[Globetrotters] Morten Andersen: the indestructible Dane

A long MacGyver neck during his golden years in New Orleans. A wiser haircut at the twilight of his career from Georgia, to the Big Apple, passing through Missouri and Minnesota. Graying temples and clear forehead when unveiling his bronze bust in Canton. More than the history of hair fashions, Morten Andersen embodies the history of a position whose standards he has constantly raised for more than two decades of an immortal career.

Left-handed, but not left

Struer, a small fishing port on the Jutland peninsula on the sides of Venø Bay. Far from their native Copenhagen, it is in this locality of a few thousand souls lost not far from the fjords of northwestern Denmark that Morten and Jakob, his twin brother, grew up. Between the two brothers, day and night. If Morten is a real pain in the neck unable to hold still for 10 seconds and who never closes his camembert box, Jakob is the exact opposite, a model of discretion. To wonder if they are really brothers. During Sunday walks, Morten zigzags between the trees like a hyperactive hysteric while his clone strolls back, picking a few flowers and picking up pretty pebbles as he goes. When the family gets into the little Peugeot, the brat pretends he's faster than her. “I can run at 20 kilometers per hour,” he shows off, tells Sports Illustrated. And as soon as the car starts, the sprinter in short pants rolls on the ground, in tears, until his parents back up. A pain in the ass who, miraculously, inherited parents endowed with unfailing patience. It must be said that the kids know them.

Erik, a psychologist father who dedicates his career to disabled children in schools, and Hanne, a librarian who teaches Danish and its culture steeped in history to future generations, the two fraternal twins are growing up with well-made heads and well filled. At least they have that in common. While Denmark actively participates in European construction in the heart of the 1960s, far from these political concerns reserved for adults, Morten spends endless hours in the open air trying to overcome a gauge of energy that seems inexhaustible. . Cheat code.

Morten is 5 years old when he inevitably comes across one of these round balls. Like millions of kids from the Old Continent, he gives in to the charm of this unifying sport. A talented teenager, he will come very close to joining the national team. Not satiated by the kilometers he swallows on the green rectangles, he shines on the straight line and the sandboxes of the athletics tracks. In winter, when the weather cools, he stands out on the floor and on horseback in the softness of the gymnasiums. And when the elements thwart the practice of football, he reduces the size of the ball and grabs it with the full hand. Foot and hand, two sports where he built a reputation of great hope over the years and aroused the curiosity of the youth selections. Then comes adolescence and the sudden realization that girls aren't just pesky. "The ball was still important for us, but a little less," laughs Morten.

In a country where handball is the state religion, at 16, Andersen won the national title. As the end of high school looms on the horizon, he is approached by the hopeful selection after having spent many years running, leaping, elbowing and crossing the slippery terrain of the junior leagues at full speed and with panache. Instead, as a good son, he declines the offer of the DHF, gives up on any dreams of Olympism that are anything but fanciful and grants his parents' wish. Go study for a year in the United States. Refine your stammering English and soak up that Yankee carefree attitude.

An adventure across the Atlantic that is part of the philosophy of open-mindedness, openness to the world and thirst for knowledge that Erik and Hanne have set out to instill in their twins. Even on their plates. One evening a week, a more or less exotic dish invites itself to the Andersen table. “It could be snails or anything. Fed up with this globalist vision of life and education, Morten finished high school having studied English, French, German and Latin in class and learned Swedish and Norwegian as an autodidact.

The Danish version of the high school has been completed and is taking off. On the afternoon of August 19, 1977, the day of his 17th birthday, he landed on the tarmac of the Indianapolis International Airport for what was supposed to be a short cultural exchange of only 10 months. A simple round trip. That Friday evening, Dale and Jean Baker, the couple of 4 children who welcome him, take him to attend a mini football tournament between 6 different local teams. For the teenager, a first. A total discovery that makes him forget the jet lag.

Fascination, astonishment, surprise, curiosity, fun. All the emotions are at the rendezvous of this first meeting.

When Dale, also a teacher at Ben Davis High School and director of the international program, asks him if he would be interested in football, he is not particularly thrilled. " Not really, no. Then after a brief time of reflection, remembering that his future high school does not have a soccer team, "Why not after all, I will try. The next morning, his football pumps in his hands, he is in the car, on his way to training for Roger, the family helmet. The time to adapt to this strange ball is a formality and Morten quickly finds the sensations of his years of soccer. A banal conversion to start with. Then a strike from 25 yards more full-bodied. Then 35. Quickly, his kicks wow the gallery and reach the ears of the coach, busy elsewhere.

Quarterback and kicker of the team, Wilbur Jr. is stripped of his role as scorer on the field. The little expat has just made “80 friends”. But beware of failures warns Bob in a joking tone, otherwise he “puts him back on the plane. To protect his new gunner, the coach orders Morten to run to the sidelines after each kickoff to avoid bad shots from opponents who do not hesitate to target him. The teenager is still struggling to understand what has just happened to him.

The Dane quickly took a liking to this new game, this new life and these new possibilities that opened up to him. A new balloon with elongated curves, 10 madmen rushing at it, drooling in their teeth, and this equipment weighing on their shoulders. So many terribly exciting new things. Suddenly, the initial plan takes a turn for the worse. No more question of 10 months soaking up American culture and perfecting his English, then a wise return to the country to resume sport and the thread of his Scandinavian life. “Fate had a whole other plan for me, and I seized it with all my might. Excited by this completely unforeseen challenge, by the exhilarating prospect of witnessing his progress day after day and by this small budding popularity, he does not plan to return to Denmark. If he quickly gets used to the rigors of training and the physical dimension of football, the mental component is more difficult to tame.

In his first season as a football player and the last of his high school life, Morten converts 5 of his 7 field goal attempts and the Giants fail in the state semi-finals in front of 10,000 excited teenagers and parents. An intimidating assistance for this kid from a bled 5 times less populated than the stadium who played best in front of 20 onlookers during his soccer games. A hundred maybe when he put on his handball tunic.

A weekend in Orlando where he discovers Disney World. A few days in New York to attend the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade. Between two spoonfuls of peanut butter, the "stench" of which he gradually forgets, Morten integrates himself into his American life. Soon, his face will join the portraits of the other kids in the family hanging in the Bakers' dining room. Despite Friday night football that doesn't really shine for kickers, his atypical name is reaching the ears of Purdue and Michigan State scouts. The dilemma so dreaded since its early days comes to life. Return to Denmark, as agreed, or take the tangent and continue his crazy American adventure. The day before National Signing Day 1978, the Spartans coach takes him to devour a pizza and, one minute after midnight, pen in hand, the Dane makes the choice of a life. A choice that must still obtain maternal approval.

The pill digested, the Danevang will wait and Morten enlists for Sparta. On the verdant century-old campus of East Lansing, he finds a compatriot. Hans Nielsen, a native of Velje, on the eastern side of Jutland, begins his last year as a kicker under the green of the Spartans. A reassuring blond hair, a familiar language, comforting even, and words that convince him that if his eldest has done it, then it's also up his alley. A year after limply agreeing to try kicking a ball oval, almost out of politeness, a kicker's scholarship in his pocket, he fully embraces a football career that fell from the sky. A true plot twist of a lifetime.

Very quickly, Morten and Hans become inseparable and jump from bar to bar in search of Carlsberg to lock between two nostalgic memories. The Danish Mafia. During his sophomore year, he discovers a second American family. A hairdresser in Holt, Michigan, for 40 years, Janice Cummings has become a receptionist in the dorm where the kicker lives after hanging up her scissors, comb and hair dryer. The pre-retired and her husband take a liking to the Dane who even borrows their car to train to pass his driving license. On match days, the couple wave a large red flag with a horizontal white cross in the stands each time they are about to land a tatane shot.

On the green rectangle laced with white, a beautiful baby of 1.88m and a little over a hundred kilos, Morten Andersen is the privileged spectator of the prowess of Kirk Gibson, receiver of the innately talented Spartans. Drafted in the 7th round by the St Louis Cardinals, those of football, and in the 1st by the Detroit Tigers, he will wisely choose a career as a professional baseball player which will raise him to the rank of icon and will earn him two titles of World Series. For Morten's first college season, after a rocky start, the Spartans went on to win 7 consecutive games and shared the conference title with their enemies from Michigan. Junior, he silenced the 105,132 fans of the Big House of the Wolverines by sending a cuff from 57 yards between the yellow posts. On September 12, 1981, not intimidated by the impressive verticality of the Ohio State horseshoe and its 81,084 hostile faces, he swung a kick from 63 yards between the poles and set himself the record for the kick the longest in Big Ten history.

With the field goal, an entire section of the history of this conference, created in 1896, is collapsing. The old record dated back another century in many ways. On November 24, 1898 exactly. At the end of the season against Northwestern, Pat O'Dea, star fullback, captain and Australian scorer for the Badgers, seized the ball in the length and sent a drop kick from 62 yards between the posts despite the blizzard. A formality for a "Kangaroo Kicker" known to have sent a 116-yard punt into orbit during his two years in Wisconsin.

All Big Ten. All American. The Dane ends his university career at the end of his most accomplished campaign. In 4 seasons and 44 games full of green, Morten and his left leg passed 45 field goals and converted 126 of their 130 conversions in a program at the bottom of the wave which is desperately chasing after the triumphs of the Duffy Daugherty years between the 50's and 60's. Of his 56 kickoffs, 39 end up in the paint or beyond. Touchback. More than ego-boosting personal feats, Andersen leaves East Lansing with immortal memories that exceed a slap in the face.

The studious apprenticeship completed, the path to an incomparable career awaits. His life as a footballer is still in its infancy.

Mortenmania

While there is little doubt that he will be one of the lucky ones, Morten has no idea when he will be selected. One of the first 3 rounds? Unlikely. 11 or 12th round? He will surely have found a base for a long time. One thing is certain, he does not imagine himself dressed in black and gold. Never have the Saints shown the slightest interest in him. The two parties did not even exchange a single word. Unlike Cowboys that he very regularly had on the phone. Or Lions or Bears, also very interested. On the last weekend of April 1982, at the Sheraton Hotel in New York City, his name finally sounded three rounds and 85 choices before that of another globetrotting kicker, Gary Anderson. Just three years after sacrificing the 11th overall pick of the 1979 Draft to snatch Russell Erxleben and his record-breaking 67-yard cannonball under the rusty orange Texas Longhorns, Bum Phillips' Saints are still looking for their positive first season. after 15 years of monastic existence, reoffend from the 4th round. During his 13 years in the Louisiana bayou, Andersen will experience all the firsts of a franchise that is finally emerging from obscurantism.

“I hope you like Budweiser and country music. Barely drafted, the first words of the anything but Catholic coach of the Saints set the tone. "Certainly sir," politely replies this ABBA fan and Merlot drinker who has no idea where he's going.

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— ً Thu Apr 01 13:17:31 +0000 2021

If geolocation is a problem, Morten knows exactly what mess he's getting into. “The Saints were terrible,” he recalled in an interview with the Canal Street Chronicles site. Two years earlier, in week 15, they narrowly escaped the unspeakable by snatching their only victory of the season on the Jet ground in a half-empty stadium by a small point. The following year, they only lost 12 times. In 15 years of existence, they have never known the playoffs. They have never finished a campaign with a positive balance sheet. Their best season: 8-8. In 1979. Those their own disillusioned fans, regularly covered in a paper grocery bag, call the 'Aints have already worn down 10 coaches. Even the huge Hank Stram broke his teeth. But under the direction of a Bum Phillips who believes in him as iron as iron and with the confidence of Harold Richardson, guru of the special teams, Morten feels in good hands. Even after an injury on his first kick off with the pros and a messed up pre-season, both men maintain their faith in him. Sure of its immense potential.

At 22, he burst into a league where, despite the soccer-style revolution initiated by Hungarian brothers Gogolak, Norwegian Jan Stenerud and Cypriot Garo Yepremian a decade earlier, the art of kicking is still far from being a science as exact and automatic as it will become in the course of the 2000s. Others still make them short or medium range weapons at best. The previous season, only the Norwegian of the Packers and Rick Danmeier, kicker of the Vikings, had a success rate above 80%. They were only 12 to have passed a kick of 50 yards or more. 35 years later, at the time of putting on his mustard hall of famer jacket, they are 6 to turn at 90% and more, 11 to fuel at least 85 and 9 to turbine between 80 and 84.9% of success. The intimidating bar of 50 no longer has anything of this almost indomitable Everest. Only 5 formations have not recorded the slightest very long distance field goal. In a few years, the Danish blaster will revolutionize his position.

Between a campaign cut short by the 1982 strike and repeated injuries, Morten does not have very good memories of a rookie year where he had to settle for a 2/5 unworthy of his standards. After a season for butter, he adjusts, finds the target, passes a bomb from 53 yards, slams three kicks of the win and signs an attractive 75% success rate, setting the tone for what will quickly become his mark. of factory. Powerful, precise and decisive. In the continuity of the European revolution of his elders, Andersen will become the precursor of these modern kickers with surgical precision and devastating punching power. Lethal. These gridiron mountaineers who erase the summits one by one.

In 85, surgical, the one who will soon inherit the nickname of Mr. Automatic runs at 88.6% success. Only Nick "The Kick" Lowery is ahead of him by a breath and with 8 fewer attempts on the clock. A duel of two behind an increasingly tough competition which turns for a large majority between 76 and 84%. All this, in the midst of an internal hurricane. Bum Phillips fired during the season, his namesake Wade Phillips briefly took over before the franchise continued the great upheaval by hiring Jim E. Mora and his radically different methods. "It's like you're enjoying a cupcake and suddenly you're told to swallow bologna," Morten comments in his finest prose. The transition is tough.

The following year, Lowery, his KC rival, tumbled while Morten, impeccable on conversion, maintained a formidable accuracy of 86.7% success. The new trio made up of owner Tom Benson, GM Jim Finks and coach Mora flirts with balance and lays the foundations for a total reversal of culture in a franchise that has subscribed to figuration for nearly two decades. On the pitch, the Dane is imperturbable, impervious to all these tribulations, even when nostalgia for his origins twists his guts at the worst of times.

In 1983, before NOLA was hit by this internal earthquake, he posed scantily dressed for a poster that immortalized the boom years of Mortenmania. Tight shorts that go up to the level of the family jewels, a half-transparent crop top at the level of the pectorals that leaves his belly button in the air, leaning against a locker room, slightly swaying, the parting well in the middle of his hair in brush, the look that kills. More than 16,000 copies will be sold. Because in a city that definitely does nothing like elsewhere, he is the real star of a New Orleans that only has the Saints to eat. Morten shows off his long Scandinavian silhouette and his clothes at the height of European fashion in an Vieux Carré where he does not leave the female sex indifferent. An unusual attention for a kicker who is not to displease him. In 1985, sprawled on the hood of a red Porsche, he was on the cover of a local magazine that headlined the city's 10 most coveted bachelors.

Repentant after years of excess that he does not regret, he briefly sees Anne White. A professional tennis player best known for wearing a full white Lycra suit at Wimbledon 1985 than for her racket-in-hand exploits. When the 1980s ended, of his 31 attempts from 50 yards or beyond, Morten would have converted 13. A starving total by today's standards, but a relative regularity that makes him one of the longest gunners the most effective distance of the 80's. Also, he stands out as the king of touchbacks of these years with dubious hair fashions. A throne that he will gradually give up, as he creates emulators and inspires a whole new generation of strikers with bionic legs. An unrivaled length thanks to which it shortens the pitch. No more going so deep into enemy territory to be able to threaten the yellow posts. A new asset whose coaches are quick to grasp the strategic importance in a game where every inch counts.

In his head, every time the ball crosses the halfway line, Morten prepares himself mentally. Quietly, he walks away from the action and his teammates. Almost 20 meters from the first of them sometimes. "I don't want anyone talking to me. They all know they have to stay away from me. In his head, he repeats to himself that he is going to land the kick. That he can do it. "Come on, come on," he encouraged himself one last time before going to catapult three balls, not one more, into the practice net. Then, the final step, disregarding all the ambient hubbub, on the black canvas of his closed eyes, he projects the leather which flies away between the two yellow posts. In Pittsburgh, once, he remains unfazed despite the dirtiest insanity thrown at him by Steelers fans. Some of his teammates are outraged. He doesn't hear anything. He is ready. In his world.

Off the field, the seductive, party-loving and sometimes almost dandy Morten has changed a lot. No more flashy covers in undress and parading them on Bourbon Street, the Dane attends nearly thirty fundraisers for charities each year. Involved with the New Orleans Ballet and its symphony orchestra, he perpetuates the teaching of his parents. But if only one cause had to be chosen, it would certainly be the Children's Hospital, where he is regularly greeted by cries of joy from Ronnie Lair, this 11-year-old teenager stuck in a wheelchair. “Morten is coming! Morten is coming! “A few days after a delicate operation to lengthen one of his legs, for his birthday, he receives a signed ball from the hands of the kicker.

Without filter. Authentic. Andersen remembers that day when he arrived at the hospital as he has so often become accustomed to. Barely arrived in the hall, a doctor rushes on him, pulls him aside and tells him about this little boy who has decided to give up. Weary, exhausted by illness, he no longer has the strength to fight. For 30 minutes, one-on-one with this isolated kid in intensive care, he convinces him not to give up. That life is still worth living. A few weeks later, he receives a thank you note from the doc. The kid has returned home, fit to resume the innocent childhood he deserves. It is also Devet Frye, this pretty 17-year-old teenager whom he discovers in a corridor, immobilized on a stretcher, her pelvis broken, partially paralyzed. Morten hops onto an empty stretcher nearby, lies down across from her, and makes introductions. Terribly weakened, the teenager has all the misery in the world to speak. The Dane gently grabbed her hand to encourage her. Soon, escorted by her new friend and his words of hope, she will only need a cane to stand and walk.

On the field, in 1987, despite a slight decline, Andersen invited himself to his 3rd consecutive Pro Bowl. Carried by the alien leg of their kicker and by the incomparable energy of the Dome Patrol led by the immense Pat Swilling and the inexhaustible undrafted and regretted Sam Mills, the Saints of Jim E. Mora come out of their torpor. After 20 years of existence, they finally pass their profession of faith, but miss the confirmation. Led by Coach of the Year, the NOLA players picked up 12 wins, but were torn apart by the Vikings and a ruthless purple defense carried by Chris Doleman and Joey Browner for their playoff baptism of fire. Still a Pro Bowler despite a downward trend that continued into '88, Morten established himself as the goalscorer of the decade. In an ultra-tough NFC West on which the 49ers West Coast sauce of Bill Wash and Joe Montana walk, the tonsured chained two seasons in the green, but without playoffs. And when they invite themselves to the New Year festivities three seasons in a row from 90 to 92, it is to be punished in the first round each time.

Especially in '91, when they won the first division title of their existence, well helped by an Andersen who catapulted a kick from 60 yards against the Bears, the second longest field goal in the history of the NFL. Three units off the flat foot of another Saint, Tom Dempsey, 21 years earlier. But nothing helps, these three missed chances, the Bayou players sink into full melancholy. Despite the frustration on the pitch, the group remains incredibly tight-knit, recalls Morten. They are much more “than a bunch of guys working together. “Between the bullshit in the locker room, the jazz evenings with teammates and the escapades in a Continental Lincol with a disproportionate front, like at Michigan State, the Dane retains above all the camaraderie of these years not always cheerful on the field. Like this evening of December 31, 1990. The Saints have just beaten the Rams and snatched their ticket to the playoffs despite a weak record of 8-8. The final whistle sounds around 10:30 p.m. Barely enough time to congratulate each other manly, to wash and change, everyone heads for the French Quarter and arrives in time for the midnight gong.

In 1989, after two years that looked like a no-cost warning, the Dane completely unscrewed. Unable to erase the 50 mark despite 4 tries for the first time since his rookie year, he plummets to the miserable average of 69%. A year later, he returned to Aloha Stadium in Honolulu. The years go by, but nothing seems to shake the striking range of the imposing Dane. Built to last, his body tackles the kicks without flinching, with the same frenzy.

An unusual physique for a kicker that he owes to his unhealthy hyperactivity. In the middle of the off-season, he lifts cast iron 5 days a week to bulk up muscles that won't make him punch any further. And when he's not pumping up, he's swimming, skiing, running, riding his bike, clutching his tennis racket or sweating profusely in aerobics class.

Hey dude, okay man, thanks buddy. 10 years after his arrival, Morten jacts like a real American. Only a very slight accent betrayed the origins of the one who inherited the nickname of American Dane. However, at home, alone in this huge house that looks like a Scandinavian museum, he speaks Danish to himself. Planted in front of one of the countless Scandinavian paintings that decorate his bachelor apartment or one of these Danish pottery placed on a piece of furniture typical of his home, he thinks in Danish. In the evening, sitting alone at his Nordic table, he savors a Danish dish with Danish silverware while going over the course of his day in Danish. Later, in his bed, he leafs through the Politiken Weekly, dutifully sent by his parents, before delving into a novel or an essay by Karen Blixen, Søren Kierkegaard or Jens Peter Jacobsen while an album by composer and guitarist C.V. Jørgensen plays in the background. But recently, this convinced Scandinavian has started writing his shopping lists in Danish, of course, but also in English. Even his dreams have become bilingual lately. The beginning of assimilation.

Fordi han er stolt af at være dansk.

Towards Immortality

In 1995, at the same time as the Saints fall back into sin and while Archbishop Jim E. Mora is saying his last prayers, Morten Andersen is at the height of his art. At the enemy of Atlanta, a year the eldest of the NOLA franchise. A few months earlier, after 13 years of good and loyal service, claiming a decline in its accuracy and a tight salary cap, the New Orleans franchise preferred to get rid of its best missionary. “They wanted me to reduce my salary by 40%,” specifies the kicker who had imagined other farewells.

The lily men will spend 6 years vegetating in Purgatory. Routine defeats, anomalous victories and TV playoffs. Meanwhile, in the Falcons' nest, the 35-year-old Danish blaster looks younger than ever. There, revengeful as ever, he finds his other twin. Bobby Hebert, quarterback of the Saints from 85 to 92 also born on August 10, 1960. A single failed PAT, an attractive 31 of 37 which brings his accuracy to 81.7% and a thunder trigger at long distance just to annoy d former employers who claimed he had lost his punching power. 8 of his 9 attempts for 50 yards or more clear the yellow horizontal bar, including a 59-yard shot on the fence against defending champions San Francisco. On September 17, at the Superdome, he achieved a clear round, scored 13 points and savored his revenge thanks to a forceps success. Rebelote mid-December. Same adversary, different theatre. 4/4 again, an identical total of points and a festival by far. 51 yards once, 55 twice, he disgusts his former partners. In the playoffs, for the last day of the year 1995, the pounding in order of Jeff George and the 100% of Morten are not enough to stifle the ardor of Brett Favre.

1996. 1997. Two diametrically opposed years. One gloomy, to forget. The last of June Jones on the bench. The other bright, bringing hope. Dan Reeves' first on the bench. 24 bipolar months that are reflected in the performance of a Morten who gains 10 points of precision between one and the other. If 1997 does not give birth to anything, it lays the foundations for 1998. 4th most prolific attack, 4th most hermetic defense, 14 unprecedented victories in the history of the franchise and a Scandinavian kicker faithful to himself. Insensitive to pressure. Unlike its almost South African namesake. In Minneapolis, in the conference final, under the eyes of Dale and Jean Baker, his first American family, Gary Anderson flinches, Morten Andersen shines. A clear round and the winning kick in overtime. At 32 years old, the Atlanta piaffes will discover the first Super Bowl of their existence.

Under the declining sun and the mildness of Pro Player Stadium in Miami, for the 33rd Big Game in history, Morten opened hostilities from 32 yards on the first offensive series of the match. The response is scathing. Carried by the legs of Terrell Davis and his 2008 yards in the regular season, the Broncos galloped on the first half and after an unusual 26-length miss the Dane rectified the target and stopped the bleeding just before the break. In the second act, Chris Chandler sinks, launches 3 interceptions and John Elway takes control of the match. There will be no miracles this time around. At 38 brushes, Andersen has never come so close to the Vince Lombardi Trophy. In a franchise in full swing of the blues, he blew hot and cold for 2 years before joining the Big Apple for a cameo of a season without much relief in 2001. For two years, in Kansas City, alongside the 'undrafted Priest Holmes, he took advantage of Dick Vermeil's bulimic attack to explode his conversion counter and maintained a goldsmith's precision despite a clearly declining reach. A brief detour by not resentful Vikings then begins 20 interminable months. At 45, he wants one last thrill. Above all, he wants a chance to hang up having become the best scorer in NFL history. He is only 76 points short. For many months, supported by his family, he constantly had to put down the skeptics who told him to stop for good. It's not worth persisting with. Ignorant people.

With faith, wisdom and patience, Morten has no doubt that his last chance will come. After 20 months training in a public park, nurturing a dream that seems increasingly utopian, the winds of fate turn. He remembers this Sunday, September 16, 2007. After a defeat at the Metrodome in Minneapolis at the opening, the Falcons lost 6 small points in Jacksonville with the complicity of Michael Koenen's 0 out of 4. "I'm going to get back in the water," he says, smelling his lucky star. The phone comes out of the coma and here he is again in Atlanta, flocked with the number 5. On December 15, against the Cowboys, he becomes the best scorer in history. Mission accomplished. For 2 years, under the yurt of the Georgia Dome, he did not miss a single conversion, only attempted a kick beyond 50, did not do better than 47 yards, but carbide at 88% on average.

After 25 years of excellence without a champion ring, the 47-year-old Dane and his left paw hang up almost reluctantly. Because you have to stop one day. Even when the heart tries to convince you otherwise. Five-time All-Pro. Seven-time Pro Bowler. All-Decade Team 80's and 90's. 2544 record points. Top scorer in Saints and Falcons history. Only 10 ridiculous failures in 859 conversions. 79.7% average success. Best gunner beyond 50 yards. 382 matchless matches. His name on the scorecard for 360 consecutive games. And an endless list of other historical league-wide brands or franchises whose sometimes sad history he will have illuminated. While waiting for the undrafted Adam Vinatieri to pass by, Morten puts away his crampons having stolen almost all of Gary Anderson's records.

In 2017, a few hours before the annual NFL Honors ceremony, Jan Stenerud's phone vibrates. On the screen, only a few words, but rich in symbolism. "Don't tell anyone, but I'm here. After 26 years of solitude, he is no longer alone. After 5 long years of eligibility, Morten Andersen, the gridiron marathon runner, joins his Scandinavian cousin who has become a friend in the abnormally select club of professional kickers to be immortalized in the Hall of Fame. An abnormality. An aberration. An injustice of which the former Saint and Falcon is the spokesperson.

Cornerback Herb Adderley in 1980. Offensive lineman Joe DeLamielleure in 2003. Then Morten. He becomes only the third Spartan inducted into the Hall of Fame. Like the other Scandinavian Viking, Morten knew next to nothing about football when he put on his first helmet. Like the Norwegian, he will have been able to sublimate his heritage as a soccer player in his youth to become a powerful and precise kicker.

His place in Canton, Ohio, he owes to no one but himself. 6331 kilometers from Streur, the peaceful port of his childhood, one of the streets of which has been renamed in his name, his bronze bust stands for eternity. And to think that he was only supposed to stay 10 months.