United in Orange!
Riding the Bronco train this season was a fanastic trip. And, I noticed, at the same time, both quite a different one from my husband’s journey. The season opened with frustration for him, and fear and saddness for me. While he screamed, “What the heck are you doning, 18?” at the screen, I worried: How will we survive with Manning being so timid in the pocket? He must be feeling terrible falling off his earned pedastool after all these years! Poor Peyton. One of our girls would inevitably slide downstairs to see what all the shouting was about, and then stay for the remainder of the game as Craig,my husband, explained referree calls and "Omaha" pre-empted plays. Fortunately, our number one defense came to the rescue. Ah, the power of super heroes!
Then, Osweiler became the starter. Craig was filled with uncertainty, yet, dared to be hopeful. I was consumed with Osweiller making his parents proud, who underwent their own tumultuous journey after their flight was canceleld to get to their son’s first NFL game as the starter. Just do well for them, Brock, I kept thinking. Again, I didn’t want the Bronco to feel dejected because he couldn’t come through. I remember venturing into my daughters’ rooms that night to assure them how wonderful I thought they were—no matter what. Brock brought us a win, but rough times were ahead.
This quarterback turnover came with some deep disappointments. A few Sunday nights, our marriage was shrouded in this strange orange muck: we lost. Craig and I both felt this one; although, his sadness took longer to shake off, and it seemed near impossible for him to drag himself through the next few work days. In this shared, misery, we would silently hold hands on the couch hiding from “if onlys” by distracting ourselves with comedic TV shows.
I believe we both felt the relief the day Manning stepped back onto the field right before playoffs. It’s like when you had a substitute in school in a subject you struggled in. Then, when your regular teacher magically reappeared, you felt yourself relax into the capable hands of someone you believed in. Both our girls watched the game with us after my first elated scream, asking how many times I thought I would be screeching with delight. Manning didn’t let us down.
It was strange how the camera crews stayed away from long, dismal focus on Brock after Peyton took back the reigns. Of course, I worried and fretted over his feelings. “He’s a big boy, Lianne,” my husband would say. “It’s the nature of the game. He knew it would happen.” So, I cheered the Broncos through the playoffs, and, like Craig, celebrated wildly when we were named AFC Champions, all the while, trying not to think of Osweiler pushed back to the sidelines.
Super Bowl was an interesting dynamic. I was assured and calm: we would win—Who were we even playing, anyway? Craig was quiet all day—couldn’t seem to find focus or calm. I call it his “fiddle fart” time. He just paces, looking for insignificant things to do, and generally drives me nuts.
I busied myself with party preperations. He finally left to do something at work for a bit. Our daughters searched through clothes piles until they found their own Bronco gear. Once guests started arriving clad in bright orange and hopeful grins, we could distract ourselves with a range of food and speculation. Every single one of us was thinking it: Please don’t screw up the first play again. Don’t let us get creamed.
Of course we didn’t, and we took the Lombardi trophy 24-10.
While Craig was worried the second half may bring another dance party in the kitchen (Okay, some season games got a tad bit boring!) and he wouldn’t be able to hear the game because of the group, we all stayed glued to the TV, and not just for the commercials. I looked around several times during those five-or-so hours we were all huddled together. Friends and family surrounded us. All with rituals and superstitions (dirty shirts, football squeezing, need to sit in the same seats throughout the game…) convinced us we were the important 12th man.
In the end, Craig may have wanted the win, and we both wanted the Broncos redeemed, but I truly prayed for Peyton Manning to go out with a bang. We all got our way!
Tuesday after the win, my eldest daughter, Jordan, and I bravely headed downtown for some of the Bronco celebration. Over a million people donned their Bronco paraphernalia (A lot of which was purchased in mass lines immediately after the win!) and submerged Civic Park in an ocean of orange. It was an incredible sight!
So many people all with one commonality-- one shared victory. Little girls with orange bows waved pennants atop fathers’ shoulders. Women forewent the gym and wore scenic Colorado leggings striding in front of their men who shouted, “Super Bowl Champs!” in three-minute increments. Barreled men and boys reminded all of us of the Bronco barrel man from the past. The masses spread from lower downtown all the way to the capital. Amazing!
The Bronco train brought an excellent, rewarding view of the tumult that is football which keeps both men and women coming back. The unexpectedness and uncertainty promotes excitement and hope, as well as debilitating emotions. We love to be right about our “I-knew-it” and our “I-told-you-so” predictions, and even realize we have to suffer those braggart, cocky moments that are humbled by loss. While men may be screaming their frustration and commands at the screen, women may be holding a bit back giving the player a bit of a break. Daughters may be rolling their eyes at the over-zealousness of a parent, but they still come to witness the dance.
Ultimately, it’s about sharing all those experiences and emotions—coming together in an energetic community of orange and blue (or whatever your colors may be) to rejoice and hope and celebrate. And as I pass yet another SUV with its Bronco car flags flapping wildly, I smile and say a silent, “Go, Broncos!” to that unknow comrade at the wheel. We are, indeed, united in orange.