He bounced into the Angels clubhouse Wednesday wearing a faded Washington Redskins T-shirt and hole-pocked blue jeans, a reminder that the player who would throw six shutout innings against the Oakland Athletics that night was, really, just a kid.
Nick Adenhart had lightning in an arm that could produce 94-mph fastballs and sharp overhand curves, but he also had the baby face and soft-spoken personality of a 22-year-old who was just beginning to make a footprint in the major leagues.
The life and career of the Angels' most promising pitching prospect came to a tragic end early Thursday in Fullerton when Adenhart and two friends were killed by an alleged drunk driver whose minivan broadsided the car in which Adenhart was riding.
Only hours earlier, Adenhart had pitched the best game of his brief big-league career, blanking the A's over six innings before an Angel Stadium sellout crowd that included his father, Jim, a retired Secret Service agent who had flown in from the Baltimore area for the game.
"He summoned his father the day before and told his dad he better come here because something special was going to happen," said Scott Boras, Adenhart's agent, who broke down in tears during a Thursday news conference.
Boras was flanked by Angels Manager Mike Scioscia and General Manager Tony Reagins. Draped across the table in front of them was Adenhart's jersey, with his name and No. 34.
Scioscia recalled how, at the heart of it all, Adenhart was coming into his own.
"I can't tell you how proud we are of the growth we've seen of a youngster who in high school was a tremendous pitcher and had major arm surgery before he threw one pitch of professional baseball," he said. "And his growth as a person over the last four years was something that we were very proud of. It was a privilege to watch."
About 2,500 miles away, in the area around Adenhart's hometown of Williamsport, Md., the memories ran deeper.
"I just remember the little kid stuff we did," David Warrenfeltz, who grew up with Adenhart, told the Baltimore Sun. "One summer, we dug up my whole backyard to make a Wiffle ball field. And we cut up my mother's boots to make a catcher's mitt. Just little stuff, like riding our bikes to buy baseball cards. Normal kid stuff.
"The hardest part about this is that he was the kind of guy you always wanted around. He always had your back. As talented as he was, he was just one of the guys, real down-to-earth."
