STANFORD, Calif. - Mark Marquess always came to work the same way: with a collared shirt, khaki pants, belt, loafers, and a briefcase. The only thing missing was a lunchpail.
The longtime Stanford baseball coach walked to his office, said hello to staff and coaches, sat at his desk and pulled out a yellow legal pad and some pencils. No computer. His one concession to modernity was a cell phone, but he rarely used it.
His team wore pullover jerseys, the kind that came into fashion in 1972, and caps with a logo long deemed obsolete. The players wore stirrups in an age when uniforms didn’t even have them anymore.
Joel Ahern, the late Sunken Diamond groundskeeper, used to shake his head because his job every day was taken up by the players themselves – pulling hoses, tamping down the batter’s box, shoveling dirt, raking the warning track, spraying the infield.
At gametime, Stanford players didn’t jog to their positions, they sprinted. And they sprinted off the field after each inning.
“Get there, then rest,” Marquess taught his players.
And he wore No. 9.
The number is so synonymous with Marquess that it became a title of respect and endearment.
For 50 years, Marquess wore a Stanford baseball uniform – four as a player (1966-69), five as an assistant coach (1972-77) and 41 as head coach (1977-2017). His record was 1,627-878-1 with a winning percentage of .649.
Marquess coached the Cardinal to 11 conference titles, 14 College World Series appearances, and two national championships (1987 and 1988) and had only two losing seasons. And while there have been legendary and innovative coaches at Stanford – Tara VanDerveer, Dick Gould, Pop Warner and Bill Walsh among them – Mark Marquess, who passed away Jan. 30 at the age of 78, deserves special status even among the greats because of his success, longevity, and his devotion to Stanford.
Of his varsity players, 243 went pro and 75 made the major leagues, including Hall of Fame pitcher Mike Mussina and Mark Appel, the No. 1 pick in the 2013 MLB Amateur Draft.
Marquess came to Stanford as a three-sport star at Stockton’s Stagg High School, where he is remembered for a 99-yard quarterback sneak and for earning Northern California Player of the Year honors. Starting at quarterback opposite future Stanford teammate and All-Pro Gene Washington in the prestigious North-South Shrine All-Star Classic, Marquess led the underdog North to a 7-7 tie before 44,000 at the Los Angeles Coliseum.
“(Stanford football coach) John Ralston has got a future star in this kid,” said the North coach. “Fireworks start to explode when he steps on the field.”
Marquess, who played under Dick Vermeil on the frosh team and Ralston on varsity, was unable to settle into a regular starting quarterback role and was switched to safety his senior year when a guy named Plunkett joined the team. But Marquess earned first-team All-America honors in baseball and played five seasons in the White Sox organization at first base and in the outfield, reaching as high as AAA.
He returned to Stanford as a baseball assistant to Ray Young and took over the program in 1977. Looking for an assistant coach, Marquess signed Dean Stotz, a 1975 graduate who helped coach the frosh team as a senior, to a nine-month contract. They remained together for 37 years, complementing each other perfectly. Stotz actually owned a computer, organized the recruiting and analytical plans. Marquess organized practices and established the recruiting relationships with phone calls and home visits.
“Nine, the cell phone’s not going away,” Stotz promised him.
Marquess insisted two things in particular: That he would take care of their sons; and that their sons would earn a Stanford degree.
Marquess demanded accountability in all aspects of the program, even sprinting.
“We practiced it,” Stotz said. “Seriously. People don’t understand. We practiced how to stand for the national anthem. We practiced for sprinting on and off the field. You didn’t wear a hat indoors. So, if you came down for breakfast in the morning in the team hotel and hadn’t combed your hair, it didn’t matter, if you’re eating inside you took off your hat.
“If you saw somebody struggle with a bag at the airport, you picked the bag up and moved it for someone. If you were in a spot where somebody needed a place to sit down at the terminal, you got up. We traveled in coat and tie, even on midnight flights.”
It was all about doing things the right way and that drove Marquess.
“He really wanted to develop complete hitters and understood that having command of the whole strike zone was important,” said David Esquer, Stanford’s Clarke and Elizabeth Nelson Director of Baseball. “And don’t kid yourself, he loved power. He loved home runs. He wanted to be able to develop guys to hit home runs, but he also wanted them to be complete hitters.”
When Ryan Garko failed to be drafted after his junior year, the catcher had a deep conversation with Marquess about his future.
“He really challenged me to change how I played and how I worked,” said Garko, who was inducted into the Stanford Hall of Fame last fall. “Had I not come back for my senior year, I would not have had a professional career, and I’m still in baseball today. Ninety-nine percent of that was Coach Marquess. He got the most out of me. It changed my life.”
Garko went on to hit 18 homers with only 17 strikeouts that season, winning the 2003 Johnny Bench Award as the nation’s top catcher, and leading the Cardinal to the College World Series championship final before embarking on a six-year big league career and now is the assistant general manager of the Detroit Tigers.
“I’m one of so many,” Garko said. “There are so many stories like mine.”
Catcher A.J. Hinch was a second-round draft choice out of high school, but chose to attend Stanford rather than sign a big contract with the White Sox. During his first fall season, in 1992, baseball administrative assistant Kathy Wolff took a phone call from Oklahoma. A.J.’s father had died suddenly of a heart attack.
She walked to Sunken Diamond, and told Marquess and Stotz, who called Hinch over and broke the news.
“Worst day I ever had on a field,” Stotz said “How do you comprehend that? I think Nine really became A.J.’s dad at that point.”
Hinch and Marquess formed a deep bond that continued throughout the rest of Marquess’ life. Marquess cared deeply for people and his compassion was rooted in his strong Catholic faith. That briefcase always contained a rosary.
When San Jose State coach Sam Piraro was diagnosed with a deadly form of cancer that forced him into isolation for 14 months, Marquess called Sam’s wife, JoAnn, every Friday morning at 9 to check on the two of them.
“Not even my best friends did that,” Piraro wrote in a social media post.
When the wife of St. Francis High School coach and teacher Bill Delaney, an acquaintance, was suffering from a serious illness, Delaney was surprised to see Marquess show up in the Stanford Hospital waiting room at 6:30 a.m. to see how Jeanette was doing. Every Monday through Friday for a month, Marquess continued to show, until Jeanette passed away.
“Mark was a comforting support system for me,” Delaney said. “This is who Mark Marquess was … a gentleman, a compassionate, kind, optimistic, intense, competitive and thoughtful man. I will be forever grateful and thankful for having had the opportunity to know him.”
Among the idiosyncrasies in the Stanford program were bus trips to Los Angeles. Yes, there were logistical arguments for taking a bus instead of a plane, but the real reason was the opportunity to call players over, one by one, to talk about life. Moments like these, as well as conversations in the dugout after practices were treasured by everyone.
“God, he loved baseball, he loved competing and he loved Stanford,” Esquer said.
Esquer played for Marquess, coached under him, and succeeded him, and gave his son Xavier the middle name of Mark in tribute. They stayed close, often meeting for three-hour lunches at the same table at Sundance Steakhouse across El Camino Real from campus.
“That was kind of our booth,” Esquer said. “Probably two or three waiters would come by and say hello to Coach Marquess.”
The shock of Marquess’ death remains strong and Esquer can’t bear to erase the messages from his phone.
“Hey Esqy, just checking on you, seeing how you’re doing. Let’s go to lunch.”
“Esqy, I’m just calling to see what you’re up to. Hey, I’ll take you to lunch tomorrow. Give me a call back.”
Now, the reality is starting to take hold.
“I think he’s been a part of every decision I’ve made since college,” Esquer said. “And I’m thinking, I’m 60. I guess I’m going to have to go on by myself now.”
Somewhere, a briefcase sits empty.