Lately this space has been filled with lamentations concerning the state of revenue-producing sports and the athletes who play them. The past two months alone have seen America’s foremost cyclist confess to pharmaceutically enhancing himself after years of strident denials, an international soccer gambling scandal, a football player mawkishly and publicly mourning the death of his imaginary girlfriend, and a world-renowned track star gunning down his real one.

The just-concluded National Basketball Association All-Star weekend embodied much of what’s wrong with professional sports today; the actual “competition” on the hardwood was almost an afterthought. The agents for many of the preening NBA stars on display were far more concerned with positioning their elongated meal tickets for lucrative endorsement contracts than they were with whatever game(s) loom ahead for their clients’ teams.

A large part of the festivities were dedicated to Michael Jordan, one of the game’s greats, who turned 50 years old last weekend. Since retiring from playing he’s thrown his matchless work ethic and well-known competitiveness into making even more money for himself and the corporations willing to pay him to represent them. It’s not hard to imagine past athletes like Muhammad Ali, Billie Jean King, Bill Russell, Bill Bradley and Oscar Robertson shaking their heads; since retiring from competitive sports each has used fame earned in their particular athletic arena to quietly help improve the lives of others.

For today’s privileged, entitled young pros and their sycophant/enablers, greed and self-promotion are far more relevant than concerning themselves with everyday folks who indirectly pay their salaries. And who can blame them? Who earns a six-, seven- or eight-figure annual salary before reaching age 30 and has anything in common with ”“ or wants anything to do with ”“ the rest of us? Temperance, humility and fair play aren’t just unnecessary traits for many athletic prodigies, they’re unknown ones.

But a chance encounter this past Saturday reminded me things weren’t always this way. My three children and I were visiting a flea market when I heard a friendly, deep voice exclaim, “You better check your shoelace, young lady!” The girl in question was my 9-year-old daughter; the owner of the baritone was sitting in one of the vendor booths. My child reacted by shyly smiling at him, bending over and actually tying her shoe. I was both delighted and startled, since she normally responds with a scowl and/or dark muttering when one of her parents or siblings makes a similar suggestion.

The next thing the large, bespectacled man who had called attention to my daughter’s untied sneaker did was ask her 7-year-old brother his name. Like his sister, the boy generally answers strangers with grunts and without eye contact, yet seconds later he was cheerfully shaking the smiling man’s hand and conversing amiably with him. Explaining he was sometimes a bit forgetful, the man appealed to my progeny for help finding his hat ”“ which happened to be atop his head. He thanked them for their kindness after they had helped him locate it, adding that he’d be really happy if he could only find his glasses. He looked genuinely perplexed until my son pointed out they were on his face. The man then asked how each of them was doing in school, stressed the importance of studying hard, and told them how important it was they listen to their dad. Then he confided in them that he was a super-fast runner, and asked them if they wanted to race right then and there. They accepted his challenge; not surprisingly, he finished third.

Since my children were all born in the 21st century they didn’t realize they were chatting with a former bodybuilder and professional wrestler who was well-known during the 1970s and 1980s. Tony Atlas may have lost his hair, but he’s clearly retained his charm, not to mention the ability to make his pectoral muscles jump right through his shirt. He spoke to my children rather than at them, listened to what they had to say and treated them as though they were the most significant people in his life during the moments they were together. Their only disappointment came when the former Mr. USA offered to have his picture taken with them. How was he to know their father is one of the three remaining adults in America who doesn’t carry a cellphone, let alone one that takes photos?

My beaming offspring went home with autographed photos and one indelible memory apiece. Later that evening we watched some YouTube footage of their new friend performing in his younger days. After about three minutes one of them asked the inevitable question, “Daddy, is this stuff fake?”

Answering it was easy.

“I don’t know if wrestling’s real,” I replied. “But Tony Atlas sure is.”

— Encouraged by her besting of one world-class athlete, Andy Young’s fleet-footed daughter is now hoping to race LeBron James, Joe Flacco, Usain Bolt, Miguel Cabrera or, if she can arrange it, all four of them at once. Young teaches in Kennebunk and lives in Cumberland.