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For all you sports and football trivia buffs out there, I wonder if you can name the backup quarterback for the Denver Broncos back in 1977 during their first Super Bowl season?
He played collegiate ball at Ol’ Miss, had a stint in the WFL with the Hawaiians and finally settled in Denver with the Broncos and was known as the Mississippi Rambler. No. 14 - Norris Weese was the guy.
Norris and I were not only teammates, but were great friends and neighbors as well. We began our relationship on somewhat strange ground as his best friend at the time, Mike Frankowiac, a running back like myself, was cut by the Broncos so they could make room on their roster to add me.
But, I ended up buying a house, unknowingly seven doors down from him, in 1978 and we were great friends from thereafter.
Norris was more than a friend and a teammate because he was also a mentor. While there were only a couple years difference in age, two years more experience in the world of pro football and its fast and furious world was more like 10 in everyone else’s world. He was also a Certified Public Accountant while he played football, so he was no dumb jock by any means.
Norris and I were alike in many ways, but as different as day and night in others. He was a boisterous Catholic kid from a parish called Chalmette in New Orleans. I was a kid from Iowa who looked and listened before he jumped into a fray. We both enjoyed our beers and parties, but he struggled with alcoholism and quit cold turkey and joined AA in the late 1980s and stayed clean. We both would get up at 5:30 a.m. and jog together after we retired from football, but he could only stay motivated to do a mile or so and struggled with being overweight.
Norris was cut by the Broncos in 1979 and was bitter. But he had deferred income during his pro football career so he was able to supplement his income in life-after-football and make a smooth transition. I had the opportunity to watch him and learn from him. And his advice and experience helped me when I faced similar circumstances later on.
Norris was one of those “Life” success stories. He joined a CPA firm in Denver, he did some stints with Channel 4 television and radio, he was a husband and father to three kids, he quit the booze and made something of his life after the NFL. He would give me financial advice, and I would stop by his house once and a while and help him with landscaping issues or take he and his son on a camping trip.
But then, shortly after he beat alcoholism, he went into the hospital for gall bladder surgery. Soon after that, he donated a kidney to his brother who was dying of kidney failure. Then a few years later, he became aware of a soreness in his back and ultimately was diagnosed with bone cancer in his spine. Not wanting to fight through all the other friends who went to his hospital room during visiting hours the day before he was to have surgery and have several cervicals removed from his spine, I sneaked onto his floor after hours so my friend and I could share some moments alone while our bodies and souls were still whole and unchanged.
As most of us know, bone cancer means death in almost every case. And as I sat talking and looking at Norris late that night, I felt a deep sadness but he continued to teach me about hope with his wit, his humor and his attitude. He and I had lived through too many aches and pains, injuries and training camps to BS each other.
Our last moments that night were calloused with toughness, but we both knew in our hearts that life was not to be the same from then on.
As you would expect from any person who was a professional competitor and had an overly generous amount of bravado in their character, Norris fought through chemo and radiation and rehab like a champion. He was reduced to an emaciated body, total hair loss and open soars around his mouth, and a patchwork spinal column with rods and plates keeping him upright. But barely a year later I saw him out jogging down the street and he made some guest appearances in the broadcasting booth at Channel 4 again during Bronco games.
In 1995, after I had moved from our old neighborhood, I had to look twice at Norris when I ran into he and his wife, Sandy, at the Broncos Alumni dinner at the DTC Sheraton Hotel. He looked as if nothing had ever happened to him. The old Norris spark was in his eye, he was making the rounds shaking hands and laughing, and he looked like a million bucks. He was among his peers, and he had the determination to live up to his reputation and come from behind and win.
Halfway through the evening’s activities, though, I caught Norris alone in a private moment and his color had left his face, his handshake was clammy and he was sweating. Of all the moments when reality had to make itself known, the ravages of cancer struck Norris that evening on its deadly mission. Bone cancer doesn’t go away. And it didn’t.
Norris decided to live out his final days in his home on East Berry Drive. It was the house he had always lived in, and the house were we would meet the night before weigh-ins to lose a few pounds in his basement sauna to make weight while playing football. Norris hired a nurse, had a bed on wheels equipped with an IV set up on the main floor, and the neighbors, friends, family and his home gave him the peace that he wanted.
The day came when he couldn’t stand the pain any more and he instructed the nurse to give him too much valium. He was tired of the fight, and he wanted to go to his Father in Heaven. A fellow teammate of ours was at his side praying with him when Norris received the first lethal dose, but it took 12 hours of continued injections to finally fulfill his wish. The Mississippi Rambler, albeit unconscious, was as abstinent to leave the field of play as he ever was.
When I retired from professional football in 1983, the average lifespan of an NFL player was 58 years. And when I attended Norris’ funeral in 1996, he taught me another lesson about life — friendships which are forged by commitment, honesty and a win-win attitude are everlasting. And it’s not about how much time you have, it’s more about how you use the time that you do have.
Jim Jensen came to Colorado in 1977 as a member of the Denver Broncos' first Super Bowl team. He currently lives in Northern Colorado in Windsor. Contact him at JJensenColorado@aol.com.
©Copyright 2008 Jim Jensen
He played collegiate ball at Ol’ Miss, had a stint in the WFL with the Hawaiians and finally settled in Denver with the Broncos and was known as the Mississippi Rambler. No. 14 - Norris Weese was the guy.
Norris and I were not only teammates, but were great friends and neighbors as well. We began our relationship on somewhat strange ground as his best friend at the time, Mike Frankowiac, a running back like myself, was cut by the Broncos so they could make room on their roster to add me.
But, I ended up buying a house, unknowingly seven doors down from him, in 1978 and we were great friends from thereafter.
Norris was more than a friend and a teammate because he was also a mentor. While there were only a couple years difference in age, two years more experience in the world of pro football and its fast and furious world was more like 10 in everyone else’s world. He was also a Certified Public Accountant while he played football, so he was no dumb jock by any means.
Norris and I were alike in many ways, but as different as day and night in others. He was a boisterous Catholic kid from a parish called Chalmette in New Orleans. I was a kid from Iowa who looked and listened before he jumped into a fray. We both enjoyed our beers and parties, but he struggled with alcoholism and quit cold turkey and joined AA in the late 1980s and stayed clean. We both would get up at 5:30 a.m. and jog together after we retired from football, but he could only stay motivated to do a mile or so and struggled with being overweight.
Norris was cut by the Broncos in 1979 and was bitter. But he had deferred income during his pro football career so he was able to supplement his income in life-after-football and make a smooth transition. I had the opportunity to watch him and learn from him. And his advice and experience helped me when I faced similar circumstances later on.
Norris was one of those “Life” success stories. He joined a CPA firm in Denver, he did some stints with Channel 4 television and radio, he was a husband and father to three kids, he quit the booze and made something of his life after the NFL. He would give me financial advice, and I would stop by his house once and a while and help him with landscaping issues or take he and his son on a camping trip.
But then, shortly after he beat alcoholism, he went into the hospital for gall bladder surgery. Soon after that, he donated a kidney to his brother who was dying of kidney failure. Then a few years later, he became aware of a soreness in his back and ultimately was diagnosed with bone cancer in his spine. Not wanting to fight through all the other friends who went to his hospital room during visiting hours the day before he was to have surgery and have several cervicals removed from his spine, I sneaked onto his floor after hours so my friend and I could share some moments alone while our bodies and souls were still whole and unchanged.
As most of us know, bone cancer means death in almost every case. And as I sat talking and looking at Norris late that night, I felt a deep sadness but he continued to teach me about hope with his wit, his humor and his attitude. He and I had lived through too many aches and pains, injuries and training camps to BS each other.
Our last moments that night were calloused with toughness, but we both knew in our hearts that life was not to be the same from then on.
As you would expect from any person who was a professional competitor and had an overly generous amount of bravado in their character, Norris fought through chemo and radiation and rehab like a champion. He was reduced to an emaciated body, total hair loss and open soars around his mouth, and a patchwork spinal column with rods and plates keeping him upright. But barely a year later I saw him out jogging down the street and he made some guest appearances in the broadcasting booth at Channel 4 again during Bronco games.
In 1995, after I had moved from our old neighborhood, I had to look twice at Norris when I ran into he and his wife, Sandy, at the Broncos Alumni dinner at the DTC Sheraton Hotel. He looked as if nothing had ever happened to him. The old Norris spark was in his eye, he was making the rounds shaking hands and laughing, and he looked like a million bucks. He was among his peers, and he had the determination to live up to his reputation and come from behind and win.
Halfway through the evening’s activities, though, I caught Norris alone in a private moment and his color had left his face, his handshake was clammy and he was sweating. Of all the moments when reality had to make itself known, the ravages of cancer struck Norris that evening on its deadly mission. Bone cancer doesn’t go away. And it didn’t.
Norris decided to live out his final days in his home on East Berry Drive. It was the house he had always lived in, and the house were we would meet the night before weigh-ins to lose a few pounds in his basement sauna to make weight while playing football. Norris hired a nurse, had a bed on wheels equipped with an IV set up on the main floor, and the neighbors, friends, family and his home gave him the peace that he wanted.
The day came when he couldn’t stand the pain any more and he instructed the nurse to give him too much valium. He was tired of the fight, and he wanted to go to his Father in Heaven. A fellow teammate of ours was at his side praying with him when Norris received the first lethal dose, but it took 12 hours of continued injections to finally fulfill his wish. The Mississippi Rambler, albeit unconscious, was as abstinent to leave the field of play as he ever was.
When I retired from professional football in 1983, the average lifespan of an NFL player was 58 years. And when I attended Norris’ funeral in 1996, he taught me another lesson about life — friendships which are forged by commitment, honesty and a win-win attitude are everlasting. And it’s not about how much time you have, it’s more about how you use the time that you do have.
Jim Jensen came to Colorado in 1977 as a member of the Denver Broncos' first Super Bowl team. He currently lives in Northern Colorado in Windsor. Contact him at JJensenColorado@aol.com.
©Copyright 2008 Jim Jensen
