WAURIKA — Most of us had heroes while growing up, but it’s rare the idols of our youth remain forever on Mt. Olympus. As we mature, childhood heroes fade away or fall from grace.

As fortune would have it, I was 8 when it first struck home that my heroes might actually be less then perfect.

It was the fall of 1959. We were living in Washington, Ind., where dad ran a dairy and mom ran herself ragged raising two boys and going to college.

On Saturday mornings, my younger brother Chris and I were allowed two hours of TV watching, and we developed a routine. First there was Mighty Mouse, followed by Heckle & Jeckle. Up next was The Adventures of Sky King.

Then came the best time of Saturday morning.

The image of a cowboy galloped onto the screen and an announcer intoned: Post, the cereals you like the most, and Jell-O Instant Pudding, the new busy-day dessert, bring you ‘The Roy Rogers Show’; starring Roy Rogers, King of the Cowboys. Also starring Trigger, his golden palomino; with Dale Evans, Queen of the West; Pat Brady, his comical sidekick, and Roy’s wonder dog, Bullet.

Gentle readers, I was a Roy Rogers freak. Roy was the bomb! Of my early childhood heroes, only Mickey Mantle, Johnny Unitas and my dad were held in higher esteem.

I was a member of Roy Rogers Riders. I had the cowboy hat, the quick-draw gun and holster, the coloring book and the Roy Rogers lunch box.

So, imagine my glee when Mom one day announced that Roy and the rest were touring the country, and we were going to Evansville, Ind. to see the show. Oh, my bursting kidneys!

Time couldn’t pass quickly enough, but finally BIG SATURDAY arrived.

Dad had to work, so Mom invited the wife of one of his employees to bring her two kids along. The six of us made an endless drive to Roberts Municipal Stadium in Evansville, where 7,000 or 8,000 other blissed-out Roy Rogers Riders and their accompanying adults had gathered.

For nearly two hours, we hung on the edge of our seats, scrunched our toes and hyperventilated as Roy and the gang put on a show.

The King of the Cowboys did unbelievable tricks with Trigger, dazzled us with trick shooting, sang cowboy songs and gave us lectures on life, based on the “10 Roy Rogers Riders Rules.”

Perched on Buttermilk, Dale Evans sang like a fringed goddess. Driving around in his Jeep, Nellybelle, Pat Brady was a hoot, and wonder dog Bullet was, well, wonderful. It was too neat to be real, but it was real — and I was there!

Far too soon, the show came to an end. Everybody sang along with Happy Trails, Roy blessed us one and all, and then the house lights came up.

However, as people were filing out, I noticed Roy Rogers was still in the arena. He was riding Trigger along the perimeter, shaking hands with kids.

Obviously, this was the chance of a lifetime; an opportunity to touch The Great Roy, and I HAD TO get down there. So, when the other five turned right to exit the stadium, I turned left and bounded down the aisle to join the gaggle of kids around the arena.

It took forever, but finally, in front of my eyes was the King of the Cowboys, bending down from atop Trigger, extending his bare hand. I reached up, grabbed hold of the mighty Rogers’ right hand, gave it a big pump ... and then drew back in abject horror.

Oh, yuck! Double yuck! Roy Rogers’ hand was clammy and cold! It left a layer of sweat on my hand that felt like I’d just taken a catfish off a trot line!

I was so startled that I simply turned around and slowly began walking back up the aisle, wiping my hand on my jeans and thinking: That was the hand of the King of the Cowboys? Those sweaty, slick digits belonged to The Great Roy? What a drag.

I was sinking further into disappointment when someone grabbed my upper arm and gave it one of those squeezes that shuts off circulation to your lower extremities. It was Mom, and she had a “Three F” look in her eyes — you know: frantic, frightened and furious.

She’d been searching for me for 20 minutes and was beside herself. She was afraid I’d gotten lost in the mingling crowd or been injured or kidnapped by gypsies. Pulling me out to the car, she explained how my father would “take care of this” when we got home.

I recovered from Dad “taking care of this,” but I never recovered from that disappointment. Heroes continued to come and go through my childhood, but none ever again seemed bigger-than-life.

And I’ve never been able to sing Happy Trails without wiping my hand on my jeans.