In Humphries we trust

Part 5 of 5

Chargers – Super Bowl.

Three words that never went together before the 1994-95 season would finally roll off the tongue like Salma Hayek and whipped cream.

I was still naïve to believe the Chargers were good enough to make the Super Bowl back then (I’m a little more pessimistic these days) and folks scoffed when I said they’d beat the Pittsburgh Steelers to move on. They weren’t the only ones with little faith, oddsmakers pegged the Bolts as heavy ‘dogs going into the AFC Championship game in the Steel City.

I could see why. The Chargers needed some luck the week before in San Diego against Miami. In typical Charger fashion that season, the Bolts were down at halftime, 21-6. One thing Charger fans learned that year, though, was that you couldn’t count out Stan Humphries and his magical arm. Nor, could you deny the sense of luck, of fate if you will, surrounding this team. A lateral pass by Dan Marino was dropped by his receiver and quickly covered up by a Charger defender. The ruling on the field was a fumble, which was the wrong call, and the Chargers drove 40 yards to score, cutting the Fish lead to 21-15. They took the lead with 35 seconds remaining in the game on an 8-yard pass from Humphries to Mark Seay. And I couldn’t believe they were advancing after such an ugly game.

Allow me to take you back a few weeks before the playoffs. The Chargers squared off against the Raiders in L.A. As the dirty, rotten, pig-smelling, butt-licking Raiders are wont to do, they rolled up on Humphries’ knee and ankle early in the third quarter, sending the Charger QB to the bench and leaving us fans rooting for Gale Gilbert. But Humphries was a tough SOB, and he would return to the game two series later, to the shock of the talking heads on TV and myself. Dude limped to the huddle, and scrambled with a bad wheel behind him, but it still didn’t stop him from delivering a 2-point win over Oakland.

That was Stan Humphries.

He played hurt more than any QB I had seen until another Louisiana quarterback came along - Brett Favre. It got to the point where I thought his limp was his normal gait. He had an off-kilter, three-quarter deliver, and was short by quarterback standards (6’2). And, unlike Dan Fouts, his receivers were a collection of college also-rans who will never be mistaken for Chandler, Joiner and Winslow (or McCardell, Jackson and Gates). To this day, Charger fans wax poetically about Dan Fouts and his golden arm, but Humphries really should be included in the same paragraph of Charger QB lore. He was 3-3 in the playoffs, and rallied twice in the ’94 playoffs, leading the Chargers to their first (and to this day) and only Super Bowl appearance.

Humphries was a man. The man.

If that game gave shape to the legend of Humphries, the AFC Championship game in Pittsburgh launched the legend, and that’s why this is my No. 1 Charger memory…

Jan. 15, 1995: Chargers 17, Steelers 13

Here were the numbers after the game: Plays – Steelers 80, Chargers 47; Total yards – Steelers 415, Chargers 226; and Time of possession – Steelers 37:13, Chargers 22:47.

If I didn’t know the outcome, I would have bet a case of Newcastle that the Chargers lost by 20. They should have lost by 20. They should have lost by 30. But they won by four, and that’s all that mattered.

In fact, it was a wonder I woke up in time for this game. I was poor college student in Vegas at the time, and rather than shell out 25 bones that I really didn’t have for a bottle of Absolut, I decided to go cheap on the Vodka that Saturday night before the AFC Championship game, and bought the store-label vodka for four bucks. Here’s how the label read: “Lucky’s (the grocery store, not a state of mind) Vodka – charcoal filtered.” I’m pretty sure the words “charcoal filtered” should not be on any product label that you consume through your mouth. But that’s just me, I guess.

I’m the sort of guy who learns through experience, a trial-by-fire dude (oh, the Freeloader is in for some “fun” with me running shotgun in parenting). One thing that has stuck with me over the last 12 years is that four-dollar vodka should never be bought, under any circumstances. If you need a cheap drunk, buy a bottle of Nyquil. That’s a piece of advice from your Uncle Mikey, kids.

I was buying cheap vodka because a buddy and myself had the brilliant plan to drink cheap screwdrivers and play video games at the house.

It took all of 45 minutes to get us obliterated, making whatever driving game we were playing that much more interesting.

The game had a 10 a.m. start. During my college career, 10 a.m. was my 7 a.m. It was too early to see the sun. And it was too early to wake up with such a vicious hangover. Vodka and Mikey don’t mix.

Imagine being seasick and dizzy while having a railroad spike driven through your left temple until it peaked through your right temple. That’s what I felt as I stumbled down the stairs and turned on the tube. Those few step turned my stomach, but I willed myself to keep it in. I couldn’t show any weakness in the Chargers time of need. If Humphries could play with a strained knee and Junior Seau could play with a neck stinger that forced him to miss some games late in the year, well, dammit, I could cowboy up and keep the vodka hangover inside me.

Things looked bleak at halftime, with the Chargers down 13-3. The announcers vommitted words like overmatched and lucky to describe the Chargers, and I wanted to fly out to Pittsburgh and pee on their microphones. But if they watched the Bolts one ounce that season, they’d realized that a 13-3 lead was about as secure as the U.S.-Mexico border.

The plus for me was that there wasn’t much to yell about in the game, so my hangover wasn’t too aggravated, yet. I was gaining some headway in the battle against nausea, giving me the energy necessary to battle through the second half.

Midway through the third period, Chargers quarterback Stan Humphries faked a handoff, fooling the Steelers defensive backs long enough to find tight end Alfred Pupunu wide open to complete a 43-yard touchdown. Pupunu was a big tight end from Hawaii – although he went to Mormon Country for college – and had one of the great TD dances. Anytime the 260-pounder scored six, he’d shuffle from side to side – ala former UNLV back Icky Woods – and then turn the football into a coconut, rip off the top and drink the sweet milk before spiking the ball.

That made it 13-10, and it took all intestinal fortitude I could muster to keep the hangover from exploding through my orfices. I was screaming and slapping the floor with excitement. With Humphries at the helm, I knew the Louisiana boy could pull this sucker out. I vowed not to return to the couch, instead I had to watch the rest of the game from the floor because I was too nervous to sit still, plus there were implements to throw and things were safer if I was on the carpet.

With Seau playing out of his mind, the Chargers held the Steelers and forced a punt midway through the fourth. In fact, Junior was everywhere in that game making plays he had no business being in on because they were on the opposite side of the field. And he was doing it with a neck stinger.

With 5:13 left in the game, Humphries threw a 43-yard touchdown pass to wide receiver Tony Martin, who out-jumped the defensive back to make the catch and give the Chargers a 17-13 lead. From spot on the floor I drummed away on the rug, whooping and hollering loud enough that neighbors figured I was having another fit.

But Pittsburgh marched the field under Neil O’Donnell, as if he was Gen. Sherman heading to Atlanta. I was nervous. I was worried. I was ready to puke.

The Steelers drove the ball down to the Charger 3-yard line, and O’Donnell had four shots inside the 10 to take the lead. One pass sailed over the head of a receiver in the back of the end zone – second down. A handoff took the ball up to the three – third down. Another pass went incomplete out of bounds – fourth down. O’Donnell dropped back on a three-step drop and fired a yard-deep into the end zone, but out of nowhere – and into Charger lore – Denny Gibson dove like he was saving a puppy from a roaring river and batted away the pass intended for running back Barry Foster, sending the Chargers to the Super Bowl.

The Super Bowl. The Chargers. I couldn’t believe it. I had to wait 15 years to say AFC Champion San Diego Chargers. After the game, and leading up to the Super Bowl, I would tell folks I was just happy they were there. That’s not the right thing to say, but I held no delusions that they’d beat the 49ers in Super Bowl 29. I also believed with Bobby Ross running this squad, despite Bobby Beatherd’s attempt to screw the team over again and again with shitty drafts, they’d make return trips over the next few seasons.

I was never so wrong.

But for that one Sunday in January, everything was so right.

Plus, I didn’t puke. How ‘bout that?

Hope y’all enjoyed this list. Now, it’s time to crack open my first Newcastle and tighten up my ball of Charger angst with game time less than 90 minutes away.

Maybe this game will make my next list. You never know.

Go Bolts!