i'm a romantic...

It's true; I am, but for once I am not talking about dames. No, I have something much grander to talk about tonight. It's football season once more, and so I'm taking a trip down memory lane. When I was young, I had majestic, sweeping visions and bold dreams. I was going to be the second greatest quarterback in the history of the National Football League. Second, you say? That's right. John Elway was the perfect quarterback. The only perfect quarterback God has yet created. So I thought that my being second best was a pretty good deal.

He was the greatest come from behind player I have ever seen. I think most teams felt safer if they were behind, because that meant he could only watch from the sidelines at the end. Only once did I doubt him. In 1992 at Mile High Stadium, the Chiefs led the Broncos 19-6 with only two minutes to play. I had seen John bring the Broncos back so many times when they were down one touchdown, but two seemed impossible, maybe three minutes, but not two, it simply was not enough time. I told my dad, "even John can't win this one." My dad said, "never say never son, if anybody can do it, he can." "I hope so dad."

And you know what, seconds later, John threw a touchdown pass to Vance Johnson in the back corner of the endzone. The Chiefs corner had perfect coverage. But there was no such thing as perfect coverage when John Elway was the quarterback. Somehow, someway, in a manner that defied belief after Dale Carter got swarmed by the coverage inside the fifteen. Marty Schottenheimer did what Marty did best. He choked. He puckered up like a turtle in a shell. He ran the ball three straight times, and let Denver stop the clock with just enough time to give John Elway a chance. And after all, that's all John ever needed. Bryan Barker punted from deep in his own territory and boomed it pretty good. Arthur Marshall settled under it, and from what I could tell had some room to run. But he dropped the ball. And my heart went with it. It seemed like decades, centuries, freakin' milleniums when that ball was bouncing at his feet, but he got a lucky bounce and it came right back to him, and he made the first guy miss and then another, and another, before Barker, the punter finally corralled him around the twenty-five yard line. With less than 30 seconds to go, John needed 25 yards. And two plays later, he threw another breathtaking touchdown into the back corner of the endzone to beat the Chiefs. Again, the corner had perfect coverage. Again, it didn't matter when John Elway was the quarterback.

With all the naivete and innocence, and belief in the world, I practiced throwing beat up old footballs at wagon wheels propped up against the whitewashed garage (my parents used them for decoration, we lived in the country people...) and also to my brothers who ran post, flag, crossing and go routes in our expansive yard. Over and over again I watched my vhs copies of 75 Seasons: The Story of the NFL and John Elway's Greatest Comebacks. Those old videos stirred my soul. The triumphant, grandiose music set the scene, the drama, the stage, for mere men to transform into whirling, dashing, breathtaking heroes and gods. John Elway had the strongest right arm in the world and Barry Sanders was the greatest poetry ever writ - in motion.

It didn't take all that long, however, for me to realize that my dreams were unfortunately a fool's hope. In the seventh grade, I was named the second string quarterback for the Osawatomie Trojans. Patrick Culbertson had beaten me out. Patrick Culbertson had not yet hit puberty. At least it didn't sound like it, as he chirped out "blue 42 set hut" in a voice more akin to a friggin' 8 year old girl. I only got to take three snaps from under center. I fumbled the first snap and cursed myself for blowing my big chance. And then handed off to the halfback on successive plays. My dream of throwing my first touchdown pass wilted like a dying tulip. And as I was groomed to be a tight/split end in the eighth grade, my desire to play football began to wither and die. I wanted it all, or nothin' at all, ( those are bruce lyrics in case anyone was wondering...) So I hung em up. But my passion for the game did not cease. I still had John. He could still win the big one.

Every August as the NFL season began, my hopes and dreams were completely and irrevocably consumed with the desire that John Elway would finally win the Super Bowl. And you know what, he finally did. My freshman and sophomore years in high school, he finally won the Super Bowl, he was the MVP in the second one. I hoped and prayed (speaking of praying, in the moments before John won his first super bowl, i told God that if he would let John win the super bowl, i'd never ask him for anything again. turns out i didn't really keep that promise, i've asked for a girl a few times...) that he would come back and try to lead the broncos to a third straight championship, they would have been the first and only team in history to win three championships in a row.

But on May 2nd in the year 1999 my childhood ended. John Elway announced his retirement from the NFL. I cried. I cried a lot. I was sixteen years old. And it felt as if my life, as I had known it, was over. Never again would I dream with the same blessed, naive hope that had carried me through those early years.

It is once again football season. I still love it. Apparently, according to a couple of friends, I still get a gleam in my eye. But it isn't the same anymore. And quite frankly, I was crazy. So it's a darn good thing it isn't the same. And yet, I remember those days very fondly, they were some of the happiest I have ever known. I was just a kid with a dream who didn't know any better. And for a time, it was the only place I needed to be.