I don’t remember the exact year, probably 1992, but I remember vividly my first (and to date, only) meeting with Richie Farmer. It was at the Hazard Black Gold Festival, an event I used to attend religiously. The Black Gold Festival coincided with my birthday, so I’d take my birthday money and go play games, get some food and watch the free concert held downtown. The concert was usually a country group like Shenandoah or McBride and the Ride, and despite not being the biggest fan of country music, I looked forward to seeing these shows and snagging an autograph after all was said and done.
Autograph seeking is what led to my encounter with Farmer. There was a booth set up on the other side of Main Street where you could get Richie’s autograph and maybe pose for a picture or two. There was no doubt in my mind I was going to get his signature, my young pre-teen mind obsessed over it. We get to the booth, and the line is pretty manageable, about four of five people deep. I’m standing there excited, ready to meet one of my basketball heroes. It gets to my brother and my turn for signatures. I introduced myself about as cheerfully as I could, starstruck in a way. I congratulate him on a great season and tell him he’s one of my favorite players. His response?
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
He picked up a glossy 8X10 of himself, scrawled his name on it and pushed it in front of me. His face was expressionless, emotionless, as if this weren’t Richie Farmer, Kentucky guard and state hero, but a lifelike android sent to sign some glossies. I had envisioned this entire scenario in my naïve 12 year old mind where a smiling, happy Farmer shakes my hand and wishes me happy birthday before snapping a picture with me to hang on my wall. That obviously didn’t happen.
The person in the booth with him, an older guy who must’ve been his representation, asked me if I’d like a picture with Richie, in a tone almost as joyless as Richie’s. I shook my head no and walked away from the booth. My mother asked if I was going to take a picture, and I simply said no and we left.
I couldn’t imagine why the man who smiled in interviews with his aw-shucks demeanor could be so cold and joyless off camera. After getting a little older, I could somewhat see his position. No doubt he’d been hounded all day by autograph seekers. He’s probably shaken countless hands, kissed countless babies and taken so many pictures that Lindsay Lohan would have been jealous. He was probably tired, hungry, and maybe even bored. Players try to be as courteous as possible to the fans, but at the end of the day they’re human like the rest of us.
I didn’t really stay upset for long. Young minds tend to stray to different topics, the new basketball game for Super Nintendo, riding bicycles, that sort of thing. I may not have been upset anymore, but I remembered that day. I remember being a vocal supporter of his run for Agriculture Commissioner, defending him when others said he had no qualifications. I remember when he won office, and everyone was enamored with him, a former college basketball hero in the biggest basketball hotbed in the country, going into public service. There’s no doubt in my mind he would have been Governor some day. NO. DOUBT.
But just like the naïve 12 year old kid seeking an autograph, we were all about to be disappointed all over again.
You’ve read the news reports on every printed publication, on every newscast. There’s a veritable smorgasbord of malfeasances and improprieties, from misappropriation of state funds to not disclosing his gifts. Of course the man is innocent until proven guilty, but this is a terrible blight on his reputation, his legacy. His political aspirations are dead and buried at this point, his personal and financial state in shambles. Only this time, it’s not young, impressionable kids who he’s disappointed, it’s an entire state.
