They were chanting his name after the second one. Looks like hes the new Leroy Sledge.
Leroy Sledge! A B.C. Lions name to be honoured in the halls of infamy from the past. Someone I know claims this story is gospel.
The woeful Leos of the 70's had this rather awesome-looking black running back who for about 5 games terrorized the league in Cowanian fashion. He was about 240 pounds and in the open field, he was faster than Avarice's tongue. Unfortunately, he also had hands like boards.
Nonetheless, because we would see these incredible flashs from him, inevitably, as the Lions hopes faded in the fourth quarter, a plaintive cry would come wafting down from the stands:
"Give the ball to Leeeee-Roy!"
One terrible drizzly night in Empire Stadium when LeeeRoy had had several boo-boos that contributed to a ghastly rout by the Esks or the Stamps -- when pitch-outs had doinked off the ends of poor Leroy's fingers, when sure touchdown passes had been blown by haunted Leroy's helmet finding its way into the place where his hands should have been, when doomed Leroy had turned the corner with nothing but endzone in sight only to see the brown loaf self-pinched out his hands like a burrito-propelled fart in an elevator -- some wag in the crowd sarcastically let loose as the Lions faced a last gasp third and 86. This sorry plight had undoubtedly been engineered by our lead-footed QB, Paul Brothers', vain attempts to avoid the rush and launch one of his turf-seeking sidewinders (my dentist coud throw a better spiral than Brothers and his Tarkentonian attempts at backfield evasion were as successful as Harry Rankin's ever-worsening vote counts for Mayor of Vancouver).
Legend has it that the wag's voice wafted down through the grey gloom in the stoney silence so pierceingly that you could hear the sputum rumbling in his White Owl cigar-choked lungs:
"Ahhhh, give the ball to fuckin' Leeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-Roy."
As the dreaded words hung in the mist rolling down from Cassiar Street like a gigantic, transparent golem swollen with the subsumed spirits of Annis Stukus, Jerry Janes, By Bailey and other Lion anti-Christs, the minor hush of the crowd stopped dead like a panicked 17 year old on his way to the Commodore on Grad night, caught by his father with a bottle of Crown Royal under his jacket.
A full fifteen seconds of silence and then, an eery voice rang out just as clearly, that all in attendance swear could have only come from the huddle. Some say it was a disgruntled left tackle with Leroy's cleat marks up the back of his calves, others say the voice had a deep but sweet Lousiana drawl that Mother Sledge had given his sharecropper son to appease Whitey:
"Leeeeeeeeee-Roy don't want no fuckin' ball no mo!"