Anybody remember when it started?

Quick break from our usual emc fare to ask, who remembers Barney Chavous? Tom Jackson? Jim Turner?

You either know exactly what I’m talking about, or you’ve got no idea. There has never been a time in Denver like it, before or since. The place was completely off the hinges. You could not glance in any direction without seeing predominantly orange. Bronco flags waved from every car antenna. For weeks, there was one topic of every conversation with friend or stranger. A hundred thousand people were in the streets, in a frenzy before the team had ever even been to a Superbowl.

The 1977 Bronco season defined a football franchise, and arguably redefined a city. It was the beginning of Denver’s transformation from a regional outpost to a national metropolitan center.

I spent Sundays that year at my gramma’s tiny house on South Newton Street, and the Orange Crush season of ’77 was the defining time of our relationship. She fried up four quarter-pound hamburgers in her cast-iron skillet, and we parked in front of the tube. The Morton to Moses connection was magic. Joe Collier’s 3-4 defensive scheme was genius. When time expired… when the Raiders collapsed to the Mile High Stadium turf, defeated in the AFC championship game… when announcer Bob Martin screamed “The miracle has happened! The Broncos are going to the Superbowl!”… when the goalposts came down under a swarm of fans, hacksawed into souvenirs on the spot… I could only hope I wouldn’t wake up from the dream.

We’ll be at our friends’ house for a standing-room-only Bronco party Saturday night. The magic is gone, the genius suspect, and the players no longer gods. Mile High Stadium is buried under a complex named after a corporation guilty of securities fraud. But we’ll be yelling like it’s 1977.