Drummer John Adams remembered. The night thunder rolled and 'Thunder' struck in Cleveland

I'm typing by a fire nowhere close to baseball season while thinking about a stadium that hasn't existed for almost 30 years.

A photograph of John Adams and his drum suggests a long-ago scene.

It is a summer night that could as well be this evening as a long time ago. Dreams and certain memories are funny that way.

Cleveland Guardians news:John Adams, longtime Cleveland baseball drummer, has died

Captain Frank's, Lake Erie, Terminal Tower, the bridges and the train tracks are in view of the giant mechanical figure atop the right field roof of Municipal Stadium. It is a life-like figure, The Chief, right leg raised, bat coiled.

It is June in Cleveland, and the fellas have their usual record − not the best. Some weather is blowing in. The crowd is a 5,000-person drop in an 80,000-seat bucket.

Some guy in the top row of the center field bleachers, a perch as close to home plate as the lake, is pounding a drum when Cleveland is at bat. He has been there for a few years now, every night.

Boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom.

Rick Manning grounds out to second base.

Boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom.

Gary Alexander strikes out swinging.

Boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom.

Duane Kuiper walks. Ted Cox whiffs. Side retired.

Boom. The Oakland A's touch up Wayne Garland early.

It is still 4-0 when Cleveland comes up in the bottom of the eighth. A's righty Mike Norris is still in. The wind kicks up up, rain heading this way.

Boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom.

Jim Norris triples down the right field line. Paul Dade singles him in.

Boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom.

Toby Harrah lines one up the middle. Bobby Bonds singles to left.

Now the crowd of 5,000 sounds like 15,000. Lightning appears over the lake. Quite a setting for the drummer now.

Boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom.

Rolls of thunder blend with the booms. Popular cleanup man Andre "Thunder" Thornton steps in with the people wanting him to grow larger than life.

The count goes to 1-2 against reliever Bob Lacey.

Boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom.

"Thunder" connects. The ball flies into the left field seats. Cleveland rocks.

I might have thought, "That's one of the neatest things I'll ever see." I promise you now that I am much older, just a few years younger than John Adams was when he left us at age 71, it was one of the neatest things I ever saw.

The thunder. Thornton's lighting-lit blast. John Adams drumming.

But then, you saw and heard big John every time you went to the old stadium, and then every time you went to the new stadium.

He drummed through all the talkers, Pete Franklin, Bruce Drennan, Mike Snyder, Geoff Sindelar, Greg Brinda, Sam Bourquin, Kenny Roda, Tony Rizzo, Munch Bishop.

He drummed through Mike Hargrove's human rain delays, through Mel Hall's glove waving good bye from his back pocket, through Grady's Ladies, through the rise and fall of Pronk.

He drummed the day Bob Hope sang at the last game at the old stadium. No matter who sang the national anthem − Rick Waits, Rocco Scotti, Joe Walsh − he was the soundtrack for the rest of the game.

With rare exceptions, he was there for the home-game portions of Omar Vizquel's 1,478 games, Jim Thome's 337 homers, Kenny Lofton's 452 stolen bases, and Albert Belle's assorted bat corks.

He drummed through managers Ken Aspromonte, Frank Robinson, Jeff Torborg, Dave Garcia, Mike Ferraro, Pat Corrales, Doc Edwards, John McNamara, Mike Hargrove, Charlie Manuel, Eric Wedge and Manny Acta, saving the best, Terry Francona, for last.

He drummed for all of you.

I'm not sure all of the players and managers liked him. I think most of them did. Millions loved him, in some way.

You heard John on the radio, on TV. Maybe, at the park, you climbed the steps and talked to him. He sent no one away.

I attended tons of baseball games at the old stadium. In recent years, it's been a handful of games in the bleachers. John's performance was louder when closer, of course, but there was something peaceful about him being nearby.

Every now and then I'd head up for a chat, or even sit in the same row as him. Sometimes I sent the kids to meet the legend.

John was a regular guy from Parma, a good conversationalist with a kind bearing. He wasn't a cheerleader. One time I caught him in April. "It's going to be a long season," he said.'

He made the 90-loss years more tolerable. I'll bet he cried not when the Indians lost three World Series, but when they made it that far.

I'll bet there have been a few tears this week as people remember.

Personally? If the category is "these are a few of my favorite things" from Cleveland sports, please put "John Adams' drumming" on my list and let me think about the other two.

Reach Steve at steve.doerschuk@cantonrep.com

On Twitter: @sdoerschukREP

This article originally appeared on The Repository: Why Cleveland Guardians baseball fans loved drummer John Adams