Thousands of people have a Brooks Robinson story, and the one I’ve cherished all these years has little to do with baseball. It’s all about being “forever Brooks” — the way he lived out his years after his career with the Orioles, the way he always showed up, as if repaying a debt to the people of Baltimore for having so passionately supported him.
My story is 40 years old. It goes back to a Sunday afternoon in December 1983, six years after Brooks had retired from baseball.
I went out to look for a story at the Fort McHenry American Legion Post, on Fort Avenue in South Baltimore. Members of the post were about to present a little kid named Jason Stigler with a new wheelchair.
The boy was about 5 years old. He had been born with spina bifida. He had already had two surgeries, and he wore braces. His mother was single and could not afford the chair, so the post raised the money for it from raffles and donations. They declared “Jason’s Day” at the post and had a party.
There were Boumi Temple clowns, a guy dressed like Uncle Sam, and the three men who back then represented South Baltimore in the City Council. The post was crowded, noisy and humming with anticipation.
Suddenly, the front door opened, and Orioles Hall of Famer Brooks Robinson walked in, all smiles and glad-to-see-ya. Someone had asked if he could make an appearance at the event, and he did. It was a cold, overcast Sunday in December, and the great Brooks showed up to give a little kid a wheelchair.
I tell this story to native Baltimoreans, and they always say, “That’s so Brooks.”
The legendary Oriole sat next to little Jason, and the boy looked up at him.
“Who are you?” Jason asked, and everyone, including Brooks, laughed.
The boy was far more excited to see Santa Claus.
There were a few speeches, and when it was his turn, Brooks praised the men of the post for raising the money for the wheelchair. I can’t recall his exact words, but it was something about a small boy making grown men count their blessings.
Then a man known as Uncle Jessi Curtis picked the boy up and placed him in the new wheelchair, and everyone in the place cried. Jason took to the chair right away, put his hands on the wheels and started rolling. “Hey, that’s good,” Brooks said. “That’s pretty good.”
That’s so Brooks, forever Brooks.
In the decades since, much has changed in professional sports. Players don’t stick around forever; free agency and trades move them from city to city, of course, and many of them retreat to hometowns or warm, sunny places after they retire.
But Brooks stayed around here. He was beloved for that.
So, one more story, to bring this full circle as we remember this good man on the day of his death:
In September 2017, the family of June Daue, a die-hard Oriole fan who lived to be nearly 100, gathered for her burial at Dulaney Valley Memorial Gardens; sang “Take Me Out To The Ballgame” in her honor; then reassembled for the post-funeral lunch at Pappas Restaurant in Cockeysville. Brooks happened to be in a separate room to receive a proclamation from the state on the occasion of his 80th birthday. Someone told him that he had been June Daue’s favorite Oriole.
Some players might just say thanks and leave it at that.
But Brooks being Brooks, he made sure to visit and greet everyone in the Daue party before leaving the restaurant.
“We were awed by the uncanny coincidence that this great man, who mom idolized, just happened to be at the restaurant where we were memorializing her,” said Debbie Green, Daue’s daughter. “Brooks Robinson is so much more than an amazing athlete. He brought us the sign that all families look for when a loved one passes — that they have landed safely in a better place.”
And so we wish the same for him, and thank him for golden memories, and for being forever Brooks.
