In Colorado, they don’t slap babies’ bottoms to initiate that first cry. No — that first inhalation of life-giving breath is induced by something much harsher, with much longer-term consequences. The doctor pricks your heel with a needle and stamps your bloody footprint on an official document containing four simple words: Bronco Fan For Life. The contract is signed in blood, witnessed by trained professionals, and filed somewhere safe — very, very safe. Underground. Undisclosed location. Hermetically sealed. Safe.
Unfortunately, it still doesn’t get you onto the decades-long, 100,000+ person waiting list for season tickets. (Just so you know, I am not making those numbers up — I just gave you the low end so you don’t think I would tell tales about such important things.)
There was a small movement in the late 1970s to add the ominous phrase “or else” to the contract, but it never really caught on. Besides, the “or else” was implied.
Bronco fan or excommunication.
Okay. I admit that none of this is true (except the waiting list numbers – those are 100% true estimates).
The Geneva Convention supposedly stepped in in 1977 and banned the practice. It was too late for me.
Rumor has it the ritual still survives in remote parts of the state. South Park, maybe. Possibly No Name, Colorado — but I hear they prefer anonymity, so I’m not naming names.
In all seriousness, most people born and raised here find it easier to go with the flow. There are brave souls who choose otherwise early on, and more power to them. I was neither that brave nor that committed to my own misery.
We lived with my grandparents at different points growing up. My grandfather was a b‑i‑g Broncos fan. On Sundays, he ate, drank, and breathed Broncos football. In 1978, when the Broncos went to their first Super Bowl, we were living with them. That season, I realized I had one of life’s most important choices to make: become a Broncos fan, or be miserable. I chose my own happiness. Misery is just so… miserable.
That’s when I first heard my true calling — to become a wide receiver for the Denver Broncos.
I learned football the way you learn a language you never hear spoken. Holding. Pass interference. Run on first and second down. Only throw on third if you have a lot of yards to make. Stay in the pocket. And I learned the name of a Very Important Play: the blitz.
Once I was officially a fan, I assumed I’d be welcomed into neighborhood pick-up games. I was small but fast — perfect running back material. I also decided to help with play calling, since I now knew the name of that VIP play. During one huddle, I announced, “Let’s blitz!”
Ignored.
Next huddle: “Let’s blitz!”
Still ignored.
The third time, the quarterback looked down at me and said, “You only blitz on defense. We’re on offense.”
Oh.
Not for the first time in my life, I was confidently using a word I didn’t actually understand. It wouldn’t be the last.
In ninth grade, I mispronounced wanton while reading Romeo and Juliet aloud. We’d eaten wontons the night before. I turned a very memorable shade of red. I once gave an entire oral report on a “great com‑promise,” having broken the word neatly into com and promise. My ego was thoroughly com‑promised.
Now I’m still a Broncos fan. They have good years and bad decades. I’ve learned to limit my hope to avoiding outright humiliation. Last season, they lost on the last play of the game more times than my heart would prefer. Somehow, they made the playoffs — and were promptly humiliated in the wildcard round.
This year, the opposite is happening. We’re winning close games. Late. Barely. Unkindly. As of this writing, we have The Best Record in the league. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s exhausting. And exhilarating. I’m enjoying the ride while I can.
I joke about good years and bad decades because otherwise I’d spend far too much time in the Pit of Despair. I can let go of a season when it ends. I might lament it into spring, but I let it go. I know I have absolutely no control over how the Denver Broncos perform.
The moments I can’t seem to release are my own.
Alex Singleton, one of the Broncos’ inside linebackers, has a sister, Ashley, who has Down syndrome. He adores her and uses his platform to support her and other people with Down syndrome, particularly through the Special Olympics. Ashley has been a Special Olympics athlete for more than twenty-five years. Alex goes to her events whenever he can. “It’s almost an every‑weekend thing in our house,” he’s said. He cheers for Ashley and for her friends who have become family.
I want to write to him and tell him how a girl with Down syndrome recently changed my entire worldview. He’s a busy man. He probably receives mountains of fan mail. So I keep that story close to my chest, holding it carefully, enjoying the quiet sense of connection.
And maybe that’s the real contract we sign in blood: to cheer not just for the wins, but for each other — on the field, in the stands, and beyond.
I’ve never been to a home game. It’s a dream, and maybe someday it will happen. If it doesn’t, I’ll be okay. I can choose to remember the good years, even knowing bad decades will come again.
What I struggle to let go of are the moments no one else remembers. The times I embarrassed myself thirty, forty — fif— okay, you get the idea — years ago. The day I had nothing for show‑and‑tell, so I invented a story about flying a plane with my dad and making loops in the sky. No one remembers it. No one but me. I’m the only one still holding the emotional blackmail.
So what if I mispronounced words as a child? They were words I had read but never heard spoken. It was a young girl learning football, learning language, trying to fit in.
Maybe it’s time to forgive her and move on.
By the way, I’m still waiting for my call‑up to wide receiver.
Yoo-hoo, Coach Payton, I’m available.
Continuum of Kindness 
Leave a comment