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A bright star in a dark era

Because his alliterative name was so perfectly apt for a sports star, and because he was always so well-groomed and cheerful, I grew up believing that Robin Roberts must be a fictional character.

Because his alliterative name was so perfectly apt for a sports star, and because he was always so well-groomed and cheerful, I grew up believing that Robin Roberts must be a fictional character.

You know, sort of like Sally Starr (born Alleen Mae Beller), the spangled TV cowgirl who introduced Philadelphia's baby boomers to Popeye cartoons, the Three Stooges, and Kissling Sauerkraut.

Roberts just seemed too perfect to be an actual member of all those dreadful Phillies teams I watched.

The punchy name. The wholesome looks. The rare talent. The relentless affability. Nobody with all those attributes could possibly be a Philadelphia Phillie, could he?

No, in my preadolescent mind, it was more likely the all-star pitcher was created by the same WFIL-TV programmers who gave us Starr, Chief Halftown, Wee Willie Webber, and Happy the Clown.

"Look, up in the sky over North Philadelphia. It's a bird. It's a plane. It's Robin Roberts!"

It is difficult now, amid this red-hued Phillies renaissance that has swept our city, to recall those farcical Phillies of the '50s.

For many Americans, the Eisenhower years are widely recalled as an era of good cheer. Not if you were a Phillies fan.

Filled with futility and frustration, those long baseball seasons between 1950's Whiz Kids and 1964's Fizz Kids were virtually devoid of optimism and entertainment.

Each new season, we pinned our hopes on a new Phillies face - a Harry "The Horse" Anderson, a Rip Repulski, a Jim Greengrass, a George "Sparky" Anderson, a Ted Lepcio, a Chico Fernandez. And at each season's conclusion, we wondered how we could have been so foolish.

Only Roberts and, to a slightly lesser degree, Richie Ashburn, who gamboled across Connie Mack Stadium's vast center field like some albino deer, kept us going back for more. It often seemed like the only time the Phils won was when Roberts pitched.

So, with little else to capitalize on during those long years, the Phillies wisely turned to their star righthander.

More gregarious than the naturally reserved Ashburn, Roberts became the team's omnipresent ambassador to the Philadelphia area, shaking hands, signing autographs, answering questions, and - always - smiling.

You'd see him on the cheaply produced shows that preceded the team's rare TV games. He was at shopping center openings, Little League banquets, July 4th parades. And since the workhorse Roberts pitched every fourth day, you had a good chance of finding him on the mound at home games.

Sometime during that decade - in which Roberts won an astounding 199 games - I encountered him during a promotion at the Lawrence Park Shopping Center in Broomall.

He signed one of his baseball cards for me, which I unfortunately lost long ago. He shook my father's hand. And he smiled at me.

My father, who'd always been an American League fan and despised the Phillies, was clearly as impressed as I was. Caught up in the moment, he gave me a capsule Roberts biography on the short drive home.

Roberts, I learned, had beaten Don Newcombe in the last game of the 1950 season to give the Phillies their first pennant in 35 years. He had pitched wonderfully against the Yankees in the ensuing World Series but lost, 2-1, on a 10th-inning home run by Joe DiMaggio. He challenged hitters with his fastball, and most weren't up to the challenge.

"You know," my father said, as if he'd just undergone a Road-to-Damascus conversion, "I'd say that Robin Roberts is probably the best pitcher in the National League."

I turned over the autographed card. All those 20-win seasons caught my eye. How had he managed that with those lousy Phillies teams?

Many years later, when I was this paper's Phillies beat writer, I met Roberts again in Clearwater, Fla. After I'd gotten the answers I needed for a story, I got the nerve to ask him how he'd been able to pitch so well for teams that were so bad.

"Frank," he said in a tone that suggested I'd be wise to listen carefully, "if you worked for a newspaper that wasn't as good as The Inquirer, would your stories be any different? It's all about pride in your work. And in yourself."

It all became clear at that moment.

Roberts was real. Real special.