The Times Union’s recalling an uncomfortable episode in Kris Kristofferson’s career – after his death Saturday at 88 – seems gratuitous, petty and parochial.

In Wednesday’s edition, “Kristofferson and the Vietnam vets plaque” retold the tale of a 1987 Kristofferson show at the Coliseum Theatre (formerly the Colony Tent Theater, later something else, and now gone). 

The story is simple, but feels wrong:

Vets’ group presents Kristofferson a plague recognizing his advocacy for veterans. 

Plaque is found the day after the show, discarded in the trash. 

Outraged kerfluffle. 

Kristofferson returns to apologize, seems sincere.

Grumbles persist.

Now, that’s all true, I suppose.

But it’s trashy in speaking ill of the dead. An offense always resounds louder than an apology, and this seems like a pigeon shitting on a monument.

For Kristofferson was a monument. 

Willie Nelson, who knows about such things and recorded a full album of Kristofferson’s songs, spoke highly of his fellow Highwayman band member; the all-star outlaw country revue of Nelson, Kristofferson, Johnny Cash and Waylon Jennings that played the Knickerbocker Arena in the 1980s. “There’s no better songwriter alive than Kris Kristofferson,” Nelson said at a 2009 BMI award ceremony for Kristofferson. “Everything he writes is a standard and we’re all just going to have to live with that.”

This echoes (or refutes?) Steve Earle on another Texan troubadour: “Townes Van Zandt’s the best songwriter in the world, and I’ll stand on Bob Dylan’s coffee table in my cowboy boots and say that.” But we digress.

The essential Kris Kristofferson moment for me was backstage at Saratoga Performing Arts Center after the physically tiny, genius-talent singer-songwriterJanis Ian had just opened for him.

Now, Kristofferson was prime; he told a gang of us writers backstage that he’d been training for a month with Muhammad Ali at the boxer’s Pennsylvania camp. He looked lean, tanned and fit, radiating strength and confidence. He had hits aplenty then so he could afford a strong band; and he brought a mighty crew to SPAC: drummer “Slammin’ Sammy” Creason, keyboardists Donnie Fritts and Glen Clark (of the great duo Delbert and Glen), guitarist Stephen Bruton, multi-instrumentalist Billy Swan, and bassist Tommy McClure – all killers.

Even with all that going for him, Kristofferson was terrified of going on after Janis Ian, who’d played with just another guitarist.

He was awed by her songs, and feared his own wouldn’t measure up. The guy’s humility felt totally genuine and really touching. And when he took his turn onstage, he told the audience all this.

That’s the Kris Kristofferson I’ll remember.