Post by lazarus on Jan 4, 2004 11:42:08 GMT -5
Posted on Sun, Jan. 04, 2004
Lin Elliott making a new life for himself in Texas after kicking debacle with Chiefs
By WRIGHT THOMPSON
The Kansas City Star
WACO, Texas — It was eight years ago, almost to the day. Kansas City, a heavily favored 13-3 Super Bowl contender, lost by three points to Indianapolis at Arrowhead Stadium.
No one played particularly well that day; Steve Bono threw three interceptions. Derrick Thomas managed just five tackles. But it's Lin Elliott everyone remembers. Folks just love to hate the kicker.
He missed three times, the last a chance to tie the game with less than a minute left on the clock. The ground was frozen, and when Elliott stepped gingerly to the ball, he pushed it left. No good, and the Chiefs were done. So was Lin Elliott. The wide left was his last professional kick.
Thousands leaving the stadium that day cursed him body and soul. Many haven't gotten over it. Karie Helt, Lin's sister, lives in Kansas City, and she and her husband, Marcus, still hear from angry fans.
“My friends bash all the time because my brother-in-law is Lin Elliott,” says Marcus Helt, laughing a bit.
A columnist for the Coastal Carolina student newspaper gave voice to the anger. Kansas City native Nicole Service wrote: “I have referred to the Chiefs' inability to win under pressure as the Curse of Lin Elliott. His name is no longer mentioned back where I come from, just like the black sheep relative who has shamed the family that nobody talks about at Thanksgiving. To speak the syllables of his name is blasphemy, the recalling of a tragic event that no one dares mention.”
Now, eight years later, another Chiefs team is 13-3, and if Indianapolis gets by Denver today, the Chiefs will again face the Colts in the playoffs. Two states away, in his hometown of Waco, Texas, Lin Elliott has gotten on with his life. He's a stock broker, his office looking out onto Texas 6. He has a big smile and a small bald spot.
His wife, Joy, whom he met after retiring from football, has breast cancer, but they're fighting and winning. She started chemotherapy this past week, and when he's not at work, Lin's holding her hand. He's got two daughters, a 4-year-old and an 8-month-old, and they don't seem to mind speaking the syllables of his name. At least big sister Emily doesn't. Baby Remi's still working on the whole talking thing.
He smiles and holds up pictures of his family, like any proud papa.
“These pictures, they're better than any football picture I have,” he says. “But you make that kick and you don't have these because I probably would have never met her.”
***
Joy Elliott likes to make fun of her husband's chicken legs. Seems that managing people's money doesn't keep the thighs in shape. Once upon a time, though, Lin Elliott had pistons. Forget calves; he had cattle.
Around his Waco office are reminders of those days. There's a panorama of Super Bowl XXVII. Elliott was the Cowboys kicker and has a shiny Super Bowl ring that's money when he's wooing potential clients. There are a few football cards around, three from Dallas and two from Kansas City.
When he was a teen-ager in Waco, he never imagined he'd make it to the NFL. Growing up where Roger Staubach lived, Elliott loved driving by the former Cowboy star's home to see him working in the yard. Getting to step on the same field that Staubach played on was almost too much for a boy from Texas.
“It was a dream come true,” he says. “I never ever thought it would happen.”
His rookie season was 1992, a magical year for Cowboy fans. Dallas just rolled over people. Elliott calls his run with that team lucky. He was simply at the right place at the right time.
“There could have been a bunch of kickers who could have done the same thing,” he says. “That team would beat people 28-7 every game.”
His career peaked in January 1993, when Dallas rolled over Buffalo in the Super Bowl. Even then, he realized that being a kicker was about highs and lows.
“I got way too much credit for kicking seven extra points and a field goal in Super Bowl XXVII,” he says. “I got a ring for it and all I did was kick seven extra points and a field goal, and we beat them 52-17. If I wouldn't have even been there that day, we would have beat them. So you've got to take the bad with the good. I'll take the Super Bowl ring and the missed field goals.”
The next season, the Cowboys let him go and Elliott landed in Kansas City. In 1995, his second year with the team, Elliott was the team's go-to kicker. Things were going well — until Jan. 7, 1996. The Chiefs were ready to blow through the playoffs. First victim: the Indianapolis Colts.
It was freezing that day. The sidelines were ice, and the kickers couldn't take practice swings. The field wasn't much better, about as hard as a table. With the conditions, Elliott had to wear an artificial-turf shoe on his plant foot, something he'd never done. As he stood over the final kick of his NFL career, with less than a minute remaining, he remembers exactly what he was thinking: “If I attack the football the way I want to, I'm gonna slip and fall.”
Instead, he approached the ball cautiously and didn't get all of it. It sailed, as everyone now knows, wide left. In the last eight years, he's had time to wonder what he'd do differently.
“If I had it to do over again, I would attack it the way I normally attack it,” he says. “If you hit it and you don't slip, you make it. If I had it to do over again, slipping and falling would be better than missing it left, obviously. It didn't work. That was a sad day. It really was.”
***
In sports, memories trump statistics every time. Few realize Elliott made 75 percent of his kicks in a four-year career. In Kansas City, he hit 49 of 60, and he can tell you the percentage off the top of his head. Not shabby, but he knows his career has been defined by two he didn't make.
“Obviously, I missed some big kicks,” he says. “We know of one or two and that's a fact. It wasn't like I missed every kick in Kansas City, I just missed the two that mattered most.”
The day after that playoff game, he met with coach Marty Schottenheimer, who put it pretty succinctly. Schottenheimer told Elliott he'd had a tough game and a “so-so” year, and they weren't going to renew Elliott's contract. Later, when Schottenheimer would use the phrase “come hell or Lin Elliott,” that stung.
The news from Schottenheimer didn't surprise Elliott. He'd known as soon as the game ended that his days as a Chief were through. He knew he'd messed up, although the finger-pointing surprised him a bit.
“That game was a very poorly coached game,” he says. “We're one of the best teams in the NFL and we can't score any points? If it wasn't for Rich Gannon just being a miraculous artist, we never would have gotten down there to try any field goals.”
With Kansas City in the mirror, Elliott began to focus on continuing his career.
He tried, spending the following two years trying out for teams. He almost made the Minnesota Vikings the next season but was beaten out. He couldn't outrun the misses. It's funny, but he's never seen that game on film. In fact, he's only seen the kick once.
In Minnesota that year, he was in a bar with some other Vikings when a replay came on the television. That hurt.
“I don't even know if they saw it, but I saw it,” he says. “That wound wasn't 100 percent healed.”
While he wasn't reliving the kicks on an almost daily basis, the town of Kansas City certainly made up for it. His sister was shocked when she'd hear people continuing to talk about the lost playoff game. She's still shocked.
“I can't believe it,” she says. “This is what? Eight years ago? It's just amazing that they hold these grudges and can't get past that. Like the downer of their life was that.”
As Elliott tried and failed to catch on with a team, he had plenty of time to think. Life for a kicker is so fraught with peril. There are about three dozen people in the world who can kick professionally, and job security is pretty much zero. He kept going back to that Colts game. If he makes just one of those kicks, he's a hero.
“I think on that same day, the other kicker (Cary Blanchard) was one for three,” he says. “I was zero for three. The point is, next year, he was All-Pro. The next year I was out of the league. There's just a fine line.”
Lin Elliott making a new life for himself in Texas after kicking debacle with Chiefs
By WRIGHT THOMPSON
The Kansas City Star
WACO, Texas — It was eight years ago, almost to the day. Kansas City, a heavily favored 13-3 Super Bowl contender, lost by three points to Indianapolis at Arrowhead Stadium.
No one played particularly well that day; Steve Bono threw three interceptions. Derrick Thomas managed just five tackles. But it's Lin Elliott everyone remembers. Folks just love to hate the kicker.
He missed three times, the last a chance to tie the game with less than a minute left on the clock. The ground was frozen, and when Elliott stepped gingerly to the ball, he pushed it left. No good, and the Chiefs were done. So was Lin Elliott. The wide left was his last professional kick.
Thousands leaving the stadium that day cursed him body and soul. Many haven't gotten over it. Karie Helt, Lin's sister, lives in Kansas City, and she and her husband, Marcus, still hear from angry fans.
“My friends bash all the time because my brother-in-law is Lin Elliott,” says Marcus Helt, laughing a bit.
A columnist for the Coastal Carolina student newspaper gave voice to the anger. Kansas City native Nicole Service wrote: “I have referred to the Chiefs' inability to win under pressure as the Curse of Lin Elliott. His name is no longer mentioned back where I come from, just like the black sheep relative who has shamed the family that nobody talks about at Thanksgiving. To speak the syllables of his name is blasphemy, the recalling of a tragic event that no one dares mention.”
Now, eight years later, another Chiefs team is 13-3, and if Indianapolis gets by Denver today, the Chiefs will again face the Colts in the playoffs. Two states away, in his hometown of Waco, Texas, Lin Elliott has gotten on with his life. He's a stock broker, his office looking out onto Texas 6. He has a big smile and a small bald spot.
His wife, Joy, whom he met after retiring from football, has breast cancer, but they're fighting and winning. She started chemotherapy this past week, and when he's not at work, Lin's holding her hand. He's got two daughters, a 4-year-old and an 8-month-old, and they don't seem to mind speaking the syllables of his name. At least big sister Emily doesn't. Baby Remi's still working on the whole talking thing.
He smiles and holds up pictures of his family, like any proud papa.
“These pictures, they're better than any football picture I have,” he says. “But you make that kick and you don't have these because I probably would have never met her.”
***
Joy Elliott likes to make fun of her husband's chicken legs. Seems that managing people's money doesn't keep the thighs in shape. Once upon a time, though, Lin Elliott had pistons. Forget calves; he had cattle.
Around his Waco office are reminders of those days. There's a panorama of Super Bowl XXVII. Elliott was the Cowboys kicker and has a shiny Super Bowl ring that's money when he's wooing potential clients. There are a few football cards around, three from Dallas and two from Kansas City.
When he was a teen-ager in Waco, he never imagined he'd make it to the NFL. Growing up where Roger Staubach lived, Elliott loved driving by the former Cowboy star's home to see him working in the yard. Getting to step on the same field that Staubach played on was almost too much for a boy from Texas.
“It was a dream come true,” he says. “I never ever thought it would happen.”
His rookie season was 1992, a magical year for Cowboy fans. Dallas just rolled over people. Elliott calls his run with that team lucky. He was simply at the right place at the right time.
“There could have been a bunch of kickers who could have done the same thing,” he says. “That team would beat people 28-7 every game.”
His career peaked in January 1993, when Dallas rolled over Buffalo in the Super Bowl. Even then, he realized that being a kicker was about highs and lows.
“I got way too much credit for kicking seven extra points and a field goal in Super Bowl XXVII,” he says. “I got a ring for it and all I did was kick seven extra points and a field goal, and we beat them 52-17. If I wouldn't have even been there that day, we would have beat them. So you've got to take the bad with the good. I'll take the Super Bowl ring and the missed field goals.”
The next season, the Cowboys let him go and Elliott landed in Kansas City. In 1995, his second year with the team, Elliott was the team's go-to kicker. Things were going well — until Jan. 7, 1996. The Chiefs were ready to blow through the playoffs. First victim: the Indianapolis Colts.
It was freezing that day. The sidelines were ice, and the kickers couldn't take practice swings. The field wasn't much better, about as hard as a table. With the conditions, Elliott had to wear an artificial-turf shoe on his plant foot, something he'd never done. As he stood over the final kick of his NFL career, with less than a minute remaining, he remembers exactly what he was thinking: “If I attack the football the way I want to, I'm gonna slip and fall.”
Instead, he approached the ball cautiously and didn't get all of it. It sailed, as everyone now knows, wide left. In the last eight years, he's had time to wonder what he'd do differently.
“If I had it to do over again, I would attack it the way I normally attack it,” he says. “If you hit it and you don't slip, you make it. If I had it to do over again, slipping and falling would be better than missing it left, obviously. It didn't work. That was a sad day. It really was.”
***
In sports, memories trump statistics every time. Few realize Elliott made 75 percent of his kicks in a four-year career. In Kansas City, he hit 49 of 60, and he can tell you the percentage off the top of his head. Not shabby, but he knows his career has been defined by two he didn't make.
“Obviously, I missed some big kicks,” he says. “We know of one or two and that's a fact. It wasn't like I missed every kick in Kansas City, I just missed the two that mattered most.”
The day after that playoff game, he met with coach Marty Schottenheimer, who put it pretty succinctly. Schottenheimer told Elliott he'd had a tough game and a “so-so” year, and they weren't going to renew Elliott's contract. Later, when Schottenheimer would use the phrase “come hell or Lin Elliott,” that stung.
The news from Schottenheimer didn't surprise Elliott. He'd known as soon as the game ended that his days as a Chief were through. He knew he'd messed up, although the finger-pointing surprised him a bit.
“That game was a very poorly coached game,” he says. “We're one of the best teams in the NFL and we can't score any points? If it wasn't for Rich Gannon just being a miraculous artist, we never would have gotten down there to try any field goals.”
With Kansas City in the mirror, Elliott began to focus on continuing his career.
He tried, spending the following two years trying out for teams. He almost made the Minnesota Vikings the next season but was beaten out. He couldn't outrun the misses. It's funny, but he's never seen that game on film. In fact, he's only seen the kick once.
In Minnesota that year, he was in a bar with some other Vikings when a replay came on the television. That hurt.
“I don't even know if they saw it, but I saw it,” he says. “That wound wasn't 100 percent healed.”
While he wasn't reliving the kicks on an almost daily basis, the town of Kansas City certainly made up for it. His sister was shocked when she'd hear people continuing to talk about the lost playoff game. She's still shocked.
“I can't believe it,” she says. “This is what? Eight years ago? It's just amazing that they hold these grudges and can't get past that. Like the downer of their life was that.”
As Elliott tried and failed to catch on with a team, he had plenty of time to think. Life for a kicker is so fraught with peril. There are about three dozen people in the world who can kick professionally, and job security is pretty much zero. He kept going back to that Colts game. If he makes just one of those kicks, he's a hero.
“I think on that same day, the other kicker (Cary Blanchard) was one for three,” he says. “I was zero for three. The point is, next year, he was All-Pro. The next year I was out of the league. There's just a fine line.”
