Houston a Poor Host to Galloping Guest

The first thing to establish about Bo Jackson is, there really is one. And only one.

He’s a real person and not a character made up by Burt L. Standish or Ralph Henry Barbour or even Horatio Alger. He’s not a person out of a dime novel like Frank Merriwell or Tom Swift or one of the Rover Boys. He’s not out of the comic books. He doesn’t wear a mask or a block S. Still, you’re surprised he needs a plane. You expect, from what you hear and read, he will just come leaping over tall buildings. It’s a bird, it’s a man--it’s Super Bo!

He’s the second coming of Jim Thorpe, the world’s greatest athlete. At least.

There he is, hitting these tremendous Ruthian home runs in All-Star games, running 90 or so yards in a football games.

When’s he going to win the heavyweight championship of the world? Give him a racquet, will he win Wimbledon?

He transcends his sport, the way nobody ever did. Thorpe? Couldn’t hit the curve ball. Jackie Robinson? Well, a case could be made.

Football isn’t even his main interest. Just something to do while waiting for spring training. He’s football’s Galloping Guest, a legend before his own time.

The team is just kind of an afterthought when Bo Jackson comes to town. Bo and the Ten Dwarfs. The hotel lobbies are jammed with people hoping not to see the Los Angeles Raiders but to get a glimpse of Bo Jackson. The hero of the elevators is the kid who got Bo on his Polaroid camera. He’ll probably frame it and put a light on it. He probably thinks it should hang in the Louvre.

It’s like a John Wayne movie, a Caruso opera. The rest of the cast is unimportant. You would have thought this week Bo Jackson was playing the Houston Oilers. He was bringing his own band with him.

The Astrodome was festooned with banners saluting the appearance of the artist, Bo Jackson. “Bo Knows” signs were hanging off every level. “Show Bo What Bad Boys Know,” they would read. “Bo Now Knows Pain.” You felt like saying, “Who are those guys in the funny helmets with you, Bo?” You felt you should add, “If you know.”

The Raiders coming to Houston is a game. Bo coming to Houston is an event. As the team bus rolled through the streets on the way to the field, the crowds shouted for Bo. No one knew who the supporting cast was. I mean, who played center field with Babe Ruth? Did Bernhardt have a co-star?

The local papers were full of Bo stories. And photos. Bo hitting a home run in the All-Star game. Will Bo be baseball’s MVP? Will he gain a thousand yards against Houston?

How about 54? How about fewer yards than the uncelebrated Houston halfback, Mike Rozier? How about a couple of runs where he didn’t get back to the line of scrimmage? What kind of an afternoon is this for a guy who’s supposed to be the whole Four Horsemen by himself? A guy who’s in more commercials than a dancing beer can?

They gave the ball to Bo only twice in the second half. He netted two yards. Hang that in the Louvre.

Of course, they couldn’t hand the ball to him much. They didn’t have it much.

Even Bo needs the football. He got it 11 times in the Astrodome Sunday--9 in the first half. He got it back to the line of scrimmage most of the time. But not always. Before the game, Houston’s defensive end Sean Jones allowed, “What you have to do with Bo is make sure he doesn’t go 80 yards on third-and-one.”

Sean needn’t have worried. Bo went 14 on third-and-one once.

Of course, Bo wasn’t the only Heisman trophy winner on the field. Rozier picked one up, too, in 1983. There wasn’t a single banner devoted to Rozier but he picked up five more net yards than Super Bo.

Actually, the game belonged to a guy no one ever accused of being the world’s greatest athlete. Or even the world’s greatest quarterback.

In fact, Warren Moon was so little thought of when he played in high school in L.A., he had to go clear to Seattle to get in a college backfield. Then he had to go clear to Edmonton to get a job in the pros. That’s OK if you’re a moose. But a quarterback would rather be closer to the TV commercials.

Warren completed 20 out of 30 passes Sunday for two touchdowns and 249 yards. The Moon shots were far more damaging and decisive than any of Bo’s arrows.

It didn’t matter. Bo is a star. The crowds lined up to jeer him as he left the field. The press was crowded around his cubicle as he dashed into the sanctuary of the trainer’s room after the game. He finally came to rest after a half-hour or so attending to his bath, his toothbrush and a little attention to what he identified as a twinge in his quad (quadricep muscle in the left leg). It was reassuring to know Bo bleeds and feels pain like ordinary mortals.

His press conference was typically terse and muted. Bo is as hard to hear as he is to tackle. Were the Houston Oilers “keying” on him, someone wanted to know? (“Keying” is a football term denoting a rival player assigned to follow your every move, trail you wherever you go, whatever you do, to be sure you don’t get to do much.)

Bo didn’t think so. He thought Houston just played good sound defensive football. “Houston didn’t allow me to do some of the things other teams do.” Bo was not surprised to find himself the center of attention. Like the gunfighter in the old West who comes into town with the big reputation, you have to expect a certain amount of pot shots.

Was it his lowest total effective yardage in years? Bo didn’t know about that. Bo just looks for holes, not records.

The fans were glad Houston won but you sensed a disappointment. It’s rather like the time Thorpe played in a game against Knute Rockne and Rockne kept tackling him at the line of scrimmage. And Thorpe kept saying, “Son, these folks came to see old Jim run.” Finally, he took dead aim on Rockne and knocked him into unconsciousness and ran the length of the field to score. He came back, helped Rockne to his feet and said, “Now, that’s better. You let old Jim run.”

Bo may have to teach the league a lesson, too. They keep spoiling his road appearances. I mean, who wants Caruso drowned out by the lousy chorus?