America At Large/George Kimball: On the night of December 14th, 1996, Sacramento Bee columnist Bob Padecky checked into the Oakland Raiders' team hotel in Denver, Colorado. As he made his way from the front desk, he noticed that Barret Robbins, the team's 6ft 3in, 320lb centre, had followed him across the lobby and into the elevator.
Padecky initially ascribed this to coincidence, but when he reached his floor and exited the lift, Robbins did too, and the player followed him down the hall. As Padecky opened the door to his room he turned to see Robbins standing over his shoulder. The player never uttered a word, but fixed him with a piercing stare worthy of Charles Manson. Padecky said he left his bags in his room and gently told the football player, "Barret, I think you're supposed to meet somebody back downstairs." Padecky then coaxed Robbins back downstairs to the lobby.
He left him there, informing Raiders' personnel of the situation. Robbins missed the next day's game against the Broncos and the season finale against the Seahawks a week later.
The Raiders, never a notably forthcoming organisation, ascribed his absence at the time, and in subsequent references, to the generic catch-all "depression", although many of the physical symptoms described at the time - including stomach pain and nausea - are a common reaction to lithium, the drug most commonly prescribed to treat victims of bipolar disorder.
In interviews a year later, Robbins was more forthcoming about his illness, describing it as a "battle within your head".
Given the player's history, the bizarre behaviours which saw him booted off the Oakland team on the eve of the Super Bowl in San Diego two weeks ago shouldn't have been a great mystery. What was surprising, though, was the utter lack of compassion evinced by Robbins' team-mates and head coach Bill Callahan, who reacted as if Robbins had knowingly subverted their noble cause by his self-destructive behaviour.
Details of Robbins' escapades are still trickling in. It is known that he missed a Friday night curfew and a team walk-through on Saturday, and when he showed up 45 minutes late for a Saturday night meeting was informed that he would not be in uniform for Sunday's Super Bowl.
One group of Raider fans, who encountered Robbins in a cantina in Tijuana, Mexico, contemplated kidnapping him, smuggling him back across the border, and returning him to the custody of the Raiders; but, taking note of the player's heft and condition, they eventually thought better of the idea. A San Leandro businessman reports trading shots of tequila with Robbins in a day-long binge.
An anonymous Raiders player said that when Robbins did show up he appeared "disoriented and shaky. He looked terrible."
THE offensive lineman's unauthorised disappearance and subsequent dismissal from the team on the eve of the biggest game of his life proved to be the most intriguing subplot to a one-sided football game in San Diego. Although it seemed plain enough, or should have, that only a man in the throes of mental illness would have behaved as Robbins did, his team-mates reacted with undisguised contempt, and their lack of compassion was exceeded only by that of Callahan, who seemed to be almost boasting when he revealed that he had "dismissed" Robbins from the team.
Even after humiliating defeat, a few Raiders, notably wide receiver Tim Brown ("the most important thing is that at least we know he's safe") and linebacker Bill Romanowski ("I hope he can get some help"), evinced a trace of sympathy, but for the most part the Raider players depicted l'affaire Robbins as the wanton act of a selfish hell-raiser who'd put his desires ahead of the team.
The word "traitor" came up a lot that night.
Mo Collins, who played beside Robbins, said after the Super Bowl: "Whatever rock he came up from under, he can stay there as far as I'm concerned." Frank Middleton, who played on his other side, was equally uncharitable: "If Barret Robbins comes back, I won't.I don't want to go into next year worrying about some cat making it to the game."
In stark contrast to Callahan's lack of sympathy was the reaction of the winning Super Bowl coach. Tampa Bay's Jon Gruden, who had coached Robbins in Oakland the two previous seasons, turned almost human when he discussed the All-Pro's situation the morning after the game.
"It was very emotional for him and his wife and his family. I pray that everything works out okay for him," said Gruden. "It's a tragedy."
Could it be that Jon Gruden knew something Bill Callahan did not? It seems inconceivable Callahan, a former Raiders' offensive line coach, could have been installed as Gruden's successor without having been informed by the team that his starting centre was a diagnosed manic-depressive, but ignorance remains the only possible defence for Callahan's insensitivity.
The rumours were bandied about for 10 days before Robbins himself, in a statement released by agent Drew Pittman to the ESPN network on Monday, confirmed his bipolar condition, although it seemed plain enough that it was the most obvious explanation for what took place in the days leading up to the Super Bowl.
Did anyone pause for a moment to think how unlikely it was that Robbins could have wilfully behaved as he did? That a man on the verge of a game representing the pinnacle of his professional career would choose to self-immolate seemed as preposterous then as it does now.
It remains possible, even likely, that Robbins came off his medication at some point in the days before the game. While the rest of the Raiders were out getting their butts kicked by the Buccaneers, Robbins had been checked into a San Diego hospital by his wife and placed on a suicide watch. He not only missed the Super Bowl, but his first Pro Bowl as well. He remains hospitalised - and, in official parlance, remains "suspended" by the Raiders.
In his statement on Monday Robbins apologised to Oakland fans, the Raiders organisation and his team-mates. It strikes us that perhaps they should have been apologising to him.
