GregMercer.ca Newspapering and other adventures

So long, Robbie

The Guelph Mercury, 2/18/2009

It was hard to be a 12-year-old Canadian boy and not want to be Roberto Alomar.

In the early 1990s, if you lived in Ontario or most any other province and loved the Blue Jays, he was it. His bat and glove spawned an army of followers in peewee and bantam baseball league ranks, all of us awkward preteens who tried to mimic his swing and his smooth scoop and throw from second base.

Alomar was a star on the Blue Jays when you could be proud to say you were a Blue Jays fan. With him, they won those back-to-back World Series, and filled the SkyDome to the brim every night. If he makes it into the Hall of Fame, he’ll be the first to do so in a Blue Jays hat.

And, he flogged that delicious, child-friendly McCain Punch drink that every kid worth his salt loved (you know the one: “Hey Roberto, what’s the best pitcher you’ve ever seen?” a kid asked. “The one with McCain Punch!” Alomar declared, in his thick Puerto Rican accent.)

So say it ain’t so, Roberto.

There are people out there saying some nasty things about you. There’s this ex-girlfriend of yours who filed papers in a Brooklyn court saying you have AIDS, and were recklessly trying to spread it. That despite showing obvious signs of HIV, you insisted on unprotected sex for years, and refused to get tested.

Near the end of their relationship, she says you, the once-invincible former Jays star, had purple skin, were foaming at the mouth and were too sick to walk, relegated to a wheelchair. This was the man with 10 Gold Gloves who hit baseballs like they were the size of watermelons.

Alomar didn’t exactly dispute the allegations. In his defence, he offered this: “(The legal action) is filled with lies, and I am deeply saddened that someone I care for would make such terrible accusations and try to hurt me in this way.”

That pretty much settles it, doesn’t it?

Whether the allegations are true or not, it’s another reminder that so many childhood icons will eventually come crashing back down to earth. The kid inside you can’t help but be left feeling a little bit ripped off.

That feeling reminded me of another childhood hero, James Brown, a man I later learned had more than a few character flaws. But there was a brief, naive time when he could do no wrong.

He was a god in the eyes of my circle of young friends, and when word came that he would be playing a show in our region, we gladly snapped up tickets for about $75 each. No small sum for a bunch of minimum-wage teenagers. We piled into a sputtering station wagon and made the four-hour drive to Halifax, where the Godfather of Soul was to play in a sold-out hockey rink.

After waiting for what seemed like most of the night, Brown finally came on. I believe he said “Hello Cleveland,” or something along those lines. He played a grand total of 45 minutes, or about seven songs. Most of that time, he leaned behind a stand on stage that helped keep him upright. They might as well have propped him up on a lounge chair.

Brown even had a stand-in to shout out his iconic grunts — “Ungh!” and “Ha!” Then, just a quick thank-you-and-goodnight and he walked off stage. That was it.

The arena roared for more. It was the longest standing ovation I’ve witnessed. Ten thousand fans who had paid good money to hear him were chanting his name, calling for an encore.

None came. After 20 minutes, the lights came up, and reality set in. We’d been had.