Ex footballer John Elway was once a demi-God in Denver, and to be quite honest I didn't think anyone else gave a shit about him outside of that conspicuously rectilinear state (from which I hail). But apparently the muckrakers at TMZ do: yesterday they blogged about a picture of the—well, not so hefty as he is flabby—former QB along with commentary on his questionable physique.
In lieu of the posting, I thought I should share with you the tale of the day I met Elway, the superlative Bronco, the apotheosized number 7, at DIA a few years back. So gather 'round kiddies, break open the boxed juice and listen up...
The scene is late 2006. The air is cold and the night had been long. My flight to New York was canceled due to a last-minute engine failure, and as we of the flight-that-never-would-be queued up at the customer service desk, I realized I was standing right next to none other than John Elway. Destiny, it seems, was my lady.
When he sat down at the new gate, I took a seat beside him. I wanted to know what a man of his caliber did when he was idle. Count his laugh lines, maybe? Polish his Superbowl rings, perhaps?
What did happen was even odder: He began cutting out newspaper articles about himself. Mind you, this was back when Florida-based AutoNation declined to renew their contract with him, a partnership that had yielded 16 or so high-profile dealerships (John Elway AutoNations) across the Denver Metro area. As you might imagine, each of the two major papers were on the story like flies on a dead hooker. But why would he cut them out? Could the clippings be for his "Scrapbook of Failure" where he documented all his fumbled passes?
We may never know. What is certain, however, is that this activity left ole' Elway at least a little cantankerous, for when a pig-tailed fan asked for his autograph, he sneered, huffed (albeit signed her plane ticket), then quickly sloughed off her starry-eyed gaze and returned to hacking up his newspaper.
All the while I am thinking, maybe he his John freakin' Elway, but that is no way to treat a fan! So to remind him that he was a mere mortal despite his athletic prowess and wind-blown hair, I leaned over and asked, "hey, where is your private jet?" hoping that it would be like grinding a knuckle in his side.
"In the shop," he says (and with a much more congenial tone than he had used earlier, which I chocked up to my having tits).
"Ahhhh," I replied knowingly.
Then I took a deep breath, and he smelled of sea salt and pig skin.
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