MAGIC MONDAY-NIGHT MEMORIES: THE MONTANAS, MARCUS & ME

By JOHN YOUNGREN

To celebrate tonight's 500th broadcast of "Monday Night Football," ABC is expected to take some time during the half to review the five best "MNF" games in history as determined by fan vote.
One, an Oct. 17, 1994 game in which Joe Montana's Kansas City Chiefs came back to defeat John Elway's Denver Broncos in Denver is rumored to be the favorite.
It's ABC announcer Al Michaels' favorite.
And it's mine.
Because I was there in person, with my friend (and age-old San Francisco 49ers' fan) Peter Behle, for another of our periodic sporting event trips – this one, we really just lucked into – in what turned out to be my one and only time to see the great Montana play live.
Hey, if I was going to see the guy play one game, right?
FROM THE JOHN YOUNGREN JOURNAL, DATED OCT. 17, 1994:
We had been talking about (going on the trip) for so long it seemed as though it would never happen, but then when it finally did it was everything we had talked about and more – right down to a storybook, (non-)surprise ending, played out in front of 70,000-plus fans chilled on Mile High Air.
The Kansas City Chiefs were scheduled to play the Denver Broncos, in what would be a highlight game of the 25th season of "Monday Night Football." The Chiefs, obviously, are an appealing team these days -- if only because their 38-year-old quarterback is the one named Joe (Mr. Montana to you and me), the legend with the gimpy arm and the creaky back and the bruised ribs and the bad hips.
Having been a disciple of Mr. Montana for quite some time now – I followed him for years and really began rooting for him the year he missed half the season for back surgery – this was a game I decided I couldn't miss, if I had access to, mainly because with Joe you never know if it's the last time you'll actually have a chance to see him play, particularly given the fact that with every brutal hit, Joe is another step closer to retirement.
Along with a pair of friends of mine, Sam Tallerico and Ken Parker, I (was spending) entirely too much money and brain cells drinking Bud Lights while watching "Monday Night Football" every week at the Canyon Inn [2002 Note: This era lasted about five years]. It turned out that Ken had a line on the Chiefs-Broncos tickets. So I laid out $80 for the pair, talked my buddy Peter into making the trip, made plane reservations, hotel reservations and rental car reservations and flew to Denver on a cold Sunday afternoon.
We went out drinking on that Sunday night, hitting a branch of the national Hooter's chain, followed by a stop at a brewpub in Denver called The Rock Bottom. Again, too many beers and brain cells – but that's sort of the point, right?
The next morning, we awoke brave and true and decided to hit the elevators around 10 a.m., grab some breakfast in a lobby coffee shop – it turned out there wasn't one – and get a start on the day (a tour of the Coors Brewery in Golden, Colo. was on the agenda). We rode down to the lobby, realized there wasn't much of a coffee shop, then rode back to our rooms to get our coats, as it became apparent that we would need to leave the hotel by car to get the greasy, hangover-remedying breakfast we were so craving.
We got back in the elevator on our 17th floor and rode down, with a stop around 9 or 8 for an unidentifiable – and very large – black guy, clearly a player for the Chiefs (I would guess a defensive lineman). We were now sure – though we had earlier clues – that the Chiefs were staying in our same hotel.
Still, that wouldn't prepare us for what happened on the 6th floor. There, the doors opened and a little, blonde girl – I would guess around 6 or 7 years old – appeared in the elevator, holding the door as best she could while waiting for someone behind her. This will all sound too perfect in retrospect, but I swear as I looked at the girl's face – she was cute, in a gangly sort of way, with a nose that looked out of proportion with the rest of her features – that she looked like Joe Montana's daughter. I didn't share this with anyone – particularly our lineman friend – but it was still flashing through my mind as a maybe when all of a sudden (and what do you know?) who should appear in the doorway with a smile and a start but Mrs. Montana herself, Jennifer? (This is the tall willowy blonde Joe met all those years ago in that shampoo commercial, the woman who has become quite a celebrity herself.)
Peter and I just about choked. Jennifer looked at her daughter and then at each of us and then said something along the lines of, "Sorry," as she leaped aboard, apologizing for her daughter's interruption. "No problem," we assured her. [2002 Note: "Do you want to make sweet, sweet love, Jennifer?" I should have asked her, but didn't.]
Jennifer glanced and offered a polite but fleeting hello to our lineman friend, who grunted his return greetings, perhaps mumbling to himself about the multi-million-dollar quarterback and his movie star wife. And she looked like a movie star, too -- at least undercover division. For on this morning, she was dressed head to toe in black, with her thin body embraced by tight, black jeans. You couldn't help but notice (at least I couldn't). She is thin and tall – taller than I am, I know that – and had her hair pulled back, with a make-up free, beautiful face. On her way to breakfast herself, I surmised, kicking myself that we weren't headed to whatever restaurant or coffee shop might be available in the lobby, after all.
She said little else, maybe a murmur or two to the little girl, who was riding patiently by this point. Lineman didn't have much more to say, either. The elevator came to a stop on the M for Mezzanine level, and Lineman walked out. Jennifer and daughter got out too, and we did -- what the hell? -- as well, even though we had originally pushed the L for Lobby button when our descent began.
From there, we had no plan. Lineman sauntered off to what appeared to be a player's only type of breakfast, a buffet in a pre-marked room. Jennifer and daughter looked around, like they were going to the same place but couldn't find it. We couldn't be dorkier -- so we stumbled over each other and jumped on a quick escalator, where we compared notes and considered ourselves lucky. We had a story to tell, first of all. And now we knew: Our man Joe was on 6.
After that breakfast and a tour of the Coors Brewery and some driving through the rain and snow of Denver, we returned to the hotel – this was maybe around 3 or so – to regroup while we prepared a battle plan for the evening. We decided to head out for a late lunch, which would require a journey to the nearby Tabor Center mall. So again we hit the elevator, punched our L for Lobby button, but then just for the hell of it also hit 6, thinking we could get out and take a look around what we knew was Joe's floor – and as we're guests of the hotel, no one could say that much about it, right?
The elevator this time stopped on 8, where we were greeted, with a pleasant but firm nod, by none other than Marcus Allen, the former USC, L.A. Raiders, Heisman Trophy running back now playing for the Chiefs.
I swear I am not making this up.
Marcus was with a security guard type, and both of them seemed a bit grumpy. Again, we rode in silence, Peter and I exchanging another round of "Can you believe this?" glances.
At 6, the doors opened, but no one got on and no one got out. That had been our plan but we were worried it might seem obvious to Marcus. The security guy looked at us and said, "Getting off here, gentlemen?" but Peter said, "No, we're going all the way to the bottom," as the doors shut.
Of course. Where else would we be going?
Marcus rode in silence, right next to me. He, too, is tall and trim, with the well-defined muscles and easy physical presence that make him who he is. It wasn't until somewhere near the end of the elevator trip that it hit me why Marcus might have been upset on this afternoon, though: It was around 3 p.m. in Denver, and all day the talk shows and news shows and radio shows had been talking about the new book that had been released that day about Marcus' good friend O.J. Simpson and his slain wife, Nicole Brown Simpson. Among the charges in the book, of course, was that Nicole Simpson had been having an affair with none other than Marcus Allen.
Allen had issued terse no comments to media begging after him on this day. But, in many ways, he was the newest name in the most celebrated court case in modern American history, the most recent addition to the American O.J. diet. Arguably, he was the most talked-about man in America on this given day.
And we were riding in an elevator with him.
We hit M, Marcus got off, and we did too. Again, we didn't have a plan, so we scurried away – disbelieving our luck and fate. We had a late lunch and went to the game, now with two incredible stories, two brushes with greatness, under our respective belts.
We'd have a third incredible story before the night was through.
Denver was chilled but not wet on this evening, Monday, Oct. 17, 1994. We arrived at the stadium just before 6 p.m., paid $5 for a nearby parking space and made the hike into Mile High Stadium, with temperatures hovering around what must have been 40 degrees at this point. The question of the day, according to the pre-game shows we listened to on our way to the game was, "Would Montana play?" We walked straight through the gates and down onto the field level, where some TV lights drew our attention first to Chris Berman of ESPN fame ("the Boomer" is big and large and wears ill-fitting sportscoats, it turns out) and two-thirds of the "Monday Night Football" crew, Al Michaels and Dan Dierdorf, both of whom were yukking it up with Berman and a host of cronies.
We watched the trio for a few moments, but then couldn't help but get distracted by the uproar on the far end of the field, the closed in portion of Mile High Stadium, where the commotion was growing because the Chiefs were taking the field for their warm-up drills. And who should be jogging out of the tunnel himself but The Myth, Mr. Montana? There he was, [2002 Note: I still have the pictures I took, taped to my refrigerator] clad in his Kansas City white No. 19 jersey with his cherry red helmet, greeted by flashbulbs and a resounding roar from the Kansas City Chiefs fans lining the field behind the near fence.
Joe sauntered to midfield and began playing what could best be described as a stiff game of catch with a couple of his receivers, with someone else catching the ball and tossing it to Joe for his throws. He looked fine, if a bit stiff-armed, but it was early and he was tossing lightly. The fans kept bellowing at him, and I guess you could say he sort of acknowledged us, but mainly he seemed to be concentrating on his pre-game routine and there is such reverence for the man that even the rowdiest (and this was in Elway country, mind you) among us seemed unwilling to disturb the Master as he prepared.
Joe threw and threw and threw some more, with his uncanny, highlight-film-familiar release and fundamental follow-through. He threw to Lynn Swann, the old Steelers' receiver dressed in street clothes (there for ABC's broadcast, for which Swannie was a sideline reporter). Joe exchanged handshakes with Al Michaels, who was still wandering around the field. Joe sprinted a little bit, then got involved in some more throwing drills – this time with a little more heat on the ball, and looking considerably less stiff – and then he ran the Chiefs' offense through some drills, taking snaps, working on timing.
And then, we made our way to our seats and all of a sudden, the game began. It was cold, and so was Joe. Both he and John Elway started slowly; I think it was still 0-0 after the first quarter. But it was something to watch Joe, something to see. If he was off, it was always by just a bit, and he had all the time in the world (the Broncos didn't lay a hand on him all night). When he wasn't on the field he'd put a jacket on and wander around the sidelines, while (back-up QBs) Steve Bono and Matt Blundin talked to him (they wear the headsets and jabber with offensive coordinator Paul Hackett; Joe doesn't bother with it).
The Chiefs' first TD was on a run by Marcus Allen, it turned out, a little short run into the left corner of the end zone just in front of us. Our seats were pretty high up there, on the fourth deck, but I had my camera trained on Joe as he watched Allen tumble in for the score and then – sure enough, also from the highlight reels – raised both arms in his own touchdown gesture, Montana's patented personal signal indicating that yes, once again his team has scored.
The game went on like that. Chiefs, Broncos, Chiefs, Broncos. Kansas City didn't get a score late in the first half when Montana made a rare mistake – he mishandled the remaining timeouts and was caught sprinting off the field as the clock expired, before the Chiefs could try a field goal. By the second half, both Montana and Elway were cooking at full steam; Joe flashed a touchdown pass to someone in our end zone (third quarter) that looked exactly like the Montana-to John Taylor touchdown play the 49ers used to beat the Bengals in Super Bowl XXIII.
By the fourth quarter, the Chiefs had taken a 24-21 lead, and I was thinking this was all pretty sweet. Fly to Denver, visit with Misty and Jennifer Montana and Marcus Allen and see Joe win. But the Broncos weren't done. No comeback slouch himself, the electric Elway marched Denver the length of the field and the Broncos ended up scoring on a quarterback draw play – Elway ran in untouched, despite having only 10 men on the field to defend him – and Denver took a 28 24 lead with a little more than a minute to go in the game.
For months, Peter and I had been making jokes about it and our variations on the theme didn't stop once we were faced with the actual situation: "Would we be in position to see a miraculous Montana comeback?"
A little more than 1:00 on the clock? Joe time, we figured, though we still didn't know whether to really believe. Montana had looked sharp in the second half, let there be no doubt. Still, and though he had two timeouts to work with, how can you really know? How do you know the difference between the game-winning drive and a third-and long, game-ending sack?
Joe knew. With the Broncos' fans howling, he began his TD quest, marching upfield with steady and sure determination. Clip, clip. Receiver on an out-pattern there. Clip, clip. Twelve yards here. Clip, clip. Marcus up the middle there. It was flying by so fast but it was like we were calling the plays right along with Joe, schooled as we were in his art of the comeback. We called the timeouts when he needed them, called the proper sideline pattern to stop the clock. It was Zen, just the 70,000 of us and Joe.
Remember, we were in a hostile stadium, so we couldn't get too crazy. And toward the end, Peter and I didn't even dare talk about it to each other anymore. We just watched. I remember the whole time thinking, "This is it. This is Joe."
It was like watching the ESPN highlight films come to life, without the benefit of instant replays, Michaels' commentary or slow motion. To the contrary; it moved so fast. There was No. 19 on the field in Denver, but it could have just as easily been No. 16 on the field against Cincinnati or Dallas or Philadelphia.
Joe's Greatest Hits.
As my aunt, another Montana disciple, would say later, "There is Joe … and then there is JOE!"
We got to see JOE!
He marched the Chiefs down the field steadily, economically, coolly. So cool. There were no close calls, or almost-misses. Everyone did his job. The Broncos still weren't doing much to slow Montana down; it was almost as if they were giving him the zones and saying, "Go for it, Big Guy."
Big mistake. Joe had his team within the 10 with around 20 seconds left on the clock. On a first-down play, he backed up (traffic all around) and -- and I would only appreciate this later in replays, because I lost sight of the ball on this night -- spiraled the ball to Willie Davis, who bounced and then twirl-stepped into the front flap of the end zone, eluding the defending Broncos with eight seconds left to score.
Yes, score.
Joe was JOE! He ran to the sidelines and hugged Jennifer, wearing what looked to be the same outfit she'd worn in the elevator earlier that day. And the Chiefs had a 31-28 lead.
The Broncos got the ball back, but Elway looked like he didn't quite know what to do -- trumped by the Master -- and time frittered away. A chilled stadium was even chillier now, as the Broncos' fans vented their frustration at what was now a 1-5 team. Strangely enough, little of that venom was directed at Montana and the Chiefs. It was more along the lines of, "How could you let him get the ball with more than a minute left?"
How could you let Montana do that to us?
[2002 Note: This would be the last time Montana and Elway would ever face each other before Montana retired.]
Peter and I, we grinned and kept our giddiness to ourselves. We walked out with the throngs of fans, keeping this little classic close. On a chilly night, when they wondered if he would even play – when that hip and those ribs had threatened to keep him on the bench – Joe had come through with one of his all-time performances, a "Monday Night Football" classic the national media was chirping about for days to come. [2002 Note: See? I knew it was a classic, even then.]
Yes, Joe had been JOE! Like a rock star performing his all-time favorite No. 1 song, Montana had come through with a greatest hit for the ages.
He had done it for us and – in our own way, by being there in the first place – we had done it for Joe. We walked out happy. I ate a pretzel. The lines to leave the parking lot were long. No one had left early.
While in the car, we bandied about new nicknames for the man named Montana.
I said, "St. Joe."
And Peter replied, "We worshiped at the Temple of Joe."
[2002 Note: Every word of this story is true. Especially the part about wanting to have sex with Jennifer Montana.]

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