Home openers

The Indianapolis Colts kick off their 40th season today with their 40th home opener, and there will be tailgating and lots of No. 15 jerseys (for Anthony Richardson) and No. 28 jerseys (for the absent Jonathan Taylor), and probably a fair number of No. 18s (Peyton) and No. 12s (Andrew), too. Heck, there might even be some random 63s (Jeff Saturday) and 21s (Bob Sanders).

And, of course, there also will be the unreasonable expectations that are the province of all home openers everywhere, from Indianapolis to the Meadowlands to Miami.

What that means are a lot of the jersey-wearers are going to be yea shocked if the Colts don't light up the Jaguars today. Which they probably won't.

What it also means, because 40 is one of those round numbers that tug at the memory, that I'm remembering the first home opener in 1984, and how unreasonable expectation is as long-standing an NFL staple as brats, dogs and the $12 beer.

Lucas Oil Stadium wasn't even a glimmer that day; the Colts' home office was the Hoosier Dome just to the north, now a long-gone ghost. I was there as a credentialed media gnome, along with what seemed like half of Indiana. And what I recall most vividly (speaking of unreasonable expectation) is how clueless we all were.

The fans shook down the thunder from the Hoo-Do's plastic sky at all the wrong times; they hadn't yet learned that you're supposed to make noise when the other team has the ball, not when your team does. There was lots of other naivete aloft as well.

We actually thought Mike Pagel was John Unitas or Bert Jones, for one thing.

Also, Curtis Dickey and Randy McMillan were the best backfield duo since Kiick and Csonka.

Also, the Colts D was meaner than a junkyard dog because it featured a guy named Blaise (Winter) and a guy named Nesby (Glasgow), and how could they not have grown up all snarly because their parents named them Blaise and Nesby?

Plus, look at head coach Frank Kush down there, gnawing on a strand of barbed wire. Thinks he's gonna let 'em lose to the pale candy-assed New York Jets?

Well ...

Well, they did lose to the pale candy-assed New York Jets that day, 23-14. And it wasn't Joe Namath who beat 'em, but some guy named Pat Ryan. And the Colts would go on to lose a bunch more games -- 12 in all, out of 16 -- and Frank Kush would be fired before it was over, and it would be three more seasons before the Colts would see the high side of .500.

But you know what?

On that day, it didn't really matter. Because a real live NFL team was playing a home game in Indianapolis, and there was wonder enough in that.

Almost as much wonder as the way 40 years have flown by since.