Knowing the Holes in Road

If you like the Denver Broncos in the XXIVth Super Bowl Sunday, you get 12 1/2 points.

If you like the Denver Broncos, you should get a straitjacket.

Wait a minute! That’s not my opinion. That’s the opinion of the ablest historians of our day, the Vegas betting parlor line makers. Go argue with them.

You look at the Vegas line and you think they’re charting an execution, not a game.

The over-and-under is 47. That means Vegas expects a high-scoring game. But not necessarily 27-20. More like San Francisco 40, Denver 7.

They figure 49er Jerry Rice is almost a cinch to score the first touchdown. At least, they make him only 3-1. You get 20-1 against Ricky Nattiel, Denver’s Jerry Rice, scoring the first touchdown.

The only Denver player Vegas really respects is Bobby Humphrey, the halfback. The odds against his scoring the first touchdown are only 4-1. And he has two cracked ribs. He is held to be almost the equal of San Fran’s Roger Craig, who is only 7-2 not to score first. Humphrey’s teammate, Sammy Winder, is 25-1.

The 49ers are favored to make the first field goal, the longest field goal and the most field goals. They are favored to score most in every quarter.

Joe Montana is 8-5 to roll up more yards passing than John Elway.

The 49ers are favored to score first. They’re favored to score last. They will have the longest scoring play. They will have the shortest scoring play.

All this is the considered opinion of Bob Gregorka of the Sands Hotel. Denver should just mail in the game.

What are we to think of a team whose slogan going in is, “We’ll show up.”?

Somehow that is not one of the great confidence builders of our time. I mean, it doesn’t rank with, “We have met the enemy and they are ours,” or, “Fifty-four-forty or fight,” or, “Don’t fire till you see the whites of their eyes,” or, “Millions for defense but not one cent for tribute,” or even, “I have not yet begun to fight.”

I mean, “We’ll show up.”? That’s something Custer would have said. The Light Brigade showed up. The Spanish fleet showed up at Manila.

Whatever happened to, “We’ll surprise some people.”? What’s the matter with, “They pull their pants on one leg at a time, the same as everyone else.”? How about, “What’s so great about the 49ers? They lost two, didn’t they?”

“We’ll show up,” smacks of “Let me out of here, this guy’s got a gun!” It’s like a note in a bottle, “Help! I’m being kept prisoner by the San Francisco 49ers! If you find this, please call your local police.” It’s like dialing 911.

The poor Broncos have the same problem eagles, condors and pumas have. They can’t function at low altitude. In the mountains, they’re invincible. At sea level, they gasp like grounded whales. Up there in Denver, where their opponents turn purple about the third quarter, they’re the 1940 Bears. At 5,280 feet, God help you. At 50 feet, God help them.

No one quite knows what happens to the Broncos at sea level. Is their white blood count too high? Is the air too thick?

Does John Elway not take into account the fact that the ball won’t go as far on his passes as it will up in the Rockies? Do the special teams overrun the punt coverage, figuring the ball will go farther? Is it all in their heads (which, come to think of it, is the worst place to have it)? Should their slogan be, “Pike’s Peak or (we) Bust!”?

The Denver Broncos have been to the Super Bowl three times in the past four years. In 1986, they lost five regular-season games. They lost four of those on the road. They got beat by Seattle, in sight of Puget Sound, 41-10. Their only home loss was a 9-3 decision to San Diego. They lost the Super Bowl to the New York Giants at Pasadena, 39-20.

In 1987, they lost four regular-season games and tied one. They lost three of them on the road and the tie was on the road. They lost the Super Bowl to the Washington Redskins, 42-10.

This year, Denver lost five games. They lost three of them on the road. They beat the Raiders at home, 31-21--and lost to them at Los Angeles, 16-13. They beat the Chargers at home, 16-10--and lost to them at San Diego, 19-16.

They beat Seattle at home, 41-14. They beat Seattle at Seattle, 24-21, in overtime.

We’re not talking coincidence here, we’re talking trend.

Of course, the likelihood is not so much that Denver plays better at altitude as that the opponent plays worse. Any physiologist can tell you it’s worse for a flatlander to go up in the mountains than for the mountaineer to come down to the sea.

But the reality is, Denver loses its edge coming round the mountain. The Broncos are like a guy who loses his horse. Whose gun jams. Who drops his glasses. They have been in three Super Bowls and the cumulative score is NFC 108, Denver, 40.

Based on history, you should get Denver and 17, 19, or 32 points. If the 49ers are on target, the spread should be infinity. Denver gets a little worse with each Super Bowl.

It’s possible to feel for Denver Coach Dan Reeves, an ultra-decent sort who was probably as conscientious a player as ever suited up and has the sore knees to prove it. Dan didn’t put the franchise up there in the ski lifts and cable cars. He can’t even yodel.

But what Reeves is facing this week in this city, which is so close to the sea that they can’t even bury their dead underground, is more an inquisition than a press conference. You’d think he took the Lindbergh baby. The questions stop just short of open hostility, of the “Tell me again what you did with the baby,” category.

They are tactfully couched but mean the same thing: “Is there any difference in attitude between this team and the two other teams you brought into the Super Bowl?” English translation: “Are these bums going to fall apart and lie down, too?”

Reeves is patient. It’s his stock in trade.

“We realize we had two disappointing games in Super Bowls,” he says. “If you’ve got any competitive spirit at all, you don’t like things like that. What you read does ruffle you a little bit.”

What he reads would ruffle Mother Teresa. What he reads is that he’s just bringing the piano for the 49ers’ recital.

Around a race track, when a horse is overmatched in a stake, it’s customary to say of him, “He’s coming up to the race a little short.”

What Dan Reeves reads is that his team is coming up to the game a lot short--about 5,280 feet short.