My senior year of high school was when I decided I wanted to be a professional athletic trainer. Back then, trainers weren’t really a thing at the high school level, but I had a knack for it. And since my knees were already a mess, it felt like a great way to stay connected to sports without being on the field.
That decision opened many doors for me. But to jump ahead a little: kinesiology class eventually kicked my butt. That’s when I realized I didn’t quite have the medical chops to stick with it long-term.
Nevertheless, luck played a significant role in my journey. We had a connection to the Denver Broncos through Larry Elliot, their equipment manager. His son, Tim, played football at Lakewood, and Larry was a huge supporter of our program. When he heard I wanted to be a trainer, he reached out to Allen Hurst, the Broncos’ head trainer at the time. Allen invited me to work with the team during training camp in 1977. The facility was at 58th and I-25 back then, and to me, it felt like the opportunity of a lifetime.
That’s also where I met a new face on the Broncos’ training staff – Steve Antonopulos. He would go on to become the Head Trainer and lead the Broncos Sports Medicine department for over 40 years. Steve was a University of Northern Colorado alum, and he convinced me it was a great school. Sure enough, I ended up attending UNC and graduating with a degree in Psychology and English.
At camp, I started small—just watching and practicing taping ankles and knees on dummies, since those were the most common injuries. I picked it up pretty quickly, and after a few days, Allen gave me my own taping table. That was exciting, but also terrifying. These were elite athletes, and I was just a high school kid. My first day? Crickets. Not a single ankle. I got it—it’s hard to trust a rookie with your joints.
But on day two, I showed up again, determined to stick it out. I watched players head to Allen, Steve, and the college intern. Then, to my surprise, someone hopped up on my table. I was stunned—it was Floyd Little, the star of the team. (He’s now in the Pro Football Hall of Fame, so clearly I didn’t mess him up too badly.) I was nervous, but I gave it my best shot. Later that same day, Floyd came back—and this time, a line of veteran players followed him. From that moment on, my table stayed busy for the rest of camp.
Looking back, I always come back to this idea: it doesn’t cost anything to be kind. Floyd didn’t have to come to my table. He risked a bad tape job or even injury, but he still chose to give a kid a chance. That small act of kindness changed everything for me. Because of it, I ended up taping some of the best Broncos players of that era, and it opened doors to even more opportunities—stories for another time.
Years later, I had the chance to thank Floyd. I doubt he remembered those few days—he had a legendary career—but he was gracious and kind, just like he was back then.
Never underestimate the power of a small act of kindness. You never know the difference it might make.