Two passages from a new profile:
He was less than three weeks into his new job running the Broncos. He wore a leather jacket. Desk clerks stared. Scouts stared. It was like Springsteen had showed up for open mic night. Elway approached the waffle maker, poured the batter and clamped the irons. The red light didn't come on. He flipped it over. Nothing. He fiddled with it. Still nothing. Then he got that look he gets when he's imposing his will. Brow furrowed, tongue hugging his upper lip. The look from when he threw the bullet that capped The Drive, the look from when he launched himself into three Packers near the goal line in Super Bowl XXXII.
More than the excitement of winning, Elway is hooked on the "excitement of not knowing" what's possible, what he's capable of. He was never immune to pressure the way Montana was. When he jogged onto the field late in the fourth quarter of Super Bowl XXXII, with the game tied 24-24 and just over three minutes left, he didn't look for John Candy in the stands. He looked inside. He thought what every viewer thought: This is his whole career right here.
His intensity isn't for everybody. It wasn't for John Fox