Ken Adams took the number out of his cell phone last week. It seemed useless to keep it any longer. Edwin Valero was gone.
Adams' younger days as a master sergeant in the Army prepared the old man for this, that life, in a violent profession, is accompanied by its share of death. He speaks in a gravelly Ozark accent and carries 69 years of wisdom packed underneath a thick layer of skin. Outside of a sport they both loved, he had very little in common with Valero.