By Alan Prendergast
By Michael Roberts
By Michael Roberts
By Amber Taufen
By Patricia Calhoun
By William Breathes
By Michael Roberts
By Melanie Asmar
That ominous rumble gaining volume in the mean saloons and unhappy living rooms of Denver is the sound of a citizen army being mustered. Taking up their cudgels as they pull on their predominantly orange flak jackets, these aroused militia-folk are clearly plotting an advance on Dove Valley, there to have at General Mike Shanahan for the war crimes he's committed.
Crimes like signing the petulant man-child Daryl Gardener, who has done for General Mike's regimental unity what Udai Hussein did for the Iraqi soccer team. Imagine: a 300-pound college graduate who tears up his wrist in a parking-lot scuffle at three o'clock of a summer morning, sits on his big ass for most of the season, then snipes at his coach on a radio-blabber show for not treating him with the proper respect. Whatever animus the cudgel-swingers have for the ungrateful, lazy Gardener, they've transferred it in triplicate to the guy who hired him. Like an ill-fitting pair of shoes now down at the heels, Shanahan is increasingly regarded not with affection but with weary skepticism. Losing at home to the clawless Chicago Bears was the equivalent of Lennox Lewis getting KO'd by a Britney Spears uppercut. And that 2-0 mark versus Oakland doesn't do much to soften the blow.
What in the name of Eddie Kennison is going on here? Has Shanny lost his touch? Has he lost his team? In NFL locker rooms and sports bars, as well as in faulty marriages, Familiarity Breeds Contempt (copyright this part, will ya, boss?), and the same people who sent Shanahan's bio to the Vatican just five years ago -- Saint Michael of Oxygen Debt, Lord of the Championship Rings -- now want to do a Joan of Arc on him. You can almost feel the lick of the flames as he's incinerated in a corner booth at Del Frisco's. Cook that heart medium-rare.
While Shanahan takes the heat, all three starting Broncos linebackers are banged up, busy refilling the Gatorade jug. Wideouts Ed McCaffrey and Shannon Sharpe are suddenly looking very much their ages, and when kicker Jason Elam pulled his groin (at least somebody else didn't do it), it gave him an excuse to Norwood everything over 25 yards.
Let's see: Suspended fullback Mike Anderson is rolling a doobie somewhere. Popular quarterback Steve Beuerlein, once a solid backup, is sipping chicken broth in the dayroom at Golden Years Manor. And that slew-footed pup chained in Shanny's oversized doghouse, Deltha O'Neal, is still looking for a position that suits him -- team laundress, perhaps.
So let's get that guillotine blade sharpened up for the coach, okay?
For the growing lynch mob, the glories of Terrell Davis (where did he come from again? The sixthround of the draft?) are as yesterday as the Eisenhower administration, and those back-to-back Super Bowls might as well be a couple of W's in the Punic Wars. If you listen to the dark buzz, neither the Chicago Cubs nor the Boston Red Sox have anything on the smudge of gloom that's overhung Denver's quarterbacks since the retirement of John Elway. Call it the Curse of the Biffster. Cryin' Brian Griese couldn't get out of Number Seven's long shadow and, for now, neither can Jake the Mistake. Griese, you'll recall, once fell on his face in a teammate's driveway, but that was nothing compared with his regular pratfalls on third-and-seven, or his less-than-fluent encounters with the media. Enjoy South Beach, pal. That's where you'll be watching the playoffs with Dad. As for the incumbent, the jury's still out on Mr. Plummer, but running back Clinton Portis constitutes most of the offense. Between the two Broncos with occupational last names, the Plummer may yet be the prize. The Gardener's destined to get troweled under with the sheep dung.
And Shanahan's fate? That lackluster 41-36 record he's run up with the Broncos since winning the 1998 Super Bowl is not the stuff of longevity -- despite nine years commanding the troops. He probably doesn't deserve the firing squad just yet, but even his buddy Pat Bowlen may one day gaze down from his high window, regard with some alarm the torch-waving, knife-throwing masses below, and squeeze off the kill-shot himself. Sic transit Broncomania.
If it's any comfort, the Donks have plenty of company this year in mediocrity.
The least-awful major college program in the state this season has been Colorado State, which managed a 7-5 record and won a bid to the San Francisco Bowl -- the Rams' eighth post-season appearance under coach Sonny Lubick. This is not the most prestigious bowl bid on the planet, but it certainly has its attractions -- stone crabs on Fisherman's Wharf and a nice plate of saltimbocca in North Beach chief among them. Senior quarterback Bradlee Van Pelt brought fire and cocky attitude to the team, but consecutive losses at Wyoming and New Mexico revealed its weaknesses, especially at the injury-battered linebacker spots. At season's end, the Rams stood at number 35 in the national power rankings, and while the two wins they scored to close the year (over San Diego State and Nevada-Las Vegas) showed heart, things aren't likely to get much better next fall. Lubick will lose twenty seniors to graduation and could find himself in rebuilding mode. The Rams had their moments, but this was not one of Lubick's better teams. As always, they earned everything they got.