Remembering a friend and mentor

Memories of KT's everlasting influence and passion for life

Three years ago this morning, I received a call from a friend. The message was both scientifically predictable and fundamentally unfathomable: Cancer had claimed the life of Kevin Towers. I was preparing for an early morning interview that had brought me to San Diego the day before, and I needed to compartmentalize the news to get on with my day — a decision I still question.

KT had hired me in 2005, opening the doors to my professional dreams of working in baseball. Ever a friend and mentor, he also counseled me through my transition out of baseball, encouraging a life better suited to my growing family even when I was unsure. Some of it was through heart-to-heart conversations; more of it was through the way he lived his life.

As Kevin was fighting cancer, pushing beyond the limits of the prognosis, the phone calls we had provided clarity. Facing a grim reality, he still offered encouragement and advice with the ease of a man with no concerns of his own. I found it impossible to complain about baseball-related frustrations after he shared with me his day’s rehab efforts: walking a few blocks, sometimes with assistance, to rebuild the strength in his legs after a prolonged hospital stay. With his words, his friendship, and his compassion, even as he was fighting a relentless foe, he managed to mentor and lead, putting my concerns ahead of his.

KT and I worked together from 2005 through the 2014 season, with a brief gap in 2010. There were many days along the way where we either shared our first cup of coffee together or found our way to a final-final after last call (“one for the ditch,” he liked to say).

I decided to leave baseball after the 2017 season. So much of what I miss, or what I think I miss, is from a game that no longer exists. I miss the energy and excitement that was the 2006 Padres and the 2011 D-backs. I miss the annual migrations to Peoria for Spring Training, replete with renewal and camaraderie. And when I take another step back and allow for reflection, I appreciate how so much of the energy was supplied by KT.

Everywhere he went, he came back with a story. What he may not have realized was that everyone he connected with walked away with stories for a lifetime.

His stories have stories. They wind their way around dirt paths, cut through surface streets, make up time along the frontage roads that parallel highways, and they arrive safely at a local dive or a Waffle House. At Bully’s in Mission Valley or JT’s in Arcadia. At The Mo Club in Missoula. Or even at Michelin-starred restaurants in Paris. The memory he had to recall all these places is matched only by the memories that these establishments have of him.

And the directions he gave. Hearing him share a bar or restaurant recommendation in a town he hadn’t set foot in for several years was live theater and a course in commanding an audience. Think about it: Would you take advice from someone relying on years’ old undocumented memories of a strange town? Well, they did.

KT outside of Petco Park at the end of his Padres tenure in 2009.

KT came of age as an area scout in Texas in a time before GPS, Google maps, and cell phones. No doubt, he viewed finding destinations — and arriving before batting practice — as a competition. And if he heard that someone was going to scout a game at a high school, say, just outside of Round Rock, what followed was the description of and directions to a little bar across from a Holiday Inn just off the main drag. And once at the bar, he’d continue, be sure to say hi to Maggie and Paul, you know, the couple that owns it. I was sure that one day he’d tell someone to drop a couple quarters into the jukebox and play C12 to hear War or F8 if the mood called for the Thompson Twins.

The ubiquity of his spirit was unrivaled. I’ve never known somebody who could claim so many hometowns. Homes? No. Home was where Kelley and the bulldogs were. But hometowns? He was everybody’s native son. Everyone wanted to claim him as their own. Of course there was Medford, Oregon, home to the stories of his youth that included his gridiron days for the North Medford Black Tornado. There was Sonoma, and eventually all of California wine country. Then, there was San Diego, the city that drafted him and watched him develop into a GM who would earn a spot in the Padres Hall of Fame.

And let’s not forget the minor league cities. It was a big deal when the Gunslinger rode into town. Strangers and longtime friends gravitated to him equally. Old teammates, old friends, the two fans who sat near him in the scout section for three straight days whose names he didn’t quite know and who, upon parting, were affectionately called “Sport” and “Champ.”

His smile, his candor, his presence, and his generosity favored everyone who was lucky enough to line his path.

It’s been three years without him now. I miss him every day.