4-0 and credibility to go

Sporting News, The, Oct 7, 1996 by Paul Attner

When it comes to taking care of their own, the undefeated and, at least in their minds, unappreciated Colts of Indianapolis will go to extraordinary lengths. The other day at practice, for example, defensive tackle Tony Siragusa spotted a snake wiggling around the practice field. Without concern for his welfare, Siragusa used his guile and a plastic garbage can to capture the reptile before it could threaten his peers. He modestly deflected any praise.

"Anyone would have done it," Siragusa says moments after his heroic act.

By now, the snake, variety undetermined, has been transferred into a clear container for all to see. "How big is that?" cornerback Ray Buchanan asks, staring uneasily into the container. "Maybe six or eight inches," Siragusa says.

OK, it wasn't much of a snake. In fact, it was so small and thin it's surprising Siragusa didn't step on it before he spotted it. But in this case, it's the act that counts. After all, Siragusa, who once kept a boa constrictor in his college dorm room, was only protecting those teammates who are afraid of things that slither.

"We're big into looking out for each other," says Siragusa, a slightly off-kilter man who Is called "Stinky" by the Colts, apparently for hygienic reasons too delicate to discuss in a family publication.

These Colts are convinced they have to stick together to combat an outside world of naysayers and non-believers waiting for their 1996 joy ride to disintegrate into something much more familiar to this franchise: losing. Since arriving in Indianapolis in 1984, the team has compiled an 80-115 record, including only four winning records (none with more than nine wins), two playoff trips and a few stinkers, particularly 1-15 in 1991 and 3-13 in 1986. With that kind of history, it's difficult to establish credibility, even after beating the Cowboys and Dolphins in succession and even after coming within one oh-so-close incompletion of making it to the Super Bowl.

But this isn't the normal, usually inaccurate "us against them, we get no respect" complaints heard all too frequently these days. Because, for the Colts, the outside world includes Indianapolis itself. Entering the week, despite their 4-0 record, none of their remaining six home games were sold out. Anywhere from 11,500 to almost 19,000 seats remained for each contest in the modestly sized (60,272) RCA Dome. the third-smallest facility in the league. The club hopes the excitement generated by the capacity crowd for its Monday night triumph over the Dolphins (the turnout of 60 891 was the largest since the Colts moved to Indianapolis) eventually will be reflected in ticket sales. But in the days after that victory, the box office wasn't overwhelmed. And this in a city not offering that many alternative entertainment choices.

"It makes no sense," Buchanan says. "It's sickening. What is it going to take for them to support us? Win the rest of our games? I don't know, maybe this town doesn't want to support us." But he isn't ready to give up yet. "I think our fans will come around. By next year, hopefully, every game will be sold out just with season tickets." Buchanan, who is in his fourth year, is too young to remember how it once was in Indy. When the Colts first arrived after owner Bob Irsay snuck them out of Baltimore, the dome was always sold out. But once the honeymoon ended, a separation of sorts took place because of the losing; season tickets, which slumped to as low as 31,000 in 1993, now stand at about 38,000.

Siragusa, who has lived through six sometimes trying seasons in Indianapolis, has a solution to this sellout crisis. "Hold a basketball game at halftime," he suggests.

That might work. After all, Indiana has a well-earned reputation as a hoops Mecca, built on the worship of its high school teams and the emotion surrounding the college game, particularly Bob Knight's Indiana pro gram. But even the NBA's Pacers, who have had more long-standing success than the Colts, don't fill Market Square Arena automatically, the fens' love of sports hasn't completely extended to the pro level.

Center Kirk Lowdermilk calls football "a foreign game in Indiana," an assertion people in South Bend might dispute. The problem is, these players are paying for the past sins of Colts teams. A staggering aura of mediocrity has gripped the franchise for so long that even the team's best start since 1977 hasn't turned the city into a temple of Colts fever.

"There hasn't been a reason to root for them," says Rodney Thornton, a local salesman who occasionally attends a home game. "Every time in the past they have looked good, it hasn't worked out. People around here have this wait-and-see attitude about the Colts. It's been tough to love them."

Defensive tackle Tony McCoy understands. He says it's like "having a brother in the family who has been the black sheep, constantly doing wrong and (the one who) never lived up to his potential. When he finally comes to you and says, 'I am straightened gut,' you might have a tendency to sit back and say, 'I don't know, I don't know.' That's our fans. They are saying, 'Once you have proved yourself over and over, we will embrace you.'"