Boomer Willing to Tell All--Even If You Don’t Ask

If you saw Boomer Esiason and Joe Montana together in a room, it would be your quick judgment that Boomer Esiason was the veteran with 2 Super Bowls, countless playoff games, 10 years in the league, who went to Notre Dame and starred in numbers of TV commercials, and that Joe Montana was the shy Super Bowl rookie, a little intimidated and awed by all the Super Bowl hype and not at all a proven commodity.

It is, of course, the other way round. But you’d never know it from the principals.

Boomer, who got his nickname because he kicked up such a storm in his mother’s womb--he couldn’t wait to get out and into the spotlight--revels in the attention. He is what you picture an NFL quarterback to be--cocky, assertive, loquacious, pugnacious. He’s never had a self-doubt in his life.

Montana, on the other hand, acts as if he came to guard the silverware. He answers questions as if he’s just been read his rights. He almost appears to squirm as if someone just shone a light in his eyes and said, “All right, Joe, what did you do with the baby?”

You’d think Montana was on his way to the electric chair instead of the Super Bowl. And you know nothing about Joe Montana’s private life.

Boomer Esiason will tell you everything you want to know. Boomer’s the kind of guy who would haul out pictures of his kids or slides of his last trip. Joe just gives his name, rank and serial number.

Boomer would have to tone it down to be merely considered extroverted. Joe could be a spy.

It’s hard to believe Joe Montana is a daring, innovative, elusive pro quarterback. Boomer couldn’t be anything else. Montana never talks much. Boomer never shuts up. Boomer is left-handed all the way. Montana is as right-handed as Reagan’s cabinet.

You study the personalities of the two and you’d be tempted to run out and bet the house on Cincinnati. Surely, this daring, cocksure, laughing young lefty with the platinum hair and the nonstop larynx will run the table, will laugh his way to 4 touchdowns in today’s Super Bowl, while Montana will look tormented by guilt or anxiety and spend the day wondering what he’s doing here.

Boomer even looks the part. He’s 6 feet 5 inches and 225 pounds, has that platinum blond hair. If he’s got a worry in the world, he can’t for the moment remember it. He’s the nearest thing to Terry Bradshaw the league has seen in years and you will all recall Terry went to 4 (count ‘em) Super Bowls, giggling all the way.

Montana’s physique runs more along the lines of a praying mantis saying a novena. Reed-thin, pale, almost gaunt, he looks like a shut-in by comparison.

It’s almost the difference between the teams. Cincinnati is young, physical, aggressive, reckless, macho. San Francisco is secretive, sly, opportunistic, a guy playing on short money in a high-stake game.

Even Montana’s press conferences are guarded, minimally informative.

What did he think of his team this year?

“We had to quit making mistakes.”

What were his plans for commercials this winter?

“You’ll have to see my agent on that.”

What edge did his experience give him?

“I see myself as a man struggling in a business that’s very competitive.”

Pin that up on a locker room wall. It’s not exactly, “We have met the enemy and he is ours.” Sounds more like, “Let me outta here!”

Boomer is not given to such modest evaluations. He’s already sick of Joe Montana stories. His coach, Sam Wyche, was Joe Montana’s first quarterback coach.

“So, all I used to hear was Joe Montana stories,” he says. “ ‘Joe did this. Joe did that. Here’s the way Joe did it.’ It got so I felt he wanted me to switch over and be right-handed because Joe Montana was.

“I saw Joe when we taped the Bob Hope special and I told him, ‘I’m tired of you already.’ ”

Montana, when told this story, was discomfited. “Aw, he’s just blowing smoke,” was his embarrassed rejoinder.

Boomer--real name Norman Julius--is such a free spirit that the club had it written into his contract that he was not allowed to write books or magazine articles, have his own TV show or even presumably speak to groups larger than three. “Goes to show you,” grunts Boomer. “Some teams won’t let their quarterbacks go skiing, others can’t drive race cars or sky-dive. My team doesn’t want me to open my mouth. Shows what they think can hurt me the most. Not my arms or legs or neck, my mouth. I can go skiing. I just can’t write or talk. “

Boomer is even philosophical about that. “My contract went from $475,000 to $850,000 (when he agreed to the gag order). But I would have signed it anyway. I don’t want to be like the Boz (Brian Bosworth, author of a major kiss-and-tell tome). I don’t want to be remembered for ticking off the people who helped me get where I am. I want to be remembered with class--not the way Boz is.”

If he wins the Super Bowl, he’ll be remembered in San Francisco about as fondly as the earthquake. But Boomer feels he has already been overlooked enough by history. “Some guys had a whole bunch of colleges to choose from. Some guys had Notre Dame, like Montana. Me, I had Maryland. Maryland was the only school interested in me. Cincinnati only took me in the second round.”

Football looks for quarterbacks in the Monongahela Valley in Pennsylvania and in West Texas, not East Islip, Long Island. Football looks for guys who say, “Yup,” “Nope,” and, “No comment,” not boy orators.

But Boomer’s not having any of that. Boomer’s the guy who lay down in front of a busload of strike-breaking players in the ’87 strike and drew a can-opener alongside the car of a team official. Boomer likes to be heard.

If San Francisco wins the Super Bowl today, Joe Montana will probably just say he was lucky. If Cincinnati wins it, Boomer may run for President. He may, anyway.