6.18. Cather reached the big leagues with Atlanta. So did a left-hander named Glenn Dishman. I was stunned either made it that far. Dishman, in particular, was a mere “walk-on” who left Cal, transferred to Cal State, Hayward and eventually pitched for the San Diego Padres. To think Mike Cather and Glenn Dishman could call themselves Major Leaguers, while Charles Scott could not, is utterly crazy.
Pitcher Eric Ludwick had great potential but never did much. He was traded by St. Louis to Oakland for Mark McGwire in 1997. He pitched in the Major Leagues briefly. His brother, Ryan became a big leaguer with St. Louis.
Brad Brown’s brother Nate pitched for us, too. He pitched in the Montreal organization. Third baseman Dan Chowlowski was a fantastic athlete but had lousy work ethic, which is probably why he played for the Cardinals, Cubs, White Sox, and Rockies organizations until 1998, never reaching the big leagues. First baseman Troy Penix was a huge powerhouse slugger from Stockton. He played in the A’s farm system. Catcher Mike Harrison might have been the best athlete on the team. A blond-haired All-American type from Moraga, his parents were both great athletes, divers and swimmers I think. I was surprised he never went anywhere beyond Cal.
Second baseman Aaron Fuller played in the Boston farm system. Outfielder Mike Lawn was Dave Lawn’s younger brother. He played in the Brewers’ chain. Outfielder-pitcher Matt Luke was incredible; his size, strength and athletic ability was the proto-type. Luke, from Orange County, lifted weights religiously. He lived and breathed baseball. He was exactly what any coach wants in terms of attitude and quiet team leadership. He had a decent Major League career with the Yankees, Dodgers and Angels. Shortstop Chris Clapinski was given limited skills but worked hard at it. A product of the Palm Springs area, he reached the Major Leagues with the Florida Marlins in 1999-2000. He loved country music and had a beautiful blond girl friend who came to the games. Ski always pretended having such a beautiful girl was no big deal. Girls like that do not come around every day, especially at Berkeley.
First baseman Jon Zuber was one of the most unique characters I ever associated with in baseball. A star at Campolindo High School in wealthy Moraga, where he was best friends with Mike Harrison, Z also played basketball. His father, “Big Ed” Zuber, was a USC man from Los Angeles. When we played at Moraga, the Zuber family hosted a barbeque at their home. It was a veritable Trojan shrine, a miniature Heritage Hall. That must have rubbed Milano the wrong way.
Zuber desperately wanted to play for USC. Coach Mike Gillespie chose a first baseman from Orange County named Mike Robertson as his guy. Zuber was told he could play in the program, but Robertson would be the starting first baseman. Zuber could pitch, D.H. or play the outfield, but not play his natural position. That got his “back up.” Zuber, as competitive an athlete as I have ever known, basically decided he would show Gillespie and USC what a mistake they made. He went to Cal, where he was a star right from the beginning. 1991 was his junior year.
Zuber was one of the greatest players in Cal history. He was All-Pac-10. Robertson had a fine career at USC, but Zuber was definitely better. Jon was used as a closer. He was extremely effective. He came in from first base. Luke came in from the outfield to replace him at the position. Zuber was like Al Hrabosky, “the mad Hungarian,” stomping around the mound in fierce manner.
In 1992 he led Cal to the College World Series. He put on a show for the national TV audience with his pitching, hitting and defensive exploits. I told Greg Zunino he should draft him high. Zunino made some lame comment about Zuber not being a “station to station” player. That made zero sense to me. What did that mean? He was our best relief pitcher. He obviously had a good arm. Zuber was not really tall or strong. Compared to such physical specimens as Harrison, Luke and Penix he was overshadowed. He was not even drafted in 1991. His stock went down when he played in the wood bat Cape Cod League, batting only .255. He finally entered professional baseball in 1992, reaching the Majors with Philadelphia in 1996 and 1998. I saw him on TV and was stunned. He was buffed like crazy. He obviously hit the weight room for all it was worth, probably after his Cape Cod stats led people to say he lacked “wood bat power.” I hate to say this, but considering this was the apex of the “steroid era,” he was probably “juiced.” He played in Japan, retired, and got into coaching in the east bay. He got married, started a family, and for a few years was as assistant coach at Cal. I became friends with him. He was considered a possible future Cal coach, but was fired before the 2010 season.
Early in the season I was sent to Los Angeles on a recruiting-scouting mission. It was a chance to see sweet Elizabeth, too. Yippee. I went to see two teams we would face, Stanford at Cal State, Fullerton. Fullerton was building their beautiful stadium at the time. They had to play on a local municipal field. Stanford was absolutely unbelievable. At the time comparing Cal to Stanford’s baseball team was almost like the David vs. Goliath story. Milano was non-plussed when I returned, reporting they were the best team in the country “except for the Oakland A’s.”
They annihilated Fullerton, who was always solid. Stanford featured a 6-7, 215-pound right-handed pitcher named Willie Adams out of Whittier’s La Serna High School. Adams threw heat and was a star. One time I called the office. Milano answered.
“Hi Coach Milano, this is Willie Adams. I’d like to talk to you about transferring to Cal,” I said.
“I know it’s not,” Milano responded before I told him it was me. Adams was a first round pick by Oakland in 1993, signed for $240,000 by Will Schock. He was 7-1 at Class A Modesto (1994) and 10-4 at triple-A Edmonton (1996). He played two seasons in the Major Leagues (1996-97).
Tall All-American first baseman David McCarty was the third overall pick that June after slamming 24 home runs. He played 11 years with various Major League teams. Speedy outfielder Jeffrey Hammonds hailed from New Jersey, He was one of the best players in college baseball, the fourth overall pick a year later (1992). He played 13 years for Baltimore and other teams, batting a career .272.
USC featured many old friends of mine; third baseman Brett Jenkins, pitcher-infielder Jeff Cirillo, first baseman Mike Robertson, outfielder Mark Smith and pitcher Jackie Nickell. Cirillo, who was the Trojans’ “lights out” closer in 1991, had a long, successful Major League career, much of it with Milwaukee. Robertson made it to the Show. Smith had a brief big league “cup of coffee.” Nickell was the conference Pitcher of the Year. Phil Kendall, Dan Hubbs and Mike Collett were all outstanding.
As good as USC’s teams were with Bret Boone in 1989-90, the 1991 club was coach Mike Gillespie’s best until his 1998 national champions. The Trojans swept through the Pac-10 with a 23-7 record. They were 46-17-1 overall, earning a host position in the NCAA West Regionals. After powering past Middle Tennessee State and Pepperdine, they totally blew it. First came an improbable come-from-ahead 8-7, 10-inning loss to Creighton, of all teams. That was followed by a 7-3 defeat at the hands of Hawaii. No Omaha for Troy.
After shutting out San Francisco State, we traveled to Miami. This was a formidable challenge; the cross-country road trip combined with one of the toughest opponents in college baseball. It was humid in south Florida. Miami had a great facility. Mark Light Stadium was filled for every game. They had all kinds of great promotions, such as the spreading of dollar bills all over the infield. A couple of fans were given two minutes to pick up as many as they could pocket.We played the Hurricanes tough the first two games, then were blown out in the third. It added up to a three-game sweep. Would we have the character to rebound? We would. We rallied at home with a three-game sweep of Long Beach State. Then we made a road trip to Fresno State, the scene of some epic games in my University of Nevada career. The second game of the series was played before a sell-out crowd at Beiden Field. It was one of the most exciting baseball games I have ever witnessed. The lead exchanged hands consistently. In the bottom of the ninth we clung to a 15-14 lead. With the crowd exhorting the Bulldogs on, they put the tying and winning runs on first and second base with one out. The next hitter slammed a drive, threatening to go for extra bases, driving in both runs to give Fresno the win.
The lead runner, however, had to hold up in case it was caught. The man on first was off and running. The ball fell in. Now everybody was off and running. The relay throw came to catcher Mike Harrison. He readied to make the tag. Both runners were bearing down on him within a few yards of each other. Harrison deftly tagged the first man out, then shifted position to tag the second man, trying to slide evasively, for a double play to win the ball game. The way we reacted, it was as if we just won the College World Series. The crowd went from enormous noise to stunned silence, our shouts piercing the foggy February night air.
Ralston and I went out to a happening bar near the hotel that evening. We had a good time together, bonding. On the bus back to Berkeley, Zuber did mock Vin Scully imitations, interviewing his teammates with outrageous questions and commentary. I found him to be one of the most intense, charismatic guys I was ever around. All the coaches agreed that he was, “A piece of work.” To me, Zuber was a younger version of me.
We took two of three from UCLA, but in March lost three straight at USC. We stayed in a fancy hotel near the Los Angeles airport. Ralston and I wet out to Hennesseys in Manhattan Beach. Rollie really took a big chance. Bob took the team van. I know I did a fair amount of drinking. I think Bob did, too. I remember it was a really good night for talent. Bob, who was married, enjoyed watching me talk to the girls. Then he drove us back. Had he been caught for a DUI in the Cal team van it would have been a public disaster, but he made it home. I met a blond girl that night I later went out with. Not much came of it.
“Man, you are aggressive with women,” I recall Bob saying to me. He and his wife got the impression I was a swinging bachelor and big success with girls, but that was far from the case.
Good old Bill Friedrichs arranged to pick up Elizabeth and bring her to the games when we played in Los Angeles. She sat by the dugout. The players all asked me about her. I think the sight of me being a good father improved my standing in some of their eyes. Because Coach Lawn gave me so little responsibility, I always felt my purpose was in question. Afterwards, Bill and Elizabeth met me for dinner before Bill drove her back to Orange County. Bill lived about 10 minutes from her, in Los Alamitos.
A very strange event occurred during the final game of the USC series. We were frustrated, in the process of getting swept. The big USC crowd was waving brooms over our dugout, rubbing it in. This was a new twist for me, the USC fan and alum. Here I was in the enemy dugout wearing a Cal uniform. Late in the game, some brush backs were exchanged. Everybody rushed the field. There was genuine bitterness, with Bears and Trojans players saying some very nasty things. Zuber, given short thrift by USC in recruiting, was a wild man. Mark Smith of USC, who was plunked, tried to swing at anything in blue and gold, including me.
I ran out there trying to pull guys back, in the process scuffling with Smith, Jeff Cirillo and Jackie Nickell, all USC players were good friends of mine. I felt very strange wearing that Cal uniform in a beef with a bunch of USC guys. After the final game I arranged for Bruno Caravalho to provide us dinner at the California Pizza & Past Company.
We lost two of three at Tempe to Arizona State, and lost two straight to Cal State, Fullerton at home. Apparently my scouting report did not help. We won two of three at Tucson vs. Arizona, with Chowlowsky powering a key homer. That game, along with many others that season, was televised on the old Fox Sports Bay Area. Ron Barr did a number of our games. I had a few of college baseball fans in my Army unit who always said they saw me in the dugout on TV.
Late in March or early April, the team enjoyed a real treat. We bused over to the Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum for an exhibition game against the Oakland A’s. It was very memorable. As we came on the field, Mark McGwire was taking ground balls at first base. He spotted me and howled, “What in the world?”
Several of the Cal players and coaches heard me say I knew McGwire. They may have thought I was exaggerating. Big Mac was joking and chiding me, “Hey, that Cal uni looks good on you, man,” he said. “I can’t blame you for wearing it, even if it is second best to the Trojans.”
Before the game all the coaches were in the outfield having a long discussion with Oakland manager Tony LaRussa. He was at the height of his game, his team having played in three straight World Series entering that year. Tony was very gracious and giving of his time with us. We asked him a lot of questions. He answered all of them truthfully and with great patience. I got the sense he was very giving of his knowledge, willing to share his vast experience with eager baseball people. In 2007 I ran into him at a Cal-USC football game in Berkeley. I reiterated that thought..
Howard Gibian, at the time working in the A’s customer service department, was at that Cal-A’s exhibition game. The highlight of the day was the A’s batting practice. As the “steroid era” hit, I look upon that day as almost a poster of the whole sordid thing. The A’s were huge; McGwire, Jose Canseco and Dave “Hendu” Henderson, in particular. We all gathered around the batting cage, watching these guys put on a long ball demonstration of Ruthian proportions. They were hitting rockets way out of the Coliseum. Canseco and Henderson engaged in running commentary/put-downs that were hilarious. They were one loose, cocky, confident bunch. Jose had his sleeves bunched up to expose his absolutely monster biceps. He was flexing them, twirling, strutting, chortling. Hendu was cackling, everybody laughing like crazy, all the while hitting total pee-rods everywhere. A home run landing only halfway into the bleachers was scoffed at. Pride goeth before the fall.
The A’s included Mike Gallego, who played on UCLA teams I faced in 1978-79. Rickey Henderson, who was on Oakland Tech teams playing against Redwood when I was there, was the reigning Most Valuable Player. Cal’s Lance Blankenship was on the 1991 A’s. So was Curt Young from the 1982 Modesto A’s. Closer Dennis Eckersley came over from the Cubs in 1987 in exchange for my Idaho Falls teammate Dave Wilder.
The A’s did not play a bunch of scrubs against us. They were a couple days away from their season opener, trying to hone a razor’s edge of sharpness. Dave Stewart started. I must admit, for all the baseball I saw and played, this taste of the big leagues from up close was a cut above. From the dugout, watching a bunch of sluggers who were a college powerhouse struggle, flail and get frustrated by Stew, I realized how much better the Major Leaguers really are. Stew won 20 four straight years entering 1991. He was one of the premier pitchers in the game if not the very best. That spring he added a forkball, or some variation of a forkball, to his repertoire. He used it extensively against us. It was unhittable. Then he blew fastballs by some awfully good hitters. They beat us, 4-0.
After the game the A’s indulged us with the traditional line/handshake. When third base coach Rene Lachemann came through he was saying, “Go get ‘em all except the Trojans,” his old school. I stopped him, told him his brother once recruited me to USC, and gave him a quiet “Fight on!” with the “V for victory” sign. Tiffany, the gorgeous black girl from Richmond I dated a few times, was at that game.
That evening I ran into Jose Canseco and his aerobic wife, Esther, looking good in a leotard, at Club Sport in San Ramon. I reminded him I was with the Cal team, and he and I were ever-so-briefly teammates in 1982. He was quite gracious, pretending to remember.
The key to the season came when we won two of three at Arizona and swept three straight at UCLA’s Jackie Robinson Stadium. On Saturday night that weekend, Kevin McCormack was in town. We went out. Naturally we partied too hard. I stayed at his hotel with my uniform. He dropped me off at Westwood half an hour before my team arrived. I bet the UCLA guys were wondering why a single Cal guy – a coach – was there all by himself. Hung over, in my shorts and a t-shirt I ran about three miles to sweat the alcohol out of me. We won that day, 11-7.
USC came to Berkeley. Mike Cather beat Dan Hubbs, the only victory we got against the Trojans that season. Jackie Nickell pitched brilliantly to beat us the next day, 9-3. We lost the “rubber game,” falling to 27-22 and, more important, 12-14 in the old Pac-10 Southern Division. Our chances at reaching the NCAA Regionals came down to the final three conference games, a home encounter with Stanford, a game at the Farm, and a final one at Evans Diamond. After losing the first one, the second game was crucial. We knew from the “bracketology” of the national picture a win would give us a berth. A loss would eliminate us from consideration.
A sellout crowd at Stanford’s Sunken Diamond was on hand. It was everything the Cal-Stanford sports rivalry is all about; a hard-fought game, in which we doggedly held the lead. Chowlowsky made one of the greatest plays I ever saw, diving to his right to back-hand snare a line drive with the bases load and three men running, saving two or maybe three runs. In the ninth, with a 9-5 lead, Stanford had men all over the sacks. Zuber was brought in to close it. He was an absolute bulldog who would not be denied. Throwing to his best friend since childhood, fellow Campolindo High graduate Mike Harrison, he mowed down the tough Stanford bats. We had our 9-5 win. It was a huge victory. At the start of the season the psychological difference between the kind of team we thought we were vs. the kind of team Stanford had was very wide. We closed that gap.
The bus drive back to Berkeley was riotous. Everybody showed great love for each other. Chowlowsky was constantly chattering, “We’re goin’ on a bird.” That landed us in the NCAA Midwest Regionals at Wichita State University, which was hot and humid. Wichita State, under coach Phil Stevenson, was a major national powerhouse at the time. They won the 1989 College World Series. There was a happening bar at the hotel I checked out. On another night Ralston, Zuber, Clapinsky and I went out for some beers. Normally coaches were not supposed to socialize with players. It had been a long year. We bent the rules.
I had not particularly gotten along with either Zuber or Clapinski. In fact, we had a few run-ins. This gave us a chance to become friends of a sort. Zuber and Clapinsky were very close. They shared a love of country music with Ralston. I was coming around to county music, but was not nearly the fan I later became. We went to a country place featuring line dancing and two-steppin’.
Zuber was in a major battle with Milano and especially Regier. They did not even speak. Zuber claimed he was being “blackballed.” He was a hardcore guy, a true competitor with a “take no prisoners” attitude. He was a nice guy and a gentleman, but he definitely had an edge. Drinking beers with Ralston and I, he had a chance to vent his frustrations. Clapinsky said something I remember. Asked about his future in professional baseball, he expressed little enthusiasm for the prospect. He wanted to go into business. He was a smart kid with good grades from a great school.
“What do I need to play a couple years in the minor leagues and get released for?” he asked rhetorically.
I gave him my two cents. He should do it for the experience. One never knows once they get into an organization how far they will rise. I knew for a brief period I felt I was on my way. I knew guys like Dennis Blair who were not highly rated, but if they caught the right eye they advanced. Ski did play professionally. He lasted more than “a couple of years in the minors,” reaching the Show at Miami in 1999. Then he went into business, with Morgan Stanley.
Milano, Regier and Lawn knew Zuber had our ear. They were not happy about it. There seemed to be real divisions created over this issue, even though I never really understood what the beef was. Zuber would just get a “wild hair” about somebody. He really seemed to despise Regier over perceived slights. I think Zuber manufactured a lot of this stuff, using it as motivation to drive himself into a frenzy. Baseball was an every day sport, a game of failure. Zuber played it like a football linebacker. An out was a personal affront, the pitcher an enemy for life. A bad call by an umpire was cause for a war. He threw equipment, swore, raged. In his case, like John McEnroe, it worked to his advantage.
Wichita State’s facility was fabulous. The crowds were huge for all the games. Before the first game against Baylor, Ralston and I introduced ourselves to Bears coach Mickey Sullivan. He told us he was the scout who signed Nolan Ryan back in the 1960s.
“What did he throw, high 90s then?” I asked.
“Naw,” drawled Coach Sullivan, “about 85.” Ryan obviously improved his velocity after that.
We beat Baylor, 8-3 and Ohio State, 10-8, but Wichita State mopped the floor with us, 8-1. That set up an elimination game at night against Ohio State. It was a game for the ages, tied 5-5 in the ninth. Harrison’s homer gave Matt Toomey his second straight win over the Buckeyes. However, Darren Dreifort, considered one of the best prospects in America in 1991, defeated us, 11-5 in the title game. The season was over.
Despite spotty pitching, which Lawn was never able to get a handle on, we had a fine season at 37-27. When it ended, I worked at Cal’s annual summer baseball camp. When that was over Milano informed me my services would not be retained for the following season. I was not heartbroken. I enjoyed the experience coaching big time collegiate baseball, but lacked the passion and fire to achieve greatness at it. The drive I felt as a player was not there as a coach. Milano told me, “You should be an agent or a broadcaster, maybe a writer.”
I liked Seven and stayed in touch with him. I saw him periodically at games. After his 1992 squad made it to Omaha, he never had that kind of success again. He retired after some 20 years as head coach at Berkeley, not counting his years as a player and assistant there. He is a member of the College Baseball Hall of Fame.
In 2000 I was stunned to discover Dave Lawn was hired by Mike Gillespie as USC’s pitching coach. I was writing for StreetZebra, covering Trojan sports. I was at the school at least once a week. I looked him up, telling him, “You look good in cardinal and gold.” Maybe he improved as a pitching coach. It certainly did not hurt inheriting Mark Prior. In 2000-2001, Prior was as dominant as any college pitcher ever. After he left the staff was less phenomenal. Lawn eventually took over as coach at Servite High School in Anaheim. He chose to live in the Anaheim hills, a tremendous commute when he was at USC. I knew him to be an early riser, at the office by eight or earlier, not leaving until after dark. The Servite job probably saved him two or three hours of drive time a day. I heard the Catholic school paid him $100,000 a year just to coach the team, not even teach class.
Regier got into scouting. I saw him at San Diego State one time during the Area Code games. Bob Ralston coached at Clayton Valley High School near Concord. He took his team to the CIF-NCS Championships against one of the MCAL teams at Albert Park in the 1990s. With the score tied in the bottom of the seventh, his team was in the field. The bases were loaded. The count was two-and-two. His pitcher delivered ball three, but the umpire called it ball four, waving the winning run in. It was an obvious mistake. The winning team did not celebrate. The runner did not advance until the ump told him to. Ralston, a feisty, fiery guy, put on one of the all-time exhibitions in baseball history, but his team’s season was over. He later coached at Solano Junior College, but may have returned to high school.
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