I saw Alex Trebek naked, seriously
I didn’t only see Alex Trebek naked. I stood next to him naked. Well, that’s not right. I wasn’t naked. But sure enough he was. As naked as a smart-boy contestant without an answer … I mean … a question during Final Jeopardy. Whatever.
The longtime host of TV’s “Jeopardy” just announced he’s battling cancer. My close encounter with the great Trebek took place in the ’80s. I’m not sure the exact year, but I’m certain of the location and the circumstances.
It followed a celebrity hockey game at the old Civic Arena, just before a Penquins game. It was a Saturday night. A Canadian and therefore a hockey player, Alex suited up for the celebrity team organized by actor-comedian Michael Keaton, a native Pittsburgher.
My job as a reporter: gather some color, get a quote or two, get back to the office, and write – fast. Deadline, you know.
Color was no problem. It was the “quote or two” that led me to Trebek.
Here’s the skinny: Keaton is a jerk. At least he was that night. “Michael, why play a hockey game for charity so-and-so,” I more or less asked.
Now there are certain conventions for a reporter covering an event of no particular consequence. It usually involves asking an innocuous question, getting an innocuous answer, and then getting the heck out of there. Again, the deadline. It loometh.
Everyone who has ever dealt with the press even semi-regularly, and I was certain Keaton had, knows the rule. Keaton was uncooperative. He practically put his nose in the air.
He said something like, “What a stupid question.” Yea, maybe, but that’s it Give it up, Mr. Hollywood Big Shot.
Instead of giving Keaton a second chance to insult me, I pivoted to Trebek; he was buck naked.
“Alex, what brings you to Pittsburgh?” I inquired more or less, notebook and pen at the ready.
He couldn’t have been nicer. He answered with a sentence or two. I may have asked another question. I forget. The point is, Alex was okay. A fine fella. Cooperative. Congenial. A great Canadian and a credit to his profession.
As for his state of undress, there was not a hint of awkwardness. But, then, again, it was a locker room. Men get naked in locker rooms.
I’ve told this story dozens of time to friends and colleagues. Even fellow reporters seem to get a kick out of it. I’m not sure why. I suppose it’s the idea – the image – of Alex Trebek, a man of great personnel dignity who always looks good and natural in a jacket and tie, au naturel, in his birthday suit, in the altogether, in the buff, as naked as the day he was born.
Or maybe it’s because he’s on TV.
As for what Alex looks like without a stitch of clothing, I’m not sure I can say. I think he was hairy. I guess I didn’t pay that much attention.
I’m sure I didn’t include the great man’s nakedness in the piece I wrote. I believe in transparency, sure. But geeze.
While I’m at it, let me tell my story about another encounter with another famous Canadian – Lorne Greene. I say famous, but if you’re not of a certain age or a fan of 1960’s TV, maybe you’re not familiar with Greene.
Lorne Greene was the actor who played the patriarch of the Cartwright clan on Bonanza, a cowboy show that ran for zillions of years on NBC. Ben Cartwright had three sons: Little Joe (Michael Landon), Hoss (Dan Blocker), and Adam (Parnell Roberts). Each week the four of them surmounted problems and confronted situations that would have stumped any ordinary family – like the Bushes.
Bonanza was enormously popular, and it catapulted Greene to national celebrity-hood.
Somehow, Lorne Greene hooked up with Hubert Humphrey. Humphrey was a senator and a vice president of the United States. He was a serious candidate for president three times; in 1960 he ran against a fella you may have heard of, Jack Kennedy; in 1968 he was his party’s nominee for president against another familiar name, Dick Nixon.
In 1972, Humphrey unsuccessfully tried a third time for the brass ring.
In 1972, I was a young reporter working in New Castle for the News. In the spring of that year, prior to the Pennsylvania primary, Humphrey helicoptered into New Castle to campaign.
Greene was with him.
I was assigned Greene. It wasn’t much of an assignment. I don’t recall anything he said publicly in support of Humphrey. I do remember the ride back to the helicopter following the rally.
I was in the back seat with a photographer from either Life or Look magazines when Greene slid into the front passenger seat. “Damn woman, she grabbed my hair,” Greene screamed, his face red. He demonstrated. He pawed his carefully coiffed locks and yanked side to side. “It hurt! Crazy woman!”
Now, some people I’ve told this story to have said they know for a fact that Lorne Greene wore a rug. You can’t prove that by me. The Canadian was offended, agitated, his calm, fatherly persona turned upside down; in the moment, he was so unlike Ben Cartwright it made your head swim.
Richard Robbins lives in Uniontown. He can be reached at dick.l.robbins@gmail.com.