Robinson Will Be Remembered For His Stupidity

Forget about the morality of the situation, and how utterly stupid Eugene Robinson was to venture out into this city’s seedy streets the night before what was to be the biggest game of his life.

Never mind that he caused his wife and kids such great embarrassment they nearly didn’t come to the game, or that his father was forced to spend what should have been such a proud afternoon explaining how his God-fearing son had been accused of trying to commit the world’s oldest sin.

What we want to know is, how did Robinson get caught in such a compromising situation?

No, not the sting at 22nd and Biscayne, where Robinson found himself at 9 p.m. Saturday, driving a rental car provided by the NFL. It was here, on a corner that is a known home to prostitutes and drug dealers, that the Atlanta defensive back allegedly rolled down his window and offered an undercover cop $40 for oral sex, unaware that she was wearing a wire. If it wasn’t the dumbest move in the history of sports, it sure comes close.

Because 22 hours later - after Falcons general manager Harold Richardson had bailed him out of jail, after he spent all night in tearful conversation with his family, after he was so exhausted he needed sleeping pills to calm his nerves - Robinson’s head clearly was still elsewhere. How else to explain the way he got torched on the biggest play of Super Bowl XXXIII, an 80-yard touchdown pass from John Elway to Rod Smith that set the tone for Denver’s 34-19 win over Atlanta?

We can crack that Robinson got caught with his pants down, that he was left naked at midfield as the bigger and swifter Smith flew past, that he blew the coverage and went for the ball, not the tackle. On the previous play Morten Anderson had missed wide right on a 26-yard field goal that would have put the Falcons within four points, but as quickly as you can say “you’re under arrest,” the score was 17-3 and Monica Lewinsky had been replaced by a new punch line.

“That long pass is going to haunt me,” Robinson would say later. His pinky was broken; he had been beaten three times. The pass was the least of his problems.

Reading from a hand-written statement, Robinson said he would be found innocent of the charges, “but not righteous.” He apologized for the hurt he caused to his teammates, to his “Christian brothers” and, mostly, to his wife, Gia.

“I truly do love my wife. I love my kids. I’m sorry I had to drag them through this,” said Robinson, his eyes red from zero sleep. “The ramifications are far-reaching.” The Falcons reiterated that Robinson’s troubles were not a distraction, even though nearly half the team stayed up with him deep into the morning, praying.

What Robinson allegedly did hardly compares with the foibles of Cincinnati’s Stanley Wilson, who went AWOL here on the eve of Super Bowl XXIII and was found in a cocaine-induced stupor. Robinson’s situation is nonetheless mind-boggling. Didn’t he know not to leave his hotel, not even for a carton of milk?

It’s not as if he had cabin fever; Robinson was one of the few players to show at the commissioner’s party Friday night. He introduced his father, Samuel, and talked of dedicating this game to the man who raised him to walk through this world with dignity and grace. He spoke of his children, 11-year-old Brittany and Brandon, who is 9. That’s the best part, he said. Seeing the delight in their eyes.

He lived the Super Bowl experience the way it’s supposed to be lived. Until it came time for that phone call from jail to his wife, who had just come in from the pool at the team’s hotel. His kids, part of the Lewinsky generation, are old enough to understand the subtleties. That look in their eyes must have been heart-breaking.

Now daddy’s good name is synonymous with a tawdry scandal. The morning of the incident, Robinson received the Bart Starr Award for “high moral character,” given by the religious group Athletes in Action.

Then he went out and made the dumbest play of his life. It cost him much more than a game.