UC Irvine’s Greg Patton: All He Wants Is More-More-More

es-you’re-not-really-sure-what-it-is-he’s-saying-even-when-he’s-saying-it.

r-is-on-the-other-foot-but-when-midnight-strikes-he’ll-be-in-deep-trouble.

So try reading this story as Patton might say it and remember no fair breathing or stopping for punctuation marks, because last week Patton was named the national Division I coach of the year by the Intercollegiate Tennis Coaches Assn., and winning wasn’t just an honor but it was like

ant-to-marry-sitting-on-the-beach-watching-every-wave-and-smiling-at-you.”

Because being named the best by your peers and taking an underdog group of Anteaters to a berth in the NCAA tennis finals and a 15th-place national ranking was like a

-to-the-head-while-I-wasn’t-looking-or-like-being-in-the-back-of-the-class and-the-pretty-new-girl-notices-you.”

Because when the phone call came to his Irvine office a week ago, Patton would be lying if he said he was not totally “pumped up” and that he actually “ran-down-the-hallway-screaming-his-lungs-out” and that everyone in the place thought he was “off-my-rocker-until-I-got-down-on-my-knees-and-said-BEE-LEEVE-ME!”

Because giving the 34-year-old Patton something else to scream about is like pumping more adrenaline into Joan Rivers, because Patton, as it is, can barely find the time to sleep or exhale, for that matter.

Because who could have ever believed that the son of a former sports editor from Santa Barbara who might have studied English with Yogi Berra would ever get the chance to live out his dream of taking a small tennis program to the brink of national prominence, which is so much better than having to start at a USC or a UCLA, where they expect you to be great on your first day.

Because isn’t working up from the bottom “like-riding-a-bike-to-work-and-then-getting-a-sports-car,” in the hope that “soon-maybe-I’ll-have-a-limo and-someone-will-drive-me”?

And it really isn’t important that in eight years at Irvine, Patton has compiled a 193-101 record and has been named conference coach of the year four times because what is important is building a program to the point that “a-lot-of-schools-think-we’re-good-now”even in years when they won’t be, which of course is like

o-hears-stories-of-a-Kung-Fu-master-even-though-he-may-not-really-be-one.”

But it isn’t always easy being a tennis coach who speaks at warp speed and cracks jokes and does head butts with his players, because it gives some the impression that the coach is a pushover, which is wrong because “I-can-be-brutal-and-it-throws-guys-for

augh-but-if-you-throw-your-racket-I’ll-yank-you-out-of-there-in-a-minute.”

But somehow the coach walks the line between Dick Van Dyke and Dick Vitale and just plain dictator because all Irvine players know that

ou-won’t-play-and-if-I-was-their-buddy-it-would-be-hard-for-me-to-do-that” and so you will never see one of Greg Patton’s players curse a linesman because his guys are all “Dudley-Do-Rights-with-clefts-down-the-middle-of-their-chins.”

Still his players are so tough under pressure that you could

oliseum-in-the-middle-of-the-lions-with-the-whole-place-screaming-at-them” and at the same time are “the-classiest-bunch-of-competitors-you’ll-ever-meet” because even after the Anteaters lost to Cal State Long Beach in the NCAAs they “didn’t-shake-their-hands-but-they-went-over-and-hugged-them.”

Because what’s wrong with American tennis is that everyone’s “fat-and-sassy” and out for himself and there’s not enough team camaraderie and until there is, tennis in the United States is going to be the pumpkin that used to be the carriage that used to be Cinderella’s.

And that’s why Patton will spend sleepless nights on the road until late September, coaching the junior Davis Cup team even though he knows he’s “burning-himself-out-by- going-too-hard-too-long,” but right now he’s just “so-pumped.”

And so will he be pumped up later in the summer when he is presented with his coach of the year award between the men’s semifinal matches of the U.S. Open, and the only thing that could be better would be if his father were alive to see it because his father Phil was the sports editor or the Santa Barbara News Press and read the sports page to Greg as a kid and always loved a good story.

And one of the reasons Greg Patton can’t stop moving or talking or coaching or strangely enough laughing is that his father died of cancer at age 40, and Greg knows that time and life are precious and that’s he’s “only-six-years-from-the-age-my-father-died” and that’s why Patton “doesn’t-want-to-go-to-the-party-and-sit-in-the-corner” but wants “the-lampshade-on-my-head.”

And that’s why Patton would just “die” if he were a hermit and why he “has-to-be-around-people” and why he tells his players to “live-for-the-battle” and why he loves to coach because he “can’t-affect-the-stocks-or-make-a-lot-of-money-but-I-can-affect-people.”

And that’s why Patton twists metaphors and spins wild analogies “off-the-top-of-my- head” and why he loves to call in his team’s scores to the local sports desks and why when he dies and if “St.-Peter-lets-me-into-heaven” he would hope to end up

d-and-have-a-lot-of-Sports-Illustrateds-and-World-Tennis-magazines-by-me.”

And who knows, maybe some day Patton and Yogi Berra will meet underneath the pearly gates and go out to a restaurant that nobody goes to anymore because it’s too crowded.