Tradition Tuesday: We are Not Hot Chicks, We Are Ugly Wide Receivers

No matter how much we yammer about baseball, golf, hockey or pairs figure skating, the rough focus of this blog will always and forever be the rivalry between the Denver Broncos (2-time World Champions, fans include Cecil and me) and the Kansas City Chiefs (Champions of the league back when it was only eight teams and pass interference was not yet illegal, fan: Banky). It may seem horribly unfair to make it two versus one, but worry not--should KC ever win another title (which is theoretically possible) we'll go right ahead and square up the numbers.

No score and eight years back, on a patch of broken asphalt in Middle America, The Tradition (trademark House of Georges L.L.C.) emerged into this world. It is a living history of heart and liver disease, in which us Bronco fans matriculate out to the soon-to-be-modernized, grotesquely over-scoreboarded Truman Sports Complex with our team, and Chief lovers return to the gorgeous Rocky Mountains with theirs. We tailgate, with the flesh of calves and HoGs marinated with various rubs and oils, we regale each other with heroic feats of pigskinnery, and when we let the wives come they occasionally take one for the team. And most of all, we nearly always watch the visiting squad lose. It's a grand old time.

Here at the HoG, we're going to keep The Tradition going with Tradition Tuesday--a weekly state-of-the-rivalry address.

Man, it has been a long time since I've typed those words. Too long? Not really. When a team loses its way like the Denver Broncos have, it's sometimes nice to simply let them wander around in the wilderness before you send out the search party. Make no mistake, folks, this team is truly and utterly adrift. We're sneaking up on the draft, a pretty make-or-break one in fact for the boys in predominantly orange and blue. I'm not going to waste anyone's time suggesting Bronco picks (Ryan Clady, Wonderlic wiz), for we have an on-staff pro who'll feed you more selection data than you can handle (even a scenario where Denver can obtain the draft's most NFL-ready superstar in the second round).

No, Invescocrats and Arrowheadians, today we’re going to discuss What Makes A Bronco. What is the magical quality that exists within the souls of the Rod and Dennis Smiths, the Randy Gradishars, the Gary Zimmermans? And why is it missing in so many who call themselves Broncos today?

The newest member of the brotherhood is, of course, Samie Parker. He’s an undersized, underwhelming wide receiver, like Keary Colbert. His name also sounds like a chick*, along the lines of Ashley Lelie, Tatum Bell, and, yes, Keary Colbert. Not only are none of those guys any good, they also lack the heart, commitment and focus required to be a True Bronco. Read on, gentlemen, read on…

Parker (who, it must be said, now joins the exclusive Dark Side Club) and Colbert, should either make the final roster, will slot somewhere beneath Brandon Marshall on the Broncos’ WR depth chart. Marshall is, of course, the new top dog at flanker with the departure of malcontent Javon Walker, he of the nuttiest contract in recent NFL history. And what did Marshall do to celebrate his elevated status? Nearly amputate his money-making appendage, that’s what.

I don’t like Brandon Marshall. Not because he dances with Mayor McCheese, not because he doesn’t know how to call a cab, and not even because he, along with Walker and Kenyon Martin, got Darrent Williams shot**. No, I don’t like Brandon Marshall because he has no concept of what us fans do for him. Brandon Marshall lost me when he cried about getting booed, in the midst of the single shittiest game the Broncos have ever played.

True Broncos know that when you lay an egg like that, even the most masochistic and myopic fans have every right to boo your ass straight off the field, Brandon. I personally would not have had I been there—I like to place myself in a Coors-induced coma in situations like that. But had my next-seat neighbor been booing, I would not have objected.

Moving around the roster, I notice that we need a kicker. I’m not one of those folks that harbors any ill will toward the departure of Jason Elam. As I’ve said, it was time. Have fun booting in the controlled climate of the Georgia Dome, even if these thickheaded bloggers don’t realize the Falcons play under a roof.

Denver worked out Idiot, Liquored-Up Canadian K Mike Vanderjagt the other day, and I received a delirious text from a friend telling me they’d signed him. Easy, pal, let’s wait for a little confirmation, unless you want to go work for Predominantly Orange. Vanderjagt may bring his act to the foothills of the Rocky Mountains yet, or we could go snatch up another retread. It’s a kicker, this team has bigger fish to fry.

When Cecil first started publishing mock drafts that had the Broncos drafting Rashard Mendenhall, I thought he’d lost his marbles. But lo and behold, the Illini tailback made a visit to Dove Valley (with Gosder Cherilius!). Never again will I doubt our draft expert, unless of course he leaves Darren McFadden out of the first round.

Finally, I suppose someone who lives in this House ought to comment on the PR flap that refuses to die. Marshall shreds his arm, Cutler gives a presser that questions Marshall’s judgment, Elway makes a statement that questions Cutler’s leadership, Cutler backtracks, blah blah blah. Cutler’s a rifle-armed young QB with a double chin who may or may not be stoned 24 hours a day. He’s no Dana Perino. He’ll learn the fine Jedi art of giving nonsense clichés to the media eventually (even quicker if he rooms on the road with Crash Davis). Until then he could act like Ryan Leaf around reporters and I wouldn’t bat an eye.

Now if he starts acting like Ryan Leaf in the backfield, then we might have a crisis on our hands.

Will this affect the chemistry between Marshall and Cutler? No chance. Marshall’s playing for a big payday, and the only way to get there is to catch the balls Cutler throws toward him. Likewise, I don’t see the O-line blocking any less fervently because their QB broke an unwritten rule of sports. They’ll get it together eventually, and they may even reach the coveted status of True Bronco.

Meanwhile, On The Outskirts Of Kansas City

Every time I get a little bummed about the current state of my favorite football team, I simply glance toward our divisional rivals in KC and suddenly I’m walkin’ on sunshine. I mean, we stink, but we’re better than the Chiefs at every single position on the field save for ends of the defensive and tight variety.

And what is the warden of this asylum worried about? Rebuilding the run blocking? Getting faster? Younger? Drafting Matt Ryan (please please please please let this happen)? Nope. Herm wants you to cut your hair, you little punk.

Since this proposal comes out of the front office of the Kansas City Chiefs, we need to pay attention. Because the Chief rule is, what the Chiefs want the Chiefs get. Lamar Hunt wanted to name the title game after his kids’ toys, and we have Super Balls Bowls. Lamar wanted a Thanksgiving game, and suddenly Detroit and Dallas now have company. A few years back the Chiefs had a rare winning season yet missed the playoffs, and I was shocked (shocked!) that the Tagliabue regime did not immediately acquiesce to the desires of the Hunt family and King Carl. I fully expect the playoff field to expand some day to 10 or 12 or 16 or whatever number KC desires.

And now the grand elders of AFL excellence want dreadlocked hippie players to head to the barbershop. Or at least tuck that shit up under their caps. I’ve always felt that there is one fantastic way to police hair length—grab it. That’s right, it is fully legal (and even endorsed by the Kansas City Chiefs) to take a guy down by his locks. That’s why the bulk of guys who sport the long braids are defenders who rarely get their mitts on the pigskin. I think Herm might should watch a little more game tape (especially of Matt Ryan, he’s awesome) and spend a little less time fixating on dude’s hairstyles.




*This idea was blatantly stolen from Bill Simmons’ Lindsey Hunter All-Stars, but at least I’m giving belated credit.

**I know that Marshall and Walker did not murder Williams. K-Mart, however, might as well have pulled the trigger himself. I’ll testify, and I normally ain't even no snitch.