[FrankO]

story in today's San Jose Mercury

Ralston the new Stanford coach when I first came to the Farm in 1963 for grad school...

http://www.mercurynews.com/sports/ci_294...-forgotten

assembled a great young staff and from the ruins of Cactus Jack, took Stanford to the Promised Land

[FrankO]

story in today's San Jose Mercury

Ralston the new Stanford coach when I first came to the Farm in 1963 for grad school...

http://www.mercurynews.com/sports/ci_294...-forgotten

assembled a great young staff and from the ruins of Cactus Jack, took Stanford to the Promised Land

[yvonne]

poignant subject line, even if it was unintentional.

[yvonne]

poignant subject line, even if it was unintentional.

[81alum]

I had a chance to meet him when he coached at SJSU.  He had amazing energy but little understanding of how academics thought.  He gamely tried to reassure the SJSU faculty in 1993 that our football program was worth continuing by coming to our Academic Senate and promising us a national championship.  I felt sorry for him when he did that--he came across as completely sincere--and I began to think of him as delusional.  He was so well meaning, but I knew he was taking on a hopeless task that would simply besmirch all of my fond memories of the winning Stanford coach from another era.  After compiling an 11-34 record with nary a hint of improvement, he went the way of so many other SJSU coaches and quietly drifted away.

The article is quite poignant.  It does seem entirely unfair that he has received no recognition for his work with the Broncos.  But his high point as a coach was with Stanford, and we all owe him our appreciation for those glorious years and Rose Bowls long before winning was common for us.

[81alum]

I had a chance to meet him when he coached at SJSU.  He had amazing energy but little understanding of how academics thought.  He gamely tried to reassure the SJSU faculty in 1993 that our football program was worth continuing by coming to our Academic Senate and promising us a national championship.  I felt sorry for him when he did that--he came across as completely sincere--and I began to think of him as delusional.  He was so well meaning, but I knew he was taking on a hopeless task that would simply besmirch all of my fond memories of the winning Stanford coach from another era.  After compiling an 11-34 record with nary a hint of improvement, he went the way of so many other SJSU coaches and quietly drifted away.

The article is quite poignant.  It does seem entirely unfair that he has received no recognition for his work with the Broncos.  But his high point as a coach was with Stanford, and we all owe him our appreciation for those glorious years and Rose Bowls long before winning was common for us.

[FrankO]

... Bill Walsh

.... Dick Vermeil

.... Mike White

.... Mora, the father

'nuff said...

all back when the Dale Carnegie method really did work wonders

[FrankO]

... Bill Walsh

.... Dick Vermeil

.... Mike White

.... Mora, the father

'nuff said...

all back when the Dale Carnegie method really did work wonders

[BobK]

Also Jack Christianson
Rodger Teader
Leon McLaughlin
Rod Rust

[BobK]

Also Jack Christianson
Rodger Teader
Leon McLaughlin
Rod Rust

[jacketree]

I had no idea John Ralston is living at my brother-in-law's former residence.

I was born and raised in Denver and started following the Broncos as soon as I can remember, probably when Lou Saban was the head coach. (Wiki shows Lou and Nick were distant cousins, btw.)  They were pretty awful; routinely crushed by the Chargers, Chiefs and arch-nemesis Oakland.  I remember John Ralston coming in from same place called Stanford.  (Stanford is where Laird Rollins' super hot older sister went to school.  Alright!)  Always remember those cleats on the sideline and nice smile on TV.  Floyd Little, Tom Jackson, Charley Johnson, Randy Gradishar, Haven Moses, Billy Thompson, Louis Wright, and finally Lyle Alzado.  The Broncs accumulated some pretty good talent and Ralston elevated them from god awful to mediocre. I think the mid '70s NFL guys had it up to here with near misses and Dale Carnegie.  Holding hands in the huddle wasn't getting them to the playoffs.  Alzado led the mutiny.  Out goes Ralston and in comes Red Miller.  Orange Crush!! Ralston was gone and forgotten in Denver by the first Pittsburgh game.  By the time Tom Jackson clowned John Madden off the field after the AFC title game, Ralston didn't exist.

I remember my mom baking orange cinnamon rolls on Superbowl Sunday.  I remember hating that flippin' Roger Staubach and the look in Craig Morton's eyes taking the field to shake Too Tall Jones' hand before the first of many long Sunday afternoons in front of a January or February TV set.  Little did I know that a:) someday I would watch my son play his last home college game from Roger Staubach's suite and b:) when we heard those Bronco fans chant "We'll be back!" in the Superdome gloaming; they would indeed be back.  Three more times to lose by what seemed exponentially increasing point differentials to superior teams. After the last, a brutal loss to my girlfriend's Niners coming on the immediate television heels of a gut-punch last-second Tech loss to the Laettner-Hurley Dukies (during what ultimately would be Tech's first Final Four season with revenge against the Devils) in an apartment full of Niner-hatin' Saints fans, I almost lost more than yet another Bronco Bowl.  I was extremely agitated. "Thanks for ruining the Super Bowl for me."  Rethinking things, Lent wasn't that far away, so I gave up the Broncos for the good of the order (and my impending marriage).  Jackie Rice, it turns out, used the same OB-GYN as my wife and seemed to have concurrent appointments, so one of my two lifetime sports celebrity "bumps" involved reading mags and shooting the prenatal breeze in a San Mateo doctors' office with the could-have-been MVP of my Broncos' greatest defeat.  (The other involved daughter diaper selection with Barry Bonds in the old San Carlos Safeway.)

Terrell Davis arrives and the Doncos (my infuriated shop teacher's sobriquet after that first loss to Dallas) are officially persona au gratin (er, non gratis). That epic Super Bowl (The Helicopter) was old-school cathode ray  background noise to a lathe and plaster job in the living room, which was built c. 1925 (knob and tube city!).  After Denver's ultimate scoring drive when Holmgren had the Pack let the Broncos Ronstadt them inside the ten, I knew Green Bay would win.  On comes the compressor for some final texturing while the plaster was still tacky and thinly veiled heartbreak lurked behind visqueen.  "This one's for John!"  Well deserved.  Me - well, glad they won, but once you're done you're done. No take bandwagon take-backs.

Weirdly relaxing Super Bowl the next year watching Elway throw it 80 yards through Dan Reeves' heart. Never thought the old Doncs would go btb.

And then two years ago. Over on the first play from scrimmage with my wife's visceral hate of all things Carroll-Seahawk spilling out into the bowl of chips.  A text from my sister summed it up: "So when did Morton decide to make his great comeback?"

Now they are back, one exit up the freeway from my office. With all this rain, the yard's really getting out of control. I hear Sunday is supposed to be 73 and sunny.........

[jacketree]

I had no idea John Ralston is living at my brother-in-law's former residence.

I was born and raised in Denver and started following the Broncos as soon as I can remember, probably when Lou Saban was the head coach. (Wiki shows Lou and Nick were distant cousins, btw.)  They were pretty awful; routinely crushed by the Chargers, Chiefs and arch-nemesis Oakland.  I remember John Ralston coming in from same place called Stanford.  (Stanford is where Laird Rollins' super hot older sister went to school.  Alright!)  Always remember those cleats on the sideline and nice smile on TV.  Floyd Little, Tom Jackson, Charley Johnson, Randy Gradishar, Haven Moses, Billy Thompson, Louis Wright, and finally Lyle Alzado.  The Broncs accumulated some pretty good talent and Ralston elevated them from god awful to mediocre. I think the mid '70s NFL guys had it up to here with near misses and Dale Carnegie.  Holding hands in the huddle wasn't getting them to the playoffs.  Alzado led the mutiny.  Out goes Ralston and in comes Red Miller.  Orange Crush!! Ralston was gone and forgotten in Denver by the first Pittsburgh game.  By the time Tom Jackson clowned John Madden off the field after the AFC title game, Ralston didn't exist.

I remember my mom baking orange cinnamon rolls on Superbowl Sunday.  I remember hating that flippin' Roger Staubach and the look in Craig Morton's eyes taking the field to shake Too Tall Jones' hand before the first of many long Sunday afternoons in front of a January or February TV set.  Little did I know that a:) someday I would watch my son play his last home college game from Roger Staubach's suite and b:) when we heard those Bronco fans chant "We'll be back!" in the Superdome gloaming; they would indeed be back.  Three more times to lose by what seemed exponentially increasing point differentials to superior teams. After the last, a brutal loss to my girlfriend's Niners coming on the immediate television heels of a gut-punch last-second Tech loss to the Laettner-Hurley Dukies (during what ultimately would be Tech's first Final Four season with revenge against the Devils) in an apartment full of Niner-hatin' Saints fans, I almost lost more than yet another Bronco Bowl.  I was extremely agitated. "Thanks for ruining the Super Bowl for me."  Rethinking things, Lent wasn't that far away, so I gave up the Broncos for the good of the order (and my impending marriage).  Jackie Rice, it turns out, used the same OB-GYN as my wife and seemed to have concurrent appointments, so one of my two lifetime sports celebrity "bumps" involved reading mags and shooting the prenatal breeze in a San Mateo doctors' office with the could-have-been MVP of my Broncos' greatest defeat.  (The other involved daughter diaper selection with Barry Bonds in the old San Carlos Safeway.)

Terrell Davis arrives and the Doncos (my infuriated shop teacher's sobriquet after that first loss to Dallas) are officially persona au gratin (er, non gratis). That epic Super Bowl (The Helicopter) was old-school cathode ray  background noise to a lathe and plaster job in the living room, which was built c. 1925 (knob and tube city!).  After Denver's ultimate scoring drive when Holmgren had the Pack let the Broncos Ronstadt them inside the ten, I knew Green Bay would win.  On comes the compressor for some final texturing while the plaster was still tacky and thinly veiled heartbreak lurked behind visqueen.  "This one's for John!"  Well deserved.  Me - well, glad they won, but once you're done you're done. No take bandwagon take-backs.

Weirdly relaxing Super Bowl the next year watching Elway throw it 80 yards through Dan Reeves' heart. Never thought the old Doncs would go btb.

And then two years ago. Over on the first play from scrimmage with my wife's visceral hate of all things Carroll-Seahawk spilling out into the bowl of chips.  A text from my sister summed it up: "So when did Morton decide to make his great comeback?"

Now they are back, one exit up the freeway from my office. With all this rain, the yard's really getting out of control. I hear Sunday is supposed to be 73 and sunny.........

[Rally]

I had no idea John Ralston is living at my brother-in-law's former residence.

I was born and raised in Denver and started following the Broncos as soon as I can remember, probably when Lou Saban was the head coach. (Wiki shows Lou and Nick were distant cousins, btw.)  They were pretty awful; routinely crushed by the Chargers, Chiefs and arch-nemesis Oakland.  I remember John Ralston coming in from same place called Stanford.  (Stanford is where Laird Rollins' super hot older sister went to school.  Alright!)  Always remember those cleats on the sideline and nice smile on TV.  Floyd Little, Tom Jackson, Charley Johnson, Randy Gradishar, Haven Moses, Billy Thompson, Louis Wright, and finally Lyle Alzado.  The Broncs accumulated some pretty good talent and Ralston elevated them from god awful to mediocre. I think the mid '70s NFL guys had it up to here with near misses and Dale Carnegie.  Holding hands in the huddle wasn't getting them to the playoffs.  Alzado led the mutiny.  Out goes Ralston and in comes Red Miller.  Orange Crush!! Ralston was gone and forgotten in Denver by the first Pittsburgh game.  By the time Tom Jackson clowned John Madden off the field after the AFC title game, Ralston didn't exist.

I remember my mom baking orange cinnamon rolls on Superbowl Sunday.  I remember hating that flippin' Roger Staubach and the look in Craig Morton's eyes taking the field to shake Too Tall Jones' hand before the first of many long Sunday afternoons in front of a January or February TV set.  Little did I know that a:) someday I would watch my son play his last home college game from Roger Staubach's suite and b:) when we heard those Bronco fans chant "We'll be back!" in the Superdome gloaming; they would indeed be back.  Three more times to lose by what seemed exponentially increasing point differentials to superior teams. After the last, a brutal loss to my girlfriend's Niners coming on the immediate television heels of a gut-punch last-second Tech loss to the Laettner-Hurley Dukies (during what ultimately would be Tech's first Final Four season with revenge against the Devils) in an apartment full of Niner-hatin' Saints fans, I almost lost more than yet another Bronco Bowl.  I was extremely agitated. "Thanks for ruining the Super Bowl for me."  Rethinking things, Lent wasn't that far away, so I gave up the Broncos for the good of the order (and my impending marriage).  Jackie Rice, it turns out, used the same OB-GYN as my wife and seemed to have concurrent appointments, so one of my two lifetime sports celebrity "bumps" involved reading mags and shooting the prenatal breeze in a San Mateo doctors' office with the could-have-been MVP of my Broncos' greatest defeat.  (The other involved daughter diaper selection with Barry Bonds in the old San Carlos Safeway.)

Terrell Davis arrives and the Doncos (my infuriated shop teacher's sobriquet after that first loss to Dallas) are officially persona au gratin (er, non gratis). That epic Super Bowl (The Helicopter) was old-school cathode ray  background noise to a lathe and plaster job in the living room, which was built c. 1925 (knob and tube city!).  After Denver's ultimate scoring drive when Holmgren had the Pack let the Broncos Ronstadt them inside the ten, I knew Green Bay would win.  On comes the compressor for some final texturing while the plaster was still tacky and thinly veiled heartbreak lurked behind visqueen.  "This one's for John!"  Well deserved.  Me - well, glad they won, but once you're done you're done. No take bandwagon take-backs.

Weirdly relaxing Super Bowl the next year watching Elway throw it 80 yards through Dan Reeves' heart. Never thought the old Doncs would go btb.

And then two years ago. Over on the first play from scrimmage with my wife's visceral hate of all things Carroll-Seahawk spilling out into the bowl of chips.  A text from my sister summed it up: "So when did Morton decide to make his great comeback?"

Now they are back, one exit up the freeway from my office. With all this rain, the yard's really getting out of control. I hear Sunday is supposed to be 73 and sunny.........

Don't hold back, Jack.  Tell us how you really feel.

[Rally]

I had no idea John Ralston is living at my brother-in-law's former residence.

I was born and raised in Denver and started following the Broncos as soon as I can remember, probably when Lou Saban was the head coach. (Wiki shows Lou and Nick were distant cousins, btw.)  They were pretty awful; routinely crushed by the Chargers, Chiefs and arch-nemesis Oakland.  I remember John Ralston coming in from same place called Stanford.  (Stanford is where Laird Rollins' super hot older sister went to school.  Alright!)  Always remember those cleats on the sideline and nice smile on TV.  Floyd Little, Tom Jackson, Charley Johnson, Randy Gradishar, Haven Moses, Billy Thompson, Louis Wright, and finally Lyle Alzado.  The Broncs accumulated some pretty good talent and Ralston elevated them from god awful to mediocre. I think the mid '70s NFL guys had it up to here with near misses and Dale Carnegie.  Holding hands in the huddle wasn't getting them to the playoffs.  Alzado led the mutiny.  Out goes Ralston and in comes Red Miller.  Orange Crush!! Ralston was gone and forgotten in Denver by the first Pittsburgh game.  By the time Tom Jackson clowned John Madden off the field after the AFC title game, Ralston didn't exist.

I remember my mom baking orange cinnamon rolls on Superbowl Sunday.  I remember hating that flippin' Roger Staubach and the look in Craig Morton's eyes taking the field to shake Too Tall Jones' hand before the first of many long Sunday afternoons in front of a January or February TV set.  Little did I know that a:) someday I would watch my son play his last home college game from Roger Staubach's suite and b:) when we heard those Bronco fans chant "We'll be back!" in the Superdome gloaming; they would indeed be back.  Three more times to lose by what seemed exponentially increasing point differentials to superior teams. After the last, a brutal loss to my girlfriend's Niners coming on the immediate television heels of a gut-punch last-second Tech loss to the Laettner-Hurley Dukies (during what ultimately would be Tech's first Final Four season with revenge against the Devils) in an apartment full of Niner-hatin' Saints fans, I almost lost more than yet another Bronco Bowl.  I was extremely agitated. "Thanks for ruining the Super Bowl for me."  Rethinking things, Lent wasn't that far away, so I gave up the Broncos for the good of the order (and my impending marriage).  Jackie Rice, it turns out, used the same OB-GYN as my wife and seemed to have concurrent appointments, so one of my two lifetime sports celebrity "bumps" involved reading mags and shooting the prenatal breeze in a San Mateo doctors' office with the could-have-been MVP of my Broncos' greatest defeat.  (The other involved daughter diaper selection with Barry Bonds in the old San Carlos Safeway.)

Terrell Davis arrives and the Doncos (my infuriated shop teacher's sobriquet after that first loss to Dallas) are officially persona au gratin (er, non gratis). That epic Super Bowl (The Helicopter) was old-school cathode ray  background noise to a lathe and plaster job in the living room, which was built c. 1925 (knob and tube city!).  After Denver's ultimate scoring drive when Holmgren had the Pack let the Broncos Ronstadt them inside the ten, I knew Green Bay would win.  On comes the compressor for some final texturing while the plaster was still tacky and thinly veiled heartbreak lurked behind visqueen.  "This one's for John!"  Well deserved.  Me - well, glad they won, but once you're done you're done. No take bandwagon take-backs.

Weirdly relaxing Super Bowl the next year watching Elway throw it 80 yards through Dan Reeves' heart. Never thought the old Doncs would go btb.

And then two years ago. Over on the first play from scrimmage with my wife's visceral hate of all things Carroll-Seahawk spilling out into the bowl of chips.  A text from my sister summed it up: "So when did Morton decide to make his great comeback?"

Now they are back, one exit up the freeway from my office. With all this rain, the yard's really getting out of control. I hear Sunday is supposed to be 73 and sunny.........

Don't hold back, Jack.  Tell us how you really feel.

[jacketree]

Going with ambivalent.

Unless there is a Miracle on Tasman, then I've been a die hard all my life.

[jacketree]

Going with ambivalent.

Unless there is a Miracle on Tasman, then I've been a die hard all my life.