Jan. 6, 2005

By WRIGHT THOMPSON The Kansas City Star

Jared Allen is driving like he lives, barreling his Ford F-250 diesel through traffic, oblivious to almost everything around him. He's humming along with "Please Come to Boston," unconcerned with finding his next turn. He'll get where he needs to go, eventually. Everything else that happens along the way, well, as he likes to say, that's com-e-dy!

His meaty fingers tap in time to the music. He's headed toward the country on this Thursday, where a mechanic is giving his pride and joy a makeover. As he drives, he's chattering a mile a minute on his fancy new cell phone with his roommate and golfing buddy Mike "Bo" Bowman.

Bo has a young son, and there's some discrepancy as to who broke Dad's new couch. Was it the son and his friends? Or was it the overgrown kid/NFL rookie sack king who lives with them? Bo has decided the 6-foot-6, 265-pound Jared broke it, despite Allen's loud and frequent denials.

"You don't know how those kids act when you're not there," Jared is yelling into the phone, trying hard not to laugh. "I do! THEY ARE HEATHENS!"

This debate will continue later, but now Allen has arrived at his destination: in Belton, at Steve Wilson's place, with the yellow Mercury and black old-school Monte Carlo parked in the drive. Wilson walks Allen around back to the garage, and there, under a tarpaulin, is Jared's baby -- a 1969 powder blue Cadillac convertible.

"Isn't that sweet," Jared whistles, as Steve shows him how the new interior will be installed. "That's my dream car. It's gonna be pink eventually."

If the Pyramid was the peak of ancient Egyptian civilization, the Cadillac is the essence of Americana: big, fast, land- and gas-gobbling, a good-looking monster. And, if you own a pink one, well, it's beyond ostentatious.

That's what you need to know about Jared Allen: He'll do anything. Like restore a '69 Caddy and paint it pink. Or dress up as Michael Phelps for Halloween, wearing a Speedo to Arrowhead for practice. In college, he wore bunny slippers to Idaho State team meetings and sported pajamas at parties. In high school, he and his buddies bought an old Dodge just to wreck, a little home-schooled demolition derby.

Maybe not a huge upset, but Jared Allen also has quite a rap sheep, most of it for bar skirmishes; "I like to fight," he explains.

"I just might hitchhike around the United States all off-season," the defensive end was saying in the locker room last week, as the Chiefs talked about vacation plans. "Who knows?"

Allen walked off to the shower, and teammate Ryan Sims just shook his head.

"He'll do it, too," Sims said.

Yes, Allen is loving his life right now. He loves his fantastic first season, his assault on Derrick Thomas' rookie sack record. He loves his funky sack dance, even if it did get him fined by the NFL. He loves his fiancée, even if she hates his favorite hat -- the one with a risqué, unprintable slogan. He loves his Caddy and is shopping for some Longhorns to spruce up the hood.

"I'm just a normal dude," he says, "trying to have fun."

***

Ron Allen is on the telephone, and it's pretty clear where Jared Allen found his toughness. Dad, a California rancher, remembers his big kid riding a horse named Rockin' Robin in the pouring rain. Jared would come up on one of his dad's 25 or so Longhorn cattle, dive off the horse and wrestle the big animal to the ground. Or try to, at least.

Just for fun.

"He's always been rough and tumble," Ron says, proudly. "My whole problem growing up, I was never afraid of anything. Jared is exactly the same way. If you're gonna get in Jared's face, you better bring something to the table or you're gonna get your ass kicked."

The Allen clan is not to be trifled with. It starts with granddad, Ray Allen. He's got two nicknames: Scarface and Master Blaster. Starting to get it? Mr. Allen served 26 years in the U.S. Marine Corps, working his way from a 16-year-old buck private to a captain.

He served in the Philippines, in Korea, in Vietnam. He's got scars and bullet wounds as souvenirs, plus a chest full of medals. When Desert Storm loomed in the early '90s, the old man went down to the recruiters' office and tried to join up again. Pity that poor kid who made the mistake of saying, "You're a little old for this, aren't you?"

"My dad stood there and read him the riot act," Ron says, laughing. "He's your original war-monger. Even now, he's 74 years old, and you don't want to mess with him."

Ron, like his son, took a long time to get his act together. He spent his sophomore year of high school in juvenile detention for stealing a car. He found football and later played at Jamestown College. Though talented, Ron didn't make it to the NFL. He stuck for two seasons with the USFL as a running back and tried out for the Chiefs and Vikings but came up short.

"It took me a long time to get my head out of my butt," he says. "I was a party animal, and I wanted to have fun and I didn't care about anything but playing football and doing what I wanted to do. I saw Jared doing the same thing. I didn't want him going through the same things I did. I didn't want him to end up in juvie hall."

Most of Jared's high school trouble was small. But a prank that involved stealing yearbooks got him kicked out of one high school and caused the University of Washington to rescind its scholarship offer. Ron was watching it happen to his son like it happened to him, a sad home movie.

***

The small town of Pocatello, Idaho, stunk and Jared made sure to tell anyone who'd listen what he thought of it.

"I hated it there," he says. "I thought about leaving a lot."

But this is where headstrong kids who've lost scholarship offers have to go sometimes -- if they want to keep playing football.

"Well, I think he little by little embraced it," says Idaho State head coach Larry Lewis, "but he did have a chip and felt that he should be someplace else."

The coaches knew he had talent, and it drove them crazy to watch him fritter it away. Allen took plays off. He didn't work hard, counting on size and speed to carry him. And -- how to put this? -- he was always getting in trouble.

"He's a clown," Ron explains. "He likes to have fun. He likes to make people laugh. But at the same time, he just thought fighting was a lot of fun and, plus, he wasn't afraid of nothing."

It didn't take long before he got arrested after a bar fight. He says he rumbled almost every weekend. The poor schleps who stepped up to him ended up on their backs or in the hospital. He ended up in cuffs. Once for assault. Another time for DUI. Now, Allen knows he should be polite to police officers. But then...

"I lived by a slightly different rule," he says, sheepishly, aware of what an idiot he used to be. "If you were under arrest, talk as much (stuff) as possible."

The last straw was his junior year. He got in a fight and, depending on whom you believe, Allen may or may not have assaulted a cop. When it was all done, he was charged with several lesser counts. He also violated his probation, the biggest problem.

This time, the news spread all over the town. The university wanted Lewis to get rid of him. One more chance, the coach pleaded. He agreed to stand next to his star in court and promise the judge, "No more trouble." The judge relented, allowing Allen to avoid jail time in exchange for community service.

Ron Allen was livid. The 8-year-old who'd once told him, "Daddy, I want to be a professional football player," was this close to making it and was throwing it away.

He called Jared.

"You know," he told his son, "I'm so (expletive) disappointed in you."

Then he hung up.

Lewis suspended Allen from the team. In a loud and often combative meeting, the coach boiled it to one point. Do you want to play pro football? Finally, Allen got the message. He stayed in his apartment, out of trouble. That winter and spring, barred from working with the team, he sweated in an empty weight room from 6 to 7 a.m., before classes. He ran in the stadium alone. He dropped 20 pounds and pulled his grades up. He began to like the town.

"I got my life straightened out," he says. "It forced me to grow up. I was always getting bailed out of everything, and I had to take ownership."

That last year, he was a terror. Allen took no plays off, catching the eye of NFL coaches like Dick Vermeil. He won the Buck Buchanan Award, given to the best Division I-AA defensive player, named after the famous former Chief. Allen had gotten his anger and short fuse under control, harnessed it, even. He was ready for Sundays.

"Without that last-ditch effort," Lewis says, "I'm not sure he would have gone as far as he has."

***

How far has he gone in just one season? Pulling up to Allen's favorite restaurant, Maya's Mexican Bistro in Leawood last week, Bo tells this story:

Before the season, Allen had seen some teammates getting free rounds of golf at Falcon Ridge. So, after he and Bo started hanging out, Allen figured he'd show off.

But when he showed up, the golf attendant laughed at this stranger standing before him. Only stars get star treatment, dummy.

Fast forward a few months later, as Allen was becoming the best story in a miserable Chiefs season. Bo called the course and asked whether Chiefs players could golf gratis.

"Who?" the man asked.

"Jared Allen," Bo replied.

"Oh, he can golf for free," the response came back.

Bo turned to Jared as they walked through Maya's parking lot, on their way to plates of tacos and cheese enchiladas.

"You might not have made the Pro Bowl," he cracked, "but you made Falcon Ridge's list."

When they walk into Maya's, a man immediately calls from the bar, "You got two left in you?"

That's all Allen hears these days, as one game and two sacks stand between him and the Chiefs rookie sack record of 10. Everyone asks him about it -- the waiter, a fellow diner, the owner. Even his brother calls with the predictable question.

"No," Jared tells his brother, "actually I was gonna get really close and then not do it."

He answers everyone. He speaks to elementary schools. He puts up with fans, even the dudes who sat down with him during lunch at Tanner's recently and wouldn't leave. Those maniacs standing in the sun and sleet, he identifies with them. He's one of them.

"Without the fans, there wouldn't be any football," he says. "There wouldn't be any pro sports. Fans are normal people."

He's just like them, only bigger and richer. His two splurges are a used truck and the 1969 Caddy. When he got his first NFL check, he walked out of Arrowhead and did a double take, immediately thinking, "Taxes suck! They took $122,000?!"

You know this guy. You went to high school with this guy. Heck, maybe you are this guy.

"My dad would beat my ass if I showed up in an Escalade with 24s," he says. "He'd be like, you better go get you a truck with a gun rack."

***

With one eye on a bowl game on the bar-top television, Jared and Bo are getting hungry. The waiter comes to take their order, looking at Allen and asking, "Lager?"

Allen shakes his head.

"I'm not drinking tonight," he says.

There's a pause, and the waiter waits for the punch line.

"Seriously," Allen says.

Finally, he settles on a rum and coke, hold the rum. Bo laughs at the joke. They're like brothers, or, as Jared puts it, "It's like having a cool-ass uncle." He and Bo met during the summer, and the pair began golfing (Allen plays in flip-flops) and drinking together.

When Allen lost a bid on a house just before the season, he asked Bo for a favor: Could he move in? Bo checked with his 11-year-old son, who thought it was the coolest. Awesome! Daddy brought home a Chief.

Now, Allen has to dodge footballs from the kids as he makes breakfast. And 42-year-old Bo, who played college football at Southwest Missouri State, is getting his second childhood.

"It's been an interesting six months," he says. "I always wanted to be a professional football player, but of course, I wasn't good enough. But I've got to see what it's like. For six months, I've lived it through him."

The season's almost over, finally, and Allen's ready for a break. It's so hard to keep up with the world during a football season. Flipping through channels last week, more than three days after a deadly tsunami crushed much of Southeast Asia, he stopped on CNN.

What happened? he wants to know. He had no idea.

"The tsunami."

"Where did it happen?" he asks. "What country?"

"India."

Bo shakes his head.

"We just learned about the tsunami that hit three days ago," he says. "If they don't have it on a Bud Light can ...."

***

Bo's basement is mostly dark as Allen tries to figure out how to make the DVD player work. Seems the kids have been jacking with it. He gets it going and begins to watch San Diego Chargers film. First, he starts with every time Drew Brees has been sacked.

"This is where we make our money, right here," he says, starting to pick at the Chargers' offensive line for weaknesses.

He's a different Jared Allen than the one who was goofing just a few minutes earlier. Now he's paying attention. What was it he was saying upstairs a moment or so ago?

"All I try to do is have fun," that's what he was saying. "I love to play football. This just allows me the money to where I can have fun."

What's next?

"Nothing."

Huh?

"That is my ultimate goal," he says, grinning. "To do nothing. To be on my boat on a lake, water skiing, listening to country music."

That's all in the future, hopefully the way distant future. He wants to be with the Chiefs for many seasons. That's where Bo's basement is invaluable. He studies film every day, looking for cracks in the wall.

And bingo. On this evening, he thinks he's figured out a weakness he can exploit. The tackle on his side is too slow for him and always off-balance. Allen and Bo laugh like big men at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Country music plays in the background. He watches play after play, singing along to Tim McGraw. This song could be his anthem.

"I went skydiving

I went Rocky Mountain climbing

I went 2. 7 seconds, on a bull named Fu Manchu."

As the song winds down, so does Allen. He turns the DVD player off and unfolds himself from the couch.

"OK, I'm done with that (stuff) for tonight," he says, turning to walk upstairs to his room. "You can only handle so much football."

To reach Wright Thompson, sports reporter for The Star, call (816) 234-4856 or send e-mail to wthompson@kcstar.com.