I’ll be at the old Mile High Stadium on Sunday, excited about watching quarterback Tim Tebow lead the Broncos against the Bears.
I guess I’m outside the norm in that I don’t hate or love Tebow. His proselytizing annoys me, but that is largely a function of TV cameras. Don’t show him ‘‘Tebow-ing,” and we barely would know he does it.
His long, looping throwing mechanics don’t bother me, either. In fact, his throws are cool. They look like the delivery of every kid in every playground trying to heave a Nerf football as far as he can. His form looks more like that of a discus thrower than a quarterback.
But Tebow wins. And he does it like a beast of burden, like a muscle-bound buffalo who occasionally might cuff some sod your way.
I do think it’s time to tell football players they must come to the sideline before praying to Jesus, Allah, Buddha, Vishnu, Ayn Rand or whoever else floats their boat.
You can’t pour popcorn through your facemask, lob faux hand grenades into a circle of pals, pretend you shot yourself in the leg or even rock the ball like it’s a newborn baby in the NFL. So call it the ‘‘There Ain’t No ‘God’ In ‘NFL’  ” rule.
Yet I don’t even dislike Tebow. He looks so much like the lead singer of Mumford & Sons, a country-rock band, that I wonder if he can sing like an angel, too.
I’m excited, as I said. I mean, who doesn’t want to see a miracle?
Or a miracle getting snuffed.
◆ Old Cub Ron Santo was elected last week to the Baseball Hall of Fame.
My feeling? Nothing. Certainly not joy. Maybe a little depression.
Santo was brought into the fold by a special committee that found him worthy of Hall of Fame enshrinement a year after he died at age 70.
So what changed in that year? Santo died. And there’s nothing we love more than a dead hero.
The living members of the Hall of Fame no longer are threatened by Santo’s infringement on their turf, his exuberance, his uncontainable joy at the mere thought of the possibility of being voted into the Hall of Fame.
Santo never scared anybody, never did anything but be who he was: a great Cub. But his living presence, obviously, didn’t sit too well with some.
So hooray, sort of. Or boo-hoo.
◆ Hanie Mania.
Is there any?
On Sunday, struggling Bears quarterback Caleb Hanie will be back within miles of where he played his college ball – Colorado State – and will be going up against a smiling evangelical who is the darling of the TV world and missionaries everywhere.
Wouldn’t it be something if Hanie put Tebow to shame by leading the Bears to a rousing, last-minute, come-from-behind, miraculous victory?
I’ll bet Tebow himself would lay his hands on Hanie and proclaim him good.
◆ Jerry Sandusky.
I hate to bring the disgraced former Penn State assistant coach into a column again, but after seeing our former governor, Rod Blagojevich, sentenced Wednesday to 14 years in prison for corruption, I feel I have to point out a weird connection.
Back when he was feeling his oats, going on talk shows and having fun with the idea of being accused of various felonies, Blago boasted: ‘‘I will fight. I will fight. I will fight until I take my last breath.”
Well, he didn’t.
Now Sandusky, who has been accused of various acts of child molestation, has declared his absolute innocence. Even his wife, Dottie, has chimed in angrily, releasing a statement through her husband’s attorney that reads, in part: ‘‘We don’t know why these young men have made these false accusations, but we want everyone to know they are untrue.”
She added: ‘‘Our children, our extended family and friends know how much Jerry and I love kids and have always tried to help and care for them. We would never do anything to hurt them.”
Duly noted.
If it’s OK, Jerry and Dottie, we’ll get back to you after the trial.
◆ Lastly, Major League Baseball has instituted a dress code for the ink-covered media.
No, we don’t have to wear Italian suits and powder up like Bob Costas. But we can’t come to July games in flip-flops, torn shorts and ‘‘Orgasm Donor” T-shirts anymore.
We won’t be allowed in press boxes or on the field wearing obscene messages, little skirts or ‘‘sheer clothing, one-shouldered and strapless shirts or clothing exposing bare midriffs.”
Thus, my favorite Slipknot ‘‘People Equal Sh-t” cut-off T-shirt is out, as well as my thong.
What’s next? Sportswriters can’t put free food in their pockets?
Stop.
