In his sister’s phone, he’s “Brother!!” To opposing high school coaches and even some of his own skeptical coaches at Midway High School, he was a wiry, 5-foot-11-inch spitfire.
But to entire regions of Texas and Louisiana, he’s “Kim Mulkey’s son.”
Although the name on the back of his purple and gold jersey verifies it, Kramer Robertson isn’t Kramer Robertson.
He can’t hide it. Mulkey, the women’s basketball coach at Baylor, is a household name thanks to her team’s two national championships, her demonstrative demeanor and in-your-face persona with players, fans and media.
Trying to run away from the title won’t work, either, though he found a reprieve during his first semester at LSU
“I got here and I was just a regular student,” Robertson said. “Nobody knew who Kramer Robertson was, and no one knew I was Kim Mulkey’s son.”
Well, almost no one.
As Robertson sat in a class during his fall semester, the student next to him had a secret. His best friend’s dad dated Mulkey — a Ruston, La., native — in high school.
Mulkey had her bases covered.
“Don’t believe half the stories you hear about your mom,” Mulkey told Robertson before he left for Baton Rouge. “Good or bad.”
As he mulled scholarship offers from both Baylor and Texas A&M, Robertson said he chose the seven-hour move to Baton Rouge to step out of Mulkey’s shadows and make his own name known.
And when he arrived in the fall, Robertson got his wish, however weird it seemed.
For once, he wasn’t judged as someone’s son or brother. He could be himself, go out in public or have his fun without his every waking move being broadcast.
But his mom insists that Kramer’s still Kramer.
“I think off the field he’s probably seen things as all freshmen do,” Mulkey said. “Whether that’s alcohol and partying. You hope you raise them to where they see it and stay away from it as much as possible and take care of their teammates.”
“I live in a realistic world. I grew up down there and I know the culture is a little bit different than in Waco.”
While Mulkey marveled at the opportunities her son receives at LSU, her now-empty nest is an adjustment as both a mother and coach.
“Sometimes, I’d sneak away and go to practice [at Midway],” Mulkey said. “I love sports and I love to be outside watching the kids practice, hiding in my vehicle. That’s what we do, we enjoy it and we miss that.”
Mother and son stay close, though. A group text connects Mulkey, Robertson, Robertson’s sister Makenzie and Makenzie’s boyfriend. Baseball or basketball is hardly discussed. Videos are shared. There are jokes, most of the time aimed at Mulkey.
“She fires right back,” Makenzie said.
A four-year player on her mother’s squad at Baylor, Makenzie knows Mulkey’s style, so she’s manifested herself as a custodial older sister who can be relied on for support.
“I’ve always had a protective side to me when it came to [Kramer],” Makenzie said. “I wanted to make sure he stayed on a straight path. I feel like I’m just there to tell him to keep doing what he’s doing.”
It wasn’t always that way. Growing up in a sports-crazed household, Makenzie was bigger than Kramer. Sure, Kramer concussed Makenzie once diving for a pass during an in-house football game, but results typically favored Makenzie at the end.
She won three state titles at Midway — one each in basketball, volleyball and softball. Kramer came close, but never won one. Good-natured dinner table razzing often poked fun at Kramer, the only member of the family without a championship to his name.
“She always made me better growing up,” Kramer said. “That’s one of the main reasons I came [to LSU] — the opportunity to win a national championship.”
Now with No. 8 LSU in the midst of Southeastern Conference play, Robertson said the shadow is back. As games move to national television, announcers and pundits choose not to highlight Robertson’s season, but his upbringing.
In an up-and-down freshman campaign, Kramer’s experienced the extremes. He dazzled in his debut, but was benched against Arkansas. He’s limped to a .188 batting average, but laced a few clutch hits of late.
Watching every game in either the GeauxZone or at the park, Makenzie and Mulkey have followed each move.
“When you play a freshman, you have to be patient with them,” Mulkey said. “You have to understand they’re going to make mistakes and as they grow, you just grow with them. He carries himself where he’s not going to get too high or too low.”
“I am so proud of him. I knew the talent he had and what he could do,” Makenzie added. “He’s capitalized on some of them and some of them he’s really dropped the ball, but that comes with being a freshman.”
As a boy, Kramer loved the attention his mom brought. By his own admittance, he wasn’t anything yet. He cut down nets, got in the locker room and rubbed elbows with the elite of women’s basketball.
Now far along in his journey to be his own person, the attention is sometimes unwelcome. Twitter lashes out after a tough Baylor loss and Robertson fights back urges to respond.
Instead, he thinks back to Mulkey’s advice. Those people aren’t important. They aren’t family.
“I learned to embrace it and take it as a compliment,” Kramer said. “I love my mom and she’s a special person, so there’s no reason I should be ashamed or discouraged when people know me as her son.”