June 20, 2000

(Note: This article is reprinted from Sunday's East Valley Tribune. Tribune columnist Scott Bordow talked to Coach Evans about the impact Evans' father, Oscar, had on him before he passed away in April. Evans and his staff hosted their second annual ASU Father and Son Camp over the Father's Day Weekend in Tempe)

The album of mementos sits on a coffee table in Rob Evans' house. It is a gift from his wife, Carolyn.

There's a photo of Rob and his father, Oscar, on their fishing trip in Mexico. A picture of Oscar, wearing a University of Mississippi tie, watching his son coach the Rebels in 1997.

Oscar's birth certificate, dated 1918.

And his death certificate, just two months old.

Next to the album is a note, from Carolyn: "When you feel up to it I have this for you."

The book sits, undisturbed.

"I haven't felt up to it," Evans says. "I don't know when I will. I'm really looking forward to the time I feel comfortable doing that.

"I was just way too close to him."

***

Evans looks out over the 100 men that have come to Wells Fargo Arena for his second annual Father-Son camp, which concludes today. Father's Day.

The scene pierces him.

"This weekend has really taken on a special significance for me," he says. "When I get out there and see the sons with their fathers, it brings back times I had with my dad. It's hard for me."

Oscar Evans died in Hobbs, N.M. in late April due to complications from a stroke. Only now has Evans begun mourning his father.

"It's been hard for me the last couple of weeks," he said. "I didn't get a chance to feel a lot of sadness because I had to be one of the ones in the family to do a lot of things. I have just begun to kind of cry a little bit."

So much of who Evans is his father was.

That ultra-competitive streak?

Evans remembers he and his six siblings teasing their father one day, calling him an old man. Oscar, who was in his mid-30s, told his kids to meet him on the street in front of their house.

"He raced us and beat us all," Evans said.

Oscar Evans was a gentle man. Evans can not remember his father ever raising his voice. But Oscar demanded respect. And got it.

"We all knew when he said something, he meant what he said," Evans said.

Evans yells. Often. But even when the volume is turned up, the message is that of a quiet man who demanded excellence. Not just in sport, but life.

The Evans family grew up poor. Oscar was a janitor, Gladys a housecleaner. They had seven kids.

Evans remembers bill collectors knocking on the front door, demanding their money. He hears his father asking for more time, explaining that one of the children needed a new pair of shoes.

"I've seen him demeaned," Evans said.

Whenever Rob and Carolyn get a bill in the mail, it goes out the next day.

"I don't want anybody coming to my home," he said. "Because if anybody comes to my home and says the wrong thing to me I don't know how I'll react."

Several of Evans' childhood friends who grew up in similar circumstances are in prison. Or dead.

All seven of Oscar and Gladys' kids have college degrees.

"People ask them all the time how they were able to do that," Evans said. "What it says is that my parents were very, very goal oriented. They were no-nonsense.

"My dad's formal learning was the 8th grade, but today you go in my dad's study and he has more books than a library. Every time he went someplace he bought books. He taught us to strive."

Evans recalled an older brother calling home from college one day, complaining that he was struggling with algebra.

"Is there anybody else in class doing well?" Oscar asked.

"Yes."

"Well, if they're doing well in that class you can do well in that class. Don't call me crying about that class. Take care of business."

The day after Oscar's funeral his seven children gathered in their parents' front yard to say goodbye and go their different ways.

The mailman walked up and recognized Evans.

"I just want you to know," said the mailman, "that your dad would stop me every day for about 20 minutes and talk about you. He was your biggest fan."

Evans' eyes moisten.

"That meant so much to me," he says. "Because he was my dad."

***

Evans has coached dozens of kids who grew up without fathers in their lives. He always felt he understood their pain.

"I understand it now," he says.

The loss will not soften Evans. Only strengthen his resolve. What his father taught him, he will teach others.

"The only way it's going to change me is that I'm going to be more demanding," he says. "My dad once told me, 'I don't care what you think about me today. I know you're not going to like me. I'm going to tell you some things you don't want to hear. I will talk to you five years from now.' . . .

"That's why I work so hard here. If I can break that cycle with a kid who would be the first to graduate from college, that means his kids will probably go to school, and so on and so on."

Evans looks down, unclenches his fingers and, after a moment, begins again. His voice is softer, quieter.

"I'm going to be very demanding on these guys who are going to be fathers," he says, "because I want them to be like my father."