Crushed

 When I was in high school, my dad took me to see a professional football game. A Denver Broncos game. At Mile High Stadium. The year was 1977. For those of you who have a sense of sports history, this would be the first year that the Broncos finally made it to the playoffs. The game my father and I attended wasagainst the Pittsburgh Steelers. Like so many others in the Mountain Time Zone, our attention was finally focused on our National Football League franchise. 

Ours. I have never owned a piece of any sports team. Unless you count the endless array of T-shirts, caps and jerseys that I have collected over the years. 

Nonetheless, I took it upon myself on the occasion of getting to bear witness to what would be one of twelve regular season victories that year to make a sign to hold up. Not just to spur the orange and blue to victory, but to try and get my little self on television where my mom might see me. 

My mom is the football fan in my family. When my parents split up, she was the one who got custody of the University of Colorado football season tickets. But that time was still to come when my father and I took our seats on that November day in 1977. 

Beneath the overhand of the upper deck on our partially obscured view of the field. There was no way anyone except those sitting next to me was ever going to see my clever picture and slogan: "The Orange Crush Will Melt The Steel Curtain!" My father suggested that I ask an usher if I could tape the poster up on the wall at the top of our section. Where anyone on their way to the bathroom might have a chance to take a peek. 

I would love to tell you that I remember any of the actual game. The score is a part of history, as is the rest of that storied Super Bowl run that ended up in quiet humiliation at the hands of the vaunted Dallas Cowboys. But it set the bar much higher for those in the Mile High City and the surrounding area. It wasn't too long after that when John Elway came to town and making the playoffs was a certainty, if only to be dismantled by someone else's favorite team in the Super Bowl. 

All of this is what lives on in my memory, and in my T-shirt drawer. Which is why the exhibition of futility that took place last Thursday night on "prime" left such a sour taste in my mouth. The Denver Broncos and the Indianapolis Colts battled to a nine to nine tie at the end of regulation. The Colts got the ball first in overtime and struggled downfield to get their fourth field goal of the night. The Broncos took the ensuing kickoff and drove downfield, choosing to go for a touchdown rather than try to extend the game with yet another field goal. I could say it was a gutsy move, except it turned out to be ultimately the humane thing to do to put those who had bothered to tune in out of their collective misery. 

And suddenly I found myself questioning my youthful allegiance to a sports franchise. 

It made me long for 1977.