Charger Jokes Stopped Three Yards From Goal

A football sits three yards--nine feet--from a goal line and for San Diego it is fourth and forever. Pittsburgh has one more play. Three yards are all that stand between the Chargers and a Super Bowl, all that is keeping the state of California from possessing both of America’s Teams.

It is half past noon back in San Diego and everybody must be half past crazy. The monkeys in the zoo must be swinging from the trees and the sailors must be on full alert and Shamu the whale must be just about ready to spout. Every TV from Enscondido to Tijuana must be tuned to the same channel.

Steeler ball. Seventy-eight seconds to play. San Diego 17, Pittsburgh 13. AFC championship at stake. Super Bowl trip at stake. San Diego sanity at stake. If Pittsburgh scores, that’s it. If Pittsburgh doesn’t score, San Diego goes to Super Bowl XXIX after sitting out Super Bowls I through XXVIII.

Yes, the Chargers. The guys with the lightning on their helmets. The bolts from the blue. The team that was defeated this season by Atlanta, by Denver, by New England and by the Raiders. The team that lost to San Francisco by 23 points. What are they doing here, three yards from a Super Bowl?

Yet here they are, playing football on Pittsburgh’s field, in front of Pittsburgh’s 61,545 towel-wavers, in Pittsburgh’s 93% humidity, in Pittsburgh’s pouring rain. Oddsmakers made the Chargers nine-point underdogs. Jeff Daniels, an actor starring in one of the title roles of “Dumb and Dumber,” did a TV commercial inviting viewers to watch him be host of “Saturday Night Live” and then tune in to NBC again on Sunday to see Pittsburgh murder San Diego.

Pretty funny. San Diego has been the butt of so many jokes. Even the Chargers’ own general manager, Bobby Beathard, couldn’t resist one, back in September when his team won three games in three weeks. Somebody asked what it meant. And Beathard said, “It means the worst we can be is 3-13.”

It wasn’t easy to be a believer. San Diego had been suffering so long. Alex Spanos suffered so long that one morning last winter, his wife of 46 years and others who had seen him endure 33 Super Bowl-free seasons called an emergency family meeting. They sat down the 70-year-old head of the family, looked him in the eye and told him it was time to turn over full-time ownership responsibilities to his oldest son, Dean. Never before had his loved ones spoken to Spanos this way.

He got the message. OK, he said to Dean Spanos, 44, do whatever you have to do. “Just bring me a winner.”

Bring one to San Diego, which had never been to a Super Bowl, never won a World Series, never won in anything but indoor soccer, never got anything but rid of the Clippers. This was a father’s request of his son. And when the Chargers ran right out and won their first six games, the Spanoses and Beathard and everybody else in town dared to dream that wishes could come true.

And suddenly here they are, three feet away. For half a game, San Diego has been outplayed, toyed with, pushed around. Even with a clean shot at a touchdown, the Chargers cannot budge the ball one measly yard. Damp people with painted faces are laughing at them, but the Chargers try not to crack. Junior Seau, the great linebacker from USC, even gestures to the Steeler fans to pump up the volume, begging for more noise.

A touchdown pass from Stan Humphries to Tony Martin shuts them up. Now the town of San Diego is a little more than five minutes from being a winner.

Pittsburgh must cover 87 yards. But its quarterback completes seven passes in a row. At the two-minute warning, the Steelers are now nine yards from a touchdown. There is panic in the streets of San Diego.

On the field, Seau and the Chargers are straining to stay cool. Pittsburgh tries a run by Barry Foster, who is tossed by John Parrella for a loss. Then a pass toward Eric Green gets busted up by Dennis Gibson. Seau shouts at his teammates to hang tough. He personally tackles the receiver on third down, three yards shy of the goal.

Seau says later, “It’s a time where you go through hills and valleys in the course of 60 minutes. And in the end it comes down to that last play. You don’t know whether to cry or yell or smile.”

Neil O’Donnell drops to pass. Looks right, looks left. Sees that Seau is right on Green’s tail, so looks for someone else.

Spots Foster, cutting across the middle. Aims and fires. But Gibson bats it away. Seau doesn’t see. He spins around to see what’s happening.

“Chills just run through your body,” Seau says. “It doesn’t stop for a good minute. You see the fans, everything coming to total silence. You see white jerseys jumping around and you know something went right.”

Chargers, Chargers, everywhere. Stanley Richard is waving a yellow towel. Rodney Harrison finds another. Andre Coleman takes his and hops atop the bench, waving it at Pittsburgh’s crowd. Harry Swayne and Isaac Davis go into a mad dance. Humphries has the game ball. Reuben Davis has found a victory cigar that he stashed away for the occasion. He pops it into his mouth as he struts from the field.

Alex Spanos is smiling for his wife, his son, his other three children, his 12 grandkids, his players, his city.

“I am so happy for all of San Diego. Nobody, nobody felt that we were ever going to get this far, and here we are,” Spanos says.

He turns to his players, AFC trophy in hand.

“This is for you! This is for everybody!”

He is owner of the San Diego Chargers, and finally that is something to shout about. Alex Spanos shouts: “What do you suppose the country is thinking now?”