Forty years go by too fast to count, if you don’t keep score.
When I stumbled into this dusty old cowtown 40 years ago as a clueless young reporter for The Denver Post, John Elway was a confused rookie who once sauntered to the line of scrimmage and stuck his hands under the rump of left guard Tom Glassic to take the snap, before the goosed Glassic shouted at his young quarterback: “Wrong guy, wrong guy!”
Well, look at us now. Elway owns a bronze bust in the Pro Football Hall of Fame. And I’m still holding down a seat in the press box, where I’ve kept score as Denver transformed itself from dusty old cowtown into a city of champions.
During the past 40 years, we’ve seen some stuff, you and me. I was there when the CU Buffs needed five downs to win and couldn’t believe it when 184 points weren’t enough for the Nuggets in a loss. We’ve watched Mr. Big Shot and the Joker hold court, as well as witnessing football miracles during The Drive in Cleveland and The Miracle in Michigan.
My role in all of this?
Well, as Broncos coach Mike Shanahan was fond of telling me: “You are a trouble-maker, aren’t you?”
Back in 1983, there was no ballpark and almost nothing to do in LoDo unless you needed to feed a craving for the tasty burritos served up at La Casa de Manuel. The city had unceremonioulsly run its NHL franchise out of town. Unless you were flying high with the Air Force Falcons in September of that year, there wasn’t much for a Colorado football fan to cheer. On the final Sunday of the month, Elway completed six of 11 passes for 71 yards before getting benched in a 22-7 loss to the Raiders. The next morning, I reported to work at a building on California Street, where displayed prominently on the wall were these words: ‘Tis a privilege to live in Colorado.
It has been my privilege to watch a dusty old cowtown grow into the best sports city in America. You built it. So consider this my standing ovation for all of you.
You turned the dream of major league baseball into Coors Field. You gasped when Bill McCartney punted to The Rocket and lived to tell how the Buffs won a national championship. You cheered as Joe Sakic lifted the Stanley Cup on the steps of the City County Building. You screamed for every step of 157 rushing yards by Terrell Davis, who overcame a blinding migraine to beat Green Bay in Super Bowl XXXII. You belted out “The Star-Spangled Banner” after Coloradans Amy Van Dyken, Missy Franklin and Mikaela Shiffrin won Olympic gold. You rocked Rapids and DU Pioneers championship gear.
And on that night in June of this year, after Nikola Jokic grabbed the Larry O’Brien Trophy, maybe, like me, you went outside and howled at the crescent moon, because many of us never thought we’d live to see the day when the Nuggets were kings of the NBA.
For 40 years, I have been neither a lover nor hater of your favorite teams but the knucklehead who starts the debate, because I strongly believe sports are the best arguments to turn strangers into friends and build a sense of community.
For 40 years, I’ve often asked irreverent questions that players, coaches or fans don’t want to hear.
Tiger Woods once got in my grill after I blasted him for hanging out in Aspen and skipping a golf clinic for inner-city kids at the International at Castle Pines.
When I told the Florida Panthers their joy ride through the NHL playoffs was going to end against the Avalanche in 1996, coach Doug MacLean demanded I meet him in the parking lot of McNichols Arena, where he huffed, puffed and threatened to beat me up.
Two years ago, when I asked Rockies owner Dick Monfort on behalf of suffering fans if he would consider selling the woebegone franchise, he replied: “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
I don’t cheer for your team, but I feel your pain. Whether it’s the CU fight song or “All the Small Things,” a crowd singing its lungs out makes me smile every time.
Dusty old cowtown? It’s a term of endearment to me, a reminder of how far we’ve come as a major-league city, but also an appreciation of the way we were when a “Native” bumper-sticker on your car was a badge of honor. Yes, the Nuggets are better than ever, but queuing up for Sniagrab at the Sports Castle was cooler than shuffling the interminable TSA lines at DIA will ever be.
Whether I’m in a restaurant or on a ski lift, the question I get most frequently: “Do you get in all the games for free?”
Yes, but after the scoreboard clock runs out, I’m the knucklehead who has to go ask Russell Wilson how in the world the Broncos lost a game 70-20. But for 40 years, it’s been a labor of love and a long, sweet ride.
From longtime CSU basketball coach Jim Williams to Hall of Fame goalie Patrick Roy, I’ve been blessed with too many mentors to count, much less properly thank. If the truth is in the tiny details, kindly allow me to share one small moment with my predecessor in this columnist gig, the late, great Dick Connor.
Toward the end of a life well-lived that cancer ended far too soon at age 62 in 1992, Connor plopped down next to me one final time in a football press box, gazed out the window. “This is beautiful,” he mused. “Never gets old, does it?”
With a hint of snark, I told Mr. Connor we were indeed lucky to get into all the games for free.
“Oh, I’m not talking about the game,” Connor gently admonished me. “Look at that Colorado blue sky, and all these people in the stadium. We get to live here.”
We all grow old.
Blue skies and sports keep the child in us alive, forever young.
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