At the risk of getting a little high-brow for a blog that has thus far a declared audience of three (thanks guys!), I am about to guide you on a whirlwind tour of the life of two young talents who have recently met with their respective early demises this last week. If you're ever short on material to write or gripe (or gripe-write) about, just watch the news. There's enough material to infuriate anyone at any given time, and if the content doesn't drive you nuts, the inane banter during Power Play or Question Period most certainly will.
A young, tenacious and spunky young man named Gary Carter burst onto the scene with Major League Baseball's fledgling (and also now-defunct) Montreal Expos in the mid-seventies, impressing his fellow athletes with his unparalleled work ethic and never-say-die attitude on the field. The cornerstone of a young yet promising Expos team, doomed to fail in Montreal but earnestly carving out a niche in a hockey-mad market, Carter was dubbed 'The Kid', and for all the right reasons. Sort of like why we call Sidney Crosby 'The Kid', partly for his young arrival and partly for his youthful spirit. He was a solid position player, the only catcher the Expos ever had as far as their fans--myself included--would claim. He was a clutch hitter, a leader on the field, a remarkable ambassador for the game and had a strong bond with the community after-hours. And, what is so difficult to relate from today's baseball, he was clean. No drugs. No alcohol. He wasn't smoking in the dugout between at-bats. He wasn't a muscle-bound neanderthal, and he didn't sneak out the left -field fence to take a leak or order a pizza. He played fairly, treated his team mates with respect while maintaining a high standard of expectations, and most memorably, he smiled all the time. One day he was dealt to the New York Mets where he eventually helped his team win the World Series. He was an All-Star eleven times, and was recently elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, becoming the first player to enter the Hall as a Montreal Expo. Folks, there won't be too many more carrying that distinction.
Like a great independent film, or maybe like a Tarantino film but good, we switch over to the life of another celebrity. Young Whitney Houston was born as a second-generation gospel singer-turned R&B crooner. Her mom was an established singer (although I'll be darned if I've ever heard a Cissy Houston song in my life), and her aunt is Dionne Warwick, a Motown legend and widely respected artist in her own right. I'll always have a soft spot for 'That's What Friends Are For'; heck, it introduced me to both Elton John and Stevie Wonder! I think mom still has the 45 of that. Mom, while you're looking for my Sunday School service bars, if you have a chance, can you see if... never mind. Young Whitney was exposed to opportunities her peers would never have had, like, say, getting to hang around with Smokey Robinson, or having Aretha Franklin as a godmother. She joined her church choir in Newark, New Jersey back in the days when New Jersey meant Bruce Springsteen rather than Snooki. She crafted her unmistakable vocal prowess throughout her teens and eventually landed a recording contract. The rest is pretty much common knowledge, but I'll fly through the golden years--her first album, self-titled, yielded several number one hits and sold like mad; her sophomore album, called 'Whitney' continued the formula of her fist and also sold like mad, and her third, 'I'm Your Baby Tonight' also sold well, albeit not as much as the first two, but still, it did pretty well. Other teen-idols of the day would eventually fall the wayside simply because their talent just couldn't match Whitney's. And then Bobby Brown happened.
Here's where the plot thickens. Most of us, in the present day flashing back to those doe-eyed wholesome years as America's African-American sweetheart (and let's be honest, she was never allowed to just be a great singer; she was always a talented 'black woman' who was not always even supported by others in the black community for veering away from traditional R&B to explore pop music), tend to place the blame for Whitney's left-turn down the road to ruin on Mr. Brown, the bad boy who got expelled/quit New Edition, depending on who you ask. They seemed so polarly opposite it was too much for the tabloids to ignore. If she married anyone else, we need to ask ourselves, would we have perceived her any differently? You know how this ends, so long story short: Whitney either was corrupted by Bobby, or Bobby provided her a chance to expose her true personality. Either way, they had a tumultuous marriage, they raised a daughter in between fluctuating solo careers, tours and the inevitable drug abuse that accompanied their rock-royality lifestyle, and by the early 2000s, both had fallen from grace, reduced to untimely sound-bites at airports, bad reality shows and even interviews with Oprah and Babs. Bobby was indicted in the court of American sensationalism and public opinion thenceforth, and was found guilty of soiling the career and ultimately the very existence of one of America's national treasures. Who cares if he does himself in, really. Besides, he was the villain from the start. We all know it's his fault.
And now she's gone. Dead at age 48, even Michael Jackson made it to 50. Just hours before the Grammy awards, the organizers had to rush around and put together a big tribute, complete with Jennifer Hudson singing "I Will Always Love You"--the song Whitney refused to duet with Dolly Parton for The Bodyguard, even though Dolly actually wrote it. With no disrespect to Jennifer Hudson, who is a lot like Whitney was, except she is a young black woman with apparently a weight problem and a not-so-afluent upbringing, but she isn't, can't, or never will be Whitney Houston. She is an American Idol non-winner, arguably more talented than most of the actual winners, in the rather dubious position of paying tribute to her idol at a Grammy show of which she would not have otherwise been a part. Bobby Brown reportedly sobbed during a concert performance just hours after Whitney's death. I was shocked that he was still performing at all, least of all with New Edition. I've yet to hear how her eighteen-year-old daughter felt or reacted, and that's definitely for the best. The poor thing was named Bobbi Brown Houston; she's already doomed to the legacy of her parents' checkered past. I can't see Bobby escaping the scrutiny over this, even though there still isn't a toxicology report, autopsy or other official statement as to how she actually died. He is going to be fingered by many, many people as the reason Whitney Houston first trod the path of excess which led to her untimely demise. No one is going to let him off this time. I guess we can't all be Chris Brown.
Flash back again, if you will, to Gary Carter. He was one of the best at his craft. He was only 57 when he finally succumbed to an aggressive, rampant brain cancer. Split the screen running in your mind to show Whitney Houston, however you want to remember her--myself, I prefer to remember when she won all those Grammy awards in 1986, purely elated at the mass acceptance of her hard work and Natural talent. Her long lashes, flashing eyes and that trademark wide smile. On the other side of the split screen, you can see Gary Carter, as I like to remember, back in the old grainy footage of the early '80s Expos games, coming through in the bottom of the ninth inning with one of countless clutch base hits, rounding the bases to be met by the cleared dugout of Expo team mates ready to hoist their young leader up on their collective shoulders. Just like we did when Whitney Houston was dazzling us with her soaring vocals and quirky pop sensibility, even when she risked her street credibility.
This independent documentary ends as both a tribute and a cautionary tale. Two remarkable human beings, both a credit to our species, have passed on. Both were masters of their trade. Both had adoring fans. Can you spot the difference? One lived a life of excess. One lived a life of exemplary leadership. One is still going to be talked about in the weeks, months, and most certainly years to come. One will be saluted rightfully, then only remembered again on sports broadcasts by sports fans. At some point, we might realize collectively that the storyline was, for better or worse, way more interesting than the individual characters. In the alternate ending I could write for the allegorical DVD release of my screenplay, I would end it with Whitney singing the Star-Spangled Banner like she did at the Superbowl, except it's at a Major League Baseball All-star Game, with the Kid standing in his catcher's gear, in his Expos uniform, flashing that unforgettable smile as Whitney reaches those closing high notes. Without even noticing, the divide between the two story lines will have faded.
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