Bars and Broncos

At twenty to twelve yesterday I walk up to the local sports bar which has a sign that says, "Irish Pub: Drinking, Dancing, Carry'n On, Closed During Mass" hung on the back bar. Maria, the Italian cutie who tends there, shouts "Hey Panama, how you doin?" as I grab a stool in front of one of the many TVs hung behind the bar and around the room. "Which of these," I ask, pointing at the the nifty flat screen directly to my fore, "is the one dedicated to the Denver game?" "That's it, right there," Maria answers, "the one you're lookin' at." I plop down on the bar stool and order a Killians Irish Red. It's going to be a good day. I can feel it.

I've brought a pullover hoodie with me even though the day is warm and sunny. I'm grateful for my foresight as the temperature in the bar brings back memories of Lambeau Field and its "frozen tundra" Lombardi era Packers. I slip on the hoodie and sip on the beer as every game being televised around the country begins and the bar fills to standing room only in the oft noted "New York minute." I meet and greet three other Denver fans. The fans of Cincinnati, Denver's opponent, rarely show their faces outside of Ohio for fear of public humiliation. Their team colors are black and orange which are nice in combination during Halloween and shyness therapy sessions, but could get you laughed out of town if donned anywhere else that sighted people populate. There are no Bengal fans about as Denver rolls to an impressive one, count them, one first down in the opening quarter and arrives at the end of the half trailing its garish and pitiful foe in every statistic but one, the score. Denver leads 3 to 0.

I am joined by Woowoo Charly and DC Dave giving Denver a six pack of people to cheer lustily, loudly and enthusiastically should the team ever do something remotely worth cheering about. Doesn't happen. There is a contingent of Philadelphia Eagle fans screaming their heads off to our left seemingly every two minutes and we dogged Denver faithful would like to match their intensity. Instead we chat of John Elway and days gone by as Denver punts, then Cincy punts and Denver punts again. The game ranks with being stuck in traffic for pure excitement. With a minute something to go, Cincinnati moves smartly down the field and scores the game's only touchdown to that point, putting them ahead 7 to 6. With only twenty seconds remaining in the game, the juggernaut Denver Bronco's offense finds itself on their own seven yard line. Everyone know a useless pass or two will be thrown and the game will end.

Miracles, of course, do happen. Rarely, however do they happen to Denver sports teams. On this particular occasion, though, Denver was playing a team in the Cincinnati Bengals that is hated by the miracle makers almost as much as they hate Detroit. So it was not so much that the miracle makers want to bring we six Denver fans happily and noisily to our feet as it is to stick it once again to the tastelessly clad tiger striped Cincy faithful filling their stadium, that a harmless sideline pass is tipped into the air and caught by Denver's Brandon Stokely who has the presence of mind and fleetness of feet to carry it 87 yards for the winning score.

Nice.

DC Dave has left before the finish, so Woowoo and I walk gleefully home. We are not the type of people to gloat and we do feel a degree of compassion for the fans who live in Cincinnati. To them we offer this one word of advice:

Move.