Charger Bandwagon Skids to a Halt in the Rain

The Fish did the squishing and now the Bolt is back--back to the January inactive list, which is what the San Diego Chargers, as we had come to know them, used to call home.

Too bad.

From standpoints both sociological and illogical, the Chargers were the real juice and electricity in this year’s NFL playoff field. Amid the same old same olds, they represented a true experiment into the concept of upward mobility.

How far can an 0-4 team go . . . with a rookie at head coach and a second-stringer at starting quarterback no less?

To the playoffs? Yes.

To the divisional championship? Yes.

To the conference semifinals? Yes.

To the Super Bowl?

Caught up in a much-too-contagious swell of Charger Fever, too much of the country got caught leaning the wrong way. San Diego, you can understand. Not much to do down there except count up the all-stars the Padres trade away. Orange and Los Angeles counties, you can understand, too. Abandoned again by the Rams and the Raiders, Southern California adopted Charger football as if it were a new strain of cappuccino.

Security officers manning the checkpoint near Camp Pendleton last week reported that Charger bandwagons were outnumbering Volvos and BMWs, three to one.

You know how the song goes:

So it’s root, root, root for the home team . . . And if they don’t win, root for the team 90 minutes away (during non-rush hour drive time).

But elsewhere throughout this great land of football pundits, armchair know-it-alls and Terry Bradshaw, the Chargers were knocking everybody senseless. An all-California Super Bowl? Forty-Niners versus Chargers? Sounds good to us.

Even in Miami, where the Joe Robbie denizens have been burned once too often by broken promises of Dan Marino passing out rings with those Isotoner gloves, the mood was near-resignation. In the local newspapers, jade replaced aqua in the Dolphins’ color scheme. Columnists, having seen it all before, braced their readers for the worst, one more time.

Never mind that San Diego had not been to a playoff since 1982.

Never mind that San Diego was 4-12 a year ago, and 6-10 the year before that, and 6-10 the year before that, and 6-10 the year before that.

Never mind that Stan Humphries, and not Dan Fouts--nor John Friesz--would be quarterbacking these Chargers, and doing so with a dislocated left shoulder.

Once again, the Lovable Underdog Syndrome was kicking in, helped along by a healthy dose of What Have You Done Lately? The Chargers had won their last eight. The Dolphins had split their last 10.

The visitors were hot.

The home team was not.

Start getting the Murph ready for the AFC championship game.

Somebody had to hose these people down--and upstairs, in an office higher than Paul Tagliabue’s, somebody saw to just that, bringing down the liquid sunshine by the Florida tankfuls.

Oh, my, what a torrent, exclaimed play-by-play man Dick Enberg as the heavens sprung a mighty leak.

Yeah, partner Bob Trumpy noted, but this is a south Florida downpour. It’ll pass in a few minutes.

The Chargers were still waiting for that break in the weather as the team bench floated into the lobby of the Ft. Lauderdale Marriott.

Rain decided two of the four conference semifinals this weekend, rekindling debate that games this important ought to be decided indoors. The Chargers wouldn’t argue. Put this game in the Astrodome next time. And, if it’s not too much trouble, put the Oilers on the other side of the football.

(Suggested title for Houston’s 1992 highlight film: “Lorenzo’s Oilers--Not Even A Pro Bowl Tailback Could Find The Cure.”)

Instead, the Chargers got the Dolphins, and got them underwater.

Humphries, an up-and-coming quarterback but a lousy two-meter man, threw four interceptions. Punter John Kidd, unaccustomed to prune fingers in the first quarter, dropped a center snap and hurled a wounded duck into the deluge, having the rain pound it back into the ground, incomplete.

Anthony Miller, the AFC’s only 1,000-yard receiver, caught nothing, his hands reduced to slippery flippers.

Miami won, 31-0, and if the loss is Bobby Ross’ and Bobby Beathard’s, it is also ours, because without the Chargers, the rest of the Super Bowl tournament has been rendered one big bore.

The final four:

San Francisco. Been to the Super Bowl four times, won it four times.

Dallas. Been to the Super Bowl five times, won it twice.

Miami. Been to the Super Bowl five times, won it twice.

Buffalo. Been to the Super Bowl the last two years, lost it the last two years.

Oh, some subplots worth following remain. Steve Young versus the shadow of Super Joe. Is Dallas really the Team of the ‘90s--and if so, when does it arrive? Marino’s last stand. How badly can the Bills lose this Super Bowl?

But the life of the party is gone and now the remainder of the month belongs to the NFL establishment, as staid as it ever was.

How far can an 0-4 team go?

With the right coaching and plugging, as far as the weather permits.

Sunday, however, the weather refused to permit San Diego much of anything.

Sunday, the Chargers didn’t have a water wing, nor a prayer.