I was just thinking about one of my favorite football players. A total overachiever …

He was great in college. You could see the fire in his eyes — a fire that told him to do anything it takes to win a game. He became one of his school’s top touchdown makers, both through the air and on the ground.

Drafted into the NFL — with some skepticism — his passing technique was lacking. His throws found sideline training tables as often as they hit teammates.

He cultivated a niche with a mediocre team, but eventually was driven from town by a guy named Manning.

Fleeing to the East Coast, he came to a team with a veteran quarterback. He enrolled as a back-up.

When the starting QB went down with injury, My Guy stepped in with authority — leading his adopted family to a Super Bowl.

Had it not been for …

What? I’m dreaming, you say? Shhhhh. Let me tell the story.

In his Super Bowl appearance, the Miami …

OK, what? I’m talking about a real Super Bowl. In 1972.

Huh? You thought I was talking about Tim Tebow?

Oh, sorry. No. This is a little chat about former UCLA great Billy Kilmer.

Remember him? Kinda Old School Tim Tebow meets a rehabbed Charlie Sheen.

You’re not old enough to remember the NFL 40 years ago? Well, gather ’round, kiddies …

Kilmer played when helmets were two pieces of plastic screwed together. He was one of the last pros to wear a single-bar face mask, even though he ran as much as he threw. Remembering his style, he ran better than he threw — and he didn’t run very well.

But even during his high school days at Citrus High in Southern California, Kilmer was substance over style.

With the help of Los Angeles Times and Washington Post archives, this week I spent almost four hours online with Kilmer’s legacy.

As a Bruin, he passed for 1,800 yards and rushed for more than 3,100. Listed as a running back, Kilmer was the original wildcat. He ran back punts, played some linebacker in crunch time and even blocked two kicks while in Westwood.

When he was drafted by San Francisco, the 49ers used him primarily at running back. He occasionally spelled Hall of Fame QB John Brodie — but his role waned as Kilmer was taken by first-year franchise New Orleans in the 1967 expansion draft.

Kilmer, a straight-up (and slooowww) runner, was making highlight films for other team’s defenses but nonetheless managed to throw for 35 TDs in 1968-69.

He became a fan favorite in The Big Easy — until the 1971 draft.

Ole Miss’ Archie Manning (Peyton and Eli’s dad) came to town and Kilmer would be gone faster than a small bowl of gumbo.

Meanwhile, first-year Washington coach George Allen loved veterans. He loved versatile players. He craved renovation projects. To Allen, who had been fired in Los Angeles, Kilmer was all three, as attractive as an old bomber-pilot jacket.

Allen, who brought in 14 rejects from other squads to create his Over the Hill Gang, made Kilmer his very first trade.

The recycled QB was destined to back up another Hall of Famer — Sonny Jurgensen.

But Jurgensen got hurt in preseason and Kilmer took the reins. By the following year he had Washington in the Super Bowl — but lost 14-7 as Miami capped its unbeaten 17-0 season.

Kilmer would turn back challenges from Jurgensen, Sam Wyche and Joe Theismann to remain the starter through 1977.

In reference to Kilmer, it was the first time I remember hearing someone called a Comeback Kid. I wondered how he did it. Everyone else on his teams looked like an athlete. He stuck out — even as a younger player — as if he were competing in old-timers’ games. (In 1962, he fell asleep at the wheel and drove his car into the San Francisco Bay, suffering a broken leg and threatening his career.)

For a couple of years, his battle over the starting assignment had Redskins fans wearing buttons entoning “I Like Sonny” or “I Like Billy.” One thing emerged from the quarterback controversy: the pair liked each other; enough of a friendship developed that Kilmer and Jurgensen hit a few bars too hard, prompting a nightlife watch around D.C.

The Peck’s Bad Boy image enhanced his standing with some fans, but new Washington coach Jack Pardee would have none of it. Theismann was elevated to starter in ’78 and a year later, Kilmer was retired.

Wherever he went, the teams got better. Wherever he went, there was an almost cult following. Wherever he went, the teams were exciting.

Not unlike Tim Tebow (God rest his soul once the New York media start with him), there was curiosity about Kilmer that initially drew you in.

And not unlike Tebow, once you knew more about Kilmer, you were inspired to root for the guy — but certainly not for the same reasons …

Tebow is the Salt of the Earth. His physical attributes are beyond all but a few. His work ethic is without peer. He is driven by his faith.

But watching Kilmer, every 40-year-old couch potato had visions of personal comebacks dancing in their heads: “I can go 7.22 in the 40.” “I can throw the ball end-over-end.” “I’d like to have a beer with Sonny Jurgensen.”

What they forgot to take into account in watching Billy Kilmer play is that none of them could lead a team to a Super Bowl or play 16 seasons in the NFL.

While I Have You Here: Kilmer went on to coach in the American Football Association (I wonder what the Shreveport Steamers locker room was like) and works with the GMAC Bowl in Mobile, Ala. Kilmer is 72 and still lives in the South.

— Reach Bruce Gallaudet at [email protected] or (530) 747-8047.

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