Me, Mark and the Champ

February: The sports wasteland. The Super Bowl is over. The Pro Bowl is a bunch of idiotic nonsense. The NBA doesn't really get interesting for me until after the NCAA tourney. The NHL is hockey. The breathless orgasmic anticipation some people feel about MLB's pitchers and catchers reporting to me, is as boring as old people fucking.

If it weren't for the NBA All-Star game (Vegas baby!) and NCAA small conference tourneys, February would be the most pointless month on the sports calendar.

Since there's not a whole lot going on right now, and I hate to even think about how poorly the Nugs play without Iverson (I fear his ankle is more serious than anyone's letting on) I thought I'd share with you two encounters I've had with Broncos players.

Me and Mark Jackson:

Back in '99, I was fresh out of dropping out of college and living in the shit-hole known as Grand Junction. I was fond of frequenting establishments primarily patronized by meth-addled rednecks and trashy bar skanks. There was however, one bar that was usually full of college-aged kids and less dangerous and meth-addled rednecks. They actually played hip-hop in this particular club and the best local radio station showed up on the weekends and did live shows from there. This place was a tremendous improvement over the usual fare. So anyway, one night myself and a couple of buddies get there, sidle up to the bar and order a few beers. There’s a familiar looking dude standing by himself at the bar, checking out the crowd. The following conversation (or something similar) takes place: Me: Who is that guy? Buddy 1: That’s Mark Jackson


Me: No fucking way. Dude's like 5'5"


Buddy 2: Jackson was pretty short, man.


Me: I'm not buying it.


Buddy 1: I'll ask him.


So Buddy1 rolls up to the guy and asks him flat out if he's Mark Jackson. The guy says no. Buddy1 returns to our end of the bar where I proceed to rip on him for being a jackass.


Ten minutes later or so, the guy comes over and tells the bartender that he's buying us a round. As we're thanking him for the booze, he pulls out his NFLPA card and shows it to us. Yep...it's Mark Jackson. One of the Three Amigos. The very same Mark Jackson that caught the bullet from John for the TD after "The Drive." Heady stuff for a guy like me. So we bend his ear for a while and he answers everything we ask about the team, the players, etc. He was a great guy, really polite. He even drew up the play he scored on in the '86 AFC title game and autographed it for me. Mark stuck around for a while, hitting on the ladies and occasionally dancing. He wound up leaving with this hideous hootchie who seemed to be missing a tooth and earlier had been walking around asking dudes if she could feel their cocks (myself included....I let her)

Me and Champ Bailey

This one happened yesterday, but isn’t as exciting. And if you thought the last one was exciting, you should probably go ahead and kill yourself right now.

A few local radio stations broadcast out of the building I work in here in the DTC and apparently Champ was a guest on one of them yesterday. One of the sexateries here came running down the hall to tell me Champ was in the lobby. So I go running down the stairs into the lobby and lo and behold…there’s the All-Pro himself. Here’s the exchange:

Me: “Champ! What;s up man?”
Champ: “What’s up, baby?”
Me: “Good to see you man, have a good off-season”
Champ: “Thanks guy” (sticking out hand for some fist-bump action)
Me: “Whoa Champ….fist bumps are out”