When Roberto Alomar was traded to the Mets after a 2001 season in which he deserved the American League MVP award, I thought it was a wonderful thing for baseball.

Alomar, who retired at age 37 on Saturday, was an anachronism in an era when the game was dominated by monstrous, immobile hitters who did little but clout home runs and draw walks. He reminded you of how elegant the game could be, and there was nothing he didn’t do with grace and ease: He consistently hit .320 with a beautiful line-drive stroke from both sides of the plate, provided legendary defense at second base, and displayed tremendous instincts while running the bases. He deserved to play on the biggest stage.

Alomar’s 2001 campaign in Cleveland was not only his best, it was his defining one. He hit .336 with 34 doubles, 12 triples, and 20 home runs. He stole 30 bases and was caught only six times, walked more than he struck

out, placed among the league leaders in sacrifices, and won a Gold Glove while playing 157 games for a playoff team. For all that, he placed fourth in the MVP race, just behind Bret Boone, a bloated caricature of a second baseman whose home-run stroke and RBI count weighed more heavily with the voters than Alomar’s all-around dominance.

That 2001 season, as Mets fans know all to well, was Alomar’s last great one. Maybe he lost his love of the game, maybe he was intimidated by New York; most likely he was just physically worn out by 14 seasons of runners trying to break up double plays.

Whatever the cause, the player everyone was expecting simply never arrived. It wasn’t just that his bat and legs were slow, but that the smartest player of his generation played like he didn’t want to be on the field. It was sad to watch him sliding head first into first base and dropping sacrifices in situations where no manager would have called for one; he seemed afraid to play.

His skills eroded further after being traded to the Chicago White Sox, and his career dissolved into signings with the Arizona Diamondbacks and Tampa Bay Devil Rays; most thought he was simply trying to hang on for 3,000 hits. When he announced his retirement, he seemed older than any 37-year-old ever ought to seem.

Perhaps that was just because he’d been around for so long. When Alomar came up with the Padres in 1988, Tony Gwynn had won only the first two of what would be eight batting titles. When baseball’s offensive explosion began in 1993, Alomar already had put in five full seasons. That year was his first MVP-caliber season, and he had it for a Blue Jays team that won the World Series and seemed like the last gasp of the 1980s, with hitting stars Paul Molitor and Rickey Henderson and warhorse pitchers Dave Stewart and Jack Morris.

The 1994 strike hit the Blue Jays harder than any other team: They ranked first in attendance that year, but the fans still haven’t come back. Maybe Alomar wouldn’t have stayed in Toronto anyway, but the club couldn’t afford him and he went to Baltimore.

He put in several more years of brilliant play with the Orioles, though his time in Baltimore was unfortunately overshadowed by an incident in which he spit on umpire John Hirschbeck. It was the ugliest of ironies – the player who more than anyone else represented what the game can be at its best became the living embodiment of the crass and narcissistic modern player, despised, more or less, by an entire nation. Those who watched him closely say his play lost its joy after the Hirschbeck incident. His best performances were yet to come, though.

He left Baltimore after a desultory 1998 season and went to Cleveland, where he was the final piece to an offense that was among the most ferocious in baseball history. In 1999, Alomar scored 138 runs, formed a double-play combination with Omar Vizquel that was as good as anyone had ever seen, and probably deserved the MVP award. Two years later, he had an even better season; then came the collapse.

There are many reasons why Alomar’s true greatness isn’t appreciated as it should be. He played a third of his career in a forgotten pitcher’s era. He split most of his career more or less equally among four different teams. He’s best-remembered for spitting on someone. He had no single outstanding skill; instead, his greatness was in the fact that he excelled in every facet of the game, including those that, as the saying goes, don’t end up in the box score. All this obscures his true worth.

Statistically, Alomar was one of the six or so best second basemen in baseball history, below the level of Eddie Collins, Rogers Hornsby, Nap Lajoie, Joe Morgan, and Jackie Robinson, but equal or superior to everyone else. And he was better than his statistics: He was a heady, aggressive, intelligent player who made everyone around him better.

It’s not by accident that until he came to New York, every team that acquired him improved immediately; nor is it an accident that he played in seven postseasons and won two World Series. Whether he’s now thought of as such, he was one of the five best players of his generation.

Over time, the thoughts of him exploding at Hirschbeck or sliding into first base will fade. His legacy is secure; in a time when the game on the field was occasionally clumsy and ugly, he was a reminder that it could be played with style and occasional perfection. Baseball is worse off for his early decline and his retirement in the colors of the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. He deserved better.