SUPER BOWL XXI : Commentary : With QB VII and Other Greats, Broncos Can’t Be Written Off

EDITOR’S NOTE: Leon Uris, widely acclaimed best-selling author of such books as Exodus, Trinity, Topaz, QB VII and The Haj, is also a longtime football fan. As a resident of Aspen, Colo., he has had a good view of the National Football League in general and the Denver Broncos in particular. Uris has been in Southern California the past week observing the Super Bowl scene. In a story written for the Denver Post, he shares some of his thoughts and impressions.

Big Ed glowered down the long mahogany table, his trusted aide, Hogan, standing a respectful step behind and within range of His Honor’s good left ear.

“Any further business?” Big Ed threatened with a yawn, glancing meaningfully at his Korean quartz watch with the inter-changeable wrist bands.

Hogan shifted his feet nervous like, gulped a loud dry one and squinted shifty eyed at the portrait of Fiorello La Guardia.

“All right, what’s the drill?” the Mayor snarled.

All eyes commenced to Hogan. “Ahem,” he began, “it seems that we got this here request from the Giants to hold a ticker-tape parade down Wall Street.”

“How come?” His Honor inquired.

“They won the champeenship of their conference and they’re gonna go to the Super Bowl in Pasadena. Victory is a foregone conclusion.”

“An absolute certainty,” the assemblage said in unison.

Big Ed pressed his finger tips together and gazed at the ceiling. “Last year it was the Monsters of the Midway and this year . . . the Monsters of the Great White Way,” he chortled. “Hey, that’s a zinger. See that it gets into today’s press release . . . and credit, you know who.”

“Your eminence, there seems to be a minor glitch,” Hogan blurted.

Upon hearing Hogan’s knees go clickety-clack from trembling, Big Ed keenly sensed something was awry. “Speak up, Hogan, or it’s back to Sanitation for you.”

“Well, yer grace, it appears that the Giants have been playing in the Meadowlands and . . .”

“The Meadowlands! You Know That Word Is Forbidden! “ Big Ed shrieked, ripening to a deep magenta. “Why wasn’t I told?”

“But sir, they’ve been playing there for 13 years.”

Hogan dutifully cleaned the crushed cigar from His Honor’s teeth.

“I’m not going to allow foreigners to gouge pot holes in our streets!” Big Ed wheezed, reaching for the Valium jar.

Hogan leaned over, out of earshot of the others, as a great confidant does, and whispered: “But yer holiness, that could likewise mean the demise of the St. Patrick’s Day Parade.”

Digesting the consequences, the Mayor grunted: “Never mind, this man’s city will hold dozens of parades so long the real national game is played in the Polo Grounds and Ebbets Field.”

Hogan confided again.

“Hummmm, is that a fact,” the Mayor said. “How long ago? A housing project and a K mart? Well, by gum, we still have the Rangers and the Knicks . . . er . . . don’t we?”

Hogan explained the current state of affairs.

“They really suck, huh?” His Honor concluded.

The length of the mahogany table nodded in unison.

“It seems that all we got left is Steinbrenner . . .”

“ Don’t Say That Name !”

“Of course, there’s the Mets,” Hogan said. “That is if we can stop New Jersey’s dastardly plot to have Shea Stadium condemned. Their cruddy disinformation is spreading the falsehood that Shea isn’t safe, inside and out.”

Big Ed was clearly shaken. Tears welled. “I just don’t get it. We’ve got the sweetest, most gentle, sportsmanlike fans in the world. Why at last year’s World Series, there were less than 2,000 arrests.”

“Mayhaps we should reconsider,” Hogan said. “Both Union City and Hackensack have offered to hold ticker-tape parades.”

“No! I shall never be intimidated by Hackensack. By the way, just who are these so-called Giants playing?”

“Denver.”

“Run that past me again.”

“Denver, you know, like the omelet. The Broncos . . . if they dare show up in Pasadena.”

A shower of uproarious hilarity sprayed out, trashing the sacred rule against laughter. Tears streamed down grown men’s cheeks and the big mahogany table was pounded until it bounced as they fell out of their chairs and gagged out the word . . . “Denver.” Clutching aching sides, they regained composure and crawled back up to their seats.

Hogan leaned over the Mayor one more time. “The opening book shows the Giants a 10-point favorite,” he whispered. “I just laid down a small wager for the Cardinal . . . all winnings to go to Oral Roberts as an ecumenical gesture.”

They don’t call him Big Ed for nothing. He arched his back in unmistakeable majesty and looked each man in the eye in such a manner that each man would scarcely forget. “So long as I’m the top banana of this here apple the Giants can $%*!$%!” he explained. And then, continuing to assume his mantle of authority and wisdom, intoned: “We’re going to hold a ticker-tape parade that will make Lindbergh’s look like chopped liver when Dennis Conner sails up the East River bringing the America’s Cup back to the New York Yacht Club.”

La Guardia’s portrait fell to the floor.

“But . . . yer majesty . . . Conner represents a San Diego Syndicate . . . yer honor . . . yer honor . . . geez, come on down from the window, sir.”

Meanwhile!

Unbeknown to Big Ed, a convoy of stretch limos stealthed their way through the Holland Tunnel and came to a halt at the (gag) Meadowlands. They emerged disguised as a troupe of Shakespearean players costumed to render Romeo and Juliet. On closer inspection, one could ascertain they were actually officials of the National Broadcasting Co. checking out the locale and conspiring to move a major part of their operations out of Manhattan taking yet another bite out of the Big Apple.

From his office at the sports complex, Bill Parcells, coach of the East Rutherford Giants, scarcely gave notice to the goings on outside, for he had more severe things on his mind. Wearing his detachable blue collar, so he would always be reminded of his humble beginnings, he returned to the conference table. Experts from the Bronx Zoo and Ringling Bros. continued their briefing on the safest way to transport his team to Pasadena.

Having dispensed of this chore, Blue Collar Bill drew open the curtains on the other side of the room affording him a view to the stadium floor. It was an unusually warm, clear and odorless day, and most of the team sunned themselves on the sidelines while others practiced putting in the end zones.

Then, something caught his eye taking place at mid-field. A dozen or so of the lads were showering each other from five-gallon Gatorade bottles, but the game started getting rough when they continued slinging the bottles without removing the caps.

“Enough of this tomfoolery,” he snapped, sending down the linebacker coach ordering an hour of decapitation drills.

The phone rang, answered by the chief talent scout, who had recently returned from the terrorist training bases near Beirut.

“That was Pete Rozelle, coach,” the scout said. “He informs us that we are the home team and thusly have a choice of uniforms.”

“Make them wear their yucky orange jerseys. They’ll be the laughing stock of the country.”

But Blue Collar Bill knew a trick when he smelled one. “The only reason the Broncos wear those disgusting uniforms is to get the opposition sick to its stomach. I heard reports that some teams were so nauseated by halftime, they could barely return to the field.”

He laughed under his breath. “Let ‘em wear white,” he said, curling his upper lip.

As he spoke, the media in and about New York poured out venomous columns, editorials and TV commentary, all trying to solve the question of whether “the rats had deserted the sinking ship or the ship had deserted the sinking rats.” They all, however, agreed to a man that come the evening of Sunday, Jan. 25, at approximately 1800 hours, Pacific Coast Time . . . there will be no more Broncos. A massacre was shaping up destined to pale My Lai, St. Valentine’s Day and the Little Big Horn, combined.

Jill and I leaned over our little son’s crib. He is now 10 months old. “How big is Conor?” Jill asked.

He threw both arms over his head, held them apart and spoke his first word: “ Defense! “

I guess I must have blanked out with joy because the next morning Jill gave me that stony silent look.

“All right, what’s the matter?” I asked.

“It’s the last time I play those kinky games with you,” she said.

“Honey, I don’t remember a thing,” I swore sincerely.

“I dressed up in your favorite orange nightgown,” she said. “At three in the morning, you flung off the covers, stood up in the middle of the bed and began shouting, “I’m a Cleveland fan!” and you pelted me with dog biscuits. Look, I showered for an hour and I’ve still got crumbs all over me.”

I put my face in my hands and sobbed for shame.

“Lee,” she said tenderly, “you gotta go see the Doc. We’re all worn out here from leaping all day giving you high fives and spiking footballs in the living room. You can’t make a couple of German shepherds run pass patterns every time you throw them a tennis ball. Our daughter is nearly 3, and the only words she is allowed to speak are ‘Go Broncos.’ ”

You see, I’m a Bronco junkie. I’ve been one for a quarter of a century. I’ve tried every known cure, but nothing works.

There’s a lot of people like me in the Rocky Mountains. In desperation, we formed Broncomaniacs Anonymous. I’ve secretly been the president of the Aspen Chapter for more than a decade. There was only one person who could help; the Doc. He was the only one around whose specialty was the treatment of Broncomanius Majorus Footballitis. But his methods were drastic, and I avoided him until the dog biscuit incident.

The Doc took my case history, turning pale as he heard the full story.

“When did you realize you were going into the final stages?” he inquired.

“When I tried to spray Aspen Mountain orange.”

As I spoke that word . . . orange . . . I became flushed with a familiar sensation. “Doc!” I cried, “I need a fix!”

His nurse flung open the fridge and fed me a half dozen Popsicles while the Doc filled a syringe with straight o.j. and shot it directly into my veins.

I calmed, and he continued taking my history.

“I keep getting this recurring dream,” I confessed, “that we are going to win the Super Bowl.”

“Delusions of grandeur,” he opined sadly. “You may have a terminal case.”

“Can’t anything be done? I’ve got a wife, kids, two shepherds, three cars, a mortgage . . . the total catastrophe. You’ve got to save me.”

“Can you take it?”

“Go on, Doc, give it to me straight.”

“OK buddy. I’ll tell it to you like it is. I knew my office would be swamped when the Broncos won the AFC Championship and I ordered all of the out of state papers to get the real poop. Just read them, the New York Times, Murray in the L.A. Times, Newsday. The truth is out. All of the Bronco opponents let them win because none of them wanted to face the Blue Collar Gang.”

“No. . . . “

“There’s more. CBS won’t even carry President Reagan’s congratulations phone call to the Giants dressing room after the game. The White House views the game as a national tragedy.”

The Doc grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me: “Don’t go to Pasadena, Lee. You’ll never be whole, again.”

I was crushed. I thought of the wife, the kids, two shepherds, the mortgage . . . everything I loved and I knew I was beyond help. “I gotta go,” I rasped, “I . . . I . . . just gotta . . . “

When the Wells Fargo stage reached Aspen that night, we got the word that the entire state of Colorado had gone bonkers. There were cases reported even worse than mine. Pleas from my brothers and sisters of the Broncomaniacs Anonymous Chapter poured in all day, but they fell on deaf ears. There was going to be a rally at Mile High Stadium, and one Leon Uris was going to be there, blizzard or not.

In order to save time over the local airlines, I decided to take the short cut over Independence Pass by dog sled. I hitched up my trusty team, two German shepherds, an Irish setter, three wolves and a cocker spaniel, all glowing from their new paint job, and mushed out.

Two days later, I finally looked down on the friendliest little city in the U.S. of A., where the Great Plains end and the Rocky Mountains begin.

Upon reaching Mile High, I felt safe at last among 65,000 of the worse case addicts who had gathered to see the Broncs off to Pasadena.

In a magic instant, the frenzy stopped and it became deathly silent . . . like High Noon . . . as he stepped out on the field of natural grass with his little side kicker, Rich, limping alongside him and his gang of rag-tag cow pokes honkering along, lazy like, behind.

“Walk on the water, John!” the chant went up, “walk on the water!”

Long John held up his hands and quiet befell the throng. And then he spoke. “ Wow! “ he articulated. To emphasize his immortal speech, he once again repeated. “ Wow! “

Sheep men kissed cow men, car dealers fell into each other’s arms, Mexicans and blacks embraced the Vietnamese, Joe Coors kissed Gary Hart, the KKK and the Jews danced a hora on the 20-yard line and I knew, so long as a drop of orange blood flowed through my veins, I would never seek the cure, again.

Like every adult American male, I have a Walter Mitty concept of myself as a great sports expert. Obviously, I’m just another rabid fan. However, I honestly feel that the vast majority of the gentlemen of the press have been utterly moon struck by the Giants and have been putting out the most ridiculous bull-cacky I’ve ever read.

This Denver Bronco squad is absolutely loaded with talent. Man for man and position for position, they have a clear edge. The coaching staff is the most coveted in football and gives it an even greater edge. The owner is the class act of the league. In the past 10 years, playing in the toughest conference in the game, the Broncos have the fourth-best record in the NFL.

As for Elway, forget the stats. To paraphrase Steve Watson, “They can’t see what’s inside him.” Elway has the magic. If he stays healthy for five years, he is going to rewrite the way future football is played. Young quarterbacks will try to emulate him the way young fighters tried to emulate Ali.

He possesses that extremely rare capacity to transmit dynamic energy from himself into his teammates, to motivate and drive them by sheer will power alone. I had a Colonel like that in the Marine Corps. With not much more than a snap glance into your eyes, he could make you push yourself beyond your limitations.

I saw this fine Bronco club reach for greatness in a single flashing instance. It was during the playoff game with the Patriots. Elway went down by a sack at the end of the second quarter and got up gimpy. He was packed off the field between a pair of trainers.

I observed the faces of the other players. They were shaken, maybe even a little scared. Elway was taped and glued together in the locker room, with no one knowing if he could play the second half.

The team realized that he might be able to do little more than hand the ball off to running backs, and our running game is not a thing to behold.

On the first Bronco drive, the club to a man reached down deep inside themselves and our much maligned offensive line ripped open holes that a wounded walrus could have waltzed through. In that one drive, they touched the stars and set the stage for the “Dog Bone Drive” in Cleveland, which was perhaps the greatest five minutes of offensive football ever played.

As for Denver, well, we’re the last cow town to personify the spirit of the old West. Denver still conjures up the image of Tombstone, Dodge City, Laredo, Laramie, Cheyenne . . . the end of the cattle drive. Maybe Denver is the final chapter of the great American legend. It was the stuff I grew up with as a kid. It was the image that America had of itself and that the world had of America.

The franchise played for 14 years before it had a season above .500, but it played in a stadium filled with people and not sea gulls. And they didn’t pack up and look for greener pastures when we continued to lose. Men such as Charlie Goldberg (a.k.a. Charlie Bronco) virtually begged the business community for alms to keep the team and build a beautiful stadium. We stuck because they always played like cowboys and fought their hearts out.

The Giants are going to tear out onto the field and attempt to steamroller the game from the Broncos in the first five minutes by trying to establish a rule of brute force and intimidation. Ain’t gonna work. The Broncos have been playing hard ball with the Raiders twice a year for more than a quarter of a century, and the Raiders own the word “intimidation.” In recent times, we’ve been getting the best of them by a wide margin.

The Blue Collar Gang is going to be staring into the unflinching eyes of a lot of strong, silent types . . . you know, like the underdog sheriff who steps into the middle of the dirt street and saunters up to a half dozen bullies and explains: “Smile when you say that, partner.”