Sams’ Gumshoe Tale Turned Sticky

Tom Sams carries a gun and a badge, not to mention a video camera. Which is precisely where this tale begins.

In a hard news story, the best stuff sometimes gets left out. All the color, as it’s called in the trade.

As a result, the most peculiar story to pass across this computer screen went unreported, lost in a series of follow-ups about sanctions and recrimination.

Sams, a licensed private investigator and a volunteer football coach at Kennedy High, videotaped Sylmar in apparent violation of City Section rules last fall.

The inescapable question: What prompted a 6-foot-5, 330-pound adult to hide in the ivy at Sylmar with a camera in the first place?

Well, Sams isn’t exactly a novice sleuth and he relishes playing the role of his alter ego. During one undercover assignment a few years ago, he dressed as a drifter. Sams instructed his daughter, Stacey, to slide down a muddy hill behind his house while wearing his clothes. He sprayed a canister of Pam in his hair for that never-seen-soap look.

Voila! Derelict.

Obviously, the sidelines are not Sams’ only sideline. He sells windows and sliding-glass doors by day, but when football season is over, P.I. no longer is shorthand for pass interference. He has done background work for a segment of “Nightline” and has shot videotape that has appeared on assorted television programs.

It was videotape that put Kennedy’s latter-day Sam Spade in hot water. In fact, when the defensive coordinator of the Golden Cougars busted the Spartans, they wanted Sams spayed.

On Labor Day, five days before Kennedy was set to face Sylmar in a high-profile football opener, Sams received a tip that members of the Spartans’ coaching staff had been spotted that morning in a Sylmar restaurant. Team meetings on Labor Day are forbidden under City rules, and Sams’ sizable gut told him a gathering was about to transpire.

Sams drove past Sylmar High on his way home to Santa Clarita and spotted the Spartans’ coaching staff on campus. He bolted home in his stealth bomber, an Olds 98, and grabbed his high-tech video camera.

“It’s got a 16-to-1 zoom lens,” Sams said. “It’s a good one . . . and it’s tax deductible.”

Upon his return to Sylmar, players were filing into the school weight room. Cue video.

Picture Sams--whose bushy red beard, dark brown coaching attire and rotund build make him look like Friar Tuck--tucked in the ivy behind the visitors’ bleachers. Tom Sams is no Tom Thumb.

Sams bought a copy of the L.A. Times--bless his investigative heart--which he used on camera to verify the date of the violation. He jumped back behind the wheel of his Olds and circled the campus in search of a good vantage point.

He filmed players as they walked in and out of the school gym, lifted weights and kicked around a football. He shot tape of coaches’ vehicles and their license plates, took copious notes and observed the three rules of probity: “Document, document, document.”

Over his 2 1/2 hours of surveillance, which produced 26 minutes of tape, Sams became fearless. At one point, while filming around the corner of a building, he was within 50 feet of the players. Later, he drove into the parking lot adjacent to the boys’ physical education office.

Trouble was, while filming from the front seat of his car, he was spotted by a Sylmar player, who raced around the corner and out of sight. Sams sped away from the school grounds.

By the time Sams circled the campus, the school gates were locked, a car was blocking the driveway he’d exited seconds earlier and members of the Sylmar coaching staff were standing around looking for some lunatic with a video camera.

The lunatic was down the street, recording the moment on film.

In detective books, they would term this sort of thing a smoking gun. Armed with Sams’ tape of the violations, the City athletics department put Sylmar on probation for one year and forced the team to forgo two practices.

Despite his efforts, Sams was hardly given a ticker-tape parade. Kennedy Coach Bob Francola was furious that Sams had informed the L.A. Times of the videotape’s existence--Francola didn’t want to incite the opposition. Francola even considered firing his genial assistant.

Sylmar, ranked ninth in the state, fired back. Coach Jeff Engilman said tersely: “Some people should worry about what’s in their own back yard.” Principal Linda Ambro called the tape “laughable.” A letter to the editor vilified Sams and suggested he keep his big nose and private eye pointed elsewhere.

“Man, I was (ticked),” Sams said. “But the thing that was most disappointing was that not one Sylmar parent stepped forward to admit (the team had) been cheating.”

Though Kennedy scored a moral victory with a 7-7 tie, the episode left a sour taste in Sams’ mouth . . . for a few weeks, anyway. During the playoffs, Sams got wind of a prominent City coach meeting with players on a Sunday, which is forbidden.

Sams says he staked out the coach’s house, shadowed him all morning and shot more incriminating videotape. Sams planned to unveil the details but changed his mind when the team in question was eliminated before reaching the championship game.

And the tape?

There will be no sequel.

“Ahhh,” he said, “I threw it away.”