Remembering my father through football: Rest In Peace “Pop”

 

Football is in the family.

If you’re lucky, it’s passed from grandfather to father to son, and so on until the greatest sport ever invented no longer exists.

If you’re like me, your father was a football fanatic. Maybe he wasn’t the most educated fan out there, but damn if he wasn’t the most passionate. The man, Richard Donald Kurtzman, was a Denver die-hard through and through. And now, sadly, he’s dead.

“Pop” as he always wanted us to call him, which he no doubt saw on “Leave it to Beaver,” was a nickname we’d never use. My brother and I affectionately now call him “Pops,” a cheeky, smartass way of almost giving him his due.

Like any Dad, he was unfunny to us but hilarious to himself. I can’t wait to have kids of my own and be that same, unfunny Dad, but saying my own jokes about the 90’s.

“Kurtzy,” as I called him for years, was a Denver, Colorado native who came from nothing. Literally. His father died when he was two years old, run over by a drunk driver. Ironic, because Richard would become an alcoholic himself. What he always worried about was his lack of parenting example, and that he’d fall down that slippery slope of being a terrible father.

He was anything but that. And while he was a bit rough around the edges – growing up in the “hood” of Denver, going to East High School as a vast minority as a white man in the mid-70s and therefore befriending the other minorities in mostly Mexican, Native American and other Latin American young men – my Dad did his best as a father.

As a Catholic, he put me into Catholic school at the age of seven-years old. I lasted all of one year for two reasons; my parents couldn’t afford the outrageous tuition at Most Precious Blood, and I was too much for the nuns to handle. A back-talking smartass who no doubt learned the attitude from Kurtzy.

But where Dad really connected with my brother and I – especially with me – was through sports.

As the first-born son and a “Jr.” nonetheless, I wanted nothing more than to be just like my Dad. He was rough, tough and everyone loved him. Loud, boisterous and a good time. That son-of-a-bitch was also devoutly a Denver fan.

Some of my fondest memories of watching sports – nearly all of my best ones – are with my Dad. We went to Mile High Stadium to watch the Broncos, to McNichols Arena for the Nuggets and Coors Field for the Rockies. I loved it. He loved it. We bonded.

In the early 90s, even working class fans could attend Broncos games. It’s not the case today, with the team accommodating the “wine and cheese” crowd rather than the true, blue football fans. Those real fans have now been out-priced. Where we could barely afford one game a year, families in our same situation could attend one every three, maybe five years, now.

One time, my Dad and I sat in the upper deck of the East stands at Mile High. It was bitterly cold – so cold his beer literally froze by the time we got back to our seats – and I forgot my gloves. Being six years old, forgetting things is easy. He said, “I can’t believe you forgot your gloves,” and reminded me of that throughout the day. Dad gave me one of his, which I fit both tiny hands into, while he put his other into his giant, orange and blue Broncos coat. Another time, we sat in those way up East stands and the Broncos were blowing out the Chiefs; we all chanted “Marty, Marty” at then-coach Schottenheimer.

In 1995, we went to a Rockies game at Coors Field, the first year the ballpark was in use. He bought me a Rockies hat for $5 from a vendor outside the stadium. I still wear it – sweat-stained, tattered and all – today.

In 1997, we attended the Broncos – Patriots game on Monday Night Football. Both teams were undefeated and it was one helluva battle. But, even though I was only 12 years old, the thing I remember most was booze. Before we got to the gate, my old man passed me a flask of I-don’t-know-what to hide in my jacket pocket, which smoothly was allowed in. He was patted down, but not me. Later in the game, a Patriots fan was wasted and spilled an entire beer all over me. Not cool when you’re 12 and sober in infamous South Stands. “Pop” jumped up and pushed the guy who spilled on me, but also reminded me, “That shit happens at a Broncos game.” There was also a fight which went down two rows behind me between a Patriots and Broncos fan, with the guy in New England gear getting tossed. The Broncos won, but what sticks out are the interactions with and around my Dad. Including when we took the park-n-ride home and he almost got into a fight with two sour Patriots fans. He was trash-talking, like any football fan would.

That game occurred during the Broncos most memorable season, 1997, which was capped by a Super Bowl XXXII victory. Kurtzy was ironically sick that day, so he was much more sober than usual during a Broncos game, as we watched and enjoyed together. People lit off fireworks all throughout my south Denver neighborhood like we had won the civil war, or something. It was crazy. Denverites are religious about their Broncos.

We used to go to McNichols for Nuggets games when they were terrible. “Pop” would never pay for parking, so we walked three, four, maybe five miles to games to watch the nightmarish Nuggs. McNichols is where I learned, “You never leave before the game’s over,” as we did once only to get back to the car and hear the game went to overtime.

One time, when I was in first grade, we got home at around 11 p.m. after a Nuggs game and all I could think to tell him was, “I have school tomorrow.” He said, “Don’t worry about it.” That fond memory out-weighs anything I could have learned the next day, anyway.

We did the “Mile High Walk” – because he was cheap – but it was also a great way to connect with the rest of the blue collar Broncos fans. Everyone hyped one another up before games, passed flasks around and turned into a loud, obnoxious heard of Bronco-backers.

In 2000, I took my Dad to a Father’s Day game against the Arizona Diamondbacks. It was 120 degrees outside, he sweltered in the heat while drinking his Coors Lights – nearly passing out – and the Rockies won in dramatic fashion. Mike Lansing hit for the cycle by the fourth inning and the Rox won 19-2. It was a wonderful present for “Pop.”

But it wasn’t just about the games we spent at arenas and ballparks, most of them were at home in front of the TV straight out of the 1970s. He’d yell, scream, jump for joy when the Broncos did well. He’d also cuss, banter and say, “flockin’ Broncos,” as to not leave too bad an impression on us.

He wore Broncos sweatpants with pride, and anything Broncos oriented, any day. He even dressed the dogs – two german shepherd-husky mixes which were loving mutts – in Broncos shirts and shorts. The dogs didn’t know what was going on, he thought it was hilarious. When John Elway completed “The Drive II” in ’92 versus Warren Moon and the Houston Oilers, Kurtzy ran up and down the halls like a madman who’d escaped the loony bin. I’d never seen him so happy in my life.

And when we weren’t huddled around the TV, we huddled up outside. As a kid, I ran routes in the backyard for hours with him throwing the rubber football at me as hard as he humanly could. “If it hits your hands, you better catch it,” he’d say with a smirk on his face. Dad was trying to toughen me up, and while he stood at 5-foot-7, I was supposed to hit 6-foot-2; we both imagined me as an NFL tight end.

Of course, that didn’t pan out – I topped out at 6-foot and have sadly never dunked on a 10-foot rim – so there went the NBA dreams, too. For my ninth birthday, he and mom bought me a basketball hoop for the driveway. He dug the hole and I helped pour the concrete. We shot for hours together, Dad with his “over the top of his head” shot, and played together against neighbors at my elementary school down the street. One time, I passed him the ball when he wasn’t looking and broke his gold-rimmed, bridge over the nose glasses. I felt terrible and he was pissed. But, considering the dozens of times we hooped at Bradley together – Dad giving my brother and I sips of his beer when we were parched – one broken pair of glasses was a minuscule mistake compared to the hours of bonding and fun.

“Kurtzy” loved sports – he shot hoops with us, threw me the football after long, tiring days of work, loved bowling and he even played softball when I was a wee tyke – he passed that love of sports down to me.

When my parents divorced, I was only 10 and took it really hard. Eventually, I moved with Dad and my bro stayed with Mom for a few years; it was rough going. Dad and I were thrown out of multiple apartments, didn’t always have a lot to eat but got by. Finally, following another eviction, when I was 15 Mom convinced me to move in with her. Unfortunately, the last time I saw Dad was at my high school graduation, a dozen years ago. He gave me a watch with a father and son engraved on the back. It was touching. And then, nothing. No phone, email, mail; no contact for a dozen years. His alcoholism pushed us away but I will always regret not having closure, not knowing if he was proud of me for being a first-generation college grad and for writing about sports.

I’m sure he was. And what I’m completely sure of his is never-ending, always burning love for the Denver Broncos. In fact, Dad likely died in his Broncos coat, maybe that same one from the early 90s, all royal blue and bright orange. At least, I’ll remember him that way.

I’ll remember him for teaching me about football and basketball, about the history of the Broncos – telling me about the old-timers on the Ring of Fame – for all those times we played catch or shot around in the driveway. I’ll remember Kurtzy for the happy times, the excited Christmas mornings and Sundays in fall. I’ll remember “Pop” as a loving man with a rough upbringing who didn’t know how to help himself.

And when there’s a Broncos orange sunset, I’ll remember him and pretend he’s painting the sky.

Love you, Dad. Rest In Peace.