The Denver Broncos' season died Monday night, and the epitaph was written by the best quarterback who ever lived: Joe Montana.
He has killed them before; a certain Super Bowl game comes immediately to mind. But never has he been more lethal and more wondrous to behold than he was in Monday night's heart-stopping, 31-28 Kansas City victory over the star-crossed and thoroughly defenseless Denver Broncos.You thought maybe, just maybe, Montana had stopped being Montana. You thought maybe all those bruises, all those murderous hits and all the years had finally conspired to make him just another aging quarterback. He came to Mile High with bad ribs and a bum hip, and a two-game slump where he failed to lead the Chiefs into the end zone.
But Montana served notice again Monday night; he is not quite finished forging his extraordinary legacy. He proved it again in prime time once again. He still is The Genius. He still is The Best. As Steve Young said earlier this year after Montana outplayed him and the 49ers, "He's still the master."
It was an agonizing and strangely beautiful thing to witness, Montana working the clock, taking what the too-soft Denver "prevent" defense gave him, finding receivers incredibly open near the sidelines, pulling Denver apart and sending their season to the gallows.
Montana and John Elway. This was everything you might have expected and
more. Elway still was Elway on this night, still making the plays, still threatening to drive a stake in Marty Schottenheimer's heart. Elway made the kinds of plays only he can make, including a remarkable move when he eluded a rushing Derrick Thomas, stepped up and found Glyn Milburn for the key play that seemed to be - what should have been - the winning drive in the fourth quarter. This was the Elway we've known, the best he's been all season.
But his genius was overshadowed by the virtuoso of the last-minute
flourish. There will be ample gnashing of teeth over Denver's last-minute collapse, a thorough reconstruction of the dreaded "prevent" defense, and Wade Phillips, the man who has taken over this defense while reducing Charlie Waters to a ceremonial position, will be lambasted as is the weekly custom.
But the primary fact is this: Montana was the best quarterback in the history of football on this night, just as he always has been. Denver didn't lose this game as much as Montana, and his gritty teammates, won it.
Only the incomparable Montana could shake the Mile High ghosts that plague Schottenheimer. This was not the Kansas City coach's finest game. He tossed away a potential field goal in the first half, watched his team mismanage the clock at the end of the half, and made some rather questionable decisions along the way.
But he had one thing in his favor: Montana.
And he had a Denver defense that didn't lay a glove on the brittle one all
evening. Shannon Sharpe, the guttiest player on this team, fumbled. All Kansas City had to do was stick it in Marcus Allen's gut, put it in his sure, supple hands.
Montana handed to Allen. He fumbled. Ridiculously. Incredibly. Only Kansas City. Only at Mile High Stadium. Schottenheimer had seen it too often to cry, so he managed a pained little smile.
The Broncos, who seemed to have forgotten how to make last-minute miracles, finally took advantage with a touchdown.
But they scored too quickly.
On this crazy, inspiring night, Montana was set upon waking up the echoes, determined to remind people Montana still is Montana. Those 75 yards of football field were his canvas, and he forged his masterpiece with broad and powerful brush strokes. There he was, eight seconds left and Willie Davis celebrating in the corner of the end zone with the touchdown pass, his hands upraised in that familiar touchdown salute.
We have seen it before and we will see it again.
This will come as little solace in the wake of one of the most painful Bronco defeats in recent history, but they must understand this: They were beaten by the best there ever was.