Full text of "The Giants Of New York The History Of Professional Football S Most Fabulous Dynasty"

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A splendid book for every sports
fan ...

Tie

of YORK

by BARRY

Professional football, as millions of de-
vout fans well know, has arrived. And
here, for its mushrooming audiences
of the 60 ? s, is a colorful, wonderfully
readable history of pro football's great-
est dynasty, the New York Giants, the
team Tim Mara bought for $500 on a
sunny afternoon back in 1925 and con-
verted into the champions of the
roughest, toughest game of all.

Here are the great stars of four dec-
ades of Giant teams:

Hinkey Haines, Century Milstead and
the mighty Cal Hubbard from the
20's;

Benny Friedman, the great passer
and field general in the day of the
master runners, whom Mara bought
an entire team to get and who re-
paid his purchase price many times
over;

Mel Hein ("the greatest pro lineman
in history"), Ken Strong and Ed Da-
nowski who led Steve Owen's cham-
pions to victory over the Bears in
the famous 1934 playoff game on
frozen Polo Grounds turf;

Tuffy Leemans, Ward Cuff, and later
A! Blozis and Bill Paschal who
starred in the late 30*s and early

40'S;

(Continued on back flap)

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The Giants or

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THE GIANTS OF NEW YORK

The GIANTS

of New York

THE HISTORY OF PROFESSIONAL
FOOTBALL'S MOST FABULOUS DYNASTY

Barry Gottehrer

G. P. Putnam's Sons

New York

1963 by Barry Gottehrer

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, must not be repro-
duced in any form without permission. Published simultaneously in
the Dominion of Canada by Longmans Canada Limited, Toronto.

Library of Congress Catalog
Card Number: 63-16182

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
VAN REES PRESS * NEW YORK

To Arthur., who couldn't wait

8319442

Acknowledgments

THE AUTHOR wishes to express his appreciation to the New
York Giants past and present who have made this book
possible.

In writing a history that covers many years, many events,
and many personalities, an author inevitably encounters con-
flicts between fact and fancy. In writing The Giants of New
York, this author has found several instances where facts have
been obscured by printed fancies. To document this work, the
author has relied on interviews with players and coaches and
on game-by-game scrapbooks collected by John and Welling-
ton Mara and Robert Frank, vice-chairman of the American
Stock Exchange, whose father was part owner of the Giants
until the early 1940's.

Thanks are offered to Larry Klein, assistant sports editor of
Newsweek Magazine, and the author's wife, both of whom
patiently read the completed manuscript and offered sugges-
tions; the Maras, general manager Ray Walsh, and publicity
man Don Smith, all of the Giant organization; Jim Kensil and
Patricia Moore of the National Football League office; and
Dick McCann of the National Professional Hall of Fame in
Canton, Ohio.

The author offers thanks, too, for the following source
material: the files of Newsweek and Sport Magazine; Pro Foot-
ball by Dr. Harry A. March; My Kind of Football by Steve
Owen (McKay); My Greatest Day in Football by Murray
Goodman and Leonard Lewin (Macmillan); The Story of Pro
Football by Howard Roberts (Rand-McNally); The Encyclo*

pedia of Football by Roger Treat (Barnes); The Forward Pass
by Charlie Conerly and Tom Meany (Button); New York
Giants by Don Smith (Coward-McCann); The Pros by Robert
Riger and Tex Maule (Simon and Schuster); and Backseat
Quarterback by Perian Conerly (Doubleday).

B. G.

Contents

Acknowledgments, 7
Introduction, 1 1

1 . Score One for the Elements, 1 7

2. T. J. and the Galloping Ghost, 24

3. First of the Wars, 39

4. Powerhouse in the Polo Grounds, 53

5. S. O. S. for Benny, 62

6. Convincer for Rockne, 71

7. The Biggest Giant of Them All, 85

8. Stout Steve Takes Over, 93

9 . Strong and Stronger, i o i

10. God Bless Abe Cohen, 1 1 1

1 1 . And the Rookies Shall Lead Them, 1

12. Alphonse and the Duke, 134

1 3 . AA Almost All the Way, 1 46

14. "We Don't Need a Band," 155

15. The Field Goal That Started a Riot, 167

16. The Message Was Urgent, 178

1 7. The Sound of Drums, 186

1 8. The Short, Sad Career of Frankie, 1 99

19. Bottom and Partway Back, 209

20. The Umbrella Had Holes in It, 218

2 1 . Big Jim Answers the Call, 232

22. It Beats Working in the Mines, 242

23. For Want of a Couple Inches, 253

24. The High Cost of Winning, 264

25. The Littlest Giant, 276

26. The Old Men and the T, 291
All-Time Records, 301
Index, 313

Introduction

POLITICIAN Jim Farley, singer Martha Wright, jeweler Jules
Glaenzer, comedian Phil Silvers, restaurateur Toots Shor, and
author Quentin Reynolds have one passion in common. Along
with 64,000 other New Yorkers, they have discovered there is
nothing more exciting or exhilarating than spending seven
Sundays a year in rain or snow cheering Y. A. Tittle's passes,
Don Chandler's punts, and Sam Huff's tackles. They are New
York Giant football fans. To status-conscious New Yorkers,
nothing offers more status today than two season tickets on the
50-yard line for Giant games.

It wasn't always this way.

Back in 1925, it cost Tim Mara only $500 to buy a National
Football League franchise in New York; yet, for years it was
the poorest investment the shrewd bookmaker ever made. In
the early days, the NFL was strictly a low-budget operation
and the Giants did little to strengthen it. Players earned less
than $100 a game, schedules and franchises were subject to
change from one day to the next, and Mara couldn't even give
his tickets away. In 39 years, time and television have changed
the face of professional football. In 1963, more than 4 million
fans will pay their way into NFL games, and players now aver-
age $13,000 a season. Today, Mara's sons wouldn't sell the
Giants for $6 million.

In 1956, the last time they won the NFL championship, the
Giants sold fewer than 8,000 season tickets. In 1963, they sold
more than 50,000. In 1956, ticket brokers rarely handled Giant
tickets; in 1963, they ask and receive $25 for a $5 seat. For the

second straight year, the Giants expect to sell every single
ticket for every single home game.

The struggle for Giant tickets has had its amusing moments.
In one New York divorce case, a husband and wife amiably
agreed on the estate, the children, and the property in one
day, then battled for nearly a week over the disposition of two
Giant tickets. This, said the judge, is a sad commentary on
the moral fiber of people today. The wife was equally dis-
turbed; not because of the judge's criticism, but because her
husband had been awarded the tickets.

One prominent New York corporation was able to obtain
four season tickets through a young employee who happened
to be a close friend of Tim Mara Jr., the secretary-treasurer of
the Giants. Dissatisfied with the youngster's work, the com-
pany decided to fire him, then realized the consequences. If
he went, he was taking his four Giant tickets with him. Need-
less to say, the young man is still with the company and, with
four additional tickets, is progressing splendidly.

Since 1958, death has been the only cause for discontinu-
ation of a season ticket. To avoid disputes, the Giants have
established a policy that offers first choice to the family of the
deceased, but sometimes even this hasn't worked. Not too long
ago, a long-time ticket holder dropped into the Coliseum
Tower office to visit Jack Mara, president of the Giants. The
visitor and a friend had been sharing two 50-yard-line box
seats for a dozen years, and only three days before the friend
had died. The problem: both tickets were in the dead man's
name. "Mr. Mara," said the survivor, "I just wanted to let you
know what my friend's last words to me were, 'Tell the Maras
I want you to have my Giant tickets/ "

To those who remember the days when the Maras hired
press agents to give away thousands of seats every week, the
miracle of the New York Giants is a realization of an Amer-
ican dream. For millions of youngsters, hours and days are
spent devising and playing make-believe games of football.
Throughout the years, there have been dice football, card
football, electric football, and dozens of others. Desks and
notebooks have been filled with statistics and daydreams re-
cording the achievements of Glenn Davis, Doc Blanchard, and
hundreds of other AlI-Americans.

For most youngsters, the games end somewhere between the
first kiss and the last report card. For Wellington Mara, the
games have never ended. When he was nine, his father did not
buy him another football game: he bought him the New York
Giants. This is the story of Wellington Mara and his family
and the thousand giants who have made the New York Giants
one of the most successful dynasties in sports history.

THE GIANTS OF NEW YORK

Score One for the Elements

FROM Shor's to Nedick's, from Brooks Brothers to Klein's, from
the New York Athletic Club to the 92nd Street YMHA, and
from El Morocco to Smalls Paradise, professional football had
captivated New York in 1962. In a sophisticated city of 7.8
million people, conditioned to yawn at the Yankees, mythicize
the Mets, and virtually ignore the Rangers, Knickerbockers,
and Titans, New Yorkers suddenly were fascinated by the
New York Giants. The Giants had been popular before, draw-
ing increasing crowds since winning the National Football
League championship in 1956, but now, for the first time, they
were the city's team and their season tickets were a status sym-
bol. From the moment they clinched the Eastern Conference
championship, their championship game with Green Bay at
Yankee Stadium December 30 was the only sports event that
mattered.

At Madison Square Garden a few nights before the cham-
pionship, more than 10,000 basketball fans ignored the pretty
cheerleaders and the doubleheader to chant repeatedly, "Beat
Green Bay" On Fifth Avenue, stylish matrons decorated their
mink coats with red, white, and blue buttons that read: LET'S
Go GIANTS. And on Broadway, speculators were asking and
receiving $40 for a $12 seat. When the 18,000 remaining non-
subscription tickets were snapped up within three hours after
the Giants put them on sale, speculators' prices skyrocketed
even higher and hundreds of New Yorkers quickly made reser-
vations in Pennsylvania, Connecticut, and New Jersey motels,
where, for from $8 to $20, they could watch the championship

on 21 -Inch television in rooms outside the 75-mile blackout
area.

By the afternoon of December 29, 24 hours before GB Day,
only the players themselves seemed unaffected by the football
hysteria. That morning the Giants had worked out at Yankee
Stadium for the last time and now, in their rooms at the Hotel
Roosevelt, they relaxed in small groups, playing cards, read-
ing newspapers, watching television, studying playbooks and,
strangely enough, discussing the weather, which was cold and
supposed to get even colder. It was a long day, the longest of
the season for the players, with little to do but wait and try not
to think too much about tomorrow. It wasn't easy. The Giants
had been thinking about this particular tomorrow for nearly a
year. As champions of the Eastern Conference in 1961, they
were a proud and confident team when they traveled to Green
Bay for the title game. When they returned a few days later,
they were beaten, 37-0, and humiliated. "None of us could
forget that afternoon/' said Sam Huff, Giant middle linebacker.
"We've been waiting for this second chance for a long, long
time/ 3

The rematch was a game to excite any fan's imagination the
Giants' devastating passing attack and defense matched against
the Packers' overpowering running attack and defense. The
oddsmakers liked Green Bay by 6i/ 2 points, but they had been
wrong before.

In his hotel room, halfback Frank Gifford complained about
the New York newspaper strike, flipped through the pages of a
Boston paper, and stopped at a headline: PACKERS FAVORED IN
TITLE GAME.

"How's the knee?" Gifford asked roommate Ralph Guglielmi,
New York's second-string quarterback.

"Still stiff," said Guglielmi, who had twisted his knee in the
final game against Dallas. "I'm going to ring Y. A.'s room and
see if they're ready for lunch."

Down the hall, mammoth tackle Rosey Grier, dressed in
undershorts and T-shirt, hummed "Night Train," drumming
out the beat with his fingers on the dressing table. "I've been
thinking of using it in my act," Grier, an off-season night club
singer, told roommate Rosey Brown. "What do you think
of it?"

Without waiting for an answer, Grier pulled himself up in
bed and started singing. As an entertainer, Rosey Grier, 280-
pounds of baritone, remained one of the finest defensive tackles
in NFL history.

In another room Allie Sherman, coach of the New York
Giants, smoked a cigar, letting the smoke billow up around his
head, and tried to relax, It was impossible. For Sherman, these
were the worst hours. "We want this one/ 1 he told a writer.
"We want it so bad we can taste it."

For a small group of Giants, it was time for a Saturday after-
noon ritual started by quarterback Y. A. Tittle in 1961. One
Saturday, too lazy to walk crosstown to Downey's or Shor's,
Tittle had dropped into the Red Raven, a small Italian restau-
rant on 45th Street. Tittle had eaten a meatball sandwich that
afternoon and undoubtedly would never have returned if the
Giants hadn't won the next day. But Tittle, the most valuable
Giant, was also the most superstitious, and the Red Raven soon
became a pre-game ritual. The Saturday before the champion-
ship game, Tittle brought Del Shofner, Jim Katcavage, Alex
Webster, and Gifford along with him. "Anything to keep Y. A.
happy," said Gifford. "Most of us spent the rest of the day with
our families and friends. I watched the late show, discussed
automatics with Guglielmi, and fell asleep before one/"

The tension began to build the next morning. In a special
dining room, the Giants gathered at 9:30 for steak, eggs, and a
quick review of football. Calm but still not relaxed, Sherman
carefully ran through the six running plays, the eight passing
plays, and the four automatics the Giants would use against the
Packers. Superbly conditioned and supremely confident, the
Giants thought they were ready for anything. They changed
their minds the moment they stepped outside the hotel. "We
knew It was cold," said Gifford, "but the wind surprised the
hell out of us. As soon as we saw how bad it was blowing, we
knew we were in trouble." A chilling blast cut across Tittle's
bald head and the Giant quarterback shuddered. He could
hardly keep his feet. If this wind kept up, how was he going to
control a football?

By the time the Giants arrived at Yankee Stadium, weather
conditions were even worse. The temperature had dropped to
18 and would drop even lower; the winds had risen to 35 miles

an hour and would rise even higher. It was a terrible day for
the players, but it was a treacherous one for the fans. The un-
lucky people who had not been able to purchase tickets created
traffic jams on the Merritt Parkway and New Jersey Turnpike
and watched the game in heated motel rooms. The 64,593
lucky ones who had been able to buy seats dressed in a colorful
assortment of storm coats, ski outfits, and long winter under-
wear and huddled together in Yankee Stadium, sharing blan-
kets, bottles, and total discomfort. Amazingly, only 299 fans
who had bought seats decided to stay at home. "I almost lost
all my toes one winter in Korea/' said a New York commercial
artist who watched the championship game from the open
bleachers, "but that was nothing compared to the playoff game.
My hands and feet were frozen, my teeth were chattering, I was
convinced my nose and ears were going to fall off, and the
damn game hadn't even started yet."

If a day were ever designed for a football team, December
30, 1962, was tailor-made for the Green Bay Packers. The
weather had reduced the game to its elemental state where
the Giants' passing was futile, and violence and viciousness
dominated play on the frozen field. The elements took over
from the opening kickoff. Three times, Willie Wood, Green
Bay's kickoff specialist, set the ball on the T, and three times
the winds blew it off. Finally, with a teammate holding the
ball, Wood booted deep into Giant territory. The pattern of
the game was established almost immediately. The cold numb-
ing his fingers, the wind blowing his passes off target, Tittle
realized he couldn't throw long and was forced to rely on his
running.

Matched against the brute strength of fullback Jim Taylor,
who stood up against one of the most severe poundings a back
has ever received, the Giants could not win on the ground.

Yet in the end, the 1962 NFL championship game was de-
cided not by the weather, but by the breaksand the Packers
got all of them. Green Bay fumbled five times and recovered
five times. New York fumbled twice and lost the ball twice.
"Somebody up there must really like you when you can't
do anything wrong," said defensive end Andy Robustelli.
"They're a good football team but everything went their way."

After Jerry Kramer kicked a 26-yard field goal to give the

Packers a 3-0 lead In the first quarter, the Giants started to
drive. With a third down and 2 yards to go on his own 46,
Tittle completed three straight short passes for a first down on
the Packer 15. Faking a hand-off to Webster, Tittle dropped
back Into his pocket and spotted right end Joe Walton stand-
ing all alone In the end zone. It was a perfect call and a
perfect pass except for one thing. Middle linebacker Ray
Nitschke powered his way through the Giant blockers and
just managed to deflect the ball with his right hand into the
arms of teammate Dan Currle. By the margin of a finger, the
Giants had lost a certain touchdown, one that would have
changed the entire complexion of the game.

Throughout the remainder of the first quarter and all of the
second, it was a bruising, brutal battle of the lines. Time and
time again, Green Bay's Jimmy Taylor battled headfirst into
the New York line, elbowing and kicking his way for a few
extra yards. And time and time again, Huff and his team-
mates battered Taylor to the ground, punishing him savagely.

"Taylor's a Hppy guy," said Giant linebacker Tom Scott.
"He takes it as a personal insult if you tackle him. He thinks
the guy who hit him has challenged him and the next time
you try to stop him he's going to make It hurt you/'

On one play, Taylor went down under a half-dozen Giant
tacklers and staggered to his feet, holding his stomach, blood
pouring from his arm and his tongue. On another, he went
down but bounced up.

"I had my arms around him," said Giant tackle Dick Modze-
lewski, "and all of a sudden I felt a terrible pain. Taylor
bit me."

The Giant ballcarriers were not in Taylor s class. Late In
the second quarter, Phil King was hit hard and fumbled, and
Nitschke recovered on the Giant 28. On the first play, half-
back Paul Hornung completed a wobbly pass to flanker Boyd
Dowler on the 7. On the second, Taylor faked a plunge into
the left side of the Giant line, drawing Huff out of position,
then cut back through a big hole in the middle to go over for
the touchdown without being touched, "That was the only
time all day they didn't kill me/' he said. "It felt funny/*

By half time, the weather had become unbearable. The
temperature, falling below 10 degrees, was so cold that one

movie cameraman suffered severe frostbite, and the cameras
had to be thawed out over open bonfires in both dugouts.
The winds, swirling dirt through Yankee Stadium at 35 and
40 miles an hour, tore the American flag in center field to
shreds, blew the Packer bench across the field, and toppled a
camera mounted on a midfield platform. "We knew we'd lost
the best part of our attack when we couldn't throw long," said
backfield coach Kyle Rote, "but we still thought we had a
chance. We needed a couple breaks."

The Giants got their only break early in the third quarter
and made the most of it. At 7:26, defensive back Erich Barnes
broke through and blocked end Max McGee's punt. Substi-
tute end Jim Collier recovered near the goal line, rolled over,
and New York suddenly trailed by only three points, 10-7.
Fired up, their defensive line outcharging the Packers for the
first time all afternoon, the Giants held and forced Green Bay
to punt. It was a poor kick, but Sam Horner fumbled on the
Giant 42, Nitschke recovered, and the Giant momentum died.
Five plays later, Kramer kicked his second field goal, this time
from the 29, and Green Bay led, 13-7.

Tittle still wasn't finished. Giving up the long pass, he
started hitting with his short one and, with five completions
and two penalties, moved the Giants from their 20 to the
Packer 18. Then, just when they seemed ready to move ahead
for the first time, the Giants were penalized twice for holding
and pushed back to their own 40. With Taylor repeatedly
carrying for necessary first-down yardage, the Packers kept
possession for nearly five minutes, scoring again when Kramer
booted his third field goal for a 16-7 lead with 1:50 left. Yet
even now, few fans left their seats. With the lights turned on,
the Giants started one more drive, but once again the cold, the
winds, and the Packer defense stopped them. The Green Bay
Packers had won their second straight championship, but the
victory belonged to the elements.

"I don't remember ever being hit so hard/' said Taylor,
who gained 85 yards in 31 carries. "I bled all game. They
really came to play."

Taylor's tribute was fitting, but it did not satisfy the Giants.
They had lost a game they had desperately wanted to win and
they had lost without getting the chance to play their own

game. Tears mixed with anger as the Giants stripped off their
uniforms for the final time in 1962. "They're thirty-six tough
S.O.B/s," said Huff. "But they were lucky."

"We're still the better team," said Gifford.

"The ball was like a diving duck," said Tittle, who had been
held to only eighteen completions and 197 yards in 41 passes.
"I threw one pass and it almost came back to me. The short
ones worked, but the long ball broke up. We needed the
long one."

Sherman leaned back against his desk, his face a rosy red
from the cold, his eyes a watery red from the defeat. "A lot of
people said we were humiliated last year when they beat us,
thirty-seven to nothing," said Sherman. "Well, there was no
humiliation today. The boys vindicated themselves. They es-
tablished themselves as pros. They're still my champions."

It had taken the worst afternoon in playoff history to defeat
the Giants of 1962. Stripped of their chief weapon, they had
still battled fiercely and still almost won. Yet even in defeat,
the Giants remained the toast of New York. They had come
a long way in 38 years.

T J. and the Galloping Ghost

As a youngster on New York City's Lower West Side in the
early years of this century, blond, pink-cheeked Timothy James
Mara had no time for games. To help support his widowed
mother and himself, he rushed from his morning classes at
P. S. 14 to his afternoon newspaper route along Broadway.
After a hurried dinner, he was at the Third Avenue Theatre
every evening working as an usher. "It just got to be too
much for a thirteen-year-old," he later recalled, "so I quit
school."

Timmy Mara was ambitious. Delivering his newspapers to
the St. Denis and Union Square hotels, he was fascinated by
the color and confidence of the well-heeled bookmakers who
flourished le'gally in those days of plenty. At fourteen, Timmy
started working as a runner collecting small tips if the bettor
won or 5 percent commissions if he lost and by the time he
was eighteen he was taking book himself. He opened a bindery
for legal manuscripts on Nassau Street, but, within a few
months, he was doing more bookmaking than bookbinding.
Affable, gregarious, and honest, he made friends and custom-
ers easily; so easily that in 1921 he decided to close his success-
ful downtown office and open a betting enclosure in the most
exclusive section at Belmont Race Track. It was a bold and
risky venture, but despite some early losses including $60,000
on a fillie named Sally's Alley in 1922 Mara survived to build
one of the best businesses and reputations in New York. Win
or lose, Tim Mara was always good for a smile and a joke.
"Where did you get that one from?" he'd bellow to a pros-
pective bettor. "If that animal wins, I'll give you my watch."

Intrigued by Tammany Hall politics and interested in box-
ing promotion, Mara soon became known as a young man
who could get things done. The beefy 6-footer knew the
right people-in the Police and Fire Departments, in City Hall,
in Albany and even if he didn't have big money himself, he
had good friends who did.

One of Mara's friends was Billy Gibson, a sometime book-
maker who also happened to be a fight manager. Gibson,
who had managed lightweight champion Benny Leonard, now
was representing Gene Tunney, and T. J. Mara wanted a
piece of Tunney. It was a warm, sunny afternoon that first day
of August, 1925, when Mara left his office in the Knicker-
bocker Building for an appointment with Gibson. Delayed by
a phone call, Mara arrived late, and Gibson already was
involved in a conversation with Joe Carr, a Columbus sports-
writer, and Dr. Harry March, a Canton, Ohio, football pro-
moter. Carr, commissioner of a sprawling, haphazard 18-team
organization called the National Professional Football League,
and March, an advocate of postgraduate football, had been
trying to convince Gibson to invest in a New York franchise.
In its four seasons of operation, the league had been unsuccess-
ful financially, irregular in its scheduling and, with one rainy
Sunday often putting a franchise out of business, extremely
shaky in its structure. Yet Gibson still was interested. When
he had taken Benny Leonard to fight in Akron five years
earlier, the bout had drawn fewer than 6,000 people. Three
days before the fight, a professional football game between
Akron and Canton had drawn 18,000. Gibson had been so
impressed that he had invested $15,000 in a New York pro
football venture with Harvard Ail-American Charley Brick-
ley and had lost his $15,000. Gibson was still convinced pro
football in New York was a good risk, but it was one risk
he wasn't prepared to finance a second time. When Mara
arrived, Gibson had just made up his mind to reject the
proposition.

"Say, maybe you'd be interested in this, Tim," he said, as
soon as Mara had eased himself into a large leather chair.
"These men here may have something you might want to
buy."

"What is It?" said Mara.

"A professional football franchise for New York/' said
Gibson.

"How much?" asked Mara, who had never seen a football
game, professional or college.

"They want five hundred dollars for the franchise," said
Gibson. "We could go into this together."

Mara still wasn't sold but Carr and March, both persuasive
and knowledgeable, set about convincing him. "You'll prob-
ably lose some money the first year or two/' said Carr, "but
after you're established, you'll be making big money. The
future of pro football is tremendous."

It was a decided gamble but Mara liked the odds. "Any
franchise in New York has to be worth five hundred dollars/'
he said making out a check to Carr. "Just tell" me one thing.
Now that I have a franchise, what do I do with it?"

"Just leave that to me/' said Dr. March. "That's my
department."

So, on August 1, 1925, Tim Mara, who had wanted a piece
of Gene Tunney, wound up with a piece of the All-Collegian
Professional Football Club, Inc., the New York franchise in the
National Professional Football League. With Gibson serving
as president and March as secretary, treasurer Mara soon dis-
covered that his $500 bought a paper franchise and not a
football team. To put a team on the field, he first needed a
team, a coach, a field, and publicity and to get these, Mara
needed money. Most of his friends thought he had made a
foolish investment and refused to become involved financially,
but Mara was able to convince Matty Frank, a real-estate
speculator, and one or two others to buy shares in the corpo-
ration. Renting the Polo Grounds, Mara decided to name his
team after the baseball Giants, who played on the same upper
Harlem field.

With additional capital and a stadium that could hold
70,000, March, a white-haired, pipe-smoking physician who
preferred pro football to medicine, went to work Immediately.
He hired little Bob Folwell, a fiery former wrestler whose
vocabulary had proven too salty for the Naval Academy and
several other colleges, as the Giants' first coach. To attract
New York's sophisticated sports fans, the Giants needed big-
name college stars, and March and Folwell got them. Their

first ballplayer was Dr. Joseph Alexander, an All-American
guard and center at Syracuse In 1918-20 and one of pro-
fessional football's finest linemen. A practicing physician
in New York, 230-pound Alexander had been playing pro
football on weekends for the last four years and eagerly ap-
plied for the Giant coaching job. Told that Folwell had
already been hired, Alexander still wanted to play for the
Giants, but he did have one reservation. He wanted to play
quarterback!

"Well," said March, "let's see what happens. We were count-
ing on you to play center." And for a flat $3,000 season con-
tract, Alexander, the only Giant to wear a mustache and one
of the few Giants to be signed for the full year, agreed to
return to center. March then signed six other authentic All-
Americansends Nasty Bob Nash of Rutgers and Lynn Bomar
of Vanderbilt, guard Art Carney o Navy, tackles Century
Mllstead of Yale and Ed McGinley of Pennsylvania, and, the
biggest name of them all, Jim Thorpe of Carlisle. To back
them up, the Giants signed many of the best-known Eastern
players little HInkey Hames of Penn State, handsome Jack
McBride and Paul Jappe of Syracuse, Al Bednar, Joe Wil-
liams, Wally Walbridge, and Matty Brennan of Lafayette,
Dutch Hendrian of Pitt, Fred Parnell of Colgate, Heine Ben-
kert of Rutgers, and Tom Myers of Fordham. The salaries
ranged from $75 a game for all but a few of the linemen to
$4,000 a season for Haines and Milstead. "This undoubtedly
will be the finest eleven ever gathered," predicted Folwell. "I
can't see how another pro team will be able to stay on the
field with us."

On paper, the new Giants did seem powerful the line was
the heaviest in pro football (averaging 206) and the backfield
was fast and versatile. Yet from their first practice in early
September, the team was a problem team. With most of the
players holding full-time jobs during the day, practices were
crammed In after 4:30 every afternoon. Though they carried
22 men most of the season, the Giants, like every other pro
team, rarely used more than one or two substitutes a game
and then only in case of injury. With frequent injuries, the
Giants often didn't have enough healthy players to practice.
But the biggest problem was Jim Thorpe, the thirty-seven-year-

old Indian who had won the decathlon and pentathlon events
in the 1912 Olympics and had since played professional base-
ball and football. Hampered by a weak left knee and troubled
by a fondness for alcohol, Thorpe signed a unique contract
with the Giants. He was to be paid $200 a half game and to
play no more than 30 minutes until later in the season when
he had worked himself into shape. Nash, a fierce, rugged end
and the Giants' first captain, had been playing pro football for
four years and he, too, had slowed up considerably. Dr. Alex-
ander, the strong man of the Giant line, was so busy with
hospital duties that he often was late for practice and occa-
sionally missed the sessions entirely. McGinley, at 185 pounds
a lightweight among the giant Giants, lost interest quickly
and quit to play with an Atlantic City team closer to his home
in Philadelphia.

Despite their troubles, the Giants seemed impressive enough
in their opener an exhibition in the rain at New Britain,
Connecticut, against Ducky Pond's All Stars. Thorpe scored on
a 3-yard plunge and McBride, Haines, and Jappe added touch-
downs in the 26-0 victory. "We thought we were pretty good,"
said 215-pound, 6-foot- 1 Milstead, nicknamed Wally, Bozo,
and Puny by his teammates. "Then we climbed aboard that
damn boat for Providence."

The boat, carrying cargo in addition to the Giants, began
to list badly in the North River, almost turned over near the
Battery, and barely made it to Providence the next day. The
beds were too small, the water was too rough, and the atmos-
phere decidedly non-Spartan. Heine Benkert fell asleep with
a cigar in his mouth and almost set the boat afire, and another
player was drunk most of the trip. Only Jim Thorpe, tired
and surprisingly tame, seemed untroubled, playing solitaire
under a dim deck light. It was a sick football team that ar-
rived in Providence, and lost to the Steamrollers, 14-0. Once
Thorpe broke loose momentarily on a long run and showed
his younger teammates a fleeting glimpse of what he once
had been. "On that one run, Thorpe just gave that tackier
the hip and that bimbo must have flown twenty yards/ 7 said
dapper end Lynn Bomar. "It was just a sock with the hip.
They rave about some players who have snaky hips. Well,

Thorpe has battering-ram hips and that's one heck of a lot
better."

Mara was not pleased with the Giants' performance. He
had been counting on a good showing in Providence to help
boost sales for the Polo Grounds opener against the Frank-
ford Yellow Jackets of Pennsylvania. Already out $25,000,
Mara placed ads in the New York newspapers, courted writers,
hired publicity men and sound trucks, and distributed more
than 5,000 free tickets every week. His prices-50 cents, $1.10,
$2.20, and $2.75-were scaled below the college games. But his
tickets still weren't selling. The day before the home opener,
the Giants traveled by train to Frankford, a Philadelphia
club team, and lost their second league game, 5-3. Yet Mara
still wasn't discouraged on the morning of October 18. It was
warm and the sun shone brightly on the Mara clan as they
stood outside Our Lady of Esperanza Church at 156th Street off
Riverside Drive. They had just come from Mass and were on
their way to the Polo Grounds. "Well," said Mara to a friend,
"today's the day we see if I can put pro football over in
New York."

To root for their team, some 1,500 colorfully feathered
Frankford Athletic Association fans had arrived early with a
band and cheerleaders. By game time, the only thing missing
was the paying customers. Of an estimated 25,000 in attend-
ance, only half had paid their way in. While his seventeen-
year-old son John handled one of tjie yard-markers, Tim Mara
sat on the bench alongside his other son, nine-year-old Well-
ington. The first time the Giants had the ball, Thorpe stum-
bled off tackle for a short gain. Mara was delighted. Grinning,
he turned to Bill Abbott, his publicity man, and said, "Now
isn't that the greatest run you've ever seen?"

But except for one drive late in the fourth quarter when
McBride completed seven of nine short passes, the Giants
never really threatened and lost the opener, 14-0. Thorpe
couldn't even play his required 30 minutes. After stumbling
unsuccessfully for a loose ball in the second quarter, Thorpe,
his left leg encased in a heavy brace, limped to the sidelines
and pitched forward onto a tarpaulin next to the Giant bench,
thoroughly exhausted. At thirty-seven, he had played his final
minute as a Giant.

Mrs. Mara was more disturbed about a cold Wellington
had caught than she was about the attendance or the defeat.
A bright, vivacious woman, she immediately came up with a
novel solution the Giant bench, placed on the south side of
the field, was in the chilling shade from the second quarter
on while the visiting team's bench remained bathed in sun.
"She told Pop to switch the benches," says Wellington Mara.
"It was either that or leave me home, so Pop switched benches.
And they've stayed switched ever since."

With Thorpe and Nash and a few other problem veterans
no longer with the team, coach Folwell began to make prog-
ress with his younger players settling on a backfield of Hen-
drian at quarterback, Haines and Benkert at halfback, and
McBride at fullback. Hendrian did a masterful job calling
plays and signals from the standard single-wing and punt
formations, and the Giants finally began to play team foot-
ball. Against the favored Cleveland Bulldogs, NFL champions
in 1924, the Giants exploded to a 19-0 victory, but attendance
dwindled to 18,000 with less than 10,000 paid. Thorpe might
have been finished as a player but his name still was missed
at the gate. Yet for many Giant fans, New York already had a
new hero slim, flashy Henry Luther Haines, a dangerous run-
ner and agile receiver who scored twice against Cleveland.
McBride and Hendrian, both triple threats, were more versa-
tile, but 170-pound Haines was more spectacular. By the fifth
week of the season, Giant newspaper ads read:

COME SEE HINKEY HAINES AND
His NEW YORK FOOTBALL GIANTS

At times during the 1925 season, the Giant organization
seemed more a road-show comedy than a professional football
team. Moments after the Cleveland game had ended, a minis-
ter convinced a policeman to arrest Dr. March and Captain
Hendrian for playing football on the Sabbath, a punishable
offense in Pennsylvania but not in New York. The judge
tossed the case out of court immediately but the minister, ob-
viously a baseball fan, had March and another Giant brought
to court on the same charge later in the season.

Coach Folwell, a profane talker and a colorful character,
drove to the Polo Grounds from his New Jersey apple orchard

every afternoon and returned home in confusion every eve-
ning. At the start of the season, the Giant management had
suggested that perhaps some of the players' wives would like to
watch their husbands practice. A few of the wives showed up
the first couple of afternoons, but by the end of a week, only
Century Milstead's wife Mildred was left and she never
stopped coming. This wouldn't have created any problems ex-
cept for one thing the only passageway into and out of the
Polo Grounds during practice was straight through the Giant
clubhouse. So, to w^atch the Giants practice, Mildred Milstead
would shut her eyes twice every day and, at a prearranged
signal, run through the dressing room.

Tough but fun-loving, Folwell usually added to his own
problems. He loved to diagram his single wing and punt for-
mations and seven-man diamond defenses on a blackboard in
the dressing room, but, even more, he loved to down a few
beers and recite poetry. Once started, he'd forget his single
wing and offer a stirring recitation of "The Face on the Bar-
room Floor/' "Bob," commented Milstead, "was a diamond
in the rough."

In the next two games, both at the Polo Grounds, the Giants
defeated the Buffalo Bisons, 7-0, and the Columbus Tigers,
19-0, but attendance plunged even lower. The night before
the Columbus game, a policeman spotted two youngsters walk-
ing across the bridge from the Polo Grounds to the Bronx
carrying a large bag between them.

"What do you think you're doing out here this late?" said
the policeman.

"Nothing," answered one of the boys. "We're just carrying
some dirty laundry."

"OK," said the policeman, "let's have a look." Inside the bag
were 20 New York Giant scarlet and blue jerseys and eight
pairs of cleats.

The Giants got their uniforms back an hour before the
game but Mara and the players would have been happier if
they had never showed up. The weather was miserable and
the crowd (less than 1,200 paid) was worse. To add to their
problems, it was the roughest game of the season. On the first
series of plays, Haines returned a punt 22 yards, was hit by a
flying elbow, and left the game with a bloodied face and a

broken nose. Sixty minutes later, a dozen Giants and Tigers
had been helped to the dressing room. McBride continued to
dominate the Giant offense with bruising bucks, precise place-
ments, and pinpoint passes, but rugged Joe Alexander turned
in the play of the game. One of the first linemen ever to play
a roving center on defense, Alexander picked off a pass against
the Tigers, stiff-armed one tackier, and lumbered 50 yards
for a touchdown. Mara, still a novice at football, was more
appreciative of the brawling. "That was one hell of a fight,"
he said, "even if the shillelaghs were missing."

To operate in New York each week, Mara needed at least
$4,000 to cover Giant expenses and another $2,500 to f 6,000 to
meet visitors' guarantees, and, after checking the receipts of the
Columbus game, he began to run out of capital and patience.
Even if he didn't know football, he did know promotion and
he knew the Giants didn't have a personality he could sell.
Haines was an exciting young athlete but New Yorkers ob-
viously weren't going to pay their way to watch him. For the
last three years, Mara had been hearing of the exploits of
Harold (Red) Grange, the Galloping Ghost of the University
of Illinois, who would be playing his final college game early
enough in November to permit him to play at least four pro-
fessional games if he could be signed. Mara was interested in
Grange but there were complications. Grange would have to
quit college without graduating before he could sign a pro-
fessional contract. And more important, Mara, already losing
four times as much money as he had ever thought possible,
was hesitant about risking the $100,000 Grange reportedly
wanted.

Without Grange, the Giants continued to win, shutting out
the Rochester Jeffersons, 13-0, before only 10,000 on Armi-
stice Day with most of the fans turning out to see the high
school preliminary game. Then they gained revenge over the
Providence Steamrollers, 13-12, but lost ten men by injuries.
Hendrian, who had lost four front teeth in an earlier game,
was the most seriously injured suffering a cracked rib. Haines,
his nose hidden behind a leather mask, saved the victory with
a brilliant piece of strategy in the final minute. Leading 13-10
with fourth down on his own 5, Hinkey, who did not want to
give the Steamrollers another chance to score a touchdown or

a field goal, dropped back into punt formation. Instead of
kicking, he touched the ball down in the end zone for a two-
point safety. With the score now 13-12, the Giants ran out
the clock without ever relinquishing the ball.

Mara's corps of publicity men finally earned their salaries
the following Sunday when Indian Joe Guyon, tackle Steve
Owen, fullback Phil White, and the Kansas City Cowboys
arrived in town. Dressing the Cowboys in rented chaps, boots,
and ten-gallon hats in his Knickerbocker Building office, Mara
then sent them on a tour of New York, distributing tickets on
Wall Street and posing for pictures on horses in Central Park.
The promotion paid off 30,000 fans, the largest Polo Grounds
crowd of the season, saw the Giants win their sixth straight,
9-3, on a McBride to Bomar pass and a field goal by Hendrian,
who played almost a full game with his cracked rib swathed in
two rolls of tape. Humorist Will Rogers presented the Cow-
boys with a silver football before the game and offered "to
lasso any Giant that tries to get away," but he apparently for-
got his rope. Indian Joe Guyon, a Carlisle graduate with a
degree in viciousness, hit little Heine Benkert with a crunch-
ing shoulder tackle early in the game and roughed him up
again on the next play. "He'd love to hurt a player and just
do a war dance around him," said Milstead. "Lynn and I de-
cided to teach him a lesson." A few minutes later, Guyon car-
ried the ball off tackle. Bomar hit him high. Milstead hit him
low. And Guyon was through dancing for the afternoon.

To strengthen their backfield, the Giants bought fullback
White from the Cowboys and signed Mike Palm and Bill Ken-
yon, both assistant coaches at Georgetown. With 25,000 fans
paying their way into the Polo Grounds to see Columbia play
Syracuse, the Giants took the ferry to Staten Island for an
exhibition game against the Stapleton team. It was supposed
to be an easy afternoon for the Giants but the 7,000 Stape fans
who rimmed the field at Thompson's Stadium expected a
bloodbath. When one Giant lineman, a rough 215-pounder,
missed a block early in the first quarter and stumbled out of
bounds into the crowd, he suddenly felt a foot digging into his
side. He looked up and spotted a red-faced fan getting ready
to kick him again. The Giant didn't debate the issue. He got
up quickly and raced back onto the field. From that moment

on, the Giants stayed clear of the sidelines. After winning 7-0
on the muddy field, the Giant players, their fists ready, walked
close together in double file through the hostile crowd. "It was
a matter of self-preservation," said one Giant. "Those people
wanted to kill us."

Mara missed the excitement on Staten Island. Earlier in the
week, he had secretly left New York with Billy Gibson and
headed for Chicago. Mara had finally made up his mind he
desperately needed the Galloping Ghost and he was willing to
pay for him. But he was too late. Early in the 1925 season,
C. C. (Cash and Carry) Pyle, a movie theatre owner with big
ideas, had signed Grange to a personal management contract
and, immediately after Grange's final game against Ohio State,
he had convinced him to quit school and sign with the Chi-
cago Bears for the rest of the season. To get Grange, the
Bears almost had to give up their franchise, but Pyle finally
relented. He settled for a 50-50 split with Grange getting 60
percent of their share. Riding back to New York, Mara, who
had lost out in signing the one man he thought could save his
football team, still had one consolation: the Bears and Grange
were scheduled to play in the Polo Grounds December 6.

The Giants defeated the Dayton Triangles, 23-0, for their
seventh straight victory after three losses, but everyone was
thinking and talking about the Galloping Ghost. More than
$45,000 in the red, Mara was very close to selling his franchise.
"The only trouble," he said years later, "was where would you
find anyone crazy enough to buy it?" He had put together an
attractive and winning football team and New Yorkers had
not supported it. Now, if Red Grange couldn't attract New
York fans, he knew he was saddled to a loser.

Despite a rain that fell throughout most of the week, the
tickets sold faster than the Giants could print them. On the
first day, they sold 15,000. Over the next two days, they sold
25,000 more. By Thursday, all 3,482 box seats had been sold,
and 100 sportswriters from Albany to Chicago and Cleveland
had wired ahead for credentials. For the first time in history,
professional football was receiving page-one treatment in big-
city papers and magazines. Every place Grange went, fans
swarmed out to see him. In his first game as a professional,
against the Chicago Cardinals on Thanksgiving Day, he drew

a capacity crowd of 36,000, then followed with 8,000 in a bliz-
zard in St. Louis and 35,000 in Philadelphia. His next stop:
the Polo Grounds.

The Giants had traveled to Philadelphia to watch Grange
play against Frankford and, on the train back, Folwell pre-
dicted the Giants w r ould win two touchdowns to one. The day
before the game, New York was a slight 6-5 favorite.

Mara, who had stubbornly refused to jump prices for the
Bear game, remained calm as rain continued throughout Sat-
urday. It was still pouring when Mara went to bed a little after
midnight. Early Sunday morning, the phone rang. It was an
associate. "Tim," he said. "I know it's early but just take a
look out of your window."

Groggy, Mara stumbled toward the window, pulled up the
shade, and smiled. "That was the most beautiful sky I ever
saw," he said. "It must be the Luck of the Irish/* To those who
knew him well, it was also the Luck of Mara, which would
guide him through many a sunny Sunday in his years as owner
of the Giants.

"Pop used to give tickets to Wellington and me to give out
at school," says John Mara. "At first, no one knew what team
we were talking about. Most of the time we couldn't get our
friends to go even if we gave them a dozen free tickets. But
the Grange game, that was different. Everyone wanted to see
Grange."

By noon, the 2,500 special police assigned to handle the
crowds lost control of the mob pushing up 8th Avenue outside
the Polo Grounds. Speculators darted out from behind pillars
and hawked tickets for three and four times the regular price.
By 1:00, nearly 70,000 jammed the upper and lower stands,
filling the stairways, bracing against the rafters, and spilling
out onto the emergency stands set up in the end zones and
along the sidelines. Multicolored bunting and pennants of
red, blue, orange, and black snapped in the wind as two
bands entertained in a pre-game concert. Finally, ten minutes
before 2, Mara cleared the bands and spectators off the field.
As the bands blared "Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here," the
orange-and-black shirted Bears clomped down the stairs lead-
ing from the center-field dressing room. Grange, his red hair
and No. 77 highlighted by the sun, ran a few steps on the

muddy field and suddenly was engulfed by two dozen pho-
tographers. "I'll have to sue that bum," said Babe Ruth, watch-
ing from a lower box. "They're my photographers."

In the dressing room, the usually talkative Giants were al-
most totally silent. Gene Tunney had stopped by to wish them
luck, and now coach Folwell began to run down his last-
minute instructions. "We've got the defenses to stop Grange/'
he said. "You know what they are. Now let's get out there." In
their scarlet and blue jerseys, the Giants moved quickly and
quietly down the stairs and started running through forma-
tions. They huddled around Folwell and then, nervous and
tense, trotted out to the center of the field, "It was amazing,"
said Art Carney, who had captained the 1923 Navy team, "but
I never was this excited or tense before an Army-Navy game."

Folwell's defenses worked perfectly for the Bears. Designed
to stop Grange by double-teaming him, the Giant defenses
almost completely ignored the three other Bear backs and
Joe Sternaman and Laurie Walquist did the damage. Before
the Giants could adjust, Sternaman scored twice in the first
quarter and the Bears led 120. Midway in the second quarter,
the Giants finally began to move the ball, and fullback White
bucked over from the three to make the score 127.

Almost everyone in the crowd of 72,000 had come to see
Grange, and when he sat out the entire third quarter in his
coonskin coat on the bench and didn't return at the start of
the fourth, the fans began to chant: "Grange. Grange. We want
Grange."

Though one sportswriter suggested that Grange was too
busy counting the house to play football, the Galloping Ghost
returned late in the fourth quarter just in time to gallop for
his lion's share of the receipts. At the line of scrimmage, Giant
quarterback Palm studied the situation the ball was on the
New York 18, second down, and less than five minutes to
play. The Giants needed a long touchdown and Palm called
a special pass pattern McBride was to race deep to the left,
Bomar, who was being double-teamed, was to go straight at
the safety man and then take him to the sideline, and Palm
was to delay and then drift over center for a pass from fullback
White. With the middle cleared, Palm could go all the way.
The play worked with only one hitch. White was rushed and

passed to McBride instead of Palm, who stood alone on the
25. McBrlde, his back to the ball, never saw the pass coming.
Grange did and brought it back 35 yards for a touchdown
and a 197 Bear victory. For carrying the ball eleven times
for 45 yards, completing two of three passes, catching one,
and intercepting another in 33 minutes of football, Grange re-
ceived $30,000 of the record $143,000 or, as several poorly
paid writers pointed out, $1,000 a minute or $5,000 a point,
"which makes him more valuable than Florida real estate."

Mara, who only 24 hours before was deeply in debt, sud-
denly was some $15,000 ahead for the season with still one
more game with Grange and the Bears in Chicago. To show
his gratitude, Mara canceled a Saturday game with an $8,000
guarantee in Cleveland against the Bulldogs so that the Giants
would not have to play two days in a row and would be
better conditioned to play the Bears. Then he hired three full
cars on a special train and with his team, his friends, and his
family, headed for Chicago. "Everyone wants to know how the
players feel about Grange getting all that money," said Mike
Palm. "We might have drawn forty thousand without him if
we were lucky. With him, we drew more than seventy thou-
sand. That means he's responsible for at least thirty thousand
people and it's only fair his reward is in proportion/'

Injured when Joe Alexander piled into him the week be-
fore, Grange re-Injured his left arm against Providence and
decided not to play in the return against the Giants, the
Bears' eleventh game in 22 days. Grange had already earned
more than $100,000, and he and the Bears did not want to
endanger their forthcoming West Coast exhibition tour. "We
wanted to beat them at full strength," complained McBride.
"Well be disappointed if he doesn't play."

The Giants were disappointed but the fans were outraged
turning In more than 10,000 tickets at the gate and cutting the
crowd to 15,000. Using only one substitute, the iron-men
Giants scored on a 39-yard placement field goal by McBride
in the first quarter and a 4-yard plunge by White in the fourth
to win 9-0. It was a big victory, the Giants' eighth in twelve
1925 games, good enough for a fourth-place finish In the 20-
team league, though not good enough to keep Mara from dip-
ping into the red again.

But the Galloping Ghost had done his job the week befoie.
He had kept T. J. in football and T. J. had kept the National
Football League in New York. "I founded the Giants on brute
strength and great ignorance," Mara said years later. "My
players* strength and my ignorance. I was about ready to toss
in my hand until Grange turned pro. He proved that pro foot-
ball didn't have to be a losing poposition. That, more than
anything else, kept me in football."

First of the Wars

IF Red Grange lit the spark to professional football in 1925,
he nearly stamped It out In 1926. Still smarting from Grange's
decision to drop out of the University of Illinois six months
before graduation, intercollegiate officials exploded when Stan-
ford's All-American Ernie Nevers followed the Galloping
Ghost into the pros. The professionals had stolen the top two
senior football players in the United States. What was to
stop them from raiding the juniors and sophomores next?

Shaken and enraged, the National Collegiate Athletic As-
sociation unanimously passed a rule barring anyone connected
with professional football in any capacity from ever holding a
college coaching, training, or teaching position. As the Na-
tional Football League owners gathered in Detroit early in
February of 1926, Mara sensed the storm. After increasing
the league to 22 teams, raising the cost of a franchise from
$500 to $2,500, and establishing a new player limit (minimum
of 15 and maximum of 18), the owners set about making peace
with the colleges. With Mara pressing the issue, the owners
passed a rule making all college players ineligible for NFL
competition until their class had graduated. Peace was won-
derful, but it didn't last long. The owners momentarily had
forgotten about Cash and Carry Pyle.

Pyle was a man never content to rest on his last promotion.
Son of a Delaware, Ohio, clergyman, the dapper marathon
talker with the brush mustache had promoted his first event
a race between Barney Oldfield and a local youthwhen he
was sixteen, and he had been promoting something or other
ever since. He had dabbled briefly in boxing, theatre, and

movies with only limited success until, with luck and guile, he
had succeeded in signing Red Grange to a personal manage-
ment contract. In ten games and eight exhibitions with the
Bears in 1925, Grange and Pyle had each earned more than
$200,000. And with Grange now a free agent once again, it
was time for Pyle to return to work.

Even before Grange had joined them in 1925, the Bears had
been the most solvent franchise in the league, and Pyle de-
cided to approach Chicago owners George Halas and Ed
Sternaman with a proposition. He'd let them have Grange
for another season on a reasonable five-figure contract if the
Bears agreed to turn over one-third interest in the club to Pyle.
Halas, founder, owner, player, and coach, wanted Grange,
but not as a partner. Pyle was disappointed, but he always had
another idea. He headed for New York and a secret meeting
with Col. Jacob Ruppert and Ed Barrow of the New York
Yankee baseball team. Returning to Detroit with Grange, the
two partners stormed the league meetings. Pyle told the own-
ers that he had just signed a five-year lease for Yankee Sta-
dium and demanded a New York franchise in the NFL for
1926. The owners liked Grange, but they disliked Pyle and
his arrogant attitude. When Mara brought up the subject of
his territorial rights, Pyle sneered and stormed out of the
meeting. At a hastily arranged truce meeting later that night,
Mara suggested that Pyle and Grange play in Ebbets Field,
ten miles from the Polo Grounds and not within punting
distance, with the two teams working out home schedules
beneficial to both. "Fm playing at Yankee Stadium and no-
where else," he snapped. When the meeting broke up minutes
later, nothing had been accomplished. In the lobby of his hotel
the next morning, Pyle met the press and announced he was
going to form a new league directly in competition with the
NFL. "It's all Mara's fault," he said. "Every other owner
would have voted me in but Mara had the last word."

Mara and the rest of the league still refused to believe Pyle
would trigger a war that could destroy professional football.
"Pro football has a hold, but not such a strong hold that it can
be kicked about at the whim of any promoter who thinks he
sees a chance to pick up a little quick money/* said Mara. "I
don't believe Pyle will be foolish enough to go through with

it, but I've already offered to bet Grange $100,000 that if we
have a go at each other, neither of us will make a nickel. Red
Grange is a fine boy and a great athlete but he has fallen
into the hands of Philistines. If he comes to New York for a
pro football war, hell lose his shirt and that magic 77' along
with it."

Pyle didn't scare easily. He picked up the Rock Island
franchise from the NFL, convinced Joe Sternaman to jump
the Bears and form another Chicago team, hired Georgia
Tech All-American Doug Wycoff at $500 a game for a Newark
club and Notre Dame All-American Harry Stuhldreher for
Brooklyn, pried Folwell and Milstead away from the Giants
for the Philadelphia Quakers, organized teams in Boston and
Cleveland, and set up a ninth team that would play all
its games on the road. Within one month, he had a nine-
team league and a name the American Professional Foot-
ball League. He wanted a well-known commissioner, and after
sportswriter Grantland Rice rejected his offer, Pyle signed Big
Bill Edwards, a politician and former Princeton athlete, for
$25,000, ten times the salary the NFL paid President Joe Cam
"I am now ready/' said Pyle proudly, "to put the National
Football League and Mr. Mara out of business."

The battle for survival in New York (with Pyle teams in
Yankee Stadium, Brooklyn, and Newark, and NFL teams in
the Polo Grounds and Ebbets Field) was costly even before
the season began. To keep players from jumping to the rival
league, Mara raised salaries on the average of $50 a game,
signed more players than before on full-season contracts, and
settled back and hoped for the best. He knew he was going
to lose money. The only question was how long could he lasL

The loss of Folwell did not hurt the Giants. Dr. March had
considered a coaching change since the end of the 1925 season,
and when Folwell jumped to the new league, March had al-
ready picked out his new coach Dr. Joseph Alexander, spe-
cialist in lungs and line play. In 1925, Alexander, fullback
Jack McBride, and end Lynn Bomar all had made the NFL
All-Star team. With less than one month before the opening
exhibition game against Trenton, Alexander and March hast-
ily set about recruiting a team that had to be good enough
and exciting enough to compete with the magic of Red

Grange just across the bridge in the Bronx. In addition to
Milstead, the Giants had lost four regulars from their 1925
team tackle Fred Paraell, who had returned to college to fin-
ish his studies, end Paul Jappe, and backs Dutch Hendrian
and Heine Benkert. In three weeks of scouting, Alexander and
March more than compensated for these losses. In the backfield,
they signed 165-pound sprinter Jack Hagerty of Georgetown,
Glenn Killinger of Penn State, Walt Koppisch of Columbia,
and Ranger Grigg of Austin to complement Hinkey Haines
and Jack McBride. In the line, they picked up end Tillie
Voss, tackle John Alexander, and centers Art Stephenson and
George Murtagh to fill in with end Lynn Bomar, guards
Tom Tomlin, Joe Williams and Art Carney, and center Joe
Alexander.

One of the prize newcomers was a last-minute addition. A
large farm boy from tiny Phillips University in Enid, Okla-
homa, 240-pound tackle Steve Owen had traveled East with
the Kansas City Cowboys in 1925 for a game with the Giants
and had impressed March. Mammoth and powerful, he still
seemed to have good speed and mobility. When the 1925 sea-
son ended and the Giants found themselves one man short
for a brief, post-season tour of Florida, March just happened
to remember Owen. By chance, Owen, who had finished the
season with four exhibition games in Hartford, stopped in to
visit March before heading back to Oklahoma. Given a chance
to make some extra money, Owen jumped. Down South, he
played a little tackle, filled in at end, and returned home
never expecting to play for the Giants again. He had played
well but he had not been outstanding. When he reported to
fall practice with the Kansas City Cowboys, coach Leroy An-
drews took him aside immediately.

"Steve," said Andrews, "you are now a New York Giant. I
have sold you to Tim Mara for five hundred dollars."

At first, Owen was too surprised to say anything. Then
thinking of the $500, an unusually high price for a relatively
unheralded lineman, Owen asked for his share. Andrews, a
tough businessman, refused, and Owen was on his way to New
York the next morning. "I had seen a lot of fat hogs go for
more than they paid for me," said Owen, "but in those days

a fat hog was a lot more valuable than a fat tackle. I was going
to New York even If I had to walk there/'

Reporting to the Giants* training camp at Lake Ariel in the
Poconos of Pennsylvania three days before the exhibition
against Trenton, Owen, a country boy, felt out of place among
the sophisticated Easterners who comprised most of the 27-
man squad. The only time he had been to New York before,
as a member of the Kansas City Cowboys in 1925, he had to
dress in a rented cowboy outfit for publicity. And his new
teammates didn't plan to let him forget it. "I was a little fish
in a big pond/* he said. "The Giant veterans had a great time
ribbing me before the exhibition game. But I had the last
laugh."

It was close to 90 degrees and climbing when the Giants
took the field at Trenton, and coach Alexander decided to
start Owen to see just how far he could go. By the end of the
first half, ten Giant starters, out of shape and nearly out of
mind, were drooping and had to be taken out. Owen, his mus-
cles hardened from wrestling in the off-season, was just getting
his second wind. Suddenly, the country boy was wielding the
needle. "I sure am disappointed in all you big-city boys/* he
said. "Just what is it with all you New York fellas? Do you
play only for thirty or forty or fifty minutes and not sixty? I
sure am surprised at you."

The Giants, sloppy and sweating, won, 12-0, and Alexander
had found a starting right tackle. When the team broke camp
and headed for the road opener against the Hartford Blues,
Alexander still had his doubts about his line. His starting
backfield of Haines, McBride, Hagerty, and Koppisch could
outrun and outpass nearly any team in pro football. With four
newcomers, the line, though the heaviest in the league at 220,
still wasn't set. "It wasn't difficult instilling confidence in this
group," said coach Alexander, who varied little from FolwelFs
single wing and punt formation offense but stressed more
team play on defense and less dramatics in the dressing room.
"These boys already feel they have the pennant clinched/'

On a muddy field at Hartford's new Velodrome, the Giant
line played like a pennant winner. With Voss and Bomar at
the ends, John Alexander and Owen at the tackles, Joe Alex-
ander and Murtagh at the guards, and Stephenson at center,

the Giants rolled up ten first downs to one for Hartford and
won, 21-0, before 20,000 fans. McBride scored one touchdown,
passed to Hagerty for another, and completed seven of ten
passes for 96 yards. Traveling to Providence seven days later,
the Giants again dominated play and again won the game in
the line. The Steamrollers managed to rush for only three first
downs to thirteen for the visitors, but the Giants still needed
a brilliant defensive play to win. After scoring on a 15-yard
diagonal pass from Haines to Bomar in the second quarter,
the Giants gave up a touchdown late in the game and led,
7-6. With Bomar opening up a hole, McBride hurdled one
blocker, dove headfirst into the kicker, and deflected the extra
point attempt. "Jack's a funny guy," said one teammate. "He'd
be the last guy in the world you'd expect to take a chance at
getting his face mussed up but he's one helluva football player
when he wants to be."

Two for two, the Giants boarded a train for Chicago and
Game No. 3 late Friday afternoon. Alexander, his play suffer-
ing from his coaching and his coaching suffering from his
medicine, couldn't leave until Saturday and wound up spend-
ing most of his train ride giving football lessons to Tim Mara.
"I talked about the team, our strengths, our weaknesses," said
Alexander. "Then all of a sudden, Tim started talking about
the Giants. He was feeling low and he was unhappy and
maybe he even was a little bit scared by Pyle. He told me he
was sorry now he'd ever gotten involved in the war with Pyle
and he realized he'd lose a small fortune fighting the new
league without knowing if he'd ever win. Then he started
talking about his two sons,"

"I guess the only reason I'm staying in this now is Jack and
Wellington," said Mara. "You've seen them at the games. If
the Giants ever amount to anything, it's all theirs. I've still
got the bookmaking and they'll have the Giants."

After a scoreless first half against the Grangeless Bears, the
Giant line finally began to crack. With Stephenson no longer
a Giant and Alexander on the sidelines, Murtagh, moved
over from guard, shifted the ball between deep backs McBride
and Hagerty and the Bears recovered on their own 47. Seven
plays later, Bear left halfback Paddy Driscoll plunged over
from the 1-foot line, dropkicked the extra point, and the

Giants had lost their first game of the season, 7-0. Returning
East, the Giants lost 6-0 on two field goals to the undefeated
Frankford Yellow Jackets in Philadelphia, and the next day
moved into the Polo Grounds for their home opener. Every-
one was ready for the big afternoon. Mara had hired baseball
comics Nick Altrock and Al Schacht to entertain, 4,000 Frank-
ford rooters were in town with their own band and cheerlead-
ers, and a crowd of more than 35,000 was expected. Then, the
rains came. The game was delayed almost an hour to wait for
Mayor Jimmy Walker to arrive and officially kick out the first
ball, then started without him. He finally did make his ap-
pearance, late in the second quarter, minutes after Frankford
had scored on a 46-yard pass, stayed until half time, marched
around the field with Tim Mara, waved to the 15,000 fans,
and quickly left the ball park. He didn't miss a thing. With-
out Hagerty, sidelined with an injured leg, the Giant attack
sputtered but never caught fire, and the score was 6-0, the
Giants' third straight defeat.

With the head-to-head New York war starting in seven
days, March, who ran the personnel end of the organization
with little interference from Mara, called Alexander to his
combination office-apartment on Broadway and 103rd Street.
It was an office very familiar to all the Giants. When a Giant
needed a bed or a free meal, Doc March was the man to see.
When a Giant needed an advance on his salary, Doc March
was the man to see. And when a Giant had a gripe, Doc March
was still the man to see. In fact, Giant ballplayers came to see
him for everything but medical treatment.

After some small talk, March, chewing on the stem of his
pipe, came to the point. If the Giants made another dismal
showing against the Kansas City Cowboys on Sunday and the
Yankees played well against the visiting Western Wildcats,
Mara and his franchise might never recover financially. Alex-
ander, pressured by medical duties at several hospitals and
lecture commitments at several medical schools, had been ar-
riving late for his 3 P.M. practices since the Giants returned
to New York. When he did arrive, he usually found the play-
ers joking and playing touch football but rarely running
through the formations. Angered by their failure to work
when he wasn't around, he would keep the players an extra

hour or two to make up for the time lost. It was only a mat-
ter of time before a few of the Giants started complaining
to March.

"I know it's not your fault, Joe/' said March. "You've
got your medicine but we've got to do something about the
team." Finally, they agreed that Alexander would remain as
head coach at his $5,000 salary but Ursinus halfback Earl
Potteiger, one of the team's most popular players, would assist
him and run practices when he was detained.

That week, Alexander made sure he was at practice early
and, slowly but noticeably, the Giants began to improve. The
line still lacked the one great player to weld it together and
several of the newcomers lacked the experience or endurance
to play a full game at top speed, but the near rebellion against
Alexander was forgotten and the Giants began to loosen up.
Hinkey Haines, a fan favorite who had to be carried from the
field with a wrenched neck against Providence and was just
working back into top shape, was the butt of most of the
needling. A New York sportswriter, obviously taken with
Haines* ability to lift the Giants, wrote a poem in his column,
and the Giants liked it so much they pasted it up in the
dressing room where Haines would have to see it every time
he entered or left the room. It wasn't Shakespeare but Hinkey
Haines wasn't Red Grange, either:

Oh Hinkey Haines, oh Hinkey Haines.
The New York Giants football brains.
He never loses, always gains.
Oh Hinkey Haines, oh Hinkey Haines.

Mara realized he was going to lose money for at least the
first few head-to-head meetings with Grange and the Yankees,
and he decided to make the best of a losing situation. He an-
nounced that the receipts of the Cowboy game minus ex-
penseswould be turned over to the New York American's
Christmas and Religion Fund. Even if he didn't make money,
Mara was determined to make friends for the future. Later
in the season, he began to employ another gimmick to build
up his attendance. He would discount a large number of
tickets for any game to a fraternal organization such as the
Elks or Masons and let them resell the tickets to their mem-

bers at any price they wanted. The organizations would be
getting a bargain and the Giants would be selling tickets
instead of giving them away.

If it weren't for Mara's friends, the Polo Grounds might
have been empty for the Cowboys. For the second straight
Sunday, rain bathed the field in mud and sent some 5,000
spectators scurrying for cover under the stands. Playing op-
posite his brother Bill, left tackle for the Cowboys, Steve
Owen turned in one of his best games as a Giant. Cowboy
Hill, bought from the Cowboys a few weeks before, scored one
touchdown, Koppisch passed to Bomar for another, and the
Giants won, 13-0. It was a happy club in the Giant dressing
room as the players peeled off their mud-caked jerseys and
stepped under warm showers; so happy, in fact, that one vet-
eran in the Giants* weekly report to the league publicity man
jokingly reported that Joe Alexander had scored both New
York touchdowns. The unsuspecting publicity man, who had
not seen the game himself, listed Alexander as a two-time
scorer in the newspaper summary of NFL weekend play, and
the Giants were even more delighted.

Watching from the clubhouse office of New York Giant
baseball owner Charles Stoneham during the Cowboy game,
Mara kept pacing back and forth to a back window trying to
see how Grange and the Yankees were drawing across the
bridge. He was told the Yankees had drawn close to 20,000,
despite the rain, but this still didn't satisfy his curiosity. "If
you Ye so damned interested, Tim," said a friend, "either go
over there and buy a ticket or get yourself a pair of binoc-
ulars." The next Sunday, with rain falling even more heavily
that it had the two previous weeks, Mara had binoculars but
he had nothing to watchat either park. With 25,000 Elks in-
cluding the Grand Exalted Ruler, Governor Al Smith, and
former Justice Robert Wagner expected to watch the Giants
play the Brooklyn Lions, Mara counted his house, which was
less than 1,000, waited until a few minutes after 3 when the
remaining spectators stood almost knee-deep in water, and
finally postponed the game. Through his glasses, Mara knew
the Yankees had called off their game, too.

Two days later, the Giants awaited the visit of an old friend
Jim Thorpe, who had rejoined the Canton Bulldogs. Ads

announcing that Thorpe would play plus two preliminary
high school games drew 35,000 fans, the season's largest crowd,
into the Polo Grounds. The high school teams played, but
Thorpe, who had broken two ribs against Detroit the previous
Sunday, sat on the bench the entire game. Canton, using only
eleven players, did fairly well without him. After being able
to gain only li/ 2 yards in three straight rushes from the 2,
the Giants scored in the third quarter. With Carney pulling
out of the line and taking out two men on the play, Haines,
playing halfback instead of his usual quarterback position,
sprinted into the end zone on a reverse. The Giants domi-
nated play until late in the final quarter. With a first down
on the Giant 40 and time running out, Canton halfback Dick
Vick lofted a long pass to Little Twig on the 10. Giant safety
man Ranger Grigg cut in front of the receiver and neatly
batted the ball away right into the hands of Canton end
Stan Robb on the four. Robb scored and the Giants had to
settle for a 7-7 tie.

Four days later, the Giants snapped back with a 20-0 vic-
tory over the Chicago Cardinals. Haines scored twice, once
on a twisting, electrifying 75-yard run, but only 7,500 fans
watched the game. Mara watched Yankee Stadium through his
glasses and bristled when 30,000 turned out to see the Yankees
and Brooklyn Horsemen. "It almost reached a point where I
couldn't enjoy anything," said Mara. "We'd either play poorly
or they'd outdraw us."

With Bomar injured, Alexander shifted Carney to end and
started looking for a promising young guard. He found his
guard but he wasn't young. Six-foot, 200-pound Al Nesser
started playing professional football on a family team, which
included seven brothers and the son o one of the brothers,
when he was seventeen in Akron in 1908. The thirty-five-year-
old plumber was a throwback to the early days of football. He
wore no helmet, his bald spot showing through his wavy
blond hair, and he wore no shoulder pads, preferring instead
a single strip of adhesive tape that he spread from one shoul-
der to the other. He was a 60-minute man, and if he ever was
injured, he never told anyone about it. Nesser had started the
1926 season with the Akron Steels as player-coach but had
been fired. "I'm afraid those college boys didn't understand

me and my signals," said Nesser, who never finished high
school. The Giant college boys understood him much better
once they saw him play.

When Murtagh was knocked unconscious against Ernie
Nevers' Duluth Eskimos early in the first quarter, Nesser got
his chance and made more than the most of it. Despite the
drawing power of Nevers, a crushing fullback who had won
thirteen athletic letters at Stanford, 20-degree weather and
heavy winds kept the crowd under 5,000. It was a game worth
seeing, the most exciting of the season. McBride scored first
and kicked the extra point, but Nevers plunged his way right
back to score and boot the tying point, Haines went 25 yards
on a reverse play for another touchdown, and the Giants led
14-7 into the final quarter. When Nevers was injured and
removed from the game in the fourth quarter, the Giants had
little to worry about any more. But the fans had paid to see
Nevers and, though league rules barred him from returning,
the Giants decided to let him back into the game. Starting
from his own 19, Nevers carried the ball every single play,
finally diving over from the 1 with fifteen seconds left in the
game. Forming a spear-shaped defense, a standard rushing
formation of the day, with Tillie Voss at the point, Nesser
and Voss broke through, smothering Nevers* kick and pre-
serving a 14-13 victory.

Mara's losses now exceeded $40,000 for the season but the
end finally was in sight. The Giants were playing consistently
good football, but, far more important, the American League
had started to sink. The Newark team disbanded and sued
for back salaries. The Rock Island team simply dropped out
of the league. Boston was shaky, Cleveland was shakier. Brook-
lyn was on the verge of quitting. Of the nine original teams,
only New York and Philadelphia had any chance at all to
finish near the break-even point. But Grange and Pyle, the
Yankee owners, had bankrolled the rest of the league and
stood to be the biggest losers, while Philadelphia had collected
only $600 in receipts for its last home game. Then suddenly,
the sinking league sank. The Brooklyn franchise, owned by
boxing promoter Humbert Fugazy, had been playing at un-
covered Commercial Field and if the bad weather had hurt
the Giants and Yankees, it had destroyed the Horsemen. Fi-

nally, Fugazy, with Mara working quietly as the middleman,
announced he was dropping out of the American League and
merging his franchise with the NFL's Brooklyn Lions, re-
ducing Pyle's nine-team league to New York, Philadelphia,
Chicago, and the traveling Western Wildcats.

Meanwhile, Giant publicity men had a field day with the
incoming Los Angeles Stars. Star of the Stars was Brick Mul-
ler, who, in addition to finishing second in the high jump in
the 1920 Olympics, supposedly could throw a football farther
than any man in football and reportedly had his right arm
insured for $100,000. Mara decided it might be a good idea
to break Muller's distance record of 72 yards. Gathering a few
dozen reporters and photographers, the Giants completed the
longest pass in history slightly more than 108 yards but
it still took five attempts. Standing atop the 20th story of
the American Radiator Corporation Building on West 40th
Street, Bomar spotted his receiver, Haines, standing 324 feet
below in Bryant Park. Bomar was off target on his first three
passes. The fourth hit Haines in the chest, almost driving him
into the ground as it bounded away. Taking off his suit
jacket, Haines set himself again, signaled to Bomar, took a
deep breath, and neatly cradled the record completion. It was
a cute stunt but only 4,000 people came to see if Muller
could top it He didn't, but Haines had problems of his own.
With the game scoreless in the second quarter, Haines, fad-
ing to pass on his own 22, had the ball knocked loose from
his right hand. Los Angeles guard Don Thompson grabbed
it in the air and stumbled the remaining yards for the game's
only score.

For the Providence Steamrollers, the Giants finally didn't
get rain they got a chilling frost and 15,000 nearly frozen
spectators. With Parnell back from school and Nesser punch-
ing big holes in the Steamroller line, the Giants completely
outplayed the visitors. Haines scored twice and had to be car-
ried from the field badly shaken up and his neck re-injured,
and McBride scored once in a 21-0 victory.

Assured of his victory in the war, Mara now began to think
of a more tangible victory on the field. Watching his Giants
defeat the Brooklyn Horsemen, 17-0, on Thanksgiving Day,
he decided to challenge Pyle and the Yankees to a gameat

any stakes with all the money going either to charity or to the
players. Pyle, who earlier in the season had said he would keep
December 12 open for a possible playoff with the Giants, sud-
denly changed his mind. He knew what he had, he knew what
the Giants had, and, wisely, he didn't want any part of them.

In the second meeting with the Brooklyn Horsemen, the
Giants overcame freezing weather once again and won easily,
270. McBride scored fifteen points on two touchdowns and
three extra-point placements, and the Giant second-stringers
played most of the second half. Only one league game re-
mained on the schedule against the Chicago Bears in the
Polo Groundsand the Giants (8-4-1) still had a chance to
knock the visitors (11-1-2 on the season) out of the champion-
ship. If Mara thought the weather had been bad earlier in
the season, he was in for a surprise. By game time, the tem-
perature was 18 degrees, the wind was blowing 25 miles an
hour, and two-foot snowbanks covered the entire field. It was
not a day for football and, except for a few photographers,
reporters and members of Mara's family, the stands were
deserted. Only one official had been able to reach the ball
park, and March and Alexander had talked a policeman into
filling in. While Nesser dove headfirst in a snowbank and
Haines and Bomar started a snowball fight, Mara crossed over
from the Giant dressing room to tell the Bears the field was
in unplayable condition. Halas, who with the rest of his play-
ers was still dressed in street clothes, listened while Mara
talked and then nodded his head. "That's fine with us," he
said, "but where's our three-thousand-dollar guarantee?"

"What guarantee?" shouted Mara. "There aren't a dozen
paying customers in the house."

"That's your problem, Tim," said Halas. "WeVe got a
$3,000 guarantee rain or shine and we're not leaving with-
out it."

"OK, if that's the way you want it," said Mara. "You boys
better get into your uniforms. If you think you're going to
get that $3,000, you're going to play that game even if there
are only two people in the stands." Mara slammed the door
and stormed out.

The Bears cursed, gmmbled, started undressing, and cursed
some more. Ten minutes later, someone opened the Bear

dressing room door a few inches and, without coming into
view, said, "How about two thousand dollars?" Halas looked
at his players, who wanted to play even less than Mara, and
answered, "We'll take the two."

The NFL season was over, but Mara still wanted a parting
shot at the American League. The Philadelphia Quakers,
coached by Folwell and captained by Milstead, had finished
first, beating out Grange's Yankees, and Mara issued a chal-
lenge. The Quaker players, like almost everyone else in the
new league including Commissioner Edwards, had received
little of their promised salaries and they readily accepted the
opportunity to make a few extra dollars for Christmas. Once
again snow covered the Polo Grounds and completely oblit-
erated the chalk lines. In a day when there was little or no
betting on professional football by fans, gamblers, or players,
the Quakers were a slight favorite. It was a bad overlay. With
Hagerty scoring one touchdown in his return to the start-
ing lineup and McBride scoring three times with four extra
points, the Giants trampled the Quakers and Milstead, 31-0,
before fewer than 5,000 fans. "Ill never forget the amazing
performance of Jack Hagerty returning punts in that terrible
snow, catching them on the dead run and completely baf-
fling the Quakers," said ParnelL "I never saw anything quite
like it."

The season was over. The war ended a few months later
when Pyle, who lost more than $100,000 and his league, came
to apologize to Mara, who lost more than $60,000 but saved
his league, This time, both men gave a little and Pyle got
very close to what he had wanted in the first place. He re-
ceived a New York Yankee franchise in the NFL but with
most of his games on the road and no conflicts with the Giants'
home schedule. "It wasn't Pyle's fault or mine," said Mara
after the truce. "He's a great promoter. He was on his toes
and got good players. But there wasn't enough for one of us,
let alone two."

Pmjoerhouse in the Polo Grounds

THE war was over and the American League was dead. The
survivors had paid dearly, but they had learned their eco-
nomic lessons well. Professional football might have a major-
league future, but not in the minor-league towns of Ham-
mond, Hartford, and Racine. Meeting at New York's Astor
Hotel in February of 1927, the National Football League, a
sprawling collection of 22 franchises, decided to reorganize.
The new NFL had only twelve teams, greater balance, and
tighter organization. Proven players suddenly were plentiful,
salaries were lower, and fan interest was higher.

In New York, Giant owner Tim Mara seemed surprisingly
confident. "This is the year we take the championship," pre-
dicted Mara, who had replaced Billy Gibson as Giant presi-
dent in name as well as in fact. "Ill be very surprised if
anyone beats us."

To the other owners, placidly savoring the joys of peace,
Mara's bristling optimism seemed totally unrealistic. Seventh
with an 84-1 record in 1926, the Giants had lost eight regulars
including All-Star ends Lynn Bomar and Tillie Voss and
figured to drop even lower in 1927- But Mara and Doc Harry
March, the Giants' football brain, had not been idle. "I don't
care what it costs but get the players you need," said Mara. "I
want a winner this year/*

March's first decision was an unpleasant but necessary one.
He had to fire Dr. Joe Alexander, an original Giant and one
of football's finest linemen, as head coach. Increasingly pre-
occupied with his medical duties, Dr. Alexander had found
himself with less and less time available for football. To re-

place him, March named Ursinus halfback Earl (Potty) Pot-
teiger, Alexander's assistant in 1926 and an average player
whose greatest asset seemed to be his popularity with team-
mates and with Harry March.

Together, March and Potty began to study college rosters,
interview unattached professionals, and mold Mara's cham-
pions. By the time they had finished, the Giants had ten new
players and the Polo Grounds had the makings of its first
powerhouse* By far the most impressive of the newcomers was
a mammoth end.

Robert (Cal) Hubbard was a quiet giant of a man, stand-
ing 6-foot-5, weighing 245 pounds, and wearing a size 8i/
hat He had started playing football at school in Glasgow,
Missouri, in 1916, but had to retire the next year when his
family moved to another town that did not have a school
team. He didn't play another game until he enrolled at Chilli-
cothe Prep in 1919, but he was so good that he was offered a
football scholarship by Bo McMillin, coach at Centenary Col-
lege in Louisiana. McMillin liked what he saw a graceful,
menacing giant who could trample opponents and still run
100 yards in 10.2 seconds until the first day of practice. Play-
ing defensive end, Hubbard had lined up three yards outside
of the offensive left tackle, seemingly too far away to get near
the ballcarrier.

"Hubbard," shouted McMillin, "y u can't: make the tackle
from way out there/'

"Yes I can," said Hubbard.

"No you can't," shouted McMillin.

"Yes I can," said Hubbard and, before the discussion de-
veloped into a debate, the offensive center shifted the ball
back to the fullback and Hubbard proved his point. Throw-
ing his left shoulder and 245 pounds into the left tackle, Hub-
bard tossed him into the left guard, who collapsed against the
center, who toppled into the right guard, who tripped up the
right tackle, finally piling up the fullback for a loss. With one
block, Hubbard had taken out the offensive line tackle to
tackle and still made his tackle.

When coach McMillin switched from Centenary to Geneva
College, Hubbard and three other regulars went right along
with him. Hubbard had to sit out the 1925 season, but, in

1926, he powered tiny Geneva to an upset victory over mighty
Harvard and suddenly all the pros wanted him. The Giants
finally signed him and they weren't disappointed. As an of-
fensive end, Hubbard gave the Giants a new passing attack.
He would take two steps forward, turn his body slightly, and
take a short bullet pass from fullback Jack McBride. The
play rarely failed to gain five or six yards. And as a defensive
tackle, Hubbard revolutionized professional football's stand-
ard formations. The pros worked from seven-, eight-, and
nine-man lines with little variation and no pursuit. In the
I920's, linemen were strong, rugged, and slow. Faster than
many backs, Hubbard was the exception and found his de-
fensive tackle duties dull and unimaginative. Almost from the
start, he began to experiment finally settling on an early
version of the roving linebacker as he often pulled out of the
line to pursue the ballcarrier. The maneuver was thoroughly
unorthodox but Hubbard made it work with bone-crunching
effectiveness.

"You could tell when Gal hit a man," says Wellington Mara.
"You would hear it on the bench a hard, dull boom."

By the time the Giants reported to pre-season practice,
March and Potteiger had done some brilliant recruiting. The
line was stronger and the backfield faster. The best of the
newcomers: end Charles Corgan, guard Ed Garvey, tackle
Dick Stahlman, backs Mule Wilson of Texas A & M, versatile
Doug Wycoff of Georgia Tech, 155-pound Tut Imlay of Cal-
ifornia, and Joe Guyon, a temperamental, ageless Indian who
had played college football with Jim Thorpe at Carlisle six-
teen years before.

"Football was a different game then," said captain and
tackle Steve Owen. "The ball was bigger and harder to pass,
you couldn't pass from closer than five yards behind the line
of scrimmage, and, in 1927, they moved the goal posts back
ten yards from the goal line. But the big difference was the
way we played the game. We were pretty much a smash and
shove gang. We were bone crushers, not fancy Dans."

The Giants certainly didn't play like champions in the first
exhibition game a wild, brawling 6-0 victory over the Orange
Athletic Club in New Jersey. The game was scoreless until the
final quarter, when Mule Wilson broke it open with a 70-yard

mn with an intercepted pass. All the way down the field Hub-
bard, leading the interference, needled Wilson, who could run
the 100 in 9.8 when he was in top shape. "Come on Mule,"
shouted Big CaL "Come on Mule. Keep up with me if you
can." Still out of shape, Mule couldn't and was tackled
on the Orange 15. Four plays later, rugged 185-pound full-
back McBride punched over for the touchdown.

The Giants had loaned several of their second-stringers to
Orange, but once the game started it was every man and Giant
for himself. Jim Kendricks, a beefy Giant tackle borrowed
by Orange and Cal Hubbard's roommate, was kicked in the
face early in the first quarter and was still complaining when
the game finally ended. "For Pete's sake," snapped Hubbard.
"Quit crying. You sound like a little girl."

Kendricks stopped complaining and started punching toss-
ing a right hook at his roommate's head. Calmly and coolly,
Hubbard palmed Kendricks 1 fist in his left hand and floored
him with a right. Momentarily, 1,000 Orange fans were racing
toward Hubbard and the Giants, determined to protect Ken-
dricks, their hero for a day. The officials finally stopped the
fight but seconds later it started all over again. An Orange
player had crept up behind Hubbard and aimed a punch at
Big CaFs jaw. The punch missed and Hubbard, who had run
out of patience, split open his opponent's eye and lip. This
time, the battle lasted until the police forces of three town-
ships forcibly stopped it one hour later. "By the time the cops
got there," says Hubbard, "Kendricks and I were sitting in the
locker room trying to figure out how the whole thing started."

The Giants opening game against Michigan All- American
Benny Friedman and the Cleveland Bulldogs was less inter-
esting and more disappointing. Playing on a clear, crisp after-
noon in Cleveland, the Giants stopped Friedman but had to
settle for a 0-0 tie. Still on the road, the Giants played better
football beating Providence, 8-0, on a touchdown by Mc-
Bride, and Pottsville, 19-0, on two field goals by McBride and
a touchdown by Wilson.

Arriving home, the Giants (2-0-1) were in third place in the
NFL, only percentage points behind the Chicago Bears and
the New York Yankees. Mara was delighted but not for long.
For the third straight season, New York played dismal fbot-

ball In its home opener, tackling woefully and falling apart
under the passing of Benny Friedman. The Michigan quarter-
back was sensationalcompleting eleven of seventeen passes
and directing his team brilliantly as Cleveland defeated the
Giants, 6-0, before 18,000 fans. Immediately after the game,
Mara summoned March and Potteiger to his office. "We
looked terrible," said Mara. "We need help. What about
Milstead?"

Century Milstead, the powerful Yale All-American, had
played tackle for the 1925 Giants and then jumped to the
American League. The next day, March reached Milstead at
his Connecticut home and persuaded him to rejoin the Giants.

What turns a good football team into a great one? Some-
times it's the addition of only one man. In 1927, Milstead was
not the best Giant lineman. He wasn't even their best tackle.
Yet the Giants were only a good football team in losing to
Cleveland. By the next weekend, with Milstead back in the
lineup, they began to show signs of becoming a great one. For
the first time, Potteiger had a first-string line he knew he
could depend on. With Hubbard and Corgan at the ends,
Milstead and Owen at the tackles, Al Nesser and Garvey at the
guards, and George Murtagh at center, the difference was
noticeable immediately.

After defeating Frankford, 13-0, on Saturday in Philadel-
phia, the Giants returned to the Polo Grounds the next day
and exploded. Wilson scored twice, Hinkey Haines and Phil
White once each, but it was the running of 165-pound Jack
(The Ripper) Hagerty that electrified the 18,000 fans. Inter-
cepting a pass on his own 47 in the second quarter, Hagerty
slipped away from two tacklers, cut to the sidelines, stiff-armed
one man, eluded three others, and headed for the goal line.
When he was finally pulled down on the Frankford 3, he had
run exactly 50 yards officially and some 200 yards unofficially.
It was a brilliant open-field run and after the game, which
the Giants won, 27-0, Charles Stoneham, owner of the base-
ball Giants, called Hagerty to his office. "Jack/* said Stoneham
in the presence of Tim Mara and referee Tom Thorp, "that
was the greatest run ever made by anyone in the Polo
Grounds."

Though the team continued to gain momentum, defeating

Pottsville, 16-0, the crowds still refused to pick up. Every
Monday, publicity man Chick Wergeles would make the
rounds of the New York newspaper offices and try to give
away free tickets. In an average week, Wergeles, a boxing man
trying to pay his rent as a football hustler, gave out 4,000 free
tickets. "It got so Tim thought I was throwing the tickets
down the sewer," said Wergeles. "Even when we did get fif-
teen thousand out at the Polo Grounds, not more than ten
thousand ever were paid."

Mara even began to make the newspaper rounds himself
one week bringing Ernie Nevers, star of the Duluth Eskimos,
with him. At each office, Mara would introduce Nevers and
turn on his Irish charm.

Mara's charm helped but not much. Only 15,000 watched the
Giants beat Duluth, 21-0, but on Election Day, Mara sched-
uled two high school games before the Giant game with Provi-
dence and drew 35,000, all but a few thousand on 50-cent
student tickets. The Giants defeated the Steamrollers, 25-0,
and, when the New York Yankees beat the Bears, New York
was in first place for the first time.

After two shutout exhibition victories over Stapleton, the
Giants routed the Cardinals, 287, scoring three touchdowns
in the first ten minutes. It was a bruising game, and the
Cardinals seemed determined to cripple the Giants physically
even if they couldn't beat them. One Cardinal lineman had
been slugging Steve Owen all afternoon until finally, in the
fourth quarter, he staggered the Giant tackle with a right to
the chin. In those days the officials, hired by the home team
for the entire season, saw little and often called less, firmly
believing that a professional football player was old enough
and big enough to protect himself. Noticing that referee Tom
Thorp was standing ten yards off to his right, Owen threw a
left hook from his shoes to the Cardinal's chin. As his team-
mates helped carry the unconscious lineman off the field, ref-
eree Thorp strolled over to Owen. "Be nice, Steve, be nice/'
he said, smiling, and walked away.

With only three games remaining on their schedule, the
first-place Giants had won eight, lost one, and tied one, scor-
ing 157 points, allowing only 13, and registering 8 shutouts.
But the next three games against the second-place Bears and

two against the third-place Yankees would make or break
the championship season.

For the eighteen Giants who played in it, the Bear game
of 1927 is the one they could never forget. The Bears struck
quickly and drove for a first down on the Giant 5 early in the
first quarter. Three times the Bears hit the middle of the line
and three times the Giants gave up a yard. On fourth down,
fullback Roy White took a direct snap and plunged forward,
but Giant guard Al Nesser, submarining under the Bear line,
brought him down on the 1.

The Giants had held but, with the ball on their 1, they
were still in serious trouble. Quarterback Haines signaled for
a first-down punt, the expected call in those days, and the
Bears dropped two men back and jammed the nine others
into the line to rush the kicker. The Giants didn't huddle in
the 1920 ? s, calling all their plays at the line of scrimmage, and
Haines shouted to punter Mule Wilson to be careful and not
step behind the end line for a safety. Then Haines asked the
referee for a towel to wipe some mud off the ball.

A deceiving runner, Haines had proven even more deceiv-
ing as an actor. Just before the ball was shifted to Wilson,
Haines dropped back, took the ball, and passed to left end
Corgan, standing all alone just beyond the line of scrimmage.
Corgan made it to the 36 and the Giants were out of trouble
momentarily. Within minutes, though, the Bears had the ball
and, three more times in the first half, drove within the
shadow of the Giant goal posts only to be pushed back. "Ill
never forget that first half," says Milstead. "We'd stop them
and then the wind would blow our punts back and keep us
back near the goal line. Al Nesser was the real hero. Bare-
headed and with no shoulder guards, he just kept submarin-
ing their running plays. He was battered but he never quit."

Completely dominating play during the first half, the Bears
had little left for the second. In the third quarter, Halas tried
to clip Joe Guyon but the Indian heard him coming. Just as
Halas was about to strike, Guyon whirled, rammed both his
knees in the Big Bear's chest, and fell backward, screaming he
had been clipped. As the Bears carted Halas off the field with
two broken ribs, Guyon, shaking his head, turned to Owen.

"That fellow/' said Guyon, "ought to know you can't sneak up
behind an Indian."

The ensuing penalty helped the Giants, and six plays later,
McBride plunged over on fourth down from the 2 for the
first touchdown. Within five minutes, the Giants had scored
again, McBride going over from the half-yard line and then
kicking the extra point for a 13-0 lead. Then, suddenly, the
Bears came alive scoring on a 10-yard pass from Joe Sternaman
to Laurie Walquist and trailing 18-7 with ten minutes left in
the game.

Both teams were battered and bloodied but the Bears still
weren't beaten. Once more, they mounted a drive, pounding
out short yardage through the tiring Giant line, and moved
the ball to the 17. Then Sternaman, who had not called a
single pass in this closing drive, gambled and lost. His pass
was picked off by Mule Wilson on his own 10 with less than
two minutes to play, and the Giants ran out the clock. "It
was the hardest game any of us ever played," said Owen. "I
played sixty minutes at tackle opposite Jim McMillen, who
later became a world wrestling champion. When the gun
ended the exhausting game both of us just sat on the ground
in the middle of the field. He smiled in a tired way, reached
over to me, and we shook hands. We didn't say a word; we
couldn't. It was fully five minutes before we got up to go to
the dressing room."

In the dressing room, the Giants sat silently, too battered to
move, too tired to talk. Nesser, blood caked to his face, leaned
against his locker as the trainer looped a towel around his
head and tried to stop the bleeding. "Some of them looked
like they'd never walk again," said March.

"That victory just about gave us the championship," said
Haines, "but you'd have thought we all were just given walk-
ing papers."

Later that night, a group of Giants sat around Steve Owen's
hotel room rehashing the game when Nesser joined the party.
Bending over, he displayed a head covered with welts, cuts,
and scrapes. He let his teammates examine it, then said, grin-
ning, "OK, which one of you guys told me the Bears couldn't
hurt my head?"

The two remaining games against Red Grange and the

Yankees were anticlimactic. The first one, played In a snow
and hall storm at the Polo Grounds, still drew 5,000 fans, and
the Giants repaid them with some brilliant football. Haines
danced 75 yards with a punt for the irst touchdown and Mo
Bride rushed 2 for the other as the Giants won, 14-0, and
clinched their Erst National Football League title. A week
later, the Giants won again, this time 13-0 in a muddy, rain-
soaked Yankee Stadium, and the 1927 season was over. In
thirteen NFL games, the Giants had won eleven, tied one, and
lost one, scored 197 points and allowed only 20, In winning
three additional exhibition games, they had outscored their
opponents, 43-0. Artistically, the 1927 Giants had been a
smashing success. Financially, they just managed to break
even.

How good were the 1927 Giants? "It was the best football
team of its time," said Red Grange. "Their line beat the hell
out of you and wore you down, and their backs could move
the ball. But they would have been passed off the field by the
top teams of the 30V

S. O* $ /or Benny

THE championship reign of the New York Giants did not last
long. Smug and complacent, the 1928 Giants were an un-
happy mixture of out-of-shape veterans and disappointing
newcomers.

After one week of pre-season training, the Giants headed
for Pottsville and reality. For the pampered college boys and
young pros, accustomed to traveling first class, the trip on a
dilapidated, sweaty bus was a rude awakening. To save money,
Mara had decided to cut expenses, but his idea backfired.
Riding through the steep hills of Pennsylvania in a torrential
rain, the bus broke down and the players had to get out and
push. They were the champions of professional football, yet
they were traveling like a team of second-rate barnstormers.
They finally made it to Pottsville, but dissension had already
set in. The next day, the Giants won, 12-6, on touchdowns by
rookies Tony Plansky of Georgetown and Al Bloodgood of
Nebraska, but general manager Harry March still wasn't sat-
isfied. He criticized the veterans, derided the rookies, and
threatened far-ranging changes. How did the players react?
"That was the day most of us realized we were pros for the
first time," says tackle Century Milstead. "Since 1925, we had
been treated like college kids. Now, for the first time, we were
told we were hired help."

Temporarily afraid of losing their jobs, the Giants played
like pros against the Green Bay Packers in the second of five
straight games on the road. Six times the Packers drove in-
side the Giant 10~and six times the Giant line anchored by
Cal Hubbard and Al Nesser forced them back. Mule Wilson

set up the game's only touchdown with a 30-yard punt return
In the third quarter and rookie Bruce Caldwell of Yale skirted
6 yards around end for the score and a 6-0 victory.

Arriving in Chicago, the Giants were surprised to find them-
selves staying in a YMCA instead o a hotel. Unable to turn
the heat off in their cramped rooms, the players sat up com-
plaining most of the night and got little sleep. The next after-
noon, the sleepless Giants threatened only once, collapsed, and
finally lost, 13-0. On the one Giant drive, Mule Wilson broke
loose for a long gain deep into Bear territory. "Great run,
Mule," said referee Jim Durfee, a colorful official who spent
more time talking with players than he did officiating. "But
if you had cut back sooner, you might have gotten away."
While signals were being called for the next Giant play, Wil-
son, a friendly sort himself, turned his head to answer Durfee.
He was still looking the other way when the bail bounced off
his chest and the Bears recovered.

Hinkey Haines, who had been talked out of retirement by
Mara, rejoined the Giants for the next game but even he
could do little against Benny Friedman and the Detroit
Wolverines. The Giants lost 28-0, their worst defeat in four
NFL seasons, and headed home. All the way back to New
York, March and coach Earl Potteiger mixed threats with
promisesand for the next few weeks the Giants finally be-
gan to play winning football. They defeated the New York
Yankees, 10-7, tied Frankford, 0-0, beat Pottsville, 13-7, and
led Detroit and Benny Friedman, 19-7, into the final quar-
ter. Exploiting the overeagemess of the Giant line and spot-
ting the moves of the secondary, Friedman went to work in
the final fifteen minutes passing the Wolverines to two touch-
downs and a come-from-behind 1919 tie.

It was the beginning of the end for the 1928 Giants. They
promptly lost 16-0 to Providence and 70 to Stapleton in a
humiliating exhibition. Mara, who in the past had taken care
of the finances and left the football to March and his coaches,
ran out of patience when the Giants fell behind the Yankees,
6-0, in the first half. One of his star players had arrived mid-
way in the first quarter so drunk he could hardly walk to the
bench and had to be helped back to the dressing room. With
visions of Knttte Rockne dancing through his head, Tim Mara

headed for the Giant locker room to deliver one of the few
pep talks of his life. The pep talk loosened the Giants up but
it didn't make them play better team football.

The first time the Giants got the ball, they called time out
and one of the veterans turned to Bruce Caldwell, a rookie
runner who had never learned to block. "All season long, weVe
been waiting for you to carry out blocking assignments," said
one veteran back. "When you carry, we block and you get the
headlines. When we carry, you never take out your man and
we wind up looking bad. We're awfully sorry but this is pro
football. You don't block for us, we don't block for you." The
next three times he carried the ball, Caldwell, New York's
leading rusher, was thrown for sizable losses. The Giants lost
the game, 19-13, then closed the season with two more de-
feats 7-0 to Frankford and 7-6 to the Yankees. Despite his
two victories over the Giants, Yankee owner Cash and Carry
Pyle, the promoter who had triggered pro football's first war
in 1926, had lost so much money that he forfeited his fran-
chise and dropped out of the game.

Yet no one lost more than the New York Giants and owner
Tim Mara. In thirteen NFL games, the 1928 Giants had lost 7
and tied 2 scoring 79 points and allowing 136. And Mara
was right back deep in the red, losing nearly $40,000 on the
team he had expected to win a second straight championship.

The Giants were in desperate trouble on the field and at
the gate and Mara finally decided to take full control him-
self. By the time he was finished, he had released or traded
eighteen veterans and fired March's coach, popular Potty Pot-
teiger. He had cleaned his house and now he had to fill it up
again. Of all the players he had seen in his four seasons of
football, Mara was most impressed by 5-foot-lOi^, 185-pound
Benny Friedman, a master passer in a day when rules and
equipment favored the master runner. "Let's get Friedman/*
Mara told March, but Leroy Andrews, promoter and coach
of the Detroit Wolverines, refused to let Benny go. Mara was
stubborn and he finally got Friedman by buying every one of
the Detroit players, offering Benny an unprecedented $10,000-
a-year contract, and hiring Andrews as the Giants' new head
coach.

As a teen-ager, Friedman had learned his football lessons

from Fielding Yost, Michigan's brilliant coach. To play for
Yost, a quarterback had to learn to follow three rules look
the defense over, play for lateral position, and pick out the
disciples of Barnum. Early in his first varsity season, Friedman
was given a guided tour around Michigan's stadium as Yost
pointed out specific spots where his holy trinity had paid rare
dividends. "I never forgot the things he taught me," said
Friedman. "They worked just the same in pro football. Know
where you are ? know what the defense is doing, and then find
the disciple of Bamum that sucker bom every minute. If you
looked hard enough, the disciple was always there." Against
the Giants in 1927 and 1928, Friedman knew that Al Nesser
was a devoted disciple. Submarining on every play and eager
to make every tackle, Nesser always dove headfirst as soon as
the ball was shifted. To take advantage of him, Friedman
started all his plays away from Nesser, gave him time to make
his move, and then cut right back over him. "Damn you,
Friedman," Nesser would growl, "you're making me look
bad."

Friedman made so many professionals look bad with his
passing, running, and play-calling that the pros had to adjust
their defenses. Accustomed to using seven-, eight-, and nine-
man lines on all but obvious passing situations, the pros were
baffled by Benny, who would pass anytime from any position
on the field. "The time to pass is on first or second down," said
Friedman. "Why wait until third down, when the defense is
looking for it?"

To defend against Friedman, the Bears first and then the
other teams began to pull their centers out of the line and set
them up as roving middle linebackers. "Benny/* said Chicago
Bear coach George Halas, "revolutionized football. He forced
the defenses out of the dark ages."

Benny also "revolutionized" the New York Giants. Report-
Ing to pre-season training at Asbuiy Park, New Jersey, Fried-
man quickly went to work uniting the six veterans Steve
Owen, George Murtagh, Jack Hagerty, Mule Wilson, Tony
Plansky, and Dale Horan and eighteen newcomers. Coach
Andrews, a tough, bluff Midwestemer, supervised the practices
and made the decisions, but the younger players went to Fried-
man with their problems. Tony Plansky was a powerful 6-foot-

I, 218-pound athlete with a tragic flaw. He was decathlon
champion of the United States, a low 70's golfer, a fancy high
diver, and the fastest man on the team. But he couldn't keep
from getting hurt. In 1928, his rookie season, Plansky had
broken his leg. In 1929, he was injured again the first week of
training.

"Tony/' said Friedman one afternoon, "you just don't play
this game right."

Plansky, the fragile giant, was more than willing to listen.
"Well, how do you get by?" he asked Friedman, "I see you hit
from all over the place, yet you don't ever get hurt. I don't
know why you haven't been killed."

That afternoon, Friedman gave Plansky a football lesson he
had learned from Fielding Yost on how to hit, how to get
hit, and how to fall. "I showed him why it's important to run
low but always with your head up/' says Friedman. "To pro-
tect yourself, you must brace your neck and put everything to
work for you. And when you're tackled, you should fall in a
compact ball with your legs and arms drawn in. It worked for
me." And it worked for Plansky, who remained in one piece
the rest of the 1929 season.

Coach Andrews was an intense, spell-binding Kansan in his
mid-thirties who liked to amuse his players with stories of his
guile, but at times, his cunning got the better of him. He
alienated Friedman by secretly pocketing $1,000 from Mara
for delivering Benny, when the money rightfully belonged to
the twenty owners of the Detroit team. Then, early in 1929,
he outsmarted himself with Mara. Told by the Giant owner to
offer $4,000 to New York University star Ken Strong, the na-
tion's leading scorer in 1928, Andrews convinced himself he
could get Strong for $3,000. He made the offer, Strong turned
it down and immediately signed with Stapleton, and Mara
never forgot Andrews' failure to obey orders.

Yet Mara couldn't help being pleased with the 1929 Giants.
The line was young, tough, and fast; the backfield was spec-
tacular. The 0-0 opener with the Orange Athletic Club was
one of the few times anyone was able to stop Friedman in
1929. Limited by the rale that prevented him from passing
closer than 5 yards behind the line of scrimmage and handi-
capped by the melon-shaped football, Benny Friedman was

still uncanny. Unlike the pro passers before him who threw
only for short yardage, Friedman threw long and short, bul-
lets and ioaters, with an accuracy that baffled opponents and
excited fans. He passed the Giants to a 7-0 victory over Provi-
dence, and then in the Polo Grounds before 20,000 scream-
ing fans, engineered a 19-9 defeat of Stapleton, the Giants
first opening-day victory at home in history. One week later,
against the Frankford Yellow Jackets, Friedman's magic at-
tracted a crowd of 30,000. After Gerry Snyder dropped a pass
in the end zone in the first quarter, Benny hit Moran, Ray Fla-
herty, and Hagerty for touchdowns in the second. At half time,
the score was Friedman 19, Frankford 0. With Friedman on the
bench during most of the second half, the Giants scored two
more touchdowns and won, 32-0.

Never before had the Giants had a drawing card like Fried-
man. Unlike the championship team of 1927, which won on
overpowering and colorless football, the 1929 Giants thrived
on the exciting and unexpected. If it wasn't Friedman run-
ning or passing for a touchdown, it was Plansky or Hagerty
breaking away for a long gain. Against Providence, Plansky
scored twice and set up the third touchdown in a 19-0 victory.
The Giants were rolling, but suddenly owner Mara had other
things on his mind. Heavily invested in a wide range of
stocks, Mara was hit hard when the Stock Market began to
slide and then plunge late in October of 1929. He was losing
his fortune and now, for the first time, he couldn't afford to
keep throwing money away on the Giants. The Giants had to
start paying dividends and fast.

With 26,000 fans jamming into Wrigley Field to watch the
unbeaten Giants and the Chicago Bears, Friedman, surpris-
ingly nervous, fumbled on the second play on his own 23.
Seven plays later, Red Grange sliced off tackle for a touch-
down and a 7-0 Bear lead. New York battled back in the
second quarter with Plansky rushing 6 yards for the touch-
down, but Friedman missed the extra point and the Giants
still trailed, 7-6. In the dressing room, Friedman sat by him-
self and mentally replayed the first half. Chicago's center
George Trafton, who normally pulled out of the line to guard
against Friedman's passing, had been rushing almost every
play, forcing Benny to hurry his passes. Yet every time

he rushed, he left the middle wide open. By the time the sec-
ond half began, Friedman had found his disciple of Bar-
num George Trafton and he exploited him. When Trafton
rushed, Benny passed over him. When he held back, Benny
handed off or passed long. In ten minutes, the Giants had
three touchdowns two on Friedman passes to his ends stand-
ing in Trafton's unguarded zone and a 26-14 victory.

Two days later, Friedman and the Giants demolished the
outmanned and outgunned Buffalo Bisons, 45-6, on a rain-
soaked field in Buffalo. Late in the final quarter, a Buffalo
player skidded in the mud and slashed open Friedman's shin.
The next afternoon, Friedman limped in to see Dr. Joe Alex-
ander, the former Giant lineman and coach.

"Why don't you get smart, Benny? 1 ' said Alexander, pulling
up his own pants leg and displaying a patch of well-healed
scar tissue on his shin. "I used to be just as stupid as you until
I learned something. Take a copy of Liberty Magazine, rip it
in half, and you have the perfect shin guard. It worked won-
ders for me."

By chance, Friedman happened to attend a dinner party
that evening. When the woman seated next to him discovered
he was a professional football player, she asked if he could
possibly do her a favor. "Of course, I'd never let my son play
anything as violent as football, but he does play soccer and
he's been scraping his shins something terrible," she said. "Is
there anything he might wear to protect them?"

Friedman grinned. "In pro football," he said, "we've found
by experience that a doubled-over copy of Liberty Magazine
taped to the shins works wonders."

The woman thanked him, returned to her soup, and a min-
ute later, looked over to Benny. "Mr. Friedman," she said,
looking troubled, "we don't subscribe to Liberty. Do you
think the New Yorker would do?'* For once, Fielding Yost
couldn't help young Benny.

After a 22-0 victory over the Orange A.C., the Giants read-
ied themselves for a Polo Grounds meeting with the Bears. In
the passingest game of the year, Friedman found eleven disci-
ples of Barnum in Bear uniforms and manipulated them
superbly. He completed twelve of twenty-three passes, four for

touchdowns ranging from 30 to 55 yards, and New York won,
34-0.

Finally, It was time for the unbeaten Green Bay Packers
and the game that would probably decide the 1929 NFL
championship. Standing in center field o the Polo Grounds,
center Saul Mielziner studied the Packers as they clomped
down the clubhouse stairs. "Benny/" said 250-pound Mielziner,
"will you look at those big guys?'*

The Packers of 1929 were big their line averaging close to
220 anchored by 245-pound Cal Hubbard, an ex-Giant with a
score to settle. Before the game, Owen tried to convince
Andrews to change his defenses. "Curly Lambeau had the
Packers running out of the Notre Dame box formation and I
had felt for a long while that we'd be better against them
with a six-man line with two backers-up and three men back
for passes," says Owen. "I pleaded with Andrews all week to
try the six-man line. I tried to prove to him that they might
make a little more on short gains running, but that we would
have more protection against breakaways and more flexible
coverage on passes."

Andrews was willing to try anything and he tried Owen's
six-man line for one play. The first time the Packers had the
ball, they ran at Owen, gained 3 yards, and Andrews went
back to his seven-man diamond defense. Andrews was short-
sighted, but six-man line or seven, the Giants were no match
for the Packers that afternoon. The Green Bay line consist-
ently outcharged the Giants, crushing their running game and
weakening Friedman's passing. Every time New York would
move the ball into Green Bay territory in the first half, the
Packer defense would tighten and halfback Verne Lewellen
would punt them 60 to 70 yards out of trouble. Statistically,
It was all Packers, yet when Friedman passed to Plansky for a
third-quarter touchdown, the Giants trailed, 7-6, and still had
a chance.

Stopped on their own 31, the Packers lined up in punt
formation on third down with 9 yards to go. But Lewellen
didn't punt. He passed over the charging Giant line complete
to Johnny Blood, who carried for a first down on New York's
43. Six plays later, fullback Bo Molenda, Friedman's former
running mate at Michigan, plunged over for the touchdown.

Minutes later, Friedman's desperation pass was intercepted
and the Packers had another touchdown. The final score:
206, and the Giants were practically eliminated from the
championship.

Without a second meeting with Green Bay, the Giants had
to win their five remaining games and hope one of the other
teams would beat the Packers. The Giants won their last five
games 21-7 over Stapleton, 2421 over the Chicago Cardi-
nals, 12-0 and 31-0 over Frankford, and 14-7 over the Bears.
But the Packers remained unbeatable.

With a remarkable 13-1-1 record, the New York Giants had
to settle for second place. They had outscored their opponents
332 to 84 but they had lost the one game that mattered most.
Yet to Tim Mara, the season of 1929 was a glorious success.
His deal for Benny Friedman had paid off splendidly. At-
tendance averaged close to 25,000 a game, and at the end
of the season the New York Football Giants had shown a
record $8,500 profit. Mara, who had started the year as a
wealthy bookmaker, a successful investor, and a dilletante
football owner, ended it with a football team and little else.
The Stock Market crash had changed Mara's world and now,
for the first time, the New York Giants were his business and
not his plaything.

Conmneer for Rockme

THE era of flappers, Fitzgerald, and frivolity had come to an
end. Americans, who only six months before had hungered for
new ways to spend their dollars and their time, suddenly
hungered for food and employment. An old woman named
Annie peddled all the apples she could get for 5 cents each
on a New York street corner. Breadlines crowded sidewalks
and spilled over into the gutters. Free soup kitchens kept their
doors open around the clock. And home relief offices played
to standing-room-only business.

It was the great Depression, 2.5 million Americans already
were out of work, and there was no hope in sight. If New
Yorkers had little money for food and clothing, how much
could they have for the New York Football Giants? "Pop ex-
pected the worst/* says Jack Mara, who, as a twenty-two-
year-old Fordham Law School student, replaced his father as
titular head of the Giants in 1930. "But people are funny
sometimes. No matter how bad things were and how little
they had to eat, they needed something to take their minds off
their troubles."

By late summer of 1930, forty-three-year-old Tim Mara had
troubles of his own and none of them had anything to do
with the Giants. He had lost heavily in the Stock Market
crash. The County Trust Company of New York was suing
him to collect $50,000 on a note he had signed for his friend
Al Smith's presidential campaign in 1928, believing that the
loan would be repaid by the Democratic National Committee.
And Mara himself was suing heavyweight champion Gene
Tunney and manager Billy Gibson, a one-time associate and

the first president of the New York Giants, for $526,812 for
promotional services rendered. Afraid that the Giants might
be taken away from him if he happened to lose the bank suit,
Tim Mara officially turned the ownership over to his two
sons Jack and fourteen-year-old Wellington.

The two young Maras now owned the Giants and Leroy
Andrews still coached them. But once again, it was star passer
Benny Friedman who made the team run. Despite his $10,000
salary, the highest in professional football, Friedman, who had
also lost money in the crash and had just gotten married, de-
cided to take a part-time job teaching Yale University foot-
ball players how to pass a football. Living in Brooklyn, Benny
seemed to spend more time traveling than passing in 1930.
Three times a week he took a train from Brooklyn to Grand
Central Station early in the morning, caught another train to
New Haven, returned to Grand Central later in the day, rushed
to the Polo Grounds for practice, and finally returned home
late for dinner. He had been promised $10,000 by a group of
Yale alumni for the season and, with the economy turning
from bad to worse, was content to receive half of that. Fried-
man did excellent work at Yale, but his finest lessons were
handed out free of charge at the Polo Grounds. With the Na-
tional Football League player limit raised to twenty, the New
York Giants signed nine new players including halfback Dale
Burnett, guard Denver (Butch) Gibson, tackle Len Grant of
New York University, and end Red Badgro. Coach Andrews,
who didn't mind delegating authority, left the offense to
Friedman and the line to tackle Steve Owen.

Owen, who weighed close to 250 himself, had plenty
to work with. The line with 250-pounders Saul Mielziner,
Grant, and Les Caywood was huge but still fast enough to
contain an opponent's sweeps. The backfield could move the
ball on the ground and in the air and it could score.

If Friedman was tired by his two jobs and traveling, he
didn't show it in the league opener, a 32-0 rout over Newark.
After a 13-0 exhibition victory over the Long Island Bulldogs,
the Giants headed for Providence. If any of the players had
thought professional football already had come of age as a
big-time sport, they were in for a surprise. At first, the game
was delayed by a parade and then the timekeeper forgot to

start his watch. "By the time we finished the first quarter/*
said Dale Burnett, "we were playing in almost total darkness."
Burnett, a lean and limber Gary Cooper type from Emporia
(Kansas) Teachers College, was still able to see well enough
to intercept a pass for one of New York's four touchdowns In
a 27-7 victory. At first hesitant to play professional football
because his college coach had warned him that the NFL was
a haven for tramp athletes, Burnett also had felt the Depres-
sion In Kansas and, after meeting coach Andrews, a fellow
Kansan, and Steve Owen, a friendly Oklahoman, decided to
take a chance with the Giants. It was a decision Burnett and
the Giants would never regret.

Still on the road, the Giants dropped a 14-7 decision to
the champion Green Bay Packers, but Friedman passed for
two touchdowns, one to Burnett, the next week, and New York
had a 12-0 victory over the Chicago Bears. The most pleasant
surprise in the Bear game was Denver (Butch) Gibson, a su-
perstitious rookie lineman who wanted to be first In every-
thingIn the dressing room, on the field, and at the dinner
table. He could outeat any of his teammates and he worked
with a handicap he had very few teeth of his own and he
rarely took his chewing tobacco out of his mouth. "Before
every game, he took his teeth out of his mouth and put them
in a glass," says Friedman. "He could frighten an opponent
just by smiling." Despite a crooked arm that forced him
to play with a special brace, Gibson reacted quickly and
tackled fiercely. "Gibson," said Steve Owen, "was one hell of
a lineman."

Returning home, the Giants drew 15,000 fans and Al Smith
to see Ernie Nevers and the Chicago Cardinals in their first
Polo Grounds night game In history. Before the game Nevers,
the former Stanford Ail-American, visited the Giant dressing
room. Battered from playing almost every minute o every
game and carrying on almost every play, Nevers literally taped
himself together, often resorting to black bicycle tape when
the Cardinals complained he was spending too much money.
The Giants gave him a few rolls of tape, then rushed the
Cardinals off the field. Friedman scored two touchdowns,
passed for another, and the Giants won, 25-12.

Against Frankford at the Polo Grounds four days later, the

Giants loafed through a scoreless first quarter and then ex-
ploded. With Friedman having a hand in six of their eight
touchdowns, the Giants trounced the Yellow Jackets, 53-0.
And New York's offensive powerhouse was just beginning to
pick up steam. The Giants beat Providence, 25-0, after an-
other scoreless first quarter, and Newark, 34-7. Stapleton's
Ken Strong and Doug Wycoff, a former Giant, put up a bet-
ter fight, leading 7-6 into the final minute before 18,000 fans,
the largest Polo Grounds crowd of the season. But Friedman,
his passing and running attack stopped by an alert, charging
Stapleton defense, still wasn't finished. With seconds remain-
ing, he quickly called for a field goal attempt and coolly
booted a 42-yarder for a 9-7 victory.

With Friedman as team leader, there were two don'ts for
the 1930 Giantspoker and dice. And throughout the entire
season they had to be enforced only once. Arriving at practice
late one afternoon, Friedman sensed something was wrong
the moment he entered the dressing room. Andrews and
Owen, his co-captain, weren't around, so Friedman asked a
few of the players what he'd missed. No one would admit a
thing. Glancing around the room, he spotted Mielziner lean-
ing lazily against his locker. Before he could move, 250-pound
Mielziner was pinned against the wall by 183-pound Friedman.
"OK, Saul," said Benny, "what the hell happened here?"

Saul told him. One of the veterans had brought a visitor
into the dressing room that afternoon and within an hour,
a dozen Giants were deeply involved in a high-stakes dice
game. It wasn't long before the players were losing heavily.
Not surprisingly, the visitor was the big winner. Jack (The
Ripper) Hagerty, a little halfback with a lot of nerve, grabbed
the visitor's hand as he started to roll the dice. Hagerty's
hunch was a good onethe dice were loaded. The players got
their money back and the visitor got away with a stern warn-
ing. For the next hour, the player who had brought the
hustler into the dressing room apologized loud and long to
his teammates. He had met the hustler a few weeks before at
the hotel where most of the players lived, he explained, and
be had never known he was a gambler. The incident was
dropped but never forgotten. Before the end of the season,
the player was playing for another NFL team.

Traveling to Chicago, the Giants trailed the Cardinals, 7-0,
Into the final quarter, then pushed across two touchdowns
within two minutes to win, 13-7. Halfback Hap Moran
passed 60 yards to Hagerty for the first touchdown, and Moran
then plunged over from the 2 for the second. The next week,
the Giants got what they had been waiting for Green Bay
lost, 13-6, to the Cardinals but New York couldn't take ad-
vantage of it. Playing before 5,000 spectators huddled in the
back of the Polo Grounds stands away from the driving rain,
the Giants felt the full force of Chicago Bear rookie fullback
Bronko Nagurski for the first time. It was the Bear ball game
most of the way, but for the first three quarters the Giant
line played brilliantly in the mud. In the first quarter, they
stopped the Bears on the 10. In the third quarter, they held
on the 6. But finally in the fourth quarter, with Red Grange
picking up sizable yardage around the ends, Nagurski, the
238-pound Minnesota Ail-American, carried three Giant tack-
lers over the goal line on his back from the 7. In the closing
minutes, Friedman passed wildly and the Bears had another
touchdown and a 12-0 victory.

Since early in the year, Mara and March had been negotiat-
ing with a muscular 170-pound halfback named Christian
Yelberton Cagle. A three-time All- American, Red Cagle had
attended West Point to play football and nothing else. He
never had any intention of becoming an officer and one
month before graduation, already in trouble because he had
been secretly married as a cadet, Cagle resigned from the
academy. The Giants wanted him but Cagle wanted to coach
finally accepting a three-year contract as an assistant at Mis-
sissippi A 8: M at $3,500 a year. Lonely for his wife, who had
remained In New York, and unhappy as a coach, Cagle lasted
two-thirds of the season in Starkville, Mississippi. After help-
ing coach A & M to a 7-6 victory over Auburn, he packed his
suitcase and headed for New York and professional football.
A sought-after college runner with a flair for the dramatic,
Cagle came high. The Giants paid him $7,500, second only to
Benny Friedman on the team and one of the highest salaries
in the NFL.

"When Red made his first appearance with the New York
Giants, the additional attendance was enough to pay his salary

for the remainder of the season and all of the next," said
Harry March, still Mara's football brains. "His fame had filled
the papers for three or four years and he helped receipts all
over the circuit."

Cagle's first professional game was against the first-place
Green Bay Packers in the Polo Grounds and 40,000 fans
turned out to see the top two teams in the NFL and one of
the all-time All- Americans. Ads for the ffame read:

BENNY FRIEDMAN AND His NEW YORK GIANTS
WITH CHRIS CAGLE

vs.

GREEN BAY PACKERS
NATIONAL UEAGUE CHAMPIONSHIP

Fast and flashy with good balance, Cagle didn't lack cour-
age. From the start, everyone was watching him in the stands
and on the field and he was determined to prove he could
play with the pros. The first time the Giants got the ball, Red
carried twice for short gains, missed two passes from Fried-
man, and then, lunging blindly forward, he caught one-
crashing into Green Bay end Tom Nash. When they unpiled,
Nash had a broken nose, Cagle had a deep gash on his fore-
head, and ten minutes after the game had begun, both were
helped from the field.

The Giant attack didn't miss him. In the second quarter,
Friedman hit Red Badgro with a 22-yard pass and the rugged
end lunged over from the 1. Friedman converted and New
York led, 7-0. Early in the third quarter, the Giants were
on their own 8-yard line and in deep trouble. Lining up in
punt formation, deep man Hap Moran, a deceptively fast 190-
pounder, faked a kick, picked up a block, cut around his right
end, and headed for the sidelines. Finally, after a record 91-
yard run, Moran was pulled down from behind on the Packer
1 by end Lavern Dilweg. For the next three downs, Green
Bay's defense stiffened and the Giants were still inches short.
On fourth down, Friedman took the ball on a direct snap
from the center, faked a hand-off, and plunged over left
tackle for a 13-0 lead.

His head swathed in a turbanlike bandage, Cagle returned

to the game after Friedman's touchdown. Every time he car-
ried, he lost his helmet and the bandage loosened a little
more. Finally, thrown for a loss by guard Mike MIchalske,
Cagle, his helmet torn loose once again, sat dazed In the cen-
ter of the field as several feet of gauze slowly unraveled down
his head, face, and body. Helped to his feet, Cagle handed the
loose bandage to the trainer and, with the crowd cheering
wildly, returned to the game. For the afternoon, his first as a
professional, Cagle made more yardage with the gauze than
he did with the football.

The Packers scored In the fourth quarter and then started
driving again. With one minute left to play, Green Bay
moved for a first down on the Giant 5. Three power plays
and the Packers were down to the 1-yard line. On fourth
down, Hurdis McCrary crashed over for a touchdown, but
both teams were off side and the ball was returned to the L
Once more McGrary hurtled into the center of the Giant line,
but this time It held and New York took over. The Giants
had won, 13-6, and were In a tie for first place. The victory
pleased Mara but the crowd delighted him. "I had agreed to
play In Green Bay for a four-thousand-dollar guarantee if
they'd play here for five thousand," said Mara. "We were draw-
ing nothing at the beginning of the season, but with Cagle
playing his first pro game, we had a lucky day. The Pack-
ers were mad they had made the deal when the Polo Grounds
game drew sixty thousand dollars. But for us, it was a
lifesaver."

Seemingly on their way to a second NFL championship, the
Giants, physically battered by the Packers, slumped drastically
the next two weeks losing 7-6 to both Stapleton and the
Brooklyn Dodgers. In just two Sundays, one of the Giants*
brightest seasons and hopes for a league title had faded away.
Two games against Frankford and Brooklyn remained on
the schedule, but Bill Abbott, one-time sports editor of the
New York World and press agent for the NFL and Giants,
was thinking ahead.

To raise funds for Depression-struck families, New York
mayor Jimmy Walker had extended an open Invitation to all
teams, both college and professional, to help raise money for
Ms Committee on Unemployed. Basketball and college foot-

ball games had already contributed some money. Why didn't
the Giants play a post-season exhibition game with all the
funds going to the mayor's committee? The Giant owner had
lost his $526,812 suit against Gene Tunney and Billy Gibson
(later appealed and settled out of court), but with the home
season now over, T. J. was particularly pleased with Mara
Tech, a name bestowed on the Giants by Bill Corum and a
dozen other sportswriters. Barring a second Stock Market crash,
the Giants would finish 1930 at least $20,000 ahead, and Mara
was feeling in a charitable mood. There was only one problem:
What team could the Giants play?

"Why not Notre Dame?" suggested Bill Abbott. It was a
wonderful idea. Ever since Mara had bought into professional
football in 1925, a controversy had raged about the relative
strengths of the top college and NFL teams. Notre Dame was
heading for its second consecutive national championship.
And the Giants were one of the NFL's top teams. Sportswriter
Dan Daniel was named chairman of the game committee and
given the job of selling Notre Dame's Knute Rockne on the
idea. Rockne was all in favor of it, but Notre Dame was play-
ing Southern California the week before on the West Coast,
and the Fighting Irish didn't want to schedule two big games
in so short a time, Rockne offered another suggestion: How
about the Giants playing an All-Star team of Notre Dame
greats, past and present?

Mara and his players liked Rockne's suggestion even better
than their own. "The minute it was definite we were going to
play, I told the mayor that Notre Dame would be lucky to
make a first down against us," said Mara. "We were much too
big a football team."

The Giants still had two league games left, but everyone
was thinking about December 14 and the Fighting Irish. An-
drews became so obsessed with the thought of coaching against
Knute Rockne that it cost him his job. "He just got him-
self all worked up thinking about this great meeting with
Rockne," said Friedman. "He thought he had to be tougher
with us and pretty soon he lost control of himself completely."

When the Giants returned to their dressing room trailing
Frankford, 6-0, Andrews started to berate his players, threat-

enlng fines and even firings. He made considerable noise but
little sense, and suddenly lie turned to Friedman, who, with
Cagle, had been held out of the game because o injuries.
"And you, Friedman," Andrews shouted, "can lose yout money
just like anyone else." In the second half, Hagerty scored twice
and the Giants won, 14-6. Early the next morning, Friedman
and Owen went to see Tim Mara. The Giant owner, who'd
had little admiration for Andrews since he failed to follow
the front office's orders and lost New York University star
Ken Strong to Stapleton in 1929, listened carefully and told
the two players he would take care of the coaching problem
immediately.

When the Giants stepped onto the Ebbets Field infield the
next week, Leroy Andrews no longer was head coach. For the
remainder of the season, Friedman would run the team and
Owen would assist him. Before an overflow crowd of 20,000,
the Giants crushed the Dodgers, 13-0, on touchdowns by
Friedman and Moran. When Green Bay also lost, 21-0, to the
Chicago Bears the same day, the Giants still had a mathe-
matical chance for the title. If the Packers, 10-3, lost their
final game to Portsmouth, a team they had beaten 4713
earlier in the season, the Giants, 13-4, would be NFL cham-
pions. The Packers didn't beat Portsmouth, but they didn't
lose either. They battled to a 6-6 tie and backed into their
second straight title, beating out New York by only four
percentage points, .769 to .765.

Rockne began gathering his former stars together in South
Bend on Tuesday, practiced for four straight days, and then
climbed aboard a Chicago sleeper, arriving in New York's
Grand Central Station 8:30 Saturday morning. In every news-
paper in town, the biggest ads of the pro football season
announced:

SEE THE FOUR HORSEMEN RIDE TOGETHER AGAIN

By the time Rockne and his players climbed off the train
in New York, $100,000 worth of tickets had been sold for
Sunday's game. Fifty-six prominent New Yorkers had bought
boxes at $100 each, and Charles Stoneham, owner of the base-
ball Giants, had donated the Polo Grounds rent free. From
Grand Central, Rockne and his 32 All-Stars were driven to

City Hall where they met Mayor Walker and were interviewed
over a three-station national radio broadcast.

While the Fighting Irish were getting the grand tour, the
Giants were at the Polo Grounds early Saturday morning for
a short workout and signal drill. By the time the Notre Dame
team arrived shortly before noon, Steve Owen was the only
Giant still at the ball park. Spotting Rockne, Owen walked
over to the famous coach and introduced himself.

"Oh sure, you're one of the Owen boys," said Rockne,
quickly applying the needle. "There's two of you and both of
you are very, very tough to play against. Don't know what
we'll do with you tomorrow."

"Don't know about that," said Owen. "Well be glad to do
anything to help you today, but tomorrow what we do won't
be to your advantage."

As soon as Owen left, Rockne told Harry March, who had
escorted him to the field, he couldn't watch the Notre Dame
practice. Rockne also told the secretaries in the Giant office to
keep their eyes on their work and off the field down below. If
Rockne had something special planned for the Giants, he
wasn't going to let other people see it before the game.

One hour before game time, more than 50,000 fans were
seated in the Polo Grounds, brightly decorated for the day
with red and blue bunting on the Giant side and blue and
gold on the Notre Dame side. Watching the pre-game festivi-
ties, Mara had to smile. There were more musicians than foot-
ball players in the Polo Grounds. Bands from New York
University, the Police Department, and an American Legion
post beat out endless choruses of "Cheer, Cheer for Old Notre
Dame" and "East Side, West Side."

In the dressing rooms, the sounds of music made little
impression. Seated on the rubbing table, Friedman was having
his ankles taped when Knute Rockne, leaning heavily on a
cane, limped over to him. Owen had told Benny that Rockne
and his players were extremely confident, and Friedman was
anxious to see for himself.

"How are you feeling?" asked Friedman after they had
shaken hands.

"Just so-so," said Rockne. "How about you?"

"Fine," said Benny, "just fine."

"That's too bad/* said Rockne. "We've got a lot of boys who
think they're football players. They may have a lot to learn
today." Rockne paused. "How about some concessions?" he
asked. "Free substitutions?"

"Fine," said Friedman.

"Ten-minute quarters?" asked Rockne.

"Twelve and a half minutes," said Friedman Impishly as
they shook hands again. "Anything else?"

"Yes, one thing/' said Rockne. "For Pete's sake, take it
easy."

Minutes later, Rockne gathered his All-Stars for his tradi-
tional pre-game pep talk. Looking around him, he saw the
finest football players Notre Dame had ever produced the
Four Horsemen, Harry Stuhldreher, Jim Crowley, Elmer Lay-
den, and Don Miller, who had not worn Fighting Irish uni-
forms in six years; five of the Seven Mules, Adam Walsh, Joe
Bach, Rip Miller, Noble Kizer, and Ed Hunsinger; Jack
Chevigny, star of the 1928 team; Jack Cannon, John Law,
Tim Moynihan, Ted Twomey, Joe Vezie, John Gebert, and
Jack Elder of the unbeaten 1929 team; Bucky O'Connor
and Frank Carideo of the undefeated 1930 team; and Hunk
Anderson and Glenn (Judge) Carberry, two former Notre
Darners who had played in the pros.

For Rockne, who was to die in a plane crash before the
next football season, this was the last time he would coach a
Notre Dame team. "Fellows, these Giants are heavy but slow,"
he told his players. "Go out there, score two or three touch-
downs on passes in the first quarter and then defend and
don't get hurt."

The Notre Dame All-Stars were lucky to escape with their
lives. The Giant line, which averaged close to 230 pounds,
dwarfed the Notre Dame players as the two teams trotted onto
the field. On the first play of the game, halfback Johnny Law,
a muscular 170-pounder, took a good look at Steve Owen, a
beefy 245, and turned to referee Tom Thorp. "Can you tell
me," he asked, "how much time is there left to play?"

With Al Smith and Mayor Walker in the stands and coach
Rockne bundled in blankets on the sideline, the Giants kicked
off and the slaughter began. Within two minutes, Bill Owen
broke through the Notre Dame line and dumped Stuhldreher

in the end zone for a safety and a 2-0 lead. The Giants kicked
off again but the Four Horsemen couldn't move the ball
against the mammoth New York line. All told, Notre Dame
backs gained 5 yards and lost 17 in the first quarter and
couldn't advance past their own 40. Seven minutes into the
first quarter, Sleepy Jim Crowley collapsed under two Giant
tacklers, picked himself up, and limped off the field.

"Why, only two men hit you!" said referee Thorp, grin-
ning.

"You're right," answered Crowley, "but I didn't think they
were going to come at me from the roof of the grandstand."
Crowley was lucky; he was through for the afternoon.

Elder replaced Crowley, picked up 7 yards in one carry,
and the Giants took over again. Friedman scored early in the
second quarter on a 4-yard plunge and New York led 8-0. A
kickoff, three running plays, and a punt, and New York was
driving for another touchdown. Expecting a pass, right guard
Noble Kizer whispered to center Adam Walsh, "I'm going to
pull out on this play and take the inside back on pass de-
fense. So cover me here."

Walsh, who had already taken a full college season of
pounding from the Giant line, grabbed Kizer by the elbow.
"What, and leave me here all alone?" Walsh said. "Not on
your life." In a rare display of teamwork, the two Notre Dame
linemen waited until the Giant center had shifted the ball,
and Walsh then raced Kizer to the safety of the sidelines.

Mixing his plays expertly, Friedman moved the ball to the
Notre Dame 22. With third down and 7 yards to go, Fried-
man thought of the three principles coach Fielding Yost had
instilled in him at Michigan.

1. Study the defense: Notre Dame was in a seven-man line.

2. Play for lateral position: The Giants already had the
ball close to the middle of the field.

3. Find the disciple of Barnum: On every previous third
down situation, Notre Dame's left guard Hunk Anderson had
been playing the percentages. Expecting Friedman to pass, he
would pull out of the line and drop back to defend about 5
yards behind the middle of the line of scrimmage. Hunk was
Benny's man.

Once again Friedman took the ball on a direct snap, faked a

pass, sending Anderson lumbering out of position, and then
sliced over the exact hole Hunk had vacated. Once through
the line of scrimmage four Notre Dame players got their arms
around him, but Friedman pulled free and raced into the end
zone. "That/' said veteran umpire Tom Thorp, "was one of
the finest calls and executions I've ever seen." Friedman kicked
the extra point and, at half time, New York led, 15-0.

Rockne was a thoroughly beaten man when Harry March
walked with him back to the dressing room. "I came here to
help a charity and at a lot of trouble," said Rockne. "You are
making us look bad. Slow up, will you? I don't want to go
home and be laughed at. Lay off next half."

The Giants had proven their point and played ten second-
stringers throughout the second half. The only regular on the
field was end Turtle Campbell but even he was too much for
Notre Dame. Starting on their own 37 in the third quarter,
Elder lost 4 yards, Stuhldreher 9, Elder 13, and Elder then
punted to his own 42. Cagle then raced 15 yards, his longest
gain as a Giant, and Hap Moran hit Campbell for the final
touchdown. The score of 22-0 did not come close to showing
the pros' superiority. The Giants ran up eight first downs to
one for Notre Dame, outrushed the collegians 138 yards to 34,
and completed seven of nineteen passes for 94 yards. Notre
Dame's passers didn't complete a single one in nine attempts
and two were intercepted. Notre Dame never got past its own
49 and the Fighting Irish got that far only once, in the sec-
ond quarter. In four quarters of football, Notre Dame's two
longest gains were Elder's 7-yard run in the opening quarter
and Rex Enright's 12-yard dash for the only first down in the
second.

In the Notre Dame dressing room, the players waited for
Rockne's parting words. "That was the greatest football ma-
chine I ever saw," said Rockne. "I am glad none of you got
hurt."

After showering and dressing, Friedman headed upstairs to
see Tim Mara in Charles Stoneham's private office. The Giants
had taken in $115,153, but one totally unexpected prob-
lem had cropped up. Notre Dame, which had contributed its
services for living and traveling expenses only, had turned in

a sizable list of expenses. It was ridiculously high, finishing
off with: MISCELLANEOUS $5,000.

Mara showed the Notre Dame expenses to Friedman and
then pointed to the last item. "Miscellaneous?" said Benny. "I
don't remember him. Where did he play?"

Mara chuckled and Friedman offered a suggestion. "Look,
let's knock off fifteen thousand dollars to cover the expenses
and give the city a check for an even hundred thousand," said
Friedman, who had devoted his services free of charge. "No-
body will know the difference and you won't wind up losing
your own money."

Mara thought it over, then reached his decision. Four days
later, Mara, March, and Friedman visited Mayor Walker at
City Hall and turned over a check for $115,153. He had lost
money on the charity game and the Giants had lost a final
exhibition to Stapleton, yet Mara was happier than he had
been since first buying the franchise in 1925, The team had
had an excellent season on the field, he had finished $23,000
ahead for the year, and he had beaten Knute Rockne and the
Notre Dame All-Stars, a collection of some of the best football
players in history. What difference did it make if many of the
All-Stars were far from top condition and had practiced to-
gether for less than a week? What did matter to Mara was
that for the first time since Red Grange, Giant football had
created a noise picked up by sportswriters and listened to by
New York sports fans. On December 14, 1930> professional
football in New York had taken another giant step out of the
dark ages.

The Biggest Giant of Them All

THE big, boyish All-American center from Washington State
University had a problem. For nearly a month he had been
able to stall the owners of the Providence and Portsmouth
professional football teams while he waited eagerly for an
offer from the New York Giants. He had met many of the
Giants after playing against Villanova in Philadelphia a few
months before, and they had told him to expect a contract in
the mail right after the first of the year.

It was already February and he still hadn't heard from
them. Obviously, the New York Giants had lost interest in
Melvin John Hein. Troubled by mounting debts and afraid
he might wind up without any professional contract, Hein
finally decided he couldn't wait any longer. On a cold winter
afternoon in 1931, Mel Hein, Ail-American football player
and all-round athlete, signed a contract with the Providence
Steamrollers, deposited it in a campus mailbox, and, disap-
pointed but relieved, took off with the basketball team for a
game against Gonzaga in Spokane. Hein*s peace of mind didn't
last long.

Gonzaga's basketball coach just happened to be Ray Fla-
herty, the rugged, red-haired end of the New York Giants. As
the teams headed for their dressing rooms at half time,
Flaherty caught up with Hein, slapped him on the back, and
congratulated him.

"I don't think youll be sorry signing with us, n said Flaherty.
"I hope the Giant contract pleases you."

"What contract?" said Hein. "I never heard from the Giants.

I figured they didn't want me so I signed with Providence this
afternoon."

"What a stupid mistake!" said Flaherty, his face quickly
matching the color of his hair. "How much did Providence
offer you?"

"Seventy dollars a game," said Hein.

"That little?" said Flaherty, shaking his head. "Why, I know
for a fact that the Giants planned to offer you at least ten
dollars more a game plus a small bonus for signing. Look,
111 get in touch with the Giants tomorrow. And if you can
possibly get that contract back, tear it up and don't do any-
thing until you hear from me."

As soon as the game ended, Hein telephoned his local post-
master in Pullman, Washington, and explained his predica-
ment. The postmaster was sympathetic but not very encourag-
ing. The letter had already left Pullman but he would wire
ahead requesting the Providence postmaster to return it imme-
diately. It was a long shot but the plan worked. A few days
later Hein's letter to the Providence Steamrollers was re-
turned unopened, and the next day Mel signed with the New
York Giants.

At the end of the semester, Hein married his college sweet-
heart and, packing his degree, marriage certificate, and wife
into a jalopy, set out for New York. When he arrived ten days
later, he had only $14 left in his pocket, but he was easily the
most valuable addition the Giants would ever receive. In the
next fifteen seasons, Hein would win one Most Valuable Player
award and eight first-team All-NFL selections, clearly estab-
lishing himself as the finest center in professional football
history.

The Giants of 1931 were a veteran team with only one
major loss from the 1930 club that finished second in the NFL
and defeated the Notre Dame All-Stars. But the one loss was
Benny Friedman, star, captain, and co-coach, and the Giants
were little more than a second-division team without him.
Friedman had done so well as a part-time coach, at Yale in
1930 that he was offered a full-time job as backfield coach in
1931. When several Yale alumni also promised him. a position
on Wall Street, Friedman decided to quit the Giants and pro
football, and Steve Owen, who had shared the coaching with

Friedman during the last three games of 1930, was asked to
run the team on a temporary basis In 1931.

At 6-oot-3 and 210 pounds, Mel Hein was by far the most
impressive newcomer In the Giant camp. He was a crushing
tackier, an awesome blocker, and surprisingly, for a man his
size, an agile pass defender. In one college game against Idaho,
he had Intercepted eight passes, yet as a Giant rookie, even
Mel Hein began to have his doubts. Behind durable, depend-
able George Murtagh, Hein played little in practice and not
at all In the first three games. "I just sat there on the bench
day after day, game after game, watching George play," says
Hein. "He looked too good and too strong, and I was getting
scared to death. I began to wonder if I'd ever make it as a
pro." Hein didn't have too much longer to wait.

With Hein glued to the bench, the Giants won two pre-
season exhibition games 32-0 over the Orange Athletic Club
and 53-0 over the touring Hominy Indians of Oklahoma.
Hein still didn't get to play when the Giants won their NFL
opener, 14-6, at Providence, but he finally got his chance
against Portsmouth. The Giants were leading by one touch-
down late In the game when Murtagh crashed through on a
tackle and then didn't get up. "OK, kid," said Owen to Hein,
as Murtagh limped to the sideline, "get In there at center."

On the first play, a Portsmouth back cut around left end
for a 7-yard gain before Hein dumped him with a shoulder
tackle. On the next play, a Portsmouth back fumbled and
recovered for a 10-yard loss. With third down and 13 yards to
go deep In Its own territory, Portsmouth's next play seemed
obvious to Hein, who knew teams always punted In this
situation. As soon as the ball was snapped, Hein moved back
downfield as he had been taught to do on a punt and readied
himself for his block on the offensive end. Just as he lunged
at the end, he felt a painful thud against the back of his neck.
The Portsmouth quarterback had fooled Hem -completely and
passed on third down deep In Ms own territory. Fortunately
for the Giants, the pass had been poor and had hit Hein and
not the intended receiver. "It was then that I realized the
difference between college and professional ball," said Hem*
"They don't always play by the rules in pro ball. You can't
turn your back as I did in that first game. You've got to be

awfully jealous of the ball in a pro game. You've got to be a
ball hawk."

The Giants finally lost the game to Portsmouth, 14-6, and
their play began to slip from bad to worse. After leading 7-0
at the end of the first quarter, New York lost, 27-7, to Green
Bay and then moved into Chicago. For his first time, Hein
started at center for the New York Giants and, totally un-
noticed, began one of the most impressive iron-man perform-
ances in sports history.

Outweighed and outmanned, Hein and the Giant line
refused to be outfought, beating back Bronko Nagurski, Red
Grange, and the Bears three times before finally giving way
and losing, 6-0.

"Usually you look for the rookies on another team and then
take advantage of them," says George Halas, owner and coach
of the Chicago Bears. "We tried working on Hein but from
the beginning he was too smart. We'd think he'd overshifted
and we'd try a short-side play. Wham! Hein is pulling our
man down. We'd try a short pass thinking he'd rush and he'd
either bat it down or intercept. How he could get in your
hair! Even as a rookie, there was no one like him."

The Giants' home opener against Stapleton and Ken Strong
drew 25,000, but the play was ragged and New York unim-
pressive. Strong got off punts of 72 and 78 yards in the second
quarter but the Giants won, 7-0, on a plunge in the final
minute. Even in routing the Brooklyn Dodgers, 27-0, before
22,000 at the Polo Grounds, the Giants showed little life and
less promise. Halfback Dale Burnett scored two touchdowns
and Red Cagle one, but the Giants obviously lacked a team
leader. Two days after the Dodger game, the Giants got their
team leader.

Even after Benny Friedman quit pro football earlier in the
fall for a coaching job at Yale, Giant owner Tim Mara still
kept in touch with his former star. Finally, when the promise
of a job on Wall Street failed to materialize, Friedman was
ready and willing to return to the Giants. To arrange it, Mara
scheduled all Giant practices for the morning so Friedman
could still coach at Yale every afternoon. The change worked
quicker and better than Mara had anticipated.

Thirty-two thousand five hundred spectators, the largest

turnout of the year, traveled to the Polo Grounds for Fried-
man's first game, against the unbeaten Portsmouth Spartans.
After a scoreless first quarter, Friedman set up two touch-
downs in the second, giving the Giants a 140 lead, and as the
sun turned into a heavy rain, left the game before the first
half ended. For the first time all season, the Giants played
team football. The backfield was impressive. The line with
ends Flaherty and Red Badgro, tackles Len Grant and Bill
Owen, guards Butch Gibson and Les Caywood, and center
Hein was brilliant, battling Portsmouth to a standstill in a
muddy second half and preserving the 14-0 victory.

After the game, Mara called Friedman to his office and
offered congratulations. They talked for a moment when
Friedman suddenly noticed the framed canceled check for
$115,153 hanging on the wall. The check covered the total
receipts of the Giant-Notre Dame All-Star game in 1930 and
was given to Mayor Walker's unemployment relief commit-
tee. Friedman, who had advised Mara to deduct $15,000 to
cover Notre Dame's expenses and not take the loss himself,
pointed to the check and smiled.

"Benny, 1 know just what you're thinking," said Mara. "I
was a real dumb Irishman. I don't know what I'd do for that
fifteen thousand dollars now."

With Friedman back, Giant attendance and Giant football
both began to pick up noticeably. To draw in additional fans,
Mara staged his first ladies' day in history and 12,000 non-
paying females turned out to watch the Giants play the Frank-
ford Yellow Jackets. Once again Friedman dominated play-
rushing 30 yards to set up one touchdown and passing 30
yards to Glenn Campbell for another and, once again, the
Giants won, 13-0. But the winning streak of four straight
didn't last long.

With Mayor Walker and Al Smith seated in their customary
seats behind the Giant bench, New York drove 81 yards in the
first quarter for a touchdown and 6-0 lead against the Chi-
cago Bears. The Bears tied the score in the third quarter, and
for the final fifteen minutes it was a bruising battle o the
lines. Finally, with four minutes left, Chicago moved for a
first down on the Giant one-half yard line. In an incredible
goal-line stand, New York held Bronko Nagurski and his

teammates for four straight downs and took over on the 8.
The Bear line was stacked and Friedman decided to gamble.
He faked an off-tackle run and faded to pass. But 232-pound
Chicago center George Trafton, who had been fooled by
Friedman too many times in the past, wasn't to be fooled
again. Drifting out of the line at the last moment, he inter-
cepted the Giant pass on the 22 and was tackled Immediately.
The Bears lost 4 yards on a running play, then Carl Brum-
baugh called for a pass. He hit end Garland Grange, Red's
brother, who caught the ball on the 5 and then dragged two
Giant tacklers over the goal line for a 12-6 victory.

Battered, beaten, and bruised by the Bears, the Giants were
given little chance against the once-beaten, first-place Green
Bay Packers. Yet for the second week in a row, Friedman
nearly engineered a spectacular upset. In less than two min-
utes, Green Bay scored on a 50-yard pass and led 7-0, but the
Giants fought back. On the last play of the first quarter, Fried-
man passed to Burnett for a first down on the Green Bay 8.
Two plays later, Hap Moran skirted left end for a touchdown
and a 7-7 tie. In the third quarter, Moran hit Flaherty with
a 54-yard pass on the Packer 12 and, when the Green Bay
line held, booted a 27-yard field goal for a 10-7 lead. With
fullback Hank Bruder pounding the tiring left side of the
New York line, the Packers drove to the Giant 21 on eight
straight running plays. Faking an off-tackle play, Bruder
knifed through the line, drifted free into the left secondary,
and took a pass from Red Dunn for a touchdown and a 1410
lead. Only one minute remained but substitute quarterback
Len Sedbrook returned the kickoff 63 yards to the Green Bay
30 and the Giants had another chance. Friedman carried to
the 16, then threw two incomplete passes as the game ended.
"Trafton may be the best center in the league," said Green
Bay coach Curly Lambeau, "but this Hein isn't far behind
him. He does everything right and he does everything in-
stinctively. He has a genius for diagnosing plays and he's al-
ways where he can do the most harm. Hell, he plays sixty min-
utes and has more left at the end than a lot of guys have
when they start."

The losses to the Bears and Packers had taken their toll
both physically and mentally and the Giants lost 9-6 to

Stapleton and tied Providence, 0-0, In their last two home
games of 193 1. "It had been a disappointing season and no
one would have been too surprised if we lost our last two
games on the road/* says Friedman. "But the team didn't quit.
By that last game, we were as good as any team in the league."

Troubled by rain, mist, and mud against the Dodgers,
Friedman concentrated on short, diagonal passes and hit Fla-
herty and Moran for two touchdowns and a 13-0 half-time
lead. When former Giant Jack McBride raced 65 yards for a
third-quarter Brooklyn touchdown, Friedman returned to the
game and completed two long passes to set up the final score.

Before the final game of the season against the Bears, Fried-
man walked over to referee Tom Thorp. "Tom/* said Fried-
man, "I've always wondered about something. What do you
do when I throw a pass?"

Thorp, a serious and dedicated official, thought for a mo-
ment, then replied, "I wait until you throw it and then I
watch downfield to see If it's completed."

"That's just what I thought," said Friedman. "You've got
three other officials all watching the receiver. Do you realize
that while you're looking downfield, the linemen are killing
me? There are enough officials watching the ball. Why don't
you watch what they're doing to me?"

Friedman's gamesmanship worked to perfection. The first
three times Friedman passed, Bear linemen roughed him up
and each time Thorp, his eyes riveted to the passer, called a
penalty. Finally, the Bears eased up and gave Friedman more
time to pass. The Giant attack was also helped by the return
of bruising fullback Tiny Feather. With Feather in the Giant
backfield, the Bears were forced to stay in a seven-man line,
and their four-man secondary couldn't cope with Friedman's
passes. In three quarters of play, he completed fourteen of
nineteen for 125 yards, a remarkable performance with a wet
ball on a muddy field, and the Giants closed the season with a
25-6 victory, their sixth in thirteen games. Friedman and
Flaherty were named to the NFL's All-Star first team, and
rookie Hein was named to the second.

Back in New York, Friedman dropped into the Giant office
for a serious discussion with Mara. The Giant owner, who
had cleared a record $35,000 in 1931, was in good humor until

Friedman got to the point. Friedman, who had always been
treated like a son by Mara, wanted to join the Mara family
as a part owner.

"Benny/' said Tim Mara, "I'm sorry but this is a family
business. We've been good friends and I like you a lot, but the
Giants are for my sons. I'd like you back again next year as a
player-coach but that's up to you to decide."

Disappointed and bitter, Friedman, who almost single-hand-
edly had carried the Giants for three seasons, quit a few
months later, moving to Brooklyn as player-coach. Without
him, Tim Mara suddenly was an owner without a star, with-
out a coach, and probably without a winner. Looking ahead
to 1932, he could be grateful for only one thing the quick
thinking of a Pullman, Washington, postmaster who had
given him Mel Hein, the greatest Giant of them all.

Stout Steve Takes Over

TIM MARA'S first job was to find a new coach. Knowing little
about football himself, he turned to Steve Owen, a Giant
tackle who worked as a boss in Mara's Harlem River coalyard
during the off-season. Almost daily for a month, Tim Mara or
his son Jack would telephone Owen at work and ask for his
opinion of their latest candidate. Finally, Mara asked Owen
one day if he had a personal choice for the job.

"Guy Chamberlain," answered Owen without hesitating.
"He was a tremendous end and he's done a great job coaching
at Frankford. He's the kind of fellow I'd like to play for, and
so would the rest of the team."

Mara thanked Owen and told him he wanted to think about
it some more. A few days later, Owen was called to the phone
at the coalyards. It was the boss calling again.

"Steve," said Tim Mara, "we've finally decided on a coach
for the Giants."

"Fine," said Owen, hoping that Chamberlain had taken the
job. "Who is it?"

"I'm tired of buying uniforms for you," said Mara. "Steve,
you're our new coach."

At thirty-four years of age, Steve Owen, a 250-pound line-
man who thrived on snuff, steaks, and body contact, was given
the job of rebuilding the New York Giants. Why had Mara
chosen Owen instead of Chamberlain or some big-name col-
lege coach?

"I knew very little about football but I believed that an
ability to handle men was essential," explained Mara. "Owen
had a tough job at the coalyard, but he handled it conscien-

tiously, honestly, firmly, and without trouble. He knew how
to handle rough customers with tact. I felt he was giving me
sixty minutes there just as he did on the football field. That
was all the recommendation I wanted. Hell, If he didn't know
enough football to coach It by then, he had wasted a lot of
time."

Owen's baptism in football has provided an amusing story
for the off-season banquet circuit. According to the tale, young
Steve was riding his horse down a lonely, dusty road in Okla-
homa Indian territory when he noticed some men playing a
game he had never seen before. After watching silently for a
few moments, he asked one of the fellows standing nearby,
"Say, mister, what are they playing?"

"Football," answered the stranger, "Would you like to play
a little?"

"Sure," said Owen, sliding off his horse. "It looks like fun.
What do I do?"

"Now just take this ball here and try to run through those
eleven boys standing there," said the stranger. "If they can't
wrestle you down and you reach the goal posts down the field,
you've scored a touchdown. Ya understand?"

Owen wasn't sure he did but it didn't seem difficult. He
cradled the football in his arms and started running. He
bowled over the first few tacklers, trampled a half-dozen
others, and finally brushed aside a couple more to cross the
goal line still on his feet. Proud of his first touchdown, Owen
flipped the egg-shaped ball to the stranger and trotted back
upfield. "I did what you told me," said Owen, grinning. "Now
what do I do?"

"Try It again," said the stranger, obviously hard to please.
"But this time take your spurs off first."

The story is always good for a laugh even if it never hap-
pened. Yet Owen's real baptism Into football was almost as
absurd. The first son of a prairie schoolmarm and a Cherokee
strip farmer, Steve Owen didn't play any football at Aline
High School in Cleo Springs principally because the school
didn't have a football team. "Outside of wrasslin', we didn't
have any time for sports," said Owen. "We were too busy with
chores and schoolin' and watchin' the marshals chase out-
laws across the Cimarron River."

Wrasslin* didn't hurt him. By the time he was sixteen, he
weighed 220, stood 6-feet tall, and could handle almost any
man in the territory. His father was so proud of Steve's
strength that he often would awaken him in the middle of the
night to wrestle some stranger he had brought home. "I wasn't
allowed to go back to bed until I whipped the fellow Pop
brought home," says Owen, who liked his sleep and ended his
exhibition matches quickly.

During summer vacations, Steve packed a small duffel and
headed for the oil fields of Texas. For a 12-hour day as a
roughneck in the boom town of Burkburnett, he earned $3
and learned how to handle himself. When he graduated from
high school, he wanted to return to Texas, but his mother
wouldn't let him. She wanted him to go to college and finally
Steve relented, enrolling in the Student Army Training Corps
at Phillips University at Enid, Oklahoma. It was at Phillips
that Owen saw a football for the first time.

One afternoon, he was seated under a tall tree, glancing at
a textbook and the pretty co-eds, when football coach Johnny
Maulbetsch walked over to him. The coach wanted to know
why Owen hadn't reported for football practice. "I told him
I'd never played the game/' says Owen, "and he asked me if
I'd like to learn how. I didn't know what was in store for
me, but I was sure it couldn't be any worse than K.P. and so
I said OK."

His first football lesson was a lot worse than K.P. Maul-
betsch, an All-American jfullback at Michigan only four years
before, took Owen to the practice field, gave him a uniform,
and proceeded to pound him mercilessly. "I'd been in some
pretty rough-and-tumble stuff in my day, but nobody ever hit
me as hard as Johnny did that day," says Owen. "Finally I got
the idea and pretty soon I was laying Mm out. He didn't get
mad. He just grinned/*

"Son," said Maulbetsch, "you now have the secret It's a
rough game and you'll get hurt if you let the other fellow hit
you harder than you hit him. That's why football is a good
game. It won't let a man play easy. You'll learn the rules fast
enough. Just remember this Respect every other boy on this
squad and work with him. Never lose respect for your op
ponent or hell hit you harder than you hit him/*

Owen listened quietly and learned quickly. In his first
game, an opposing lineman caught Owen with an elbow in
the face and split open his nose. "OK," said Owen, "if that's
the way you want to play this game, let's go." Bloodied but
unbowed, Owen leveled the offender and then started batter-
Ing every opponent in sight*

Maulbetsch was delighted. "See?" he said, turning to his
assistant. "1 told you that boy would be a great football
player."

With Phillips, with the Kansas City Cowboys, and with the
New York Giants, Owen had been an outstanding football
playertough, aggressive, and durable. Yet as a coach, Steve
Owen still had plenty to learn.

The Giants of 1931 were a fifth-place team only because of
passer Benny Friedman. Without him in 1932, the Giants
were far less menacing. One of the most colorful additions
was a tall, lanky redhead from Kentucky named John Simnas
Kelly, who wandered into the Giant office one warm August
afternoon in 1932. The coal business was poor in summer and
Tim Mara hopefully thought that the youngster might be a
potential customer.

"I'm Shipwreck Kelly/' drawled the youngster.

"What?" said Mara. "The fellow who sits on flagpoles?"

"No suh," drawled Shipwreck. "Ah play football for Kain-
tucky."

Mara, who had been given a list of the top college prospects
by his sixteen-year-old son Wellington, suddenly realized who
his visitor was. ""Welcome" said the Giant owner, smiling and
offering a chair. "I've heard of you, my boy. Here, look at
this." Opening his drawer, Mara pulled out a folder crammed
with clippings detailing the exploits of Shipwreck Kelly of
Kaintucky.

"I've seen them all," said Kelly, "and I'd lak to play foot-
ball this fall with yah Giants. Ah hear it's a right smart team,
suh."

Mara and the Giants, needed Kelly but not at his price
a percentage of the gate similar to the deal Red Grange had
back in 1925. "I'd love to have you but I can't afford you," said
Mara. "Well, the news about the Depression will get back to

>J I

_ f '

THE BEGINNING: In 1925, the tickets were , . , ,,.
cheap and the players were all college heroes, ^T^SfltSS^
but the fans still stayed away. " ' '' ' "*

THE BIG ONE: Old and ailing, Jim Thorpe (playing solitaire while coach
Bob Folwell watches during memorable boat trip to Providence) didn't
help the Giants in 1925, but the professional debut of Red Grange (passing)
did, drawing 72,000 fans into the Polo Grounds.

THE EARLY HEROES: From the beginning, New Yorkers had their
favorites-backs Hinkey Haines (left) of Penn State and Jack McBride (right)
of Syracuse and linemen Century Milstead (lower left) of Yale and Joe Alex-
ander (lower right) of Syracuse.

THE NATIONAL FOOTBALL LEAGUE

UNIFORM PLAYER'S CONTRACT

T he .... )fit..T*fc I&ftt Bail .&Mtol herein called the Club,

w>d Sumy Q&tae* of Ottttoflr-feU

herein called theTIayer.

The Club is a member of The- National Football League. As such, and jointly with the other members
of the League, it is obligated to insure to the public wholesome and high-class professional football by defining
the relations between Club and Player, and between Club and Club.

In view of the facts above recited the parties agree as follows:

1. The Club will pay the Player a salary for his- skilled service-* during the playing season of 193 , at

the rate of fanttjMJ dollars for each regularly scheduled League game played. For an other

games the Player^alroiiJaro such salary as shall be agreed upon between the Player and the Club. As to
games scheduled but not played, the Player shall receive no compensation from the Club other than actual expenses.

to *i paid f$r in pra^rtioa to the riiwmoUl rs~

frm twrctrr^i" * '"

The salary above provided for shall be paid by the Club as follows* :
Seventy-five per cent (75#) after each game and the remaining twenty-five per cent (25$) at the close of
the season or upon release of the Player by the Club- $

3. The Player agrees that during said season he will faithfully serve the Club, and pledges himself to the
American public to conform to high standards of fair play and good sportsmanship.

4. The Player will not play football during 193 . , otherwise than for the Club, except in case the Club
shall have released said Player, and said release has been approved by the officials of The National Football
League.

5. The Player accepts as part of this contract such reasonable regulations as the Club may announce from
time to time.

S. This contract may be terminated at any time by the Club upon six (6) days' written notice to the Player,

7. The Player submits himself to the discipline of The National Football League and agrees to accept its

decisions pursuant to its Constitution and By-Laws.

8. Any time prior toA&fcst 1^., 12&&. t by written notice to the Player, the Club may renew this con-
tract for the term of that year, except that the salary rate shall be such as the parties may 1 then agree upon,

or in default of agreement, such as the Club may fix.

9. The Player may be fined or suspended for- violation of this contract, but in all cases the Player shall
have the right of appeal to the President of The National Football League.

10. In default of agreement, the Player will accept the salary rate thus fixed or else will not play during
said year otherwise than for the Club, unless the Club shall release the Player.

11. The reservation of the Club of the valuable right to fix the salary rate for the succeeding year, and

ilwj promise of the Player not to play during said year otherwise than with the Club, have been taken into con-
sideration in determining the salary specified herein and the undertaking by the Club; to pay said salary is the con-
sideration fw both the reservation and the promise.

12. In case of dispute between the Player and the Club the same shall be referred to the President of
HWB National Football League, and his decision shall be accepted by all parties as final

?S, Verbal contracts between Club and Player win not be considered by this League, in the event of a

ute.

Signed thi* f *& day of Septafc? , . , A. D. 193

copy to be hdd by Player

CHANGING TIMES: Through the years, the game of professional football
lias changed radically-offensively, defensively, and financially. Take the
case of two All-Pros, lineman Butch Gibson and defensive back Emlen
Tunnel. For playing 60 minutes each game in 1930 (above), Gibson was
paM $100. For playing only on defense in 1958 (right), Tunnell was paid
$100 for each interception plus $10,000 for the season.

NATIONAL FOOTBALL LEAGUE

STANDARD PLAYitS CONTRACT

BETWEEM

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which opw^M !** **. T* ,?*. 0f.iffM. , end whcfa a *mb- d * Hated FootWJ
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to cowkkraton o! tht rupectew premises btwn titt parte bsnoto ogrM o fotbwi

}. Th torn d this contract shall bt Inn the dot of SXSCUUDT; hereof until tht test day of May f

tb das* d th* football season mnendfig la , . . .XPW , sublet howw. to ngbls of prior

Itcrairwtjcfi a pecilid tomn,

2. Th Player agr*t that dining th tann of that amtwct h* wilt play loatbai end wH engcg* in ao
ttfiifcM relaltKi to foctbail cniy kt !h Qub and as cL'ec'ad by th Club ccccrchr.g to Jha Ccnstiiuticn. By-Lcws.
R'oles ami BgubtioD$ of the* Hatcrvd Footbcii Ucgu, :^T!na:'er ca0d tfa "">a.gu, ' awd oi Ih* Cub, md
the Dub, aitbiact to tbft prcv.sjcrjj ^rec{ = cgraea durmg tuch period to e-^picy !h Player o sk:aci loofr
bed! pkiye? The Pkiyer agrees during the tenn of this contract to repcrt pronpiiy for lb& Oub's
csscna to rer.-der his !ul= tim<i mrwm during tt frosntng seoscns and at Ihft Gub's directior, to
ir. all practise ss-ssicns and in all league end ether ioofbci! Qarac* tdudbbd by th* Qub,

3 Fes- th Pkxytr" semcM < a ^uttod kx^fcofl j^ayw dunog t Iwrrn of fat amtract, and kf h agiwh
mtnt no! to play foofbdJ or wgc^i artvitei jwiatei to JtxAdi ibr any atbw ptnan, imn. cwporarton or to-
itetuton during the term of th amlract, aod fee ft* cpfeon lwriKrflr set forth $twnsf tfon Qid& & rwjh* to
titis cc,ntract, ard ior the cS:her lindersakings c! tiie Flaywr Iwrwi, ti Qub premises to pay th* Fksyr

srh fcctbali mon during tb* tern of &a cxmtart fit* sum of I ^lf ^X>* , , to b* fXJfAI* -as
7$% i said scisrr to w**Uy JMtaJBMBli, cooaMaanf M iw fat c

fc addition the Club promi and ogri Is pay Ib* CBtaH board and lodgng #^>aMw d UMI Pfay in*
cuned wLk pl3ry.ir i <KmuM for th* Club m odw than tfat Obb'i boo* c&y and ai> to pay afi ^fopw md
iwMgarv rrvivt-l-.r; ; xptMe o! the f .aye? end tw mal$ M route to and &aa scad gaum

I! Hayer adcnowkdg^ iw nghi and po^er c! the Commissioner oi !he Kat;or.al Footi>d! League fa) to
iiiic and suspend, |b) to tew and apnd for ill* or Weto!*!*-, tmd 'or (c) to caned t ccrtad of. my pfay*r
who crccpts a bribe or who agrts to dnov or to a gain* or who, baring biowfed*!** d tht sawi* fail to report can
offeree* bribe or on attempt to tfnow or fix a gam*, or who bttt on a gam, or who fe ointty d OJT oowiyct
drtnmffital to th w*!faw cf ib Kabonoi FooAoil ieagu* or of pK&iemKmd iootbaH; ond ttw Bayr Imdsy
rvkmes the Ccrnm-sssoner of th* liaticncu Football Lsagu*. individually and in bs oii-ad capaaiy. and alo m
Nctfiond Foctbdl Ltagut and wry <^^> d wrwrf offiotr, dawaw ood rtockhokler of the Le^a end d wrr
dub li.erecf, ;omf!y, and sveraily, from oil dcL-r.s c&td demcr.ds for d-cnncges ar.d ever/ dadm ami demand whct-
aoever he may have arwmg out of or In oomcSke *ith th dtdnon of said Cotmmfamt d the Ncticnd
Footbal! League m any d the aicrescsd OOMM

12 Any paynwrnte mod* hwmiixkt to tb> Beyer Jor a petfod dwing wWch h to wtitW to worfawm't ow-
ptnsation bitwftls by MOMQ of ttmporary Wai* pnaotitf toioi ttraporary partial, or pmaanMit portki dao>
bllity shdl be derood an advance pcyment oi ccmpensciion benefits dus the player, and the dub shell be entitled
to be reimbursed th amounts thrc! cut d any award o! compensation.

13. Th ognewml cooHim * tnttm agwsttnt bctwwa the parties and tiwra cs no ord or wril^
inducement, prombtf or ag-wments except as contained r^reir. This cgreerr.en! shall bccme valid and bind-
ing upon ach party bnwto only wfa, as and if it itelt be approved by the Cow^siooef,

14, ThifeKffMBMalboBbMo nod* sate ondd^b9oivn^ .. ....... .,,....

m WITNESS WHEREOF th Ffayr bo tomato Mt to tend ami teal and Ob km Gamed tfdi
tract to b* executed by te (kly cmthcns^I officer m the date set oppcs: te the:r respective i

^ to

U>l)(t

Approved .,., "j^L^j^,*^;-?/, , ,...,.., .,-- -- ;,'

CaeaMxxm , ' I^rta Royers Address

Oil Copy to be Sent to Ccr-.^issicr.er lor Approval
1 '' Returr. D Member Cub

ON THE WAY: To get quarterback Benny Friedman (carry-
ing the ball), the Giants had to buy up another football team.
It was one of the best deals they ever made. The payoff
was a check for $115,153 the Giants turned over to charity
after routing the Notre Dame All-Stars in 1930.

THE SCORERS: In the 1930 s, the Giants began to win and the fans began
to flock to the Polo Grounds. It was an era of hard, aggressive football, but
the scorers-Ken Strong (left), Tuffy Leemans (right), Ward Cuff (lower
left), and Dale Burnett (lower ngjj*}~still got all the headlines.

WIDE WOHIJD PHOTO

THE OWNERS; From the start,
the Giants were a family team,
owned and run by the Maras.
Founder Tim Mara (in middle)
smiles and other owners watch as
Jack Mara (fourth from right) ac-
cepts trophy after the Giants won
the 1934 NFL championship. Dr.
Harry March (smoking pipe at far
left) was secretary of. the early
Giants, running the team until
Wellington Mara (left) finished col-
lege and moved into the front

THE COACHES: In 39 seasons,
the Giants have had seven head
coaches, but Steve Owen (above)
was the first to make an impres-
sion. His successors Jim Lee How-
el talking to Rosey Grier at left
and Andy Robusteili center and
Affie Sherman (fg/il>-have made
even greater ones.

ITS WHATS UP FRONT THAT COUNTS: In the pros, a team doesn't
win without exceptional linemen and the Giants have had more than
their share of great ones Rosey Brown (left), Arnie Weinmeister (right),
Al Blozfs (lower left), and all-time All-Pro Mel Hein (lower right).

PHIL MACMULLANT

ON THE GROUND: The Giants have always had top runners-Frank
Gifford (G), Kyle Rote (R), Alex Webster, (W), Eddie Price (P), and Bill
Paschal (outrunning Sammy Baugh of the Washington Redskins).

\iA\I \,AY FOR THE DEFEXbE: Crushing ballcarriers and smother-
;r:i f ;\>^r\ frlie C ^iit> ddosu f've-ends Andy Robustelli (R) and Jim
Kutuvaije !Kt, tackles Dick Modzelewski (M) ^nd Rosey Grier (G), and
middle-linebacker Sum Huff (H)-have been among the toughest and

most awesome in the Mstory of football.

PHIL MAC MULLAH

THE QUARTERBACKS: Through
the years, the Giants have had
dozens of quarterbacks, but two
stand out far above the rest-
Charlie Conerly (kft) and Y. A.
Tittle (fop right). Since 1961, the
favorite receiver of both men has
been a thin, lanky Texan named
Del Shofner (catching pass at lower
right).

upi

the hills of Kentucky sooner or later, and you might as well be
the one to can*)- the word."

The Giants had not heard the last of Shipwreck Kelly. Born
in Springfield, Kentucky, Kelly owned a thoroughbred horse
farm and was heir to a sizable fortune. His guardian, Percy
Johnson of the Chemical National Bank of New York, wanted
the youngster to accompany him to Europe in the fall of 1932,
but Kelly, who had been to Europe four times already,
changed his mind early in September. Totally unannounced,
the drawling redheaded halfback reported to the Giants" train-
ing camp at Magnetic Springs, Ohio,

"Glad to have you," said Owen, "but really we weren't ex-
pecting you."

"That's why I came," drawled Kelly. "I do the most
ahstonishing things. Nevah know why myself. Now Coach,
there's nothing to do but give me the ball and let me get
going."

In 1932, Red Cagle was the highest paid Giant at $500 a
game (second only to Red Grange's S550 a game in the NFL),,
but he did little to earn his money. Most of the other players
earned little more than $100 a game and played accordingly.
Opening on the road against league powerhouses, New York
lost, 7-6, to Portsmouth and 13-0 to Green Bay. Against the
Packers, one Giant persisted in second-guessing veteran referee
Tom Thorp loud enough for everyone in the stands to hear.
Finally, as the Packers drove down to the goal line, Thorp
dove to the bottom of a pileup, grabbed the ball and called
over all 22 players. "That was a real close one/" he said loudly,,
glaring at the offender. "Do you think it's a first down?"

"Why ask me?" asked the Giant. "I'm not the referee."

"Well, I'm glad to get that settled," said Thorp. "Up to
now, a lot of us thought you were."

Late in the Green Bay game, Owen finally decided to give
Shipwreck Kelly a chance to play. "Get in there for Cagle/*
Owen said, but Kelly looked puzzled. "What do ah do?" asked
Kelly. "Yah all know ah nevah did any substituting in mah
whole life/* Owen pointed out the referee and Shipwreck
Kelly officially became a Giant He gained 27 yards the first
time he carried the ball, caught six passes, and played with
more self-assurance than any of the other backs.

Despite a third straight loss, 14-6, to Boston, Owen re-
mained surprisingly confident when the Giants returned to
New York, "We can beat any team that's beaten us and we
will do it when they come to the Polo Grounds," said Owen.
"We're much better than our record."

For one weekend, at least, Owen proved an able prophet.
Before 25,000 fans, the Giants defeated the Brooklyn Dodgers,
20-12, with Cagle scoring twice and Hap Moran once, on a
71 -yard run. The next week in rain and mud at the Polo
Grounds, Kelly again played well slithering for 47 yards in
eleven carries in the final quarterbut New York had to set-
tle for a 0-0 tie with Boston.

For the Portsmouth game, Kelly's picture was on the cover
of the program and his name was in the Giant starting lineup
for the first time. Only one thing was missing Kelly himself.
When he didn't show up by game time, the band started play-
ing "Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly?" but Shipwreck ob-
viously had better things to do for the afternoon. The Giants
played surprisingly well completing ten of sixteen passes
but couldn't score and lost, 6-0.

"What happened to Kelly?" a writer asked Owen after the
game.

"Maybe he's sitting on a flagpole," quipped one of the
Giants.

"As far as I'm concerned, he can sit on a tack," said Owen.
"He's suspended." And colorful John Simms (Shipwreck)
Kelly, who never fully explained his mysterious absence, never
played another game as a Giant.

Though Kelly had contributed little football, the Giants
fell apart without him. They lost, 28-8, to the Chicago Bears
and Owen, his face a beet red, was waiting for them in
the dressing room. "You were no damn good and you quit
out there today," said Owen. "I've taken all the bad football I
plan to take from this team. If you don't start playing in the
last two home games, youll all be looking for new jobs."

Owen, whose coaching record stood at an inglorious one
win, one tie, and five losses, was in the most trouble. In
desperation, he signed former Giant fullback Jack McBride, a
versatile, powerful runner-passer who had been released by
the Dodgers because of a tendency to break training. Me-

Bride wasn't a Benny Friedman but he was a lot better than
anyone else the Giants had, and lie saved Owen's job. He
passed the Giants to a 27-7 victor)' over Stapleton, then en-
gineered the biggest pro upset of the season. The Green Bay
Packers, unbeaten in nine straight games, had won the NFL
championship three years in a row, and were heavy favorites
to make it four as they moved into the Polo Grounds. It was
damp and muddy by game time, but 30,000 fans still had
turned out to watch their Giants on Tim Mara Day- A poem
in the official program by one Thomas J. McCarthy paid
tribute to Mara and his team:

Each fall my joy is without bounds
On Sundays at the Polo Grounds.
For when our football Giants play,
Just try to keep this guy away.

The verse was mediocre, the football superb. The aging
Giant line pushed the younger, heavier Packers up and down
the field, bottling up Arnie Herber, the NFL's top passer, and
limiting him to only three completions. Just before the end of
the first half, the Giants got the one break they needed. Green
Bay's Johnny Blood fumbled a punt on the 50, and Giant
tackle Len (Gallahad) Grant pounced on the loose ball. With
right end Ray Flaherty calling plays, McBride hit on two
short flat passes to Moran for 16 yards and Dale Burnett for
7 -for a first down on the Packer 27. Two running plays and
an incomplete pass lost 5 yards and the Giants had only one
play left. With less than a minute remaining in the half,
McBride raced to his right, spotting Flaherty cutting the other
way, and connected with his bruising end on the 5. Flaherty
shook off one tackier and plunged over for the touchdown.
The Giant line held throughout the second half and New
York had a spectacular 6-0 victory over Green Bay.

On the road again, the Giants let down momentarily tying
Stapleton 13 13 then finished with a 13-7 victory over Brook-
lyn and a narrow 6-0 loss to the Chicago Bears, who won the
NFL championship with a 7-1-6 record. Despite their 4-6-2
record and fifth-place finish in the eight-team league, the Giants
still placed Flaherty on the all-star first team, Grant on the
second, and Hein and McBride on the third.

Yet even sixteen-year-old Wellington Mara knew what was
wrong with the Giants. They had grown old and needed help
desperately. When Wellington presented his father with a
list of college players the Giants could use, a New York Post
columnist wrote:

Papa, please buy me a tackle.
I'd like a big halfback, too.
I'd like old Green Bay to shackle.
Maybe Angelo Brovelli would do.

Mara didn't get Angelo Brovelli, the star back o St. Mary's
of California, but he didn't let young Wellington down. The
National Football League was heading for its biggest season
and the Giants were not going to be left behind.

100

Strong' and Stronger

THE annual National Football League meeting had been
totally uneventful as the owners raced to finish up their busi-
ness in Atlantic City. Suddenly, a voice from the back of the
room asked for permission to speak. It was George Preston
Marshall, a laundry tycoon and sometime actor who had re-
cently purchased the Boston Redskins.

"Gentleman/* said Marshall, "I have some proposals to make
concerning changes in the rules.*' The other owners were
stunned. What did Marshall know about football? And didn't
he know that the pros played the same rules as the colleges?

"I realize you men know your football inside and out," he
continued. "I know football only from a spectator's point of
view. But that's exactly why I'm speaking to you. From the
spectator's point of view, the kind of football you play makes
a lousy show. It's dull, uninteresting, and boring. The way I
look at it, we're in show business. And when a show becomes
boring to the public, you throw it out and put a more interest-
Ing one in its place. That's why I want to change the rules. I
want to give the public the kind of show they want."

Before anyone could interrupt him, Marshall outlined two
radical changes move the goal posts back to the goal line
and permit passers to throw the ball from anywhere behind
the line of scrimmage. When Marehall finished, there was a
momentary silence, then an uproar. One NFL owner was on
his feet immediately, ridiculing Marshall and his proposals.
But Marshall wouldn't be silenced. For three hours, he argued,
he joked* he threatened, and he cajoled beating back, with
sound logic, every possible objection the other owners could

101

raise. Finally, they gave in. Marshall, the arrogant newcomer,
had won. A few months later, he won again when he con-
vinced his fellow owners to split the NFL into two five-team
divisions with a post-season championship game scheduled for
mid-December.

In less than six months one man, a Washington laundry
tycoon with a flair for the spectacular, had changed the face
of professional football. If the NFL failed now, George Pres-
ton Marshall was the man to blame. And his fellow owners
were not going to let him forget it.

To play spectacular football, the New York Giants needed
flashing, versatile players, and Mara and Owen decided quickly
on two of the men they wanted. "We knew we would be
passing a lot more and we wanted the best passer available,"
said Owen. "There was only one boy who could do the job
and we got him/'

At 5-foot-8 and 176 pounds, Harry Newman was a quick-
thinking, bullet-passing All-American from Michigan. As a
Detroit high school star, Newman had attended camp one
summer in New Hampshire and had worked out under Benny
Friedman, the Michigan All-American and the NFL's top
passer. Newman studied Friedman's movements, asked ques-
tions, and learned his lessons well. Harry was ready the first %
time his coach called on him. Trailing Purdue, 13-0, New-
man entered the game, his first for Michigan, and promptly
won a permanent starting spot for himself. He passed 80 yards
for the first touchdown, kicked the extra point, set up the
second touchdown with another pass, and then won the game,
14-13, with his second placement.

To sign Newman, Mara had to violate one of his business
principles and offer the youngster a percentage contract that
would enable him to earn close to $8,000 depending upon
home attendance. With Newman signed, Mara could concen-
trate on a player he had been after for more than five years.

After the 1928 season, Mara had sent coach Leroy Andrews
to sign Elmer Kenneth Strong, an All-American halfback
from New York University and the leading scorer in the
United States. Strong was a natural athlete and a natural draw
for the Giants, and Mara wanted him regardless of the costs.
But Andrews, a wily businessman, was convinced he could get

102

the youngster very cheap offered him only $200 a game.
Strong asked for more, but Andrews said he doubted If he
could get him more than $250. When Stapletoe offered him
55*000 for the season and a large rent-free apartment on Stateo
Island, Strong wasted no time In turning down the Giants*
offer. Not until later did Mara and Strong learn about An-
drews* duplicity.

Yet for Strong, football was only a temporary pastime. The
6-foot- 1, 205-poonder was convinced his future was in pro-
fessional baseball, and major-league scouts agreed with him.
Originally signed by the New York Yankees, Strong hit .342
with fourteen home runs in 1931 for Toronto, finishing the
season as a regular right fielder despite a badly injured right
wrist. The Detroit Tigers liked what they saw and bought the
powerful right-handed hitter for $40,000 and five players.
The deal was perfect, but Strong's wrist, injured when he had
crashed into the wall in Buffalo, wasn't. Finally, the Tigers
sent him to a bone specialist who recommended immediate
surgery. In January of 1932, Strong entered a Detroit hospital
for surgery to remove a small bone in his right wrist. The
surgeon removed a bone but the wrong one. Instead of taking
out the small bone, the surgeon removed the main one in
Strong's wrist by mistake. His wrist weakened beyond repair,
Ken Strong was finished as a professional baseball player.
Only then, in late 1932, did Strong begin to think of pro-
fessional football as a possible career. Surprisingly, his wrist,
which was too weak for the quick, snapping baseball throws,
was still strong enough for the controlled motion of a foot-
ball pass.

How good a football player was Ken Strong? He was a
strong, bruising runner who could still run 100 yards in less
than 10 seconds. He was an accurate passer and a rugged
receiver. He could kick 45-yard field goals and punt more
than 70 yards. And he could block with the shattering power
of a lineman. He was so good that Grantland Rice had picked
him, along with Jim Thorpe, as one of hk all-time halfbacks.

"Strong is the greatest all-round player of all time, n said
Judge Walter Steffen, long-time coach at Carnegie Tech. "I've
never seen a football player in his class/*

Ken Strong was just what the Giants of 1933 needed, but

103

Mara, still bitter about Ken's decision to sign with Stapleton
in 1929, decided to give him a hard time. "Strong, you're a
troublemaker/' said Mara. "I've been told you yell at your
teammates and that you think you're pretty damned good.
Why should I take a chance with you? Who knows If you can
still play with that bum wrist?"

"I yelled at players who loafed at Stapleton and I'd do the
same here/* said Strong. "I play to win and if you don't want
me on the Giants for that reason, I don't want to play for
you/"

Forced into paying Newman more than he wanted to, Mara
balanced his books with Strong. He offered him $250 a game,
the same offer Strong had rejected five years before, but this
time he accepted. Stapleton had gone out of business and if
Strong didn't sign with New York, he would probably be
blacklisted with the other NFL teams.

Disappointed, Strong reported to the Giant training camp
at Pompton Lakes determined to prove to Mara and everyone
else he could still be an All-Pro football player. To back up
Newman and Strong, the Giants had assembled a fine support-
ing cast. In the line, newcomers Bill Morgan, Hank Reese,
Tex Irvin, and John Cannela blended nicely with veterans
Red Badgro, Ray Flaherty, Turtle Campbell, Mel Hein, Len
Grant, Bill Owen, Potsy Jones, and Butch Gibson. From the
first day of practice, Strong and Newman were backfield start-
ers along with Dale Burnett and Bo Molenda, an overpower-
ing 221 -pound fullback who could splinter a goal post with
a shoulder block.

Wellington Mara, a skinny, enthusiastic teen-ager who knew
more football names and statistics than the rest of the Giant
organization put together, had finally received his mother's
permission to live with the team during training. The Giants
liked the youngster, nicknamed him Duke, and let him help
out during practice. One day, young Mara was assisting dur-
ing punting practice. It was his job to make sure center Mel
Hein had a ball next to him after every kick. The Duke
worked well, but once, a little too fast. Just as he turned to
place the ball next to Hein, the center lunged forward, block-
ing out an imaginary opponent. Hein hit the Duke with his
right elbow, tossed him a few yards, and presented him with

104

his first football scar a multicolored black eye. Without tell-
ing anyone, the press agent called several of the newspapers
and, the next day, one New York paper headlined:

YOUNG MARA FIRST CASUALTY OF GIANT CAMP

It was brilliant press-agentry but Mrs, Mara didn't appre-
ciate the publicity. "If Pop hadn't talked Mother out of It,
I'd have been home that afternoon/' says Wellington. "There
was so much commotion the other players started kidding
Mel he'd lose his job."

After an opening game victory against Pittsburgh, the
Giants moved into Boston and a meeting with one of profes-
sional football's zanier coaches, William (Lone Star) Dietz,
Though the Giants had been using a scout Homer Wrightson
for part of the last two seasons, scouting an opponent re-
mained a fairly informal practice in the NFL. In Boston* Dietz
had developed a system of his own. The day before his game
with the Bears and their T-formation, Dietz suggested the visi-
tors work out at Fenway Park and then, perched atop the sta-
dium, he took notes on everything Chicago did. He revised
his defenses that afternoon and just missed upsetting the
Bears, 7-6.

Dietz' ingenuity almost backfired against the Giants. De-
ciding he could see more of the game from the press box
than he could from the bench, he gave his team instructions to
kick off under any circumstances and took off at full speed for
the upper deck. Leaning back in his press-box seat minutes
later, Dietz glanced down at the field and, to his surprise, saw
the Giants lining up to kick off.

"What's going on down there?" he shouted over the phone
to an assistant on the bench. ''Didn't I tell you to kick off?"

"We did, Coach/ came the reply. "The score is seven to
nothing.*'

The Giant lead didn't hold up and Boston came from be-
hind to win, 21-20. Still on the road, New York defeated
Green Bay, 10-7, lost to Portsmouth, 17-7, and returned
home for the Polo Grounds opener against Philadelphia.
Never before had the Giants struck so explosively. They
scored three touchdowns In the first quarter, one each in the
second and third, and three more In the final quarter for a

105

56-0 victory, the biggest In the team's history. Molenda and
Kink Richards scored two touchdowns each while Moran,
Strong, Burnett, and Stu Clancy each accounted for one.

Early in the game Richards broke clear at midfield but
polled up at the Philadelphia 10-yard line and placed the ball
down. The pro rookie had forgotten that the pro goal posts
were on the goal line and not 10 yards behind it, as in college
ball. Fortunately, Richards fell on the ball when he was
tackled-

Calling him to the sideline immediately, Owen began to
shout at the rookie from tiny Simpson College in Iowa. "I
thought" said Richards before Owen cut him short.

"Never mind thinking the next time," snapped Owen. "It
slows down the offense."

Later in the game, Richards made another mistake, but this
time he was ready for Owen. "Coach, don't say a word," he
said. 4i l was thinking again out there." Owen grinned and the
Giants howled.

It was a happy team all season. Gibson entertained by rip-
ping telephone books and decks of playing cards into small
pieces and challenging Irvin to tobacco-spitting contests. An
inventive leader on the field, Newman was a more inventive
practical Joker off it. One day he set a harmless bomb in the
motor of Gibson's beat-up Ford coupe and then told his team-
mates about it. Nonchalantly huddling around the windows
of the clubhouse, they waited patiently as Gibson, Bill Owen,
and Irvin crowded into the front seat of the little car parked
under the elevated train. The moment Gibson pressed the
starter, a series of explosions rocked the car, but the three
burly Giant linemen were so tightly pressed together they
couldn't get out. Finally, Gibson pried himself into the street
and, glancing up at his laughing teammates, started racing
toward the clubhouse. Inside the dressing room, he headed
straight for Newman. "Harry/" he said, shaking his head and
spitting some tobacco juice on Newman's freshly polished
shoes, "now that wasn't very nice/' Then Gibson grinned, and
Newman was busy planning another practical joke.

The Giants defeated Brooklyn, 21-7, with Newman out-
passing Friedman, and then Owen went to work setting his de-
fenses for Bronko Nagurski and the Chicago Bears. Defenses

106

still varied little from the standard six- and seven-man lines,
but Owen had an idea. "I'd thinking more and more

about using a 5-3-3 but I needed three backers-up to make it
work/' said Owen. "Mel Hein and Bo Molenda were perfect
for the outsides and Hank Reese seemed to know what to do
at the middle slot during practice." The Bears needed only
one play to knock the Giants back into a six-man line. On the
first play of the game, Nagurski carried through the Giants*
line and trampled over Reese for a 6-yard gain. Reese had to
be helped from the field and the Giants" defense went with
him. "Reese played the next game/* says Owen, <4 but years
later he still claimed he heard a buzzing in his head every
time he thought of Nagurski hitting him." The 230-pound
pile driver made a marked impression on all of the Giants.
"The best way to stop him was to fall in front of him and trip
him up/ 5 said Strong. "The only trouble with that was you'd
be wearing his cleat marks for weeks." Despite brilliant pass-
ing by Newman and timely running by Strong, the Bears
won, 14-10.

New York snapped back with two victories IS- 10 over Ports-
mouth and 7-0 over Boston then prepared for a second meet-
ing with the Bears. On a wet, muddy field the Giants held
Nagurski and won, 3-0, on a Strong field goal.

Playing their finest football of the season, the Giants ex-
tended their winning streak to sevenwith victories over Green
Bay, Brooklyn, Pittsburgh, and Philadelphia and ended the
season with an 11-3 record, tops in the Eastern Division. New-
man, who led the league in passing and set a record with 965
yards gained, Badgro, and Hein were named to the NFL All-
Star first team. Strong, the Giants' leading scorer with 64
points, and Flaherty made the second team.

The regular season was over but the biggest game the first
championship game in National Football League history-
was still to be played. Twenty-six thousand fans paid their
way into Wrigley Field to see the battle between the Chicago
Bears and New York Giants on December 17 and the pros
didn't disappoint a single one of them. Before the game
started, Newman explained several trick plays the Giants
planned to use to the officials, then proceeded to call the first
one early in the first quarter. With the ball on the Bear 45,

107

Newman called the Hein Special. Lining up in a single wing
formation with the line unbalanced to the right, the Giants
quickly shiftedwith the left end stepping back a yard, the
right halfback moving into the line, and Newman switching
into the T. The sudden shift had placed Hein at one end of
the Giant line and made him an eligible receiver.

Hein shifted the ball to Newman, who, instead of taking it,
handed it right back to the center, and then spun around fad-
ing to pass. Tripping as he pivoted, Newman fell to the
ground, cradling the "ball" as mammoth Bear tackle George
Musso barreled through and pounced on top of him.

Meanwhile Hein, who was supposed to walk slowly down-
field until his two ends could get in front of him and block
out the Bear safety, forgot he was a lineman. After walking
12 yards completely unmolested, Hein, fascinated by the open
field in front of him, started to run for the goal line without
waiting for his blockers. Safety man Carl Brumbaugh, who had
been looking the other way, suddenly realized Hein had the
football and dragged him down at the 15. The Bear line
tightened immediately, and because of Hein's impatience, the
Giants didn't score.

Later in the first quarter, Automatic Jack Manders booted
a 16-yard field goal and the Bears led, 3-0. Midway in the
second, Manders kicked another, this time from the 40, and
the home team fans started screaming for a rout. They didn't
get it. Richards raced 30 yards to the Bear 39, and Newman
passed to Red Badgro for a touchdown. Strong converted and
the Giants left the field with a 7-6 half-time lead.

Early in the third quarter, Manders kicked a 28-yard field
goal, his third of the game, and Chicago led again, 9-7. The
lead didn't last long. Newman engineered a 61 -yard march
that ended with Max Krause plunging over from the 1. Strong
converted for the second time and New York led, 149.

Then, the Bears, moving the ball to the Giant 8 on straight-
ahead power plays by Nagurski, unveiled some razzle-dazzle
of their own. Nagurski bucked up to the line, drawing the
Giant defense in, then pulled up and tossed a jump pass to
right end Bill Karr in the end zone. Manders' kick was good
and Chicago led, 16-14, as the final fifteen minutes of play
began.

108

With Newman passing and Strong carrying, the Giants
drove 68 yards to the Chicago 8, Newman called for a reverse,
but Strong decided to Improvise, Trapped near the sideline,
Strong lateraled the ball back to Newman and then headed
for the end zone. Newman started back for the other sideline,
stopped, and hit Strong all alone over the goal line for a
spectacular touchdown. Strong's kick was good and the Giants
led again, 21-16.

Immediately, the Bear powerhouse began to tear off yard-
age. In four plays, Nagurski had driven to the New York 36,
and the Giants figured the Bears would call for Bronko's jump
pass again. The Giants guessed right but the Bears fooled
them. Nagurski passed to left end Bill Hewitt, and Burnett
raced up to tackle him after a short gain. Burnett made his
tackle, but Hewitt no longer had the ball. As soon as he
caught the pass, Hewitt lateraled to Karr, who sprinted the
final 25 yards for the touchdown, Manders converted and
Chicago led, 2321, with less than two minutes left to play.

After the kickoff, Newman had time for two plays and he
had two trick plays left. With the ball on their own 40, the
Giants again shifted Into the formation with Hein an eligible
receiver. But this time Newman took the ball and pitched out
to Burnett, who could throw a football farther than any man
on the team. Once the Bears spotted the pitchout, they left
Hein alone and he stood completely uncovered on the Chi-
cago 30 waiting for a pass. But Burnett was rushed and threw
a wobbly pass. Keith Molesworth was able to cross over and
bat the ball away from Hein.

With time for only one more play, Newman faked a hand-
off to Strong, then fired a short bullet pass to left end Red
Badgro, who was supposed to lateral to Burnett. The pass was
perfect and Burnett was on his way to the Bear goal line-
but without the football. Defensive halfback Red Grange had
diagnosed the play perfectly and, instead of tackling Badgro
around the ankles, deliberately had tackled him around the
arms and prevented the lateral. The game ended seconds later
with the Chicago Bears winning the first National Football
League playoff championship, 23-21, in a game that saw the
lead change hands six times.

109

As soon as the game ended, one of the linesmen turned to
Han*}' Newman and asked, "Who won?"

"How should I know?" snapped Newman. "I was only
playing."

It was the perfect ending for a perfect season. Even
Tim Mara, disappointed at the Giants' defeat, had to admit
that George Preston Marshall, the arrogant laundryman from
Washington, had been 100 percent correct. Pro football was
entertainment and, In 1933, more fans than ever before had
been entertained by the exciting, wide-open NFL game. Pro-
fessional football was attaining respectability at last.

Abe

To the heroes of antiquity, to the Greek who raced across

the Marathon plain, and to Paul Renere ? add now

the name of Abe Cohen.

LEWIS BURTON

N.Y. American
Dec. 10, 1934

WHEN the New York Giants reported to pre-season training
camp in September of 1934, Abe Cohen, a little man with a
pencil mustache, was nowhere in sight and coach Steve Owen
didn't miss him a bit. The Giant coach had not lost a single
top player from his 1933 Eastern Division championship team
and he had picked up several promising newcomers. The best
of the rookies was a 199-pound, 6-foot- 1 halfback from Ford-
ham named Ed Danowskl, who seemed to do everything
wrong. He ran too high, he passed awkwardly, and he had
little confidence In himself. Owen, who had scouted him
during three exceptional seasons at Fordham, was not at all
fooled by Danowskf s deceptive first appearance. He knew the
rookie was a capable runner, a fine blocker, and a brilliantly
accurate short passer. Owen's chief problem was to build up
the youngster's confidence.

As a sophomore at Fordham, Danowskl had been so un-
sure of himself that he considered quitting the football team.
Fordfaam coach Frank Cavanaugh heard about Danowski's
doubts and summoned him to his office.

"Ed, my boy, they're trying to do a terrible thing to you,"
said Cavanaugk "They're trying to take that scholarship away

111

from you. They don't believe you've got what it takes."
Cavanaugh paused, letting his message sink in. "You've got
some kid brothers, haven't you?"

"Yes, I do," Danowski answered, nodding his head.

"Wei!, it's going to be tough explaining to them when you
go back, isn't it?" said Cavanaugh. "I'll bet they've been telling
all the kids in the neighborhood their brother is going to play
for Fordham. There isn't any doubt that you're their hero. It
will be tough sitting at dinner with the kids looking at you.
It'll be tough sitting there saying to yourself: 'Those people
at Fordham were right, I haven't got it.'

"But there is one fellow who believes in you, Ed. I believe
in you and this is my football team. I'll be seeing you on the
field in a little while."

Cavanaugh's elementary psychology worked wonders and
Danowski developed into one of Fordham's greatest stars.
Owen's psychology was nearly as effective. When Danowski
sulked, awed by the prospect of ever breaking into the starting
Giant backfield of Harry Newman, Ken Strong, Dale Burnett,
and Bo Molenda, Owen bet the rookie from Riverhead,
Long Island, an ice-cream soda he could give him a sure-fire
touchdown play. The next day in practice, Owen gave Dan-
owski a special pass pattern. The first time he used it against
the Giant first team, Danowski completed a 60-yard touch-
down pass. Owen never bothered telling the rest of the Giants
that it was his play, and the rookie, for the first time, was
treated with respect by the veterans.

Once the season began, Danowski and the other newcomers
center John Dell Isola of Fordham, end Ike Frankian, guard
Bob Bellinger, and quarterback Willis Smith did almost all
of their playing in the daily practices. Smith, nicknamed
Mickey Mouse because he weighed only 147 pounds, was the
smallest man In the NFL, but he had an even greater handi-
cap. Though not many other players knew about it, Smith was
totally blind in one eye.

For a team favored to win their division title, the Giants
started the season somewhat unusually. They lost their first
two games 9-0 to Detroit and 20-6 to Green Bay before
defeating Pittsburgh, 14-12. Danowski finally got a chance to
play against Boston, threw one pass, which was intercepted

for a touchdown, and was back on the bench. Newman did a
lot better, scoring all the Giant points in a 16-13 victory.
Returning home for a c*ame against Brooklyn, Danowski

was in his customary seat on the bench when the game be-
gan. As usual, his friends and fans from nearby Long Island
and Fordham started their chant early, "We want Danowski! w
they shouted. "We want Danowski!"

Finally, Owen looked down the bench to his quiet rookie.
"OK, Danowski," the coach said, "on your feet."

Nervous and excited, Danowski stripped off his warm-up
jacket and trotted eagerly over to Owen. "Ed, some of your
friends in the stands are calling for you," said the beefy
coach. "Why don't you go up see what they want?"

The Giants defeated Brooklyn, 14-0, with. Danowski on the
bench, and the next week, he was carried off the field with
two broken ribs. The Giants won without him defeating
Philadelphia, 17-4) and 1 7-7, before losing 27-7 to veteran
Bronko Nagurski, rookie Beattie Feathers, and the awesome
Chicago Bears.

Against Green Bay, Harry Newman set a National Foot-
ball League record and earned a nickname for himself. Out-
weighed some fifteen pounds a man by the monstrous Packer
line, the Giant backs were perfectly willing to sit on their
10-3 lead. When Newman asked them to carry the ball to
set up the passing attack, they politely but firmly refused. His
substitute, Stu Clancy, had left the game with a chipped elbow
a few minutes before, and his teammates weren't particularly
eager to join him. "Every time one of our boys would carry
the ball, 270-pound Cal Hubbard would knock the stuffings
out of him/* said Newman. "It got so that I would get the
pass from center and no one would take It from me/*

By the end of the game, Newman had carried the ball a
record 39 times, gained 114 yards, earned the nickname "Me-
Back/* and the Giants had won, 17-3,

New York was ready and willing for Its second game with
the Chicago Bears, but not quite able. Before a partisan
55,000 fans at the Polo Grounds, Strong knifed off tackle on
the first play of the second quarter for four yards and a 7-0
lead. On the first play of the third quarter, the Giants got two
more points when Bear halfback George Corbett picked the

113

kickoff up on his 1, took two steps backward into the end
zone, and was promptly tackled for a safety. New York led,
9-0, but the heavier Bear line began to control play.

Fading to pass in the third quarter, Newman was hit by
265-pound tackle George Musso and end Bill Hewitt and col-
lapsed 10 yards behind the line of scrimmage. Hewitt had
buried his knee into the small of Newman's back, and the
little quarterback lay completely motionless. Giant trainers
Charley Porter and Gus Mauch raced out to the center of the
field with cold towels and smelling salts, and within a few
minutes, Newman was on his feet. He stayed in for two plays,
then limped to the sideline. Walking slowly behind the Giant
bench, Newman tried touching his toes, winced halfway
down, and straightened up. He picked up a football, threw a
half-dozen passes to Ike Frankian, and asked Owen to put him
back in the game. The Giant coach hesitated, then relented,
letting Newman return at the start of the fourth quarter. His
passing was poor and, on one fake kick, he staggered and
threw the ball away. "I thought something was wrong with
him," said Owen, "but I asked him if he wanted to come out
and he said no."

With Nagurski, Feathers, and Gene Ronzani tearing off
yardage through the middle of the tiring home-team line, the
Bears drove for a first down on the Giant 12. On the next
play, Ronzani handed off to Feathers on a spinner and Beattie
followed Nagurski, who blocked out three Giants, into the
end zone. Jack Manders, who had missed only one of 28
extra-point attempts all season, converted and the New York
lead was cut to two points.

"There are seven minutes left to play/* the announcer in-
formed the Polo Grounds spectators. Could the Giants, win-
ners of twelve straight at home, possibly hold the Bears?

They did but for only five minutes. With two minutes left,
fullback Max (Banana) Krause fumbled on the Giant 33 and
Carl Brumbaugh recovered. An offside penalty stopped the
Bears only momentarily. Nagurski pounded up the middle
for a first down on the 22 and Manders cracked off tackle to
the 16. Then, with only seconds remaining, Manders quickly
tossed his helmet to the sideline, carefully lined up the ball,
and calmly booted a 23-yard field goal to win the game, 109.

114

Newman collapsed In the dressing room. The next day.
X-rays at St. Elizabeth's Hospital revealed that Hewitt's way-
ward knee had fractured two in Newman's back. In
two weeks, the Giants had their star quarterback New-
man and his substitute Clancy. Mickey Mouse Smith wasn't
strong enough for 60 minutes of pro football and, in desper-
ation, Owen switched Danowski from halfback to quarter-
back. Against Boston, he was adequate, the Giant line was
excellent, and Strong booted a field goal for a 3-0 victory.

One week later, Danowski finally came into his own on a
muddy field against Brooklyn. Before the game, he com-
plained his ribs were bothering him and that his passing arm
was sore. Owen expressed his sympathy and said, "There just
isn't anybody else, Ed. Just do the best you can/* Danowski
did even better than that completing seven passes in a row
and leading the Giants to a 27-0 victory. Tackle Bill Mor-
gan, a master mudder, was deadly. Every time rookie Ralph
Kercheval or another Brooklyn back would get ready to kick
or pass, Morgan, taking careful aim, would splatter him with
a mudball. He rarely missed, but the referee never caught
him.

Only one regular season game remained, and the Giants, al-
ready assured of the Eastern Division championship, suffered
a severe letdown against Philadelphia, losing 6-0. It was a
game that could easily be forgotten with one exception All-
Star left end Red Badgro had broken a bone in his right leg
and would not be able to play in the championship game
against the Chicago Bears.

At full strength, the Giants, 8-5 on the season, had lost twice
to the Bears, 13-0 and unbeaten in their last eighteen NFL
games. Without Newman, Badgro, and Clancy, the Giants
seemed to have no chance at all. Even without Feathers, who
set an NFL rushing record of 1,004 yards, and guard Joe
Kopcha, who were sidelined with injuries, the Bears were too
powerful for the Giants, The Bears had led the league in
rushing, passing and defense, and they outweighed the Giants
twelve pounds a man in the line and fifteen in the backfield.

"I know it doesn't look so good/' said Owen, "but well give
*em a battle."

With Danowski, Strong, Burnett, and Molenda set as his

115

first-team backfield, Owen decided to strengthen his bench
and signed Jack McBrlde, the former Giant, who had spent
the 1934 season as player-coach of a Paterson, New Jersey,
semi-pro team. The signing of McBride did little to change
the odds, and the Bears remained 2^1 favorites.

Yet the apparent mismatch did not discourage New York
football fans. The first day box seats were put on sale, every
single one of them was sold. The tickets were selling so fast
that Tim Mara decided to set up 6,000 temporary field seats
between the sidelines and the covered stands. And for the
first time, New York sportswriters were treating the game as
a meeting of football's finest. It wasn't Red Grange or the
Notre Dame All-Stars drawing the attention this time. It was
the excitement and glamour of professional football.

"Go see your pro football now/' wrote Paul Gallico in the
Daily News, "because the game will never be more honest,
more free from taint of scandal, never more decent. The game
is still decent. The fat years are just beginning."

Stanley Woodward, a long-time critic of the professional
game, was even more enthusiastic. "I never believed it when
the 1932 Hoover Survey Commission on Social Trends pre-
dicted that pro football would supersede college football in
popularity," wrote Woodward in the Herald Tribune. "Now
I am converted."

All week long, the weather had been threatening. On Sun-
day, December 9, it was impossible. The temperature hovered
close to zero, the winds whistled through the empty streets of
New York, and ice made walking and driving treacherous.
Early Sunday morning Jack Mara, president of the Giants,
visited the Polo Grounds and turned away after a quick in-
spection of the field. The anticipated sellout was out of the
question now. The least he could do was call Steve Owen at
his hotel on I Olst Street and Broadway and tell him about the
condition of the field.

"Steve," said Mara, "the field is frozen solid, just like a sheet
of ice. Even the tarpaulin is frozen to the field. I just thought
I'd let you know/*

A few minutes later at breakfast, Owen told captain Ray
Flaherty and tackle Bill Morgan about the field. "Why don't
we wear sneakers?" asked Flaherty. Then he explained that

116

when he was at Gonzaga in 1925, the football team had worn
sneakers on a frozen field against Montana and, with better
traction, had won easily.

Morgan also had seen the effects of sneakers on a frozen
field. In 1933, the University of Washington had used them
in a charity game against the Seattle All-Stars and led, 69-0,
at the half. In the second half, both teams used sneakers, and
neither team scored, "It may not make a bit of difference/'
said Flaherty, "but what can we lose?"

Owen agreed, then shook his head in disgust, "Damn it,
today's Sunday/' he said. "Where do you get sneakers on a
Sunday?"

Within minutes, Owen, Flaherty, and Morgan were busy
telephoning the major sporting goods stores in New York.
Not a single one was open. Then Owen remembered Ken
Strong worked for a sporting goods inn in the off-season and
called him at his home in Jackson Heights. "Sorry/' said
Strong. "I've got a key to the office but not to the building,
And the building's always locked on Sunday."

It was still a good idea but little else when the Giants left
for the Polo Grounds. "We got ice/* Owen told DanowskL
"Think you can pass downfield to someone sliding on his
belly?"

Danowski didn't appreciate the joke. "With Musso on my
neck and me sliding, too?" he said.

If anything, the field was worse than Mara had described
it. At a few minutes past noon, Owen shivered, took a short
slide around the field, shuddered, and entered the dressing
room. There, talking to trainers Charley Porter and Gus
Mauch, was Abe Cohen.

At little more than 5 feet tall and 140 pounds, Abe Cohen
was one of the biggest football fans in New York. When Chick
Meehan coached at New York University, Abe ran a campus
tailor shop and soon was tailoring the football uniforms.
When Meehan moved to Manhattan College In 1930, Abe
Cohen moved with him, tailoring the team's uniforms and
supervising the athletic stockroom. On Sundays during the
fall, he often helped out the Giant trainers. Most Important,
Abe Cohen had a key to the Manhattan College supply room.

"Abe, It Is slippery out there, like a sliding pond," said

117

Owen. "If our players had rubber-soled basketball shoes, they
would be able to get a good grip on themselves and maybe go
places. Could you rush up to Manhattan College and grab
off as many pairs of sneakers as you can?"

Before Owen could thank the little tailor, Cohen was out in
the street, trying to track down a taxi. By game time, Cohen
still hadn't returned, and the Giants laced up their mud cleats
and went out for pre-game warm-ups. The crowd was far
below what it would have been in good weather, but it still
was surprisingly large. Thirty-five thousand and fifty-nine fans
had paid out $64,504 and they sat huddled together under
blankets, dressed in brightly colored stocking caps, earmuffs,
parkas, snow pants, and boots, trying to hide from the 6-degree
weather and the 20-mile-an-hour winds. Casey Stengel shared
a flask with Mickey Cochrane, Mayor La Guardia joked with
Postmaster General Farley and Senator Wagner, and just
about everyone else started clapping rhythmically. When the
orange-shirted Bears clomped down the clubhouse stairs, the
fans booed loudly. Minutes later, when the white-helmeted,
scarlet-shirted Giants made their appearance, the fans cheered
wildly.

With the chilling wind beating against his back, Ken Strong
methodically practiced his place-kicking, booting field goals
first from the 20, then the 25, the 30, the 40, and the 45. Ap-
parently satisfied, he turned to jog back to the sidelines and
slipped, sliding headfirst for 10 yards and a first down. Strong
glanced at the long broad line his nose had left in the frost,
grinned, and walked slowly back to the dressing room.

When the game started, the Giants struck quickly. They
stopped a Bear drive on their own 36 and, with Strong carry-
ing and Danowski passing short, moved to a first down on the
Chicago 7. On the next play, Strong, troubled by the ice and
a weak ankle, missed a block and Danowski was thrown for an
8-yard loss. Forced to pass, he spotted Flaherty on the goal
line, but Gene Ronzani pulled the ball away from the Giant
end and the Bears took over. Four plays later, right tackle Tex
Irvin broke through and blocked Keith Molesworth's punt.
Molenda recovered on the Bear 30, and when Danowski
couldn't pick up a first down, Strong booted a 38-yard field
goal.

118

Then, predictably, the sheer size and striking power of the
Chicago line began to dominate the game. Early In the second
quarter, Molesworth returned a punt to the Giant 36. Two
power plays by Molesworth Nagurski gained 12 yards, and
Molesworth then tossed a wobbly to Ronzaai at the side-
line. Both Danowski and Flaherty had their hands oe the ball,
but once again Ronzani wrestled it away, this time on the
2-yard line, where he was pushed out of bounds. On the next
play, Nagurski bucked off tackle for the score. Manders con-
verted and Chicago led, 7-3.

The Giants couldn't move the ball and were forced to
punt. In two plays, Molesworth and Nagurski gained 44 yards
for a first down on the New York 9. Morgan broke through to
make two tackles, and the Bears had to settle for a 17-yard
field goal by Manders and a 10-3 lead.

On the kickoff, 246-pound Chicago tackle Link Lyman
knocked Strong off his feet and out of the game with a twisted
left leg, also prying the ball loose from his hands. Nagurski
powered over for the touchdown, but left end Bill Hewitt was
offside and the Giants held. Manders, who had not missed two
field goals in a single game all season, missed two in the next
four minutes from the 24- and 38-yard lines and the Bears
left the field with a 10-3 half-time lead.

Badly bruised and nearly beaten, the Giants limped slowly
back to their dressing room. The frozen field had not thawed,
and their cleats were beginning to snap off from the cold.
Owen had little to say to his players. He had used only one
substitute McBride for Danowski in the first half, and he
could tell his regulars were exhausted. Stretched out on the
rubbing table, Strong winced as the trainers massaged and
taped his leg. The Giants were a thoroughly beaten team-
when the dressing room door suddenly swung open, and in
stepped Abe Cohen.

"Nine pairs were all I could get and be back in time/* said
Cohen, who had set an unofficial world record for a taxi trip
from the Polo Grounds to the Manhattan College campus on
242nd Street and back. "I hope they do some good."

Bill Owen quickly laced on a pair and disappeared out the
dressing room dbor to test the sneakers. Moments later he was

119

back, smiling. "You know, they felt pretty good," he said.
"Maybe they will help."

"What the hell's holding them up? asked Bear coach
George Halas when the Giants still hadn't returned to the
field for the second half.

"They're changing into sneakers/' reported reserve guard
Walt Kiesling.

"Good," snapped Halas, loud enough for all his players
to hear. "Step on their toes."

When the Giants returned to the field, only Hein, Potsy
Jones, and Danowski were still wearing their cleats. Strong,
his feet already numb from the cold and heavy tape, kicked
off in sneakers, splintered the nail on his big toe, and didn't
even feel it. The Bear attack stalled and they punted. The
first two times he carried the ball, Danowski slipped in his
own backfield for losses. Calling time out, he skated to the
bench. "OK, Coach," Danowski said, "111 try those sneakers
now."

Midway in the third quarter, Nagurski, favoring an injured
left arm, carried for three straight first downs to the Giant 23.
Morgan, the 230-pound, 6-foot-2, second-year pro, had been
playing brilliant football from the opening kickofL Now,
with the Bears driving for the touchdown that could put the
game out of reach, Morgan single-handedly battled his way
through massive George Musso on three straight plays-
tossing Bear ballcarriers for a total of 34 yards in losses. But
the Bears were stopped only momentarily. A bad pass from
Hein to Strong gave Chicago another scoring opportunity, and
this time Manders booted a 23-yard field goal for a 13-3 lead.

"Everybody was getting ready to go home," said Tim Mara,
"and, to tell you the truth, I was thinking seriously of joining
them."

Then, suddenly and dramatically, the New York Giants
kept Mara and everyone else in the Polo Grounds. Danowski
completed three passes two to Flaherty and one to Strong
for a first down on the Bear 30 as the third quarter ended. On
the first play of the final quarter, Danowski passed complete to
Burnett, who fumbled on the 12. But Strong batted the ball
out of bounds and New York had another first down. Just
when the Giants seemed ready to score, Bear center Ed Kawal

120

drifted out of the line and intercepted Danowski's pass oe the
4. Molesworth punted poorly and Strong returned It fifteen
yards to the Bear 30. On first down, Danowski tossed a long,

floating pass to Burnett on the line, but Brumbaugh cut

In front of him and Intercepted on the 2. Before he could
move, Ike Frankian tore the ball out of his hands and raced
across for the touchdown. Strong converted and the Giants
now trailed by only three points, 18-10.

The year before, Owen had devised a play for Columbia
University coach Lou Little that enabled the Lions to defeat
Navy. Now It was little's turn to repay the favor. Sitting
In his press-box seat, Little decided It was time to use the
Strong Special an off-tackle run through the short side of
the Chicago line. Little had devised the play for the Giants
and its success depended entirely on Strong's ability to fake a
run to his left, drawing the defense over to one side, then cut
back sharply to his right. With Morgan opening a large hole
and Molenda and Danowski blocking out the backers-up,
Strong faked beautifully, knifed back through the line,
bounced off the referee, and, his sneakers gripping the frozen
turf, outraced the Bear secondary for a 42-yard touchdown.
Strong added the extra point for a 17-13 lead, and suddenly
hundreds of spectators began to spill out of the stands and onto
the field. Tiny 140-pound referee Bobby Cafan called time
out to clear the field, booted one frisky fan in the backside, and
tossed the ball to Strong for the klckoff. With the game nearly
over, the Giants were just beginning.

Charging low and hitting hard from their 6-2-2-1 defense,
the Giants battered the bigger Bears and forced them to punt.
Two minutes later, Strong raced outside right tackle on the
Giants' only reverse of the day for another touchdown and
a 23-1 3 lead.

Once again the Giant line, led by Morgan, forced the Bears
Into a costly blunder. This time Ronzani was rushed so hard
he passed the ball right into the arms of Molenda, who later-
aled to Burnett, who, in turn, carried to the Chicago 22.
Danowski rushed for a first down on the 10, then cut outside
his right end for the final touchdown. Bo Molenda converted
and the New York Giants were champions of the National
Football League, 30-13, scoring 27 points in the final fifteen

121

minutes. Fans danced out onto the field, pounding their heroes
and ripping down one of the goal posts for souvenirs. No col-
lege game had ever had a wilder, more thrilling ending.

"Halas told us to step on their toes/' said Brumbaugh, head-
ing for the clubhouse. "Hell, I couldn't get close enough to
step on anybody's toes."

"I think the sneakers gave them the edge in the second half,"
added NagurskL "They were able to cut back when they were
running with the ball and we weren't able to cut with them."

Neil Cohalan, basketball coach at Manhattan College, had a
somewhat different view of the afternoon's happenings. "I'm
glad our basketball shoes did the Giants some good," he said.
"The question now is, 'Did the Giants do our basketball shoes
any good?' "

In the Giant dressing room, the players tore off their blood-
ied, shredded jerseys and crowded into the showers. For every-
one, there was a winner's share of $621, compared to $414 for
each Bear. For a few, there was special praise Strong, who
had scored a record seventeen points despite an injured leg
and ankle; Danowski, who had completed seven of thirteen
passes for 112 yards despite frostbite and inexperience; and
Morgan, who had outplayed the Bear line for 58 straight
minutes despite a weight handicap of some 25 pounds.

"Morgan's was the greatest exhibition of line play I've ever
seen," said Lou Little. 'It's a perfect example of what a one-
man rampage can do to a great running attack."

Making the rounds of his players, Owen was startled when
he came to rookie center Johnny Dell Isola. The Giant coach
had sent in only four substitutes McBride, Len Grant, Kink
Richards, and his brother Bill and there was Dell Isola sport-
ing a shiner he didn't have when the game started.

"What happened to you?" asked Owen.

"Well, it happened this way, Coach," said Dell Isola. "When
the crowd came down on the field the last couple of minutes, I
looked for you but couldn't find you. I saw that Mel was
tired, so I sent myself in as a substitute. That's when I got
my black eye."

Reporters crowded around the new champions asking all
the old questions. "What was your toughest assignment?" one
writer asked Morgan.

122

The big tackle grinned, then answered, "Getting through
the crowd Into the dressing room."

Tim Mara bounded from player to player, shaking hands,
slapping backs, all with the enthusiasm of a youngster on
Christmas morning. 'Tve never been so pleased with anything
in my life/" he said. "In all our other with the Bears, I

always have hoped the whistle would blow and end the game.
Today, I was hoping it would last a couple hours/*

Leaving his seat in a corner of the dressing room, a little
man with a pencil mustache walked over to Ken Strong and
stuck out his hand. "Ken/* said Abe Cohen, "I want to con-
gratulate you. You played a wonderful game,"

"Abe," said Strong, "you are the man who won this game.
You are New York's savior today. You are the man who de-
serves the write-ups, and if you don't get them y don't be dis-
appointed. True worth is not often recognized in this world/*

Abe Cohen did not go unrecognized. Along with Morgan,
Strong, and Danowski, the little tailor had saved the day and
brought New York its first National Football League playoff
championship. Len Grant summed it up best when he said,
"God bless Abe Cohen/'

And the Rookies Shall Lead Them

As A sophomore at West Virginia University, Tod Goodwin
was so outspoken that his coach, Earle (Greasy) Neale, made
him wear a sign: I AM COCKY. At the end of one week, Neale
decided his lanky young end had obviously learned a lesson
and permitted him to discard the sign. The next morning,
Goodwin showed up at the training table with a new sign of
his own design: I AM STILL COCKY.

In three varsity seasons, the handsome 6-foot, 184-pounder
from Bellaire, Ohio, learned a lot of football but little hu-
mility. From the moment he arrived at his first professional
training camp in September of 1935, Goodwin was the pride
and pain of the champion New York Giants. There was ab-
solutely nothing Goodwin couldn't do with a football and, if
you didn't believe him, he would gladly spend several hours
convincing you. Sporting a crew, haircut and white bucks,
Goodwin, nicknamed Baby Face, Dingbat, and the Mouth
by his teammates, held court all day long at the Blue Hills
Country Club in Pearl River, New York.

"I would have been an All-American for sure last year/' he
told a group of teammates and several writers his second day
in camp. "But I broke my jaw and the coach wouldn't let me
play/'

"Dingbat/* interrupted All-Pro center Mel Hein, "you must
have broken your jaw talking/'

Goodwin played almost as well as he thought he did. Block-
ing crisply, catching passes with one hand, and outracing the
defensive backs, he drove veteran end Red Flaherty off the field
and into coaching. He also drove halfback Dale Burnett, New

124

York's top pass-receiver In 1934, to distraction. Pass patterns
meant nothing to Goodwin. Once die ball was In the air,
Goodwin took after It. One afternoon, Owen called the rookie
over to the sideline and bawled him out for stealing three
passes Intended for Burnett.

4 Tm sony, Coach, but I Just can't help it," he said. "When
that ball's In the air, I forget about everything else. I don*t
see what you're so upset about anyway. I caught them, didn't I?"

If Goodwin was the brashest rookie In camp, halfback
Leland Shaffer was easily the quietest. For almost a week
Shaffer, a wheat farmer from Kansas State, had spoken so in-
frequently that a few of the veterans thought he might be a
mute. Burnett, a farm boy himself from Emporia Teachers
College, had recruited Shaffer for the Giants and felt per-
sonally responsible for him. Calling him "my Rookie," Burnett
adopted the silent 6-foot-2-inch, 200-pounder as his mascot.
Yet once on a football ield, Shaffer needed no assistance. "He
was rougher than Ty Cobb," says Wellington Mara, "When
he got those monstrous, calloused hands of his around a foot-
ball or another player, he didn't let go/'

Owen, who usually liked to bring his rookies along very
slowly, was forced Into changing his tactics in 1935. Quarter-
back Harry Newman, still troubled by his back Injury, had
demanded a sizable increase in salary, and when the Maras
refused, he retired to a Detroit automobile agency. At the last
moment All-Pro guard Butch Gibson had decided to quit
and Ken Strong, who in only two seasons had become the
Giants' all-time high scorer, was holding out for more money.

As soon as the 1934 season had ended, Mara told Strong to
expect a big increase In salary for the coming season. When he
finally did receive his contract in August, Strong, who had
been paid only $250 a game as an All-Pro halfback in 1934,
was startled to see that the new contract called for only $4,000
for all of 1935. Strong refused to sign the contract, but showed
up at camp anyway. Waiting for him was a message from the
front office: Sign up or go home! Strong went home, hired a
lawyer, and dropped In to see Tim Mara and his son Jack, the
twenty-seven-year-old president of the Giants who had only
recently graduated from Fordham Law School. Tim was
furious that Strong had brought a lawyer with him.

"You have your lawyer looking out for your interests," said
Strong, "and I figured I ought to have mine/'

"Don't call my son a lawyer/* snapped Mara. "He fust passed
the bar/'

They both grinned and quickly came to terms. With New-
man gone, Strong was the Giants' top star and top draw and
he received a percentage-of-the-gate contract that guaranteed
him $4,000 but could go as high as $6,000.

Owen was delighted to have Strong signed and delivered.
Despite the promising rookie crop, he had been having his
troubles. Quarterback Ed Danowski still lacked confidence and
still presented a psychological problem. During a post-season
exhibition trip to California, Owen had arranged for Danowski
to be interviewed over the radio. "Steve/' said the retiring
quarterback, "if I have to make a speech, I quit. I'm going
home." Owen canceled the interview and Danowski stayed
to play.

Another of his second-year men presented an entirely dif-
ferent type of problem. Mel Hein played nearly 60 minutes
at center every game, and that didn't leave too much time for
John Dell Isola, his replacement. "Coach, I came here to
play football/' Dell Isola told Owen before training started.
"If I don't get to play this year, I'm going to quit."

At 5-foot-lli4 and 205 heavily muscled pounds, Dell Isola
was too good a potential lineman to let slip away, and Owen
decided to shift him to guard. A bruiser and policeman during
a game, Dell Isola did not let up during practice. At training
camp, he roomed with tackle Knuckles Boyle and one was
more quick-tempered than the other. During a friendly touch-
football game one afternoon, Dell Isola objected to his room-
mate's holding and, without hesitating, bashed him in the
face with an elbow. They were finally pulled apart by a half-
dozen other Giants, but by dinner they were best of friends
again.

With the player limit raised from 20 to 24 men, Owen ex-
perimented considerably in four exhibition games. One lineup
worked better than the other and the Giants won all four
games, scoring a total of 112 points to zero for the opposition.
It was the most explosive offense the Giants had ever had, and
Owen wasn't at all surprised when they routed Pittsburgh,

42-7, in their league opener. Danowski to Burnett for

two touchdowns; Kink Richards, Stu Clancy, Tony Sarau-
sky each ran for one; Molenda scored oo an interception.

Staying OB the road, the Giants moved into Green Bay, and
even cocky Tod Goodwin was duly impressed. On the
play, Cal Hubbard, the Packer tackle, fell forward

and took out one whole of the Giant line. Xew York

scored first on a trick play they had picked up from the Chi-
cago Bears. Danowski a short to end Ike Frankian,
who lateraled to Burnett for the touchdown. The Packers
scored in the third quarter on Hank Binder's 65-yard runback
with an intercepted pass. A field gave Green Bay a 9-7
lead, and Hubbard then picked off a Danowski pass, the
Packers' fifth interception in the second half, and scored from
the 15 for a 16-7 victory. "Thanks," Big Cal, a veteran of
nine professional seasons, as he passed Danowski, "I knew if
I waited long enough Fd finally score a touchdown."

Dell Isola, who had started the game at guard and had played
all but a few minutes, was so bruised he could barely undress
himself after the game.

"Which do you think is easier now?" asked Owen. "Playing
guard or sitting on the bench?"

"Steve," said Dell Isola, "I'm ready to sit for a long time."

Finishing the road trip, the Giants boarded a train to Boston
and, spontaneously, the first rookie show was born. "I don't
know how it all started/' says Wellington Mara, "but all of a
sudden the rookies were up in the center aisle singing their
college songs and entertaining."

Goodwin loved the attention and had to be forced into a
seat. Only silent Shaffer refused to entertain. His punishment
established a tradition for future Giant rookies: running up
the aisle of the train while the veterans beat out their alma
maters with belts on his backside.

Playing in the mud at Fenway Park, the Giants scored three
times in the first half on the passing of Danowski and Sarausky
and the receiving of Burnettand defeated the Boston Red-
skins, 20-12. Early in the first quarter, Boston halfback and
captain Ernie Pinckert knocked Strong out of the game with
a jolting right hook to the nose. It was the second straight year
Pinckert had tried to rearrange Strong's features, and the Giant

halfback wanted revenue. The minute the game coded, Strong
followed Plnckert down the runway to the dressing rooms,
caught up with him, and started throwing punches. Before he
could do much damage, they were pulled apart, and both
drifted Into their dressing rooms. Strong was satisfied,
hut the Redskins weren't. They were all set to storm the Giant
dressing room and demolish Strong when coach Eddie Casey
and owner George Preston Marshall finally were able to talk
them out of it.

Returning home for their opener with the Dodgers, now
owned by Dan Topping and former teammate Shipwreck
Kelly, the Giants immediately began to complain about
Brooklyn's reported use of sharpened cleats. "Well, if they're
kicking already/' said Brooklyn coach Paul Schissler, "you
can say for me our cleats will be even sharper for them. If
the Giants can't take it, that's too bad/*

Brooklyn's cleats were sharp; New York's line was sharper.
Hampered by a weak ankle, Strong was In for only eight plays,
but still scored all the Giants points in a 10-7 victory. At best,
it was a Pyrrhic victory. Early in the first quarter, Burnett, the
league's leading scorer and pass receiver, had thrown a vicious
block on Strong's touchdown run, then left the game with
two cracked ribs.

The Giants persuaded Newman to rejoin them but it was
rookie Shaffer who took Burnett's place. In his first start against
the Redskins, he intercepted four passes, caught four more
himself, and the Giants won, 17-6. Against the Chicago Car-
dinals the next week, Strong missed his first extra point in
two seasons as a Giant, and New York lost, 14-13. The Giants
also lost Strong with a dislocated shoulder.

With the Chicago Bears due at the Polo Grounds next, the
Giants had only two consolations: Attendance was running 15
percent ahead of the record receipts of 1934; and Bronko
Naguxski, who had injured his shoulder as a professional
wrestler during the off-season, was not expected to play. "I'm
glad they're using Manders instead of Nagurski," said tackle
Leu Grant. "That Manders couldn't break an egg. When
Nagurski brushed you in passing, you ended up in right field/'

"You may be right/' said Bill Owen, seated next to Grant

128

in the dressing room, "but Manders brushes the ball

with his toe it up smack between the posts."

Dell Isola, who listening to his teammates* con-

versation, turned to a sportsxvriter standing next to him.
"There's no one like Nagurski," said Isola. "Let me tell

you about the first time I him last year. I had

heard a lot about the big guy but 1 was a real tough rookie. I
didn't think there was a ballcarrier anywhere 1 couldn't stop.
Well, it was the Bears* ball, down ten, and Steve had
pot me in to back up the middle of our line. On the first play
Nagurski got the ball and a big hole opened up right in front
of me. I put my head down charged into the hole. Bronko
and I met about halfway and you could hear the thud all over
the Polo Grounds. It was the hardest tackle I ever made. We
fell to the ground and I still had my arms around his legs. I
remember saying to myself, 1 guess that will show you,
Nagurski/ But as they were unplling us, I heard the referee
turn to the Bears and say, 'Second down and two. 5 Manders
may be one hell of a kicker, but I won't miss Bronko."

The Giants didn't miss Bronko, but they did miss Strong
and Burnett. Before 40,302 fans, New York led 3-0 on Rich-
ards' 13-yard field goal at half time, then collapsed, losing,
20-3. With still two home games remaining. Strong, who had
earned $1,500 just sitting on the bench for the Bear game, had
already earned his $6 5 000. "I felt pretty damn good," says
Strong, "but guys like Hein, Morgan, and Burnett weren't
making much more than a hundred dollars a game. The
salaries the front office fed to the newspapers weren't exactly
true. We had three All-Stars on the Giants making less money
than most of the bench warmers on the Dodgers. Hein was
the greatest player the Giants ever had, but he didn't start
making five thousand dollars a year until after his twelfth
season."

For the first time in his four years as head coach, Steve Owen
was suddenly faced with a serious disciplinary problem. One
of his starting linemen liked his football, "but loved his beer.
Always ready for 60 minutes of bruising football on Sunday,
he rarely was ready for practice on Tuesday. When the team
was winning* his unorthodox training methods were tolerated.
Now, with the Giants 4-3 almost two-thirds through the season,

the was the natural whipping boy. Badly hung over

at p ract i ce one Tuesday, he was bawled out by Owen In front
of 'the and then banished for the day. Strong made the

of defending him. "What difference does It make what
he Sunday night so long as he keeps playing sixty minutes
of top football Sunday afternoon?" he asked.

Owen didn't agree with Strong's point of view and let him
know exactly how he felt. "It's bad enough If some o you ind
It necessary to break training/* said Owen, "but a few of you
have stupid enough to show up at places where friends of
Mr. Mara have seen you/'

The coach felt he had made his point clear enough until he
spotted Dell Isola ducking into a side entrance of the players'
hotel with a keg of beer tucked under an arm. Owen followed
him upstairs and found a half-dozen Giants busily tapping the
keg. The coach accepted a glass of beer from his embarrassed
players, downed It quickly, and reached a decision. At practice
the' next day, he called all his players together and laid down
two rules. "I told them that any player caught drinking hard
liquor during the season would be dismissed without a hear-
ing/' he said. "I told them they had to conduct themselves as
gentlemen at all times, and that no excuse would be accepted
from a boy who made himself, the Giants, his coach, and Mr.
Mara look bad with the public. I didn't plan to tell them a
second time."

Owen's disciplining worked against the Bears and the re-
turn of both Burnett, his ribs encased In several layers of tape,
and Strong didn't hurt either. For the first time all season, the
Giants did not score In the first four minutes of play. As the
third quarter raced to an end, the game was still scoreless. With
the ball on the 17-yard line, Strong, bothered by the mud and
a wet ball, bounced a field-goal attempt off the crossbar, but
the Bears were off side and the Giants had a first down on the
12. Burnett, Richards, and Danowskl gained 5 yards on three
ninning plays and Strong dropped back to the 14 for another
field-goal attempt His kick was good this time, but the
referee signaled that both teams were off side and Strong had
to try again. For the second time, he booted the ball cleanly
through the uprights and, for the second time, the referee

130

signaled both off side. Nervelessly, Strong set himself

again, swung Ins right foot, finally the kick counted.

The Giants 3-0 held up late info the quarter. As

Jack Manders lined op for a 38-yard field-aoal attempt, Chi-
cago guard Joe Kopcha knelt in the IVrigley Field mud,
clasped his hands, praying. ** Please, dear God,"

he said loud enough for both to hear, "please let this

kick be good." His prayers weren't answered the kirk

sailed off wide to the right. Steve Owen immediately pulled
his brother out of the game.

"What the hell's wrong with you, Bill?" shouted the coach.
"You've got that guy set up on his you don't even

try to bowl him over and block the kick."

"I couldn't do it, Steve," said Bill Owen. "You can't expect
me to hit a man when he's praying/*

The game ended moments later, but the Bears refused to
give up the ball. Suddenly Tim Mara, dressed In a Chester-
field coat and spats, was out on the middle of the field, scream-
ing at two big Bear linemen. "Don't you know the rules," he
shouted. "Winner gets the ball! That ball's mine." Before one
of the Bears could bury him In the mud, the Giants rescued
their owner and the game ball.

"I'm sure a smart Irishman," said Mara, trying to scrape
mud off his shoes and clothes. "I've probably given away a hun-
dred shiny new footballs this season and here I am fighting for
a muddy one/'

M ara's enthusiasm was contagious. Coach Owen was married
the following week and his players gave him the perfect pres-
ent. They won their four remaining games three by shutouts
to clinch their third straight Eastern Division championship.

It was a sound veteran football team, yet down the stretch It
was the rookies who- led them. Shaffer was outstanding. Good-
win was sensational. "Tod just kept getting better with every
start," said Flaherty, the man he replaced. "He may have been
cocky," says Strong, "but he produced,"

Never before had the Giants dominated the NFL's offensive
department so convincingly. Goodwin was first in receiving
with 26 receptions for 432 yards and 4 touchdowns. Danowski
was first In passing with a record 57 completions in 113 at-
tempts, and sixth in rushing. And Richards was second in

131

with 449 yards. As a team* the Giants, 9-3 during the
the NFL in passing and defense. Hein,
Danowski were named to the Ail-Pro first team,
Goodwin Richards to the second.

What chance did the Detroit Lions, 7-8-2, have against

in the championship game? "The Lions were the only

in the we hadn't played against during the season

we didn't know too much about them/' says Owen. "Most

of the thought it would be a pretty easy afternoon."

Lion coach Potsy Clark had other ideas. While the Giants
worked out only two days before the title game, Potsy Clark
drilled his players through a full week of secret sessions at the
Fair Grounds Coliseum. "I'm not worried about our moving
the ball or scoring against them/" he said before the game.
"Fin worried about stopping their passing attack and bottling
up Goodwin/*

The weather took care of the Giants' passing attack and the
Lions took care of Goodwin. It had rained steadily Saturday
night and Sunday morning, stopping just in time for a heavy
snowstorm. By game time, fewer than 15,000 fans, who had
paid out 133*477, were on hand at uncovered University of
Detroit Stadium. Within three minutes, Ace Gutowsky, who
tad played less than five minutes as a Giant before breaking
his ankle in the first game of the 1931 season, raced over from
the 5 on a dazzling spinner play and Detroit led, 7-0.

When Morgan recovered a fumble on the Lion 21, the
Giants seemed ready to tie the score. Danowski hit Goodwin
on the 8 but the Lions hit Goodwin also. They hit him so hard
they broke two of his ribs and he was through for the after-
noon. With Burnett already sidelined with an infected hand,
the Giant passing attack sputtered in the snow and the Lions
took over. Late in the first quarter, Dutch Clark, one of the
shiftiest runners in pro football history, glided through a
small hole off tackle, reversed his field, and sprinted 40 yards
to a touchdown and a 13-0 lead. Toward the end of the first
half, Danowski completed a 17-yard pass to Walt Singer, and
Kink Richards then rushed to the Detroit 4. But the Giants
couldn't score and the half ended with the ball at midfield.

Early in the third quarter, Danowski completed a 25-yard*
pass to Strong on the Detroit 30 and the Giant halfback raced

down the sidelines for a touchdown, converted and

the Lions" was now cut to six points. Battling desperately
for a touchdown, the Giants in the fourth

quarter. A blocked punt set up the third Lion touchdown,
scored by Ernie Caddel on a 4-yard rue. And a desperation
by Newman set up the fourth, by Buddy Parker on a 7-

yard power play. In all, the Giants

completed only fourtwo to Goodwin, one to Singer, one
to Strong and two were Intercepted. At the end, the Lions
outgalned the Giants on the ground, 235 yards to 106, and had
won their first National Football League championship, 26-7.
It was only an upset. The Giants knew It couldn't happen
again.

*33

the Duke

ONE evening late in the 1935 football season, Wellington Mara
and his mother relaxed in the living room of their Park
Avenue apartment reading the afternoon papers. "Mom," said
Wellington, looking up from the sports page, "I wish we
could get Tuffy Leemans."

Mrs. Mara didn't have the vaguest idea who Tuffy Leemans
was, but she did know her son was always talking about foot-
ball players. "Well, why don't you do something about it if
you feel that way?" she said, "Speak to your father about
Leemans tomorrow."

For the past three years, the Duke of Mara had been follow-
ing the career of Alphonse Emil (Tuffy) Leemans of tiny
George Washington University and just about every other
college football player in the United States. He studied the
sports pages of dozens of out-of-town newspapers each day and
kept an up-to-the-minute file on every potential Giant each
night Now, in the fall of 1935, Wellington, a nineteen-year-
old junior at Fordham University, would begin to play an
important role in the New York Giant organization for the
fast time, "My brother Jack's president and treasurer, my
Pop's chairman of the board, and I'm secretary," he said.
"Pop and Jack worry about the tickets. Mom and I worry
about the team."

Finishing classes the next day, Wellington rushed to see his
father at the Giant office on 42nd Street. "I want to go to
Washington, B.C.," said young Mara. "I've got some impor-
tant business there."

134

Tim Mara smiled. "What business could you have

in Washington?" lie asked,

"1 want to see Toffy Leemans, Pop/* answered Wellington.

"Tuffy who?" said Mara. "I've never of him,"

"You will, Pop," answered Wellington. "You will."

That afternoon, Wellington a to Leemans,

signed his father's name to It, set up an appointment,

Leemans was standing in front of the George Washington
gymnasium when a thin young with blond hair and

brown portfolio walked up to him.

"Pardon me," said the thin stranger, "but can you tell me
where I can find Tuffy Leemans?"

"I'm Tuffy Leemans," the said, studying the young-

ster. "Where's your autograph 111 sign it for you/*

"I want your autograph," the youngster, "but I want
it on a contract for the New York Giants. I'm Well Mara,
secretary o the Giants."

"Let's take it again," said Leemans. "Now who did you say
you were?*'

"I'm Well Mara, secretary of the New York Football Giants,"
he said. "And we have an appointment for today."

"You look kinda young to me," said Leemans. "I had an
appointment with Tim Mara and at least I heard o him/'

"Tim's my dad/' said Wellington. "And I'm not so young
either. I'm nineteen already/*

Within a few minutes, Wellington Mara had convinced
Leemans he really was a representative of the Giants. By the
end of the afternoon, he had convinced him to play pro-
fessional football with the Giants.

When the National Football League lifted the player limit
to 25 and instituted the player draft at its* meeting in Phila-
delphia in February of 1936, the Giants drafted Ohio Univer-
sity tackle Art Lewis first and little-known Tuffy Leemans
second. A week later,, Leemans signed a f 5,000 contract and
officially became a Giant.

With the draft, which gave the weaker teams preference in
selecting the top college seniors, the owners had devised an
excellent system to balance their league and better their bud-
gets. The days of big salaries the $10,000 paid to Benny
Friedman and the percentage deals paid to Red Grange, Ken

Strong, Harry Newman had ended. If a college player

to with the that drafted him, he could

not a more favorable with another team. It

was an system but only for the owners. Jay Berwanger,

a triple-threat All-American from the University of Chicago
the first chosen in the first NFL draft, demanded

a two-year contract at 10,000 a season from the last-place
Eagles and was politely told he might be hap-
pier in graduate school

"We found out that it didn't work to pay one star eight

dollars a game and the rest about one hundred,"

Tim Mara. **The majority of players resented it and

resentment showed in their play." To eliminate the

resentment, Mara and his brother owners simply handed out

contracts averaging $150 a game for backs and $100 a

for linemen. O course, some players did receive a little

more. Detroit's Dutch Clark, who received $500 a game, was

the top-paid player in the NFL, and Bronko Nagurski and

Jack Manders of the Bears, Cliff Battles of the Redskins,

rookie Dave Smuckler of the Eagles, Bobby Wilson of the

Dodgers, and Ed Danowski of the Giants each earned more

than $350 every Sunday.

The new salary scale left little room for many of the higher-
paid, big-name stars. When Ken Strong, who earned $6,000
in 1935, visited the Giant office in August of 1936, Jack Mara
offered him a new contract calling for only $3,200 in 1936.
"You're joking!" said Strong. "Aren't you?" Jack Mara wasn't
joking.

"We've got to give Danowski a big raise after the fine sea-
son he had last year/ 1 said Mara. "This is our final offer to
you and it won't do you any good to go see my father again
this year."

Strong knew he could make nearly as much playing semi-
pro football, but he had just about decided to accept the
Giant offer when he drove out to Long Beach to visit Chick
Meehan, his coach at NYU. By chance, Jack McBride, one of
the original Giants and a friend of Strong's, also dropped in
to visit Meehan. When Strong told them about his contract
difficulties, McBride offered a suggestion: Why didn't Strong
jump to the new American Football League?

136

Dr. Harry March, who had as the secretary of the

original Giant organization out his small share

to Tim Mara in had out of an NFL exec-

utive job by owners Dae Topping and George Marshall To
stay in football, March convinced Wai! Street

brokers to a new league* Harry Newman and Stu Clancy

had already the Giants for the AFL. Why didn't

Strong join McBride the New York Yankees?

"I'd be interested for five dollars," said Strong.

The next day, McBride got his to put Strong's

In escrow, and the Giants" all-time scorer followed New-
man into the outlaw league.

With Strong and Newman the Giants were sud-

denly banking on Wellington Clara's football eye. Playing
halfback for George Washington, Alphonse Emil Leemans
had earned the nickname Tuffy, All-American on the United
Press' third team, and little else. The son of a Belgian miner
who had immigrated to the Iron of Superior, Wisconsin,

Aiphonse had built himself up as a youngster by juggling iron
ore and listening to tales of All-American fullback Ernie
Nevers ? who had grown up in the same region. When his high
school football coach switched to Oregon, Leemans went with,
him, but neither stayed very long. The coach was dismissed
and the young player decided that George Washington offered
considerable education advantages, not to mention a high-
paying job sweeping out the gymnasium. Through the tireless
efforts of his college publicity man, Leemans, a stocky 6-foot,
190-pound halfback, was a last-minute addition to the 40-man
College All-Star team that was to play against the NFL cham-
pion Detroit Lions at Chicago's Soldier Field in early Septem-
ber. In two previous college-pro meetings, the Chicago Bean
had battled to a 0-0 tie in 1934, and a 5-0 victory in 1935.

With a brilliant collection of backs Berwanger, Bill Shake-
speare of Notre Dame, Riley Smith of Alabama, Sheldon Beise
of Minnesota, and Joe Maniaci of Fordham the All-Star
coaches had little time for Leemans during the practice ses-
sions in Evanston, Illinois. When one of the coaches told Mm
he looked too awkward to play halfback, Leemans was ready to
quit Arriving back in his hotel, he signed two autographs and

137

listened unhappily as the two youngsters stared at the
signature.

"Who's that?" youngster.

"Some Tuffy Leemans/* said the other. "You

he's an All-Star?**

That evening at dinner, Leemans bumped Into a Wash-

sportswriter he knew fairly well. "As much as I hate

to tell you this, 1 think the best thing for me to do Is get

out of right now/* said Leemans. "They have too many

AIl-Atnericans here to ever get around to me."

The friendly writer didn't agree, and he succeeded In con-
vincing Leemans to stay around at least until they gave him
a chance In practice. Leemans didn't have to wait much
longer.

"Hey, what's-your-name," coach Lynn Waldorf shouted at
Leemans the next afternoon. "Get In there for Berwanger."

Frank Merriwell couldn't have done any better. The first
time he got his hands on the ball, Leemans raced 75 yards
for a touchdown. A few minutes later, he bowled over All-
America center Gomer Jones of Ohio State and scored again.

Despite a fumble that led to the Lion touchdown, Leemans
played long and well as the All-Stars held the professional
champions to a tie. Football had a new hero and Well-
ington Mara had discovered him for the New York Giants.

What made Tuffy run so well? Lacking breakaway speed
and real power, Leemans was still one o football's most
dangerous backs. "He has what I call sensitive skin/' said Jim
Pixlee, Toffy's coach at George Washington, "He doesn't have
to see tacklers; he can feel them coming In. His reflex Is so
fast that he doesn't need to depend on conscious mental re-
actions. In close quarters, he has the reactions of a champion
boxer. He may appear to be hit and often is hit, but never
solidly because he rides the blow and dissipates the shock by
going away. Just watch the way he wiggles his hips. It's like
trying to hold on to an eel"

Already busy at their Blue Hills Country Club training
camp, the Giants had to wait a little longer for Leemans.
While his- future teammates were working out together, Lee-
mans was practicing with the College All-Stars for a game
against the Giants at the Polo Grounds for the Herald Trib*

138

une Air Fond, Without the the Giants

still a half-dozen Art Lewis

and Jack Haden, center Leu Dugan, Phillips, end

Gene Rose, Tillie (212 In the

and 198 In the (average 24)

any Giant he had Steve Owen still had

his problems particularly at at end, AH four

from 1935 were had re-

leased, Flaherty coach of the Red-

skins, and Goodwin, the NFL's top receiver in 1935, was
holding out for more money.

For the first time, the and

blocking machines in camp. Neither particularly well

Bill Morgan and Leu Grant the tackling dummy

the day, to work on the With Owen,

now weighing to 270, his 220-pound

Bo Molenda, trying to the in one place on the

field, the Giant linemen battered the machine and nearly
crippled their coaches. By the end of the first practice session
-two and a half hours under a blazing sue Owen was im-
pressed and the players were delated by a minimum of eight
pounds a man. Despite the late summer heat and the long
practices, the Giants invariably played a Eerce touch-football
game to finish off the day's activity. "At first, I couldn't figure
out where they got all the energy from/" said Owen. "Then
I found out they were playing for beers and I stopped
wondering/*

Owen himself preferred golf on the Blue Hills course and
enjoyed playing nine holes every afternoon with a handful
of spoitswriters tagging after him. "Aren't the boys worried
at all about the game with the All-Stars?" asked one writer,
"How do they feel about defending the honor of the pros?"

It was a silly question^ bat Owen* well accustomed to the
ways of sportswriters, had heard sillier ones. "Sure my boys
are getting all steamed up/* he said. "I don't think they're
sleeping well at night There are even a few of them who
don't get more than ten or twelve hours,"

Still, despite a big advantage in weight and experience, the
pros were 7-5 underdogs and few persons outside of the organ-
ization gave them any chance to win, "Well nail Danowski

139

and well have stopped the whole Giant team," predicted

Smith. "When Ed to heave that leather

lemon, he'll think his has been broken. After that, Steve
Owen can up the pieces. What the hell? Ed's only one

guy, ain't he? And he's human, ain't he? Just you wait and
see'. \Ve'll that big Polack right off the bat."

wasn't kidding. The All-Stars didn't see how they

could lose. Owen, a subtle psychologist, neatly clipped

the story containing Smith's prediction and taped it to a prom-

in the Giant dressing room. By game time, the

Giants bad an eyeful and an earful of Riiey Smith and the

All-Stars. "Go out there and pass them dizzy/* Owen told his

in the dressing room. "J ust one thing. Don't hurt

Tuffy Leemans."

The Giants listened carefully and played accordingly. They
scored twice, both times on passes from Danowski to Burnett,
for a 12-2 victory and they handled Leemans very gently.
When Tuffy sprinted 65 yards before being pushed out of
bounds in the first half, one Giant substitute leaped to his
feet and shouted to his teammates, "Remember hit him but
don't hurt him!"

It was an impressive victory on a very warm evening under
the Polo Grounds" bright new lighting system and Mara
Tech was delighted. The team was promising, the crowd of
85,999 was excellent, and the rival league was turning into a
low-budget operation. Yet the enthusiasm didn't last long. In
the NFL opener, the Giants traveled to Philadelphia expect-
ing an easy afternoon and returned home dazzled by the
Eagles' attack. Installed by coach Bert Bell, the Philadelphia
offense combined the power of the Warner double wing and
the deception of the Bears' man-in-motion. In his first game
as a Giant, Leemans played little more than a quarter, gained
84 yards, and the Giants lost, 10-7, on a last-quarter field
goal by former teammate Hank Reese.

New York defeated New Rochelle, 26-0, and Passaic, 13-0,
in two exhibitions and then received some good news. Tod
Goodwin had ended his holdout and was rejoining the team.
The cocky end helped some but not enough. Leemans- was
hurt, requiring three stitches to close a cut in his face, and
the Giants lost to Pittsburgh, 10-7.

140

The Giants won another exhibition 35-0 the Wash-

All-Stars and took off for Before the

Jack Mara, who rarely the players the

been signed, called a at the hotel. "Most of

you players are either burnt or loafing," he said. "If you're
burnt out, It's bad- If you're It's worse. You've lost

two games IB a row. Don't a third."

Mara's warning brought results. Goodwin re-

covered a fumble on Boston's 37 early In the second quarter
and Leemans raced for his first as a professional.

Midway in the game, Boston's explosive owner, George Pres-
ton Marshall, who thought of racing down to the
field and dressing room an afternoon of football,
leaped out of his and to lecture Jim Mustek, one
of his bigger backs. Musick to the tirade, then
sneered, "What the years were you AlI-Ainerican?" Mar-
shall saved his answer for the next day when the Redskins
released Musick. Leemans" touchdown held up, and New
York had Its first NFL victory of

Early the next week Goodwin, professional football's orig-
inal Mr. I, took a taxi uptown to watch the Manhattan
College football work out. When a young quarterback

overshot freshman Joe Mitchell's head by ten yards with a
pass, Goodwin called the young end over to the sidelines. "Is
that the way you're going to play big-time football?" asked
Goodwin.

"What was I supposed to do?" answered Mitchell. "That
pass was at least ten yards Oer my head. Why, even you
couldn't have done anything with that one!"

"You're wrong there, sonny/" said Goodwin. "When the
passer tosses one too far ahead of you, always jump up and
reach for the ball even If you're positive you can't get to It.
Then fall down and roll over once or twice."

"What good will that do?" asked Mitchell.

"Hell, kid," said Goodwin. "It'll look great from the
stands."

That weekend, the Giants tied Brooklyn, 10-10, but lost far
more than they gained. Hein Injured his ribs, Goodwin dis-
located his shoulder, and Burnett tore some abdominal mus-
cles. Mara's only consolation was that the pro football war was

141

it had ever really begun. By mid-October, the
was in terrible trouble. Dr. March had quit, the
Wall Street investors produced little more than talk, and
even the uniforms still hadn't been paid for. IB eight games,
four teams New York, Brooklyn, Boston, and Syracuse had
drawn a of 25,000 fans /most at 50 cents apiece) and lost

a of 530,000. Only Strong, who had insisted on receiving
his $5,000 in advance, would come out ahead at the end of
the season.

Against the Chicago Cardinals, the Giants trailed 6-0 at
half time. It was the irst game Mel Hein had missed since
moving into the starting lineup early in 1931, and New York
totally inept. Walking to the dressing room, tackle
Bill Morgan, troubled all season by an injured leg, turned to
judge Bill Crowell and reminded him that not one
single penalty had been called in the first half. "The only
thing I could have penalized you fellows for/* said Crowell,
"was for going backward." In the second half, with Leemans
gaining 1 18 yards rushing, and boosting his NFL leading total
to 5G2, the Giants moved forward and won, 14-6.

New York made it two straight, coming from behind again
to defeat Philadelphia. The game ended in a riot moments
after the Giants had scored following a disputed pass-inter-
ference penalty. With the final whistle, two Eagle linemen at-
tacked field judge George Vergara. By the time special police
broke up the fight, Vergara's hair was mussed and his shirt was
torn*

One of the Giants* innovations in 1936 was the first regular
use of game-action films in scouting. In the past two seasons,
a photographer had taken films of some Giant games, but they
had rarely been used by the coaches. When Wellington Mara
received a Bell and Howell movie camera as a Christmas
present from his parents, the Giants had a full-time photog-
rapher for the first time. "The other cameraman knew little
about football and less about our plays/' explained Welling-
ton. "I can follow the ball smoothly because I know where
If s going."

The Duke of Mara took pictures every Sunday, and Owen
and his players studied them every Tuesday. After watching
the Eagle film, Owen turned to the Duke. "I'd like to switch

142

Lewis to guard but that would leave me with only two

tackles," said Owen. "How my trying to Gal Hub-

bard out of retirement?"

"Sounds OK to me," said the Duke and Owen wired Big
Cal, the former Giant Green Bay Packer All-Star who

had quit after the 1935 to devote all his to um-

piring American League baseball <4 1 had made up my mind
never to play again/* said Hubbard, ""when I received Steve's
telegram. When Steve wants me, he can always get me. But I
was a little surprised at how badly he really did need me/*

With the Detroit Lions heavily favored to defeat the
Giants at the Polo Grounds, Hubbard squeezed his 270
pounds into Bill Owen's new cheny-and-white No. 36 jersey
and Potsy Jones' pants and his seat on the bench. He

didn't stay seated long. In the first few minutes, Deli Isola
suffered a dislocated shoulder and Grant a severed artery In
his hand and Hubbard, fat and Bearing forty, lumbered onto
the field. The first play, the Lions ran right at him and right
over him. It was the last time the Lions were able to get
past him ail afternoon. And to go around him, the Lions
would have had to leave the Polo Grounds.

When Dutch Clark elbowed Big Cal In the right eye, Hub-
bard winced* When Ox Emerson piled on top of Leemans
after the whistle, Hubbard glared and knocked the Lion
guard unconscious the next play. And when Ace Gutowsky
punched him in the stomach, Hubbard exploded. "Why you
bastard," Big Cal growled. "You'll get yours but not right
now. Ill see you after the game."

The Giants scored twice on passes from Leemans to Man-
ton and Daiiowski to Burnett for a 14-0 lead, and the Lions
bounced back with seven points in the final quarter. As the
two 1 teams lined up for the kickoff* Hubbard suddenly had a
hunch. He called a time-out and warned the young Giants
that the Lions might try a short kickoff. Sure enough, the Llom
did try an onside kick but the Giants were waking for It and
were able to run out the clock. Walking off the field with his
old friend Dutch Clark, Hubbard felt someone grab him by
the shoulder. He spun around and there was Ace Gutowsky.
"Well, here I am/* said Gutowsky. "You got anything to say?"
The two players were pulled apart before either had landed

143

a punch but not Lion tackle George Chrlstensen

hit Hubbard In the mouth.

At a luncheon the next day, Hubbard was the hit of the
party wearing a blue suit, a gray tie, a black eye, a bloodied
lip, a strawberry-red cheek. "Next Sunday," said Hub-

bard, the umpire, "I plan to wear my mask and chest
protector."

The victory over the Lions was the calm. The storm lasted

the rest of the season. With Nagurski again running wild, the

defeated New York, 25-7. "There's only one way to

Nagurski," said Owen 7 "and that's with a rifle before

the game."

The next Sunday, the Giants traveled to Detroit, watched
patiently as the 1935 NFL championship pennant was hoisted
to the top of the stadium, and then took one of their worst
beatings. With Morgan, Dell Isola, Richards, Burnett, and
Danowski all sidelined by injuries, New York offered little
defense and less offense. On the frozen field in 20-degree
weather, the Lions won, 38-0, and then added insult to in-
jury. Gutowsky missed a block in front of the Giant bench,
stumbled forward, and booted a bucket of icy water all over
Steve Owen. "It was a funny scene," said Goodwin, "but we
were too afraid to laugh."

Returning home for a game with the Green Bay Packers
and their brilliant end Don Hutson, Owen was so distraught
that he asled his players to write him letters suggesting how
the Giants could revive their winning spirit. The answers
ranged from the ridiculous to the ridiculous. Gosh, Steve,
wrote one lineman, I wouldn't know what to do.

Against the Packers, the Giants did little. Hutson caught
two passes to break the NFL record Goodwin had set the year
before and Green Bay won, 26-14. Danowski's passing and
confidence had fallen apart simultaneously, but Owen re-
fused to bench him. It was a trying time for the Giant coach.
His players griped about their salaries, the Maras complained
about the losses, and the fans wanted to know why Owen
refused to substitute by units, like the lions.

The Giants defeated the Dodgers 14-0, and with one game
remaining, New York could still win the Eastern Divi-
sion championship by defeating Boston. Before the game,

144

a writer Owen If he was by Redskin

Georse Marshall's coaching the sidelines. "Bothered?"

Owen. "I hope George Preston Marshal! Is in voice.

It ought to be worth at lea>f a couple touchdowns to us."

Marshal! was in voice but It didn't help the Giants.

With Goodwin sidelined by le^ New York's

championship hopes were hopeless. Playing 17,000

Polo Grounds in the fain, New York

on the one-half and the 4-yard In the quar-

ter losing, 14-0.

The Redskins were champions of the East they were
champions without a city. Marshall, had lost S67,000 in

four mediocre and in a one,

was so with the he to

play the title with Green Bay at the In-

of at Fenway Park The lost the 21-6,

and Boston lost the Redskins to Washington.

It had been a big year financially for every

team. Salaries and were low fan high.

The Packers, Bears, Lions, Pirates, Giants

ahead for 1938. The Dodgers broken even

Only the Redskins and Cardinals had lost money.

In his most frustrating season as Giant coach, Owen to
be thankful for the little thingsrookies Tuffy Leemans, who
led the leagoe in rushing with 836 yards gained and was
named to the All-Star team, and Tillie Manton, who
kicked fifteen out of fifteen extra points. "It takes three years
to build a championship team," said Owen at the end of the
season. "We've got a lot of work to do this winter."

The House of Mara had been shaken. Success had spoiled
the Giants and left them totally unprepared for the fall to a
5-6-1 record and third place. If Tim Mara had his way, it
would never happen again. Many of the Giants had seen the
Polo Grounds for the last time.

145

AA Almost All the Way

WHEN a championship football team collapses suddenly and
unexpectedly, an owner Is faced with a difficult decision. In-
variably, he decides to get rid of his coach. Infrequently, he
decides to get rid of his team. When Tim Mara summoned
Steve Owen to his office immediately after the 1936 season,
the Giant owner had already made up his mind. Owen would
stay; most of 1936 team would go.

By the fall of 1937, the Giants had a new offense, a new
defense, a new team, and bright new uniforms. Only the
uniforms dark blue jerseys with white numerals and silver
silk pants came easily. At the second NFL draft meeting,
Owen and Wellington Mara had chosen wisely and well.
Their irst choice was Ed Widseth, a 220-pound Ail-American
tackle from Minnesota, who was sought by every team in the
NFL. Their second choice was Ward Cuff, a 187-pound full-
back from Marquette, who was sought by no one but the
Giants. If Leemans had been Wellington's discovery, Guff was
Owen's.

In 1936, Marquette had been a Midwestern powerhouse
with three highly publicized backs Ray Buivid and the
Gueppe brothers. Cuff was the fourth back in a three-back
offense- After watching Marquette lose to Texas Christian in
the Cotton Bowl, Steve Owen headed for the losers' dressing
room.

"What's on your mind, Steve?" asked Frank Murray, the
Marquette coach, "Buivid or the Gueppe boys?'*

"Neither/* said Owen. "I want to see Cuff/'

"Why Cuff?" asked Murray,

146

"Because he did all the work out for you today/*

Owen. st C0fFs got the of a pro."

"Surprises me," Murray. "Compared to the

three, we didn't was much/*

At times. Ward Cuff was too The NCAA javelin

champion Marquette's heavyweight champion.

Cuff little no for practice. Every

Monday he would the room,

about some Injury or to The

injuries would last only as as Murray decided to

have contact work. Nicknamed Saturday's Child by his coach
and teammates, Cuff would always be in top on Satur-

day and limping on Monday.

Cuffs aersion to practice Murray's aversion to Cuff

didn't disturb Owen at all Lean at 6-foot- U/, Cuff

was a ferocious blocker who ran quickly sharply the few
times he was given a chance to carry the Owen

been impressed by the way he played and by the

way he booted the ball on extra kickofis. Cuff,

thought Owen,, might develop into an field-goal kicker.

"You could see he had tremendous confidence in himself and
in what he could do," said Owen, "One of his greatest assets
was the remarkable control of his body. He weighed than
190, but when he threw a block he hit with the power of a
250-pounder."

In any preYious season, Cuff would have been the toast of
the Giant camp. In 1937, with rookies outnumbering the
veterans by more than two to one ? Cuff had to share the spot-
light. The Giants of 1937 were young and big, but, more
important* they were superbly talented. In less than four
months of recruiting, the Giants had signed ends Jim Poole,
Jim Lee Howell, Will Walls, Chuck Gelatka, and Ray Han-
ken; tackles Widseth, Gerry Dennerleie, and Ox Parry; guards
Orville Turtle and Tarzan White; centers Stan Galazin and
Kayo Lunday; and backs Jim Neill, Hani Soar, and Cuff.

Tarzan White was a press agent's dream and an opposing
coach's nightmare. Five-foot-9 and 210 pounds, White was
strong enough to bend crowbars in half and smart enough to
hold a master's degree in Romance Languages. Between col-
lege football seasons at the University of Alabama he had

147

amused himself by bumming his way through Guatemala,
Mexico, and El Salvador, living the life of a hobo and learn-
ing the language. Yet once on the football field, there was
nothing romantic about Tarzan White.

Soar, a 6-foot-2, 207-pound bullheaded extrovert, had played
one season of semi-pro football after dropping out of Provi-
dence College in his junior year. From his first day as a Giant,
Soar let everyone know that he considered himself far too
experienced to receive the standard rookie treatment. Veterans
Tuffy Leemans, Mel Hein, and John Dell Isola didn't agree
with him, but that didn't faze Soar.

In practice and in games, Soar made very few mistakes
and those he did make he rarely admitted. One afternoon
on the final play of practice, Soar was playing defense when
Burnett cut right in front of him and caught a pass near the
far sideline. "You dogged it," hollered Owen. "Soar, you
dogged it.*'

"Dogged it, nothing" shouted Soar, racing across the field
to his coach. "Burnett caught that ball out of bounds."

"Hell he did," said Owen.

"Hell he didn't," answered Soar as the rest of the Giants,
trying hard to keep from laughing, crowded around their
beefy coach and their brash teammate.

"If that's the way you feel," snapped Owen, "take a few laps
around the field." While Owen and the Giants waited, Soar
started jogging around the field. After a few laps, Owen called
Soar over to him. "Still say he was out of bounds?" asked the
coach.

"You're damn right," said Soar and off he went around the
field once more. Finally, Owen called him over again. But
before either could speak, Tuffy Leemans stepped between
them and turned to Soar.

"For Pete's sake, Hank," said Leemans, "say he wasn't out
of bounds so we can get out of here some time tonight."

Owen had worked hard scouting the country to get his
players. Now it was time to put in his new plays. With so
much talent on hand, he decided to switch over to the two-
platoon system dividing the Giants into two distinct teams,
each playing two quarters of every game. In the past, he had
experimented with defenses, switching from the traditional

148

seven-man line to variations of the six and five. Now, with
so many teams passing so much more than ever before, Owen

decided to stay with the 5-3-3 almost exclusively. These
changes were radical; his next was revolutionary.

Reaching back to the fan shift employed by Pop Warner at
Carlisle twenty-five years before, Owen devised an unorthodox,
striking offense that combined deception and power. It was
the A-formation. Coming out of their huddle, the Giants
would line up:

ETGBGTBE
B B

Then, after coming to a full stop, they would shift into the
single wing, double wing, punt formation, or the A. In the
A, the Giants would unbalance their line to one side and

overbalance their backfield to the other:

E G CGT T E
B B

B
B

It was certainly different. But by the first game of the 1937
season against the new Washington Redskins, even Steve
Owen wasn't convinced the A-formation would work. The
Redskins not only had a new home, they also had a new quar-
terbackSammy Baugh of Texas Christian. Before the opener,
coach Ray Flaherty called time out in practice to review a pass
pattern with Baugh. "After you fake to the fullback/' ex-
plained Flaherty, "you wheel and throw the ball and hit the
receiver squarely in the eye. You get it?"

"Yeah, I get it," said Baugh, "but which eye?"
Against the Redskins, Owen used five rookies in his start-
ing lineup and fifteen in the game. It was not an auspicious
debut. Redskin owner George Marshall supplied the music
by a brass band and a brassier singer. And the Redskins sup-
plied the fireworksby Baugh, who completed eleven of six-
teen passes for 116 yards, and Riley Smith, who scored all

149

their points and won the night game, 13-3. One New York
writer was so impressed by Baugh that he wrote:

That Mistuh Baugh, dubbed Slingin* Sam

Got poor Steve Owen in a jam.

A pigskin-pitchin' ex-Horned Frog,

He had the Giants all agog.

And this beneath electric light,

The Redskins gained the day er night,

Baugh was exceptional, but the Giants were learning their
lessons quickly. Mastering the intricacies of the A and five-
man line, the Giants defeated Pittsburgh, 10-7, and Philadel-
phia, 16-7, on the road. With Leemans on the sidelines, Soar
gained 118 yards against the Eagles, kicked a 19-yard field goal,
and had a 60-yard touchdown run called back. Returning
home, the Giants continued to improve and continued to win.
They defeated the Eagles again, 21-0, and then beat the Brook-
lyn Dodgers by the same score. Owen, whose job had been
challenged less than a month before, suddenly was one of the
most secure coaches in the NFL. "What a team!" he said, after
the Dodger game. "Do these kids know how to play football.
They're young and they make mistakes, but they always come
back. They're the best group of players Fve ever had. Just
watch the way Ed Widseth handles himself in the line. You'd
think he'd been a pro for five years already. He's the spark."

The Giants were hot, but the Chicago Bears were hotter.
With a line that averaged 230 pounds a man, the Bears had
won their first five games and were heading for their best sea-
son in history. What chance did the younger and smaller
Giants have against them? Not much, according to the New
York betting commissioners, who made the Bears 3-2 favorites.
The 50,449 fans saw more than a football game at the Polo
Grounds. They saw a war. From the opening kickoff, when a
Bear lineman decided to punch quick-tempered John Dell
Isola in the face, it was a brutal, bloody battle. Indestructible
Bronko Nagurski limped to the sideline with a battered leg.
Tough Len Grant cried from the pain of a fractured right
hand. Bill Karr injured his jaw, and Tuttle and Richards were
carried off with concussions.

Guff kicked the first field goal of his career from the 42-

150

yard line but Jack Manders tied the game at 3-3 with a
20-yarder in the second quarter. In the third period, the
Bears drove to the Giant 13, tried a pass, and Leemans inter-
cepted. With minutes remaining, the Giants moved into Bear
territory. On fourth down, Tillie Manton missed a field goal
from the 21, but got a second chance when a Chicago lineman
was off side. It didn't make any difference. Manton missed
again, this time from the 16, and the Giants had to settle for
a 3-3 tie. "Our players said it was the roughest, toughest game
they ever played," said Bear owner George Halas.

When they defeated the Pirates, 17-0, the next weekend,
the Giants moved into first place in the Eastern Division for
the first time in 1937. One game ahead of the Redskins, the
Giants, 5-1-1 on the season, led the NFL in defense giving up
only 30 points and 970 yards in seven games.

After the victory over Pittsburgh, Mara threw a dinner
party for his team and his friends at the Hotel Lincoln. In the
middle of the evening, Art Rooney, owner of the Pirates,
turned to Steve Owen. "Steve," he said, "come on and confess.
What have you been feeding your boys this year?"

Owen grinned, then offered his formula for instant success.
"The new offense has helped quite a bit," he explained, "but
the real big thing has been our good fortune to line up two
complete squads. To start with, it lessens the wear and tear
on the individual player. He doesn't play enough to get tired
and therefore is better able to absorb the bumps that go with
the play. But more important I think is the effect on team
morale. I find that a rivalry has risen between my A and B
squads. Each one wants to outdo the other and that's incen-
tive to keep 'em driving. So long as I can keep my two squads
intact, I'm convinced the Giants will continue to win."

The next week, the hard-driving Detroit Lions first took
care of the Giants* five-man line, then went to work on their
two-platoon system. Play after play, the Lions raced for big
yardage through the five-man line. Finally, in desperation,
Owen signaled Widseth to the bench. "Ed," said Owen, "what
do you think will stop 'em?"

"Coach," said Widseth, "how about a double-barreled
shotgun?"

Before the end of the game, Widseth, Burnett, Richards,

151

and reserve center Larry Johnson were helped to the side-
linesand Owen's two teams had been reduced to one and a
half. The 17-0 loss to the Lions stopped the Giants only
momentarily.

Owen used his five-man line again against the Green Bay
Packers, Zi/g-I favorites, and this time it worked. Like the
Bear game, this one was another war, but this time the Giants
won both the war and the football game, 10-0. Still battered
and ailing from the Packer victory, the Giants needed a field
goal by Manton, his second of the game, in the final minute
to tie Brooklyn, 13-13, on Thanksgiving Day.

That Sunday, the Giants were supposed to play an exhibi-
tion game against a team in Paterson, New Jersey, but the
game had been rained out and the players sat around their
hotel rooms, playing cards and listening to the radio. It was a
few minutes after 5 when a newscaster announced the pro foot-
ball scores: "Green Bay Packers six, Washington Redskins
nothing, and that's a final score." For the New York Giants,
the Redskin loss meant one thing: the Giants had clinched
the Eastern Division title. Their final game with Washington
was now meaningless. Within minutes, the Giant players had
broken open several cases of beer and an informal victory
celebration was in full swing. Unfortunately, someone had
neglected to turn off the radio.

"That Green Bay-Washington score we gave you a few min-
utes ago was the third-quarter score, not a final/' came a
voice. "Sorry. Here's the final now. Washington fourteen,
Green Bay six." Never had beer gone flat so quickly.

Finally, Dell Isola turned to Owen and broke the silence.
"Don't let it bother you, Steve," he said. "Well get the cham-
pionship for you next Sunday."

Owen didn't doubt his players for one minute. "The Red-
skins may have won that opener from us, but our boys have
come a long way," he said. "I don't think the Redskins are
in the same league with us now." Owen wasn't talking just to
stir up interest. In picking his All-Pro team, Owen did not
include a single Redskin passing over Baugh, Cliff Battles,
and Turk Edwards. It was an oversight that Owen would long
remember.

The afternoon of December 5 was one George Preston

Marshall, the master showman, had been waiting for all sea-
son. After five straight losing years In Boston, Marshall had
found a gold mine In Washington and he did everything In
his power to tap It. He hired a 55-piece band and dressed them
in Indian costumes. He distributed feathered caps to Redskin
fans. And he rounded up two real Indians as mascots. For the
Giant game, Marshall outdid himself. With bands playing
and cheerleaders screaming, 10,000 Washington fans traveled
to New York by chartered trains and buses. The morning
of the game, 8,000 Redskin rooters marched li/ miles behind
Marshall, dapper in his raccoon coat, from Penn Station to
Columbus Circle. Marshall had stolen the show, but most of
the 58,085 fans expected the Giants, 3-2 favorites, to steal the
game. They didn't.

From the start, the Redskins dominated the game, ripping
big holes In the right side of the Giant line and gaining al-
most at will through Grant and Dell Isola. Yet with six min-
utes remaining in the third quarter, the Giants trailed by only
one touchdown, 21-14. As far as Giant fans were concerned,
the game should have ended right then. With Baugh complet-
ing eleven of fifteen passes for 128 yards and Battles rushing
for 165 more (plus a 75-yard run with an intercepted pass), the
rampaging Redskins scored four quick touchdowns and won
their second straight Eastern Division championship, 49-14.
After their sixth touchdown, Riley Smith booted the extra
point into the stands and Steve Owen did not throw in an-
other ball. The Redskins tossed In one of their own and
scored the final touchdown.

"The Giants used a 5-3-2-1 defense/' wrote Stanley Wood-
ward in the Herald Tribune. "They should have used a 12-7-
5-4."

In the Redskin dressing room, Battles, one of the Redskins
Owen had belittled only a few days before, smiled broadly.
"You can blame the big score on Owen/* said Battles. "He
made a typical Bill Terry remark and we made him pay for it.
Maybe next year, hell put a Redskin or two on his All-Star
team."

"I always knew those Indians would come back for Manhat-
tan Island sometime/' wrote Hearst columnist Bill Corum.

153

"An Indian never forgets. Neither will my good friend, Tim
Mara."

Mara didn't plan to forget. "You can't have everything," he
said, leaving the Polo Grounds for the last time in the 1937
season. "Everything considered, this has been a pretty good
year for us." Everything considered, it was a pretty good year
for the whole NFL. League attendance jumped 20 percent to
a record 1,117,476 in 1937, and the Giants led the way with
260,000 for seven home games, outdrawing every New York
college for the first time in history. The loss to the Redskins
had been disappointing, but the future had never been more
beautiful.

154

'We Don't Need a Band'

PROFESSIONAL football was booming. The modest dream of Joe
Carr had skyrocketed into a million-dollar reality. Ticket sales
and newspaper coverage soared to all-time highs in every Na-
tional Football League cityand the future seemed unlimited.
President Carr talked of building new stadiums, and the Maras
talked of expansion. Following the lead of major-league base-
ball teams, the Maras bought the Stapleton franchise in the
American Association, changed its name to the Jersey City
Giants, and began to operate it as a one-club farm system.

With the player limit again increased, this time to 30, the
Giants invited a record total of 43 players to the Blue Hills
Country Club in mid-August. It was the second year of coach
Steve Owen's three-year master plan and he was well pleased
with his players' progress. "We're moving along real well/* he
said. "By 1939, we should be back on top." Owen had miscal-
culated. By the fall of 1938, the New York Giants already were
loaded for Bear, Lion, and Redskin.

From the first day of practice, a two-and-a-half-hour session
under a broiling 110-degree sun, the Giants ran and hit with
the confidence and ability of champions. A championship team
must have youth, size, and talent and the Giants of 1938 had
all three in ample abundance. The line averaged 213 pounds,
the backfield 198, and the team 24 years in age. Only five play-
ersHem, Danowski, Burnett, Richards, and Dell Isola re-
mained from the 1934 champions, and only two others
Leemans and Shaffer had been wearing Giant uniforms for
more than one season. With this small group of veterans, the
Giants blended sixteen second-year mea and a handful of

rookiesincluding tackles Frank Cope and John Mellus, end
Hap Barnard, and backs Nello Falaschi, Len Bamum, Hugh
Wolfe, and John Gildea.

If they still hadn't convinced themselves they were the finest
football team in the NFL, the pre-season Giants of 1938 were
already certain they were the funniest. Despite the unbearably
hot weather, the team laughed and clowned its way through
the four weeks of training. The Giants' salary policy had elim-
inated the class system and all of the dissatisfaction that went
along with it. And now even the rookies, assured of a job at
Jersey City and a possible return to the Giants later in the sea-
son, relaxed and enjoyed themselves.

When Len Barnum told his teammates that he had gone
barefoot all summer to toughen up his feet for pro ball, the
veterans took one look at his size 13's and dubbed him Feets
and Beartracks. Barnum, a 6-foot-l, 198-pounder from West
Virginia Wesleyan, may have lacked a sense of humor, but he
lacked little else. He was a rugged runner and a slashing
blocker. He could kick a football 70 yards and pass almost as
far. "Ole Feets didn't like his nickname so much/' said Orville
Tuttle, the camp comic, "but he learned to live with it."

The highlight of the training session was the creation of
Tuttle and Tarzan White, the Giants' resident genius and au-
thor of three unpublished great American plays. One evening,
they decided that the team's rookie shows had been too infor-
mal and unprofessional in the past. Their creation titled The
Football Follies of '38 was no more professional, but a lot
more amusing. Harry (The Horse) Mattos of St. Mary's opened
the evening with a slow-motion imitation of a boxing match
and followed with a rapid-fire broadcast of a football game.
Mattos, of course, won the fight and scored the winning touch-
down. Bucknell guard Enio Conti played a fiddle with only
one arm. Oregon State guard Bill Duncan recited from Shake-
speare, Keats, and Bill Duncan. Kayo Lunday aped an ape. Hap
Barnard tap-danced. John Gildea imitated a ballet dancer. And
Pete Owens, Doug Locke, and Jiggs Kline sang Songs of the
Range.

The last act stopped the show. Barnard of Edmond State
(Okla.) and Kline of Emporia Teachers (Kans.) imitated the
Brothers Owen complete with dust-bowl twang, padded stom-

156

achs, chewing tobacco, and smelly cigars. "Those boys were
pretty funny," said Steve Owen. "I wish they took their foot-
ball so seriously."

At camp, Owen's problems were not many, but one was
major. The career o Ed Danowski had been a source of be-
wilderment and consternation to the entire Giant organiza-
tion. As a rookie in 1934, he demonstrated little but insecurity
until the championship game when he passed the Giants to
victory over the Bears. In 1935, he was brilliant completing 57
of 113 passes for 795 yards and was named to the All-NFL
first team. In 1936, he slumped, and In 1937, his best season
statistically, Ed had proven an uncertain leader. Unsure of
himself, he would refuse to call his own number even in situ-
ations that demanded it. By mldseason, every other Giant took
to suggesting plays, and the huddle soon resembled a meeting
of the Ladles Aid Society. Owen tried several solutions. He
gave Danowski special pep talks. That didn't work. He
benched him. That didn't work either. Finally, in camp, Owen
decided to silence one of the prime offenders. Tuffy Leemans,
the Giants* best ballcarrier, was also the Giants* best and most
constant talker. One afternoon when Leemans refused to shut
up in the huddle, Owen stopped play and pulled him aside.
"OK, Tuffy, that does It," said the coach. "From now on, you
call all the plays."

"But Coach," said Leemans, "I've got enough to do without
calling plays. That's Ed's job anyway."

"OK then," said Owen. "From now on, keep your mouth
shut when Ed Is calling the plays. The next time you open your
mouth In the huddle, Ed's got orders to let you do all the
brainwork for the rest of the game. And if that happens, you'd
better have some good plays up your sleeve."

Owen quieted Tuffy, but Danowski silenced him. When-
ever Leemans would open his mouth to suggest a play, Danow-
ski would stare at him and say, "OK, Tuffy, you call them and
I'll listen." Tuffy listened and so did the rest of the Giants.
Gaining more confidence with every practice, Danowski, who
many people thought was finished as a top passer, was heading
for his finest season.

Practicing for their second game of the season after taking
Pittsburgh, 27-14, in the opener, the Giants were still experi-

menting with new plays and pass patterns. On one, Kink Rich-
ards ran the wrong way, crashed Into granite-shouldered Shaf-
fer, and flipped over unconscious. "Are you hurt, Kink?" said
Owen, as the trainer applied smelling salts. "How do you feel?"

Richards lifted himself, shook his head, and grinned. "I'm
not hurt," said the veteran back, "but I sure as hell am embar-
rassed."

Richards had good reason to be embarrassed against the
Eagles at Municipal Stadium. Sorely missing a pile-driving
fullback who could spread the defense, the Giants faltered and
then fumbled. In the first quarter, Burnett fumbled the ball on
a reverse and tackle Bob Pylman went 90 yards for an Eagle
touchdown. Danowski tied the game with a pass to Poole, and
Cuff booted a field goal in the third quarter for a 10-7 lead.
Then, with less than five minutes remaining, Richards bob-
bled a hand-off on the Philadelphia 10, and left end Joe Carter
picked up the ball and raced 90 yards for the winning touch-
down. Back in the Hotel Whitehall, the Giants' home away
from home in New York, Owen drank a cold beer and brewed
over. "I'll have those guys take footballs to bed with them if I
have to," he told one writer. "They'll become so attached to
that pigskin they'll feel lost without it. Just think, if we had
been able to hold onto that ball, we'd have won, twenty-four
to nothing. It's bad enough losing games you deserve to lose.
But there's no excuse for giving them away."

In the Polo Grounds opener against the Pirates, Owen shud-
dered at the sight of his Giants. After taking a 7-0 lead in the
first quarter, New York's offense and defense fell apart. Twice,
Pittsburgh end Wilbur Sortet faked out Leemans and twice
Pirate passer Frank Filchock hit him for touchdowns and a
13-10 victory. Owen did not let his team's second straight loss
pass unnoticed.

"The fare to Jersey City has been raised to eight cents," he
told his players at Monday practice. "I just thought I'd tell you
because a lot of you may be making the trip very soon. You
were bad against the Eagles but you were pathetic last Sunday.
They outcharged us, they outsmarted us, and they outplayed
us. This is too good a team to be playing losing football. We
go to Washington next Sunday. I don't have to tell you the
importance of that game/'

158

With two losses In their first three games, the Giants could
not afford to lose again. Then four days before the Redskin
game, the phone rang in Owen's hotel room. It was his brother
Bill, coach of the Jersey City Giants. On Sunday, Jersey City
had played against the Paterson Panthers, a mediocre team
with a giant of a fullback named John (Bull) Karcis. By
chance, Owen had found the pile driver he had been looking
for since the first day of practice. Under Pittsburgh coach
Johnny Blood, Karcis, a 5-foot-8, 220-pound veteran of seven
professional seasons, had come into his own as one of the
league's top fullbacks in 1937. Blood had placed the Bull on
a starvation diet, and Karcis had lost 50 pounds, gained 511
yards, and finished third in the NFL in rushing. In 1938, the
Bull did not have a weight problem. The Pirates had a money
problem. They had signed Whizzer White for $15,000 and,
once the team started losing and the fans started staying away,
they had to cut expenses. Karcis, one of their higher paid ath-
letes, was one of their first reductions. After one game in the
American Association, Bull Karcis was back in the NFL with
the New York Giants. "I'm in great shape/' said Karcis, pock-
eting several dollars he had just won from his teammates at
pool. "At my present -weight of two hundred and twenty, I'm
lighter than I've been since the age of four,"

The Bull was just what the Giants needed. Before the start
of the game with the unbeaten, first-place Redskins, Jack Mara
walked around the Griffith Stadium field with Washington
owner George Marshall.

"Tell me, George/* said Jack Mara, pointing up at the rec-
ord Redskin crowd of 37,500, "where are you going to put the
extra seats for the playoff game?"

Marshall, whose laundry business had earned his team the
nickname of Washing-done Redskins, did not realize Mara
was baiting him. "Well build extra stands in back of there/*
he said, pointing, "and put more seats in right field and"

**Or maybe, George/" interrupted Mara, "you'll- come up to
the Polo Grounds and see the Giants in the playoff." Mara
knew what he was talking about.

With Karcis battering the Washington six-man line for 50
yards, the Skins, 3-1 favorites, switched to an eight-man line
and Danowski hit Howell for a fourth-quarter touchdown and

159

a 1 0-7 victory. Though only 2-2 on the season, the Giants were
a different team with the Bull at fullback. The period of panic
had passed, and Owen eased up on his players in practice. To
reward them, he established a system of cash bonuses $10 for
any interception or blocked punt that scored a touchdown or
led to one. To balance his budget, he also established a system
of fines $1 for anyone busting an assignment in practice.
Within ten minutes, Gildea ran the wrong way on a pass pat-
tern and contributed $1. Ten minutes later, another Giant
became confused between two plays and tossed in his $1. The
second offender: Steve Owen.

Danowski, who had completed thirty-six of sixty-one passes
without an interception in his first four games, was brilliant In
his fifth game against the Eagles. He completed nine of fifteen
for 85 yards and rushed for 40 more. Yet for the second straight
week, the Bull from Carnegie Tech made the Giants go.

In the first quarter, he picked up a fumble and rumbled 76
yards for a touchdown. Owen sent Cuff in to kick the extra
points, but Karcis, instead of Burnett, trotted off the field.

"Who told you to come out?" said Owen.

"Please take me out/' gasped the Bull. "I never ran that far
before in my life/' Before the afternoon was over, he ran for
40 more yards, set up New York's second touchdown, and
sparked the 17-7 victory.

No team is as loose and as relaxed as a winner and the
Giants were no exception. In practice, Owen preceded his
chalk talk and moving-picture showing with a quiz, usually a
serious review of Giant plays and defenses. This week, Owen
was as playful as his players.

"OK, you know who we're playing Sunday, don't you?" he
said, spotting Kayo Lunday dozing in a far corner. "Hey, Lun-
day, do you know who we're playing and what you're going to
do about it?"

Kayo always had an answer. "Sure, Steve/' he said, "we're
playing the Dodgers. And me, well I'm just going to sickle
right on in there and mow 'em down."

"Correct," said Owen. "I can't fine you a buck for that an-
swer."

Owen couldn't fine his players for any of their answers in
practice or in the ball game. Before the Dodger game, Bear-

160

tracks Barnum booted punts of 59, 63, and 72 yards to outdis-
tance Ralph Kercheval and Ace Parker and win $20, Once
the game began, Barnum was back on the bench and Danow-
ski, five for eight and 92 yards, and Karcis, one touchdown and
tremendous blocking on passes, deserved all the prizes.

"When I first hooked up with the Giants I used to be tense
and nervous," Danowski told a writer after the game. "I could
feel those wallops opponents dished out to me even before they
landed. As a result, 1 wasn't so accurate with my passes. Now
I've a new attitude: *If you're going to sock me, come right
ahead. But first III get this ball away/ It's steadied me down
a lot."

Against the Cardinals, the Giants were so steady they almost
didn't move anywhere on the soggy Polo Grounds field. Bar-
num won a pre-game passing contest and another $20 with a
toss of 65 yardsand the Giants played as though they wouldn't
gain that much yardage all afternoon. By the fourth quarter,
the score was a dull 0-0 and most of the 22,148 fans had gone
home. Then, with four minutes left, Karcis intercepted a pass
on his 30 and returned it to the Cardinal 30. Danowski com-
pleted two passes to Howell and Leemans then Tuffy took
over. He carried five straight times, finally banging over from
the 5 with a minute left.

The Giants switched back to their flashy red jerseys for the
Cleveland Rams and the change didn't hurt a bit. Karcis
bulled over for two touchdowns, the Rams never got inside the
Giant 20, and New York won, 28-0. When the Chicago Bears
defeated Washington, the Giants, now 6-2, moved into undis-
puted possession of first place for the first time all season.

Normally an optimist, Owen turned pessimist for his next
game with the Green Bay Packers. He had good reasons for his
pessimism. The Packers of 1938 were awesome. First in offense,
the Packers had scored 220 points and gained 2,700 yards in
ten games. First in defense, the Giants had held their oppo-
nents to 69 points and 1,464 yards in eight games. In the meet-
ing between the NFL's top offense and top defense, everyone
seemed to favor the Packers. With rookie Cecil Isbell, Arnie
Herber, Don Hutson, and Clarke Hinkle, the league's leading
scorer, Green Bay had one of the most explosive attacks in
football history. "I don't know what we can do against them,"

161

said Owen. "I know we can't win. I just hope we can hold the
score down/'

The Giants managed to hold the score down quite well. In
the first half, the Packers drove to the New York 21, 10, and
20 and each time the Giant line stopped them. In the second
half, the Giants started doing some driving of their own. They
scored their first two points when Hinkle fumbled the open-
ing kickoff and Dell Isola, Falaschi, and Cuff tackled him in
the end zone. Then, after falling behind 3-2, on a Green Bay
field goal, the Giants moved ahead to stay. With the ball on his
25, Leemans sliced outside left tackle and, as Falaschi and
Poole cut down the Packer secondary, raced 75 yards for a
touchdown. The Giants scored again a few minutes later when
center Mel Hein intercepted a Packer pass at midfield and
scored the first touchdown of his professional career. The
Packer stars won the battle of the statistics twenty-one first
downs to six but the Giants two platoons won the war, 15-3.

Three-to-one favorites to beat the Dodgers, the Giants
slipped and slid all over Ebbets Field in a snow-and-sleet storm.
Brooklyn intercepted five passes and four times drove inside
the Giant 15 only to be stopped. Once, Barnura punted
from his own 15 to the Brooklyn 1, where Buster Poole
downed the ball. The Dodgers drove back upfield but the
Giants held again, escaped with a 7-7 tie, and started planning
for the Redskins.

Greeting the players in the Polo Grounds dressing room
Monday was a carefully chalked sign in foot-high letters:

REDSKINS 49, GIANTS 14

The Giants did not need the reminder. They had not for-
gotten the humiliating 1937 defeat. When Redskin coach Ray
Flaherty sent a photographer to take pictures of the Giant-
Packer game two weeks before, Owen threw him out of the
park.

Once again, Marshall's Marauders invaded New York this
time filling eleven special trains, two more than needed for
fans going to the Army-Navy game. The Giants were ready for
the fens and the Redskins.

Wearing a battered $2.95 pearl-gray hat he had worn

162

through six victories and a tie, Owen did not frown once all
afternoon. The weather was glorious, the Polo Grounds was
packed with 58,061 fans, and his Giants were magnificent.
With four minutes gone In the first quarter, Cuff Intercepted
a pass and raced 32 yards to the Redskin 42. On the next play,
Ox Pairy flattened the Skins All-Pro tackle Turk Edwards and
Soar knifed through the hole for a 42-yard touchdown. As the
two teams lined up for the extra point, Edwards threw a wild
right hook that missed Parry's head. "Turk," said 230-pound
Parry, "either you stop winging 'em or you and I are going to
visit Fist City."

It was a bad afternoon for Turk Edwards on all fronts. Latei
in the quarter, he dared Tuffy Leemans to run a play his way,
Leemans did and, with a ferocious block by Parry, trampled
over Edwards for a long gain. The Giants scored again in the
second quarter, on a buck by the Bull, and led, 14-0, at half
time. The real explosion was still to come. Cuff booted a 36-
yard field goal, then Intercepted a pass on his own 4 and raced
96 yards for a touchdown. At one point, Dell Isola got down
on his hands and knees and peeked Into the Redskin huddle.
Before the Skins realized what he w y as doing, Dell Isola broke
up two passes and threw one runner for a 3-yard loss. In the
final quarter, Leemans passed 40 yards to Gelatka for a touch-
down and, two minutes later, the rangy end scored again on
a pass Interception. Intercepting a total of six passes, the Giants
defeated the Redskins, 360, by one point more than the
Skins had beaten them in 1937.

One of the first people to congratulate Wellington Mara
after the game was Eddie Reeves, vice-president of the Wash-
ington Redskins. "A great game/' said Reeves. "But what you
need Is a band like we have."

Wellington Mara smiled. "Eddie, we don't need a band. We
have a football team."

It was a brilliant victory but a costly one for Owen and the
Giants. It cost Owen |30 $20 to Cuff and $10 to Gelatka
under his reward system for interceptions. It cost the Giants
Dell Isola, Cuff, and Shaffer for at least the next few days with
Injuries. With the championship game against Green Bay only
a week away, the Giants, 3-2 underdogs, couldn't afford to lose
any of their top players.

163

By game time, the Giants looked like losers. "AH week long
I thought we'd lose Sunday's game/' said All-Pro tackle Ed
Widseth. "We may have been beaten physically, but the mo-
ment I walked into the locker room I felt we would win. For
nearly a half hour, there was not one single word spoken."

The only noise was the sound of the doctor and trainers un-
rolling yards and yards of adhesive tape. "By the time we got
finished taping them up that day, they looked like Egyptian
mummies/* said Dr. Francis Sweeny, the Giant physician.
"What a rugged bunch!"

The Giants were a rugged bunch, but they also were ex-
tremely well prepared for the Packers. To take advantage of
Green Bay's sliding defense, Owen had installed a series of cut-
back plays in which the runner fakes to one side, drawing the
defense over with him, then cuts back sharply into one of the
unprotected holes. As a possible scoring play, Owen had dia-
grammed a special pass for Danowski. He would fake one
hand-off to the fullback and another to Cuff on a reverse.
Then, fading back, he would fake to his left end, finally pass-
ing to Hap Barnard, who, in the past, had been used only
occasionally.

Early In the game, the Packers moved consistently for small
yardage against the Giants 5-3-2-1 defense, aiming most of their
plays at the usually immovable Mel Hein, the six-time All-Pro
center and the NFL's Most Valuable Player for 1938. When
Green Bay continued gaining through Hein, Owen called the
veteran over to the sideline.

"You feeling all right, Mel?" asked Owen. "Anything wrong
with you?"

"I'm feeling fine," he answered. "Don't worry about that
short yardage they're getting. I'm letting them commit them-
selves before I commit myself. This way I give them the short
yardage and prevent Hutson from getting behind me for a
touchdown."

Hein's system worked. The Packers gained short yardage and
the Giants stopped Hutson. Within nine minutes, New York
was ahead. Howell blocked Hmkle's punt and recovered on the
7. Green Bay held and Cuff booted a 15-yard field goal. Four
minutes later, the Giants scored again, once more after a
blocked punt. This time, it was Poole blocking Isbell's kick

164

with Howell recovering on the 28. Using Owen's cutback
series, Leemans slanted over for the touchdown. Gildea missed
the extra point and New York led, 90. In the second quarter,
Herber hit end Carl Mulleneaux with a 55-yard pass for a
touchdown, but Danowski, using the special play Owen de-
vised in practice, passed to Barnard for a 16-7 lead. A pass
from Isbell to Wayland Becker gained 66 yards and Hinkle
battled over for the second Packer touchdown just as the half
ended. It had been one of the roughest, toughest 30 minutes in
football history. Dell Isola had been carried off the field on a
stretcher. Hein, who had never been helped off the field in
eight years as a professional, was kicked in the face and carried
to the dressing room with a concussion.

When the Giants returned for the second half, Hein, who
did not know his name or where he was when he was carried
off the field, remained in the dressing room. Shaffer, who had
broken a bone in his leg, insisted it was only a sprain, had it
taped, and returned to the field. Without Hein, the Giants
gave a little, the Packers booted a field goal, and for the first
time all afternoon, Green Bay led, 1716. The Giants were un-
happy. John Gildea was miserable. "I just remember sitting on
the bench and staring up at the Scoreboard and that one-point
difference/' he said. "All I could think of was it was my missed
kick that would cost us the championship."

Gildea didn't have to worry. Abandoning the two-platoon
system, Owen went with his best eleven men and, starting on
their own 34, the Giants started their final drive. Unable to
adust to Soar's cutbacks, the Packer defense started to crum-
ble. Soar gained 13 and 8 In two carries, then Danowski
gained only I yard in two carries. With fourth down and one
to go on the Green Bay 44, Danowski stared over at his bench.

"I gave him the sign to buck," said Owen. "I knew that's
what he wanted to call. He did. Soar made the first down and
five plays later went over with that Danowski pass."

The Giants now led, 23-17, but the battling still wasn't
over. Hein, his head finally cleared, returned to the game and
the Giant defense tightened. Three times the Packers passed
into the end zone and three times Giant backs batted the ball
down. Play got so rough that Giants and Packers had to be
helped off the field every few plays. With two minutes left,

165

Green Bay linemen started collapsing just to stop the clock.
On the final play, Herber was rushed and overshot his receiver
and the Giants had won the Ed Thorp Memorial Trophy,
named after the late official and symbolic of NFL supremacy.

In the dressing room, the battered Giants playfully lifted
their 265-pound coach onto their shoulders, tossed a few
sportswriters Into the shower, and squirted everyone with
beer. "This is the greatest team I've ever seen," said Owen.
"They were up against it early in the year, but they never
quit. I'll never forget a single one of them/'

WIdseth, Hein, and Danowski were All-NFL selections.
And Easy Ed once again was pro football's premier passer
70-129 for 848 yards with only eight interceptions. But the
Giants of 1938 would be remembered as a 30-man team and
not for its stars. Owen would not be the only man to re-
member them ends Poole, Howell, Barnard, Gelatka, and
Hanken; tackles Widseth, Parry, Cope, Haden, and Mellus;
guards Dell Isola, Lunday, Tuttle, White, and Pete Cole;
centers Hein, Johnson, and Galazin; and backs Leemans,
Barnum, Karcis, Richards, Cuff, Soar, Burnett, Shaffer, Dan-
owski, Falaschi, Gildea, and Wolfe.

"It was magnificent but was it football?" wrote Hearst
columnist Bugs Baer about the championship game. "All we
got to say is that a kick in the face is a tough way of cleaning
your teeth. It was great. But we don't want to see it again
this year. We don't hate anybody that much."

The 1938 football season was over and the Giant organiza-
tion, which had taken in a record $200,000 profit, was on top
again. Yet a few things remained to be done. The No. 3 uni-
form that had been worn by tackle Len Grant, who was killed
by lightning on a golf course, was permanently retired. And
at a victory breakfast the morning after the playoff game, Jack
Mara was handed a ballot for NFL Coach of the Year. He
studied the paper for only a moment, then wrote:

NOMINATION: Steve Owen

WHY?: Why not?

166

The Field Goal That Started a Riot

IT wasn't that they had the most money. Washington's George
Marshall was richer. It wasn't that they had the best players.
The Green Bay Packers were stronger. It wasn't that they
had the best coaching. Chicago's George Halas was more in-
ventive. Yet it couldn't all be attributed to luck. What made
the Giants of 1938 and 1939 win?

"Their success is due to the complete harmony of the en-
tire organization/* said Bert Bell, coach of the Philadelphia
Eagles. "Tim Mara is a smart businessman. Jack Mara is an
excellent executive. Steve Owen is an excellent coach. And
then there's that damn little Wellington. He knows every-
thing about every player in the country. No one ever beats
him to some obscure star and no one can steer him onto a
prominent player who can't produce."

By late 1938, Wellington Mara's knowledge of college foot-
ball talent was so widely recognized that the other National
Football League owners asked him to make up a master list
for the annual player draft. It was an honor for the Duke
of Mara, one year out of Fordham University, and in 1939 he
turned in a list of 300 college seniors. Excluded from his list
was Walt Nielsen, a 220-pound fullback from the University
of Arizona. The Giants* first draft choke: Walt Nielsen. I
don't have to put every player on the master list," explained
Wellington. "After all, I didn't want the rest of the league
to think we regarded him so highly/*

The Duke got his fullback and the other owners got a free
lesson from Mara Tech.

For the New York Giants, 1939 brought a new camp and an

167

old hero. Bothered by the intense heat of Pearl River and
scheduled to play the College All-Stars in Chicago In early
September, the Giants trained In lake-cooled Superior, Wis-
consin. Ken Strong, who jumped the Giants for $5,000 and the
unsuccessful Amerian League three years before, was orig-
inally suspended by the NFL, but the Maras finally relented
id welcomed him back. With Cuff and Strong, the Giants
had the two finest placement kickers In professional football.
For the second straight year, they also had one of the finest
teams. Only bench warmers Haden, Gildea, and Wolfe were
missing from the 1938 championship team, and several prom-
ising rookies Nielsen, little Eddie Miller of New Mexico
A & M, and guard Doug Oldershaw had more than replaced
them.

To prepare for the College All-Stars, who had lost only
one of five previous Chicago meetings with the best of the
pros, the Giants broke tradition and received permission to
scrimmage against another NFL teamthe Chicago Cardinals.
"They pounded the hell out of us/' said Owen, "but I wasn't
sorry. It woke the Giants up and put them on edge."

By game time, 81,456 had paid out f 162,350 for their seats
in Soldier Field. One fan Uncle SIg Eben, a New York in-
surance executive who had never missed a Giant road game
but had never seen the team at home interrupted a Euro-
pean cruise and flew into Chicago for the All-Star game. Uncle
Sig and 81,455 others got their money's worth.

Feets Barnum, a country boy from West Virginia, took one
look at the huge crowd, turned to Owen, and panicked.
"Coach/' he said, "there are more people here tonight than
in the whole state of West Virginia."

The Giant linemen were less impressed. They consistently
tore into the All-Star backfield and repeatedly tossed Davey
O'Brien of TCU, Bob McLeod of Dartmouth, and Marshall
Goldberg of Pittsburgh for sizable losses. Only Bill Osmanski
of Holy Cross made any yardage at all and the Giants won,
9-0, on two field goals by Strong and one by Cuff, "I don't
think we missed a single tackle all night long," said Owen.
"We really poured it on them. Widseth is one hell of a foot-
ball player."

In his own way, the blond-haired Swede had revolutionized

168

line play in his three professional seasons. Playing under
Bemie Blerman at Minnesota, 220-pound Widseth had been
taught the importance of downfield blocking. In the pros,
linemen usually threw their primary block and then settled
back to watch the play develop. When the Giants sa*v Wid-
seth take out his man at the line of scrimmage and then con-
tinue downfield for a second and third block, they were
fascinated. Any good lineman likes to block, especially if he's
blocking a smaller defensive halfback, and, within a few
weeks,, the Giants were knocking opponents down all over the
field. "It got so that even Mel Hein was wandering downfield
looking for someone to spill/* said Owen.

With the exception of Howell, who had broken two ribs
against the All-Stars, the Giants were in perfect physical con-
dition for their NFL opener in Philadelphia. Then, two days
before the game, ten New York veterans collapsed from food
poisoning. Weak and wan, the Giants staggered to a 6-3 half-
time lead on field goals by Cuff and Strong. Finally, in the
fourth quarter, Leemans, who had been hit hardest by the
poisoning, forgot his troubles long enough to sprint 19 yards
for a touchdown and a 13-3 victory, Philadelphia sports-
writers blamed poor tackling for the defeat, but Eagle coach
Bert Bell didn't agree. "Talk about bad tackling if you want
to," he said. "Leemans makes all tacklers look bad. They
aren't all poor tacklers in this league, but they all miss him the
same way."

One pleasant surprise for the Giants was the play of Eddie
(Muscles) Miller. When fullback Nielsen developed hay fever,
asthma, poison oak, and poison ivy all in one week of train-
ing and was sent to Jersey City, his roommate, 5-foot-10, 165-
pound Miller, suddenly became the Giants* prize rookie. The
one-time cowboy had failed to make the football team in high
school and at TCU before becoming a star at New Mexico
A & M. When the Giants offered him a contract, Miller re-
jected an appointment to West Point and decided to gamble
on a professional career. Unlike most rookies, Muscles Miller,
a speedy runner, an accurate passer, and a 60-yard punter,
was never awed by the veterans. In one exhibition game, he
turned to his ten teammates in the huddle and said, "Strong
will kick. Miller will hold."

169

"Check," said Mel Heln. "Danowski always holds for
Strong/ 5

Little Miller glared at the huge Giant veteran and the
NFL's Most Valuable Player. "Strong is kicking," he said,
"and Miller is holding."

Miller got his wayand the Giants discovered they had
a fiery little leader. Against the Eagles, Muscles outpassed
Danowski and Eddie O'Brien, completing four of seven for
60 yards, rushing for 39, and returning punts for 62 more.

Owen decided to keep Miller on the bench against the
Redskins in the rain and mud the next week. The field was
so bad that play was nearly impossible, and the play was so
bad it was totally comical. On one play, the ball slipped out
of Danowski's hands as he started to punt, and drifted away
in a puddle of water. Racing toward the loose ball, 269-pound
Redskin tackle Wee Willie Wilkin dove forward, landed di-
rectly on top of the ball, and almost drowned a half-dozen
players.

Later in the scoreless game, the Skins drove to the Giant
4, but the New York line held. As Bob Masterson set him-
self for a field-goal attempt from the 15, the referee carefully
wiped the ball off with a dry towel and handed it to the
Washington center. Just as he was about to shift it, Giant end
Chuck Gelatka picked up a handful of mud and slapped it
on the ball. The center was poor, the kick was worse, and the
Giants had a 0-0 tie. It was a funny afternoon, but not for the
wounded Ken Strong broke three vertebrae in his back, and
Shaffer, Falaschi, Johnson, and White also were hospitalized.

With the line playing brilliant football, the Giants came
from behind to defeat Pittsburgh, 14-7, and Philadelphia,
27-10, drawing 34,471 in the Polo Grounds opener. Over two
seasons, New York had not lost in seventeen straight home
games, but the streak was not supposed to last much longer.

The 1939 Chicago Bears had four men in the line who
weighed more than 250 pounds, and brilliant rookies, Sid
Luckman and Bill Osmanski, in the backfield. In winning
four of their first five games, the Bears, 7-5 favorites to beat
the Giants, had scored 157 points and seemed headed for an
NFL scoring record. Against the Cardinals, 282-pound Bear
tackle Jack Torrance had picked up an opposing lineman and

170

hurled him 5 yards Into the passer to break up a play. Prac-
ticing for the Giants, the Bears were to work out at Newark
City School Stadium. But when they arrived, a little gate-
keeper asked for special passes, and when they didn't have
them, refused to let the Bears on the field. "Open those gates,"
bellowed menacing George Musso, *"or we'll knock the walls
down/' The gatekeeper didn't need any more convincing
and neither did the New York sportswriters, who were so Im-
pressed that they suggested that the Bears hire Two-Ton Tony
Gaiento, a mammoth boxer, as their mascot.

The Bears could have used Gaiento against the Giants.
With 58,693 fans paying $75,000 to see a slaughter, the Giants
led, 16-0, on three field goals by Cuff and a touchdown by
Barnum. Just as spectators started heading for the exits, Luck-
man, the brilliant rookie from Columbia, passed for two
touchdowns before time ran out. At the end of the game, the
playful Bears refused to give the ball to the Giants and tossed
It back and forth at midfield. The game of catch ended when
Johnny Dell Isola caught up with back Joe ManiacI and the
ball at the same time. "You played a marvelous game," said
the Giants* policeman. "Don't spoil it by stealing the ball/*

In the dressing room, the Giant coach paid tribute to his
writers. "I've got to thank every one of you for this victory/'
said Owen. "The Bears really believed all those stories you
wrote about how wonderful they were. I could tell by looking
at them when they came on the field that they didn't see how
they could lose. You boys really convinced them. All I had to
do to get my men ready was say, klnda nonchalant, 'I see by
the papers that you boys are going to get your ears knocked
off by the Bears/ It was better than a pep talk/*

After beating Brooklyn, 7-6, the Giants headed for Detroit
and Brlggs Stadium, the new home of the Lions. For the first
time In nineteen games, the Giants made more mistakes than
their opponents. Handicapped by not having any films of the
Lions and unprepared for Detroit* s spread formation, New
York lost, 18-14. The line, as usual, was excellent. The backs
were surprisingly terrible. After the game, Owen tossed his
good-luck pearl-gray hat Into the trash can and started bawling
out his backs. "You should be ashamed of yourselves!" he

171

shouted. "You were miserable today. You didn't do one thing
right."

Gloomy Gus Henderson, Detroit's rookie coach, agreed.
"Sure they were terrible," he said, "but at least it shows the
Giants are human. They can lose like anybody else."

Returning home, New York defeated the Cardinals, 177,
the Pirates, 23-7, and the Dodgers, 28-7, but the big game
was still to come. With only one game remaining, the Giants,
8-1-1 on the season, again found themselves the underdog
against the Washington Redskins. The Skins, who had beaten
Detroit, 31-7, the week before, were 7-5 favorites.

It was a game to excite the imagination matching the pass-
ing of Sammy Baugh and the running of Andy Farkas against
the defense of the Giants. By 4 A.M. on Sunday, seven hours
before the Polo Grounds would open, 1,000 fans huddled un-
der umbrellas outside the bleacher entrance. Despite a steady
rain, 62,543 spectators, including 15,000 red-feathered fans
from Washington, packed the Polo Grounds by game time.

In the Giant dressing room, Owen quickly ran through the
Redskin lineup. Finally, he was finished. It was time to play
football. "Just one more thing," he said. "I'm going to the
playoff game no matter what you do today. It's up to you to
decide whether I go alone or we all go together."

For 59 minutes and 15 seconds, it was a typically defensive,
typically punishing Giant football game. Cuff had kicked two
field goals and Strong one for a 9-0 lead that held up into
the final quarter. Then Frank Filchock, filling in for the in-
jured Sammy Baugh, passed 18 yards to Bob Masterson for a
touchdown, cutting the lead to two points. The Giants were
tiring badly as the Redskins started on a final drive. With 45
seconds left, Washington was on the New York 5, where
they were penalized 5 yards for taking too much time in the
huddle. Coach Ray Flaherty signaled for a time-out and sent
field-goal specialist Torrance (Bo) Russell, a rookie from
Auburn, into the game.

The center was perfect. The blocking was perfect. Fil-
chock's placement was perfect. And Russell's kick was per-
fectbut no, it wasn't. Referee Bill Halloran was waving his
arms back and forth across his chest, signaling that the kick
was no good. Suddenly, the Polo Grounds was in an uproar.

Redskins stormed around Halloran. Flaherty raced out to
the center of the field. Owen remained on the sidelines, shak-
ing his head in bewilderment. Finally, the field was cleared,
and New York's Bell Karcis ran out the clock. The game was
over, but the riot was just beginning. Redskin back Ed Justice
raced after Halloran, took a wild swing, missed, and was
pulled away. A Giant fan threw a punch at Flaherty, missed,
and hit umpire Tom Thorp. All over the field, fans and play-
ers battled. Seated in his 50-yard-line box, Babe Ruth roared.
It was better than any barroom brawl.

The riot ended when New York police pushed the players
into the dressing room and the fans into the street, but the
controversy raged.

Was the kick good?

"1 don't know," said Owen. "I wasn't even watching. I was
too busy talking to a man sitting behind me. Halloran had
the best view. Why argue with him?"

"As soon as I threw my block and heard Bo's foot hit the
ball/' said Justice, "I turned and saw the ball go eight inches
inside the posts. I was in a better position to judge than the
referee. I was so sure it was good I turned and started walking
back for the kickoff."

"It wasn't even close," said Halloran. "It missed by almost
a foot."

"It wasn't even close," said Flaherty. "It was plenty inside.
All the players said so. Every cop in back of the goal posts said
it was good. If Halloran has a conscience, he'd never again
sleep an untroubled night."

Obviously, the photographs would settle the controversy.
They didn't. The next day, every New York newspaper ran
at least one picture of the kick. Their conclusion: one defi-
nitely good, one definitely bad, and the rest uncertain.

Marshall, who "was furious earlier in the game when some-
one had stolen his brand-new hat, was outraged at the end.
Over dinner and drinks that evening, Marshall turned to Tim
Mara. "Tim, just tell me one thing," said Marshall. "What
church do you go to?"

The Giants* delight was tempered a few days later when
Steve Owen's mother died. Because of the funeral, Owen
would not be able to coach them in the championship game

against the Green Bay Packers. Bo Molenda, his assistant and
a former Packer, would coach the team.

Never before had the Giants been so popular in New
York. One thousand fans turned out to cheer them as they
boarded a train at Grand Central and sixteen writers climbed
aboard with them. Instead of playing in Green Bay itself, the
game had been transferred to Milwaukee's modern State
Fair Grounds, which had no dressing rooms, inadequate seat-
ing, and a perilous press box. Demand for tickets was so great
that a rumor of 1,500 counterfeit seats brought a half-dozen
G-men scurrying from Washington. They couldn't get any
tickets either. One New York speculator set up a small office
in a Milwaukee hotel and did big businessselling a pair of
|4.40 seats for f 35 and a pair of $2.20 seats for $25.

One hour before game time, 32,279 fans and 100 writers
crammed into the park. That was 279 fans and 50 more
writers than the Fair Grounds could possibly hold. Seated in
bleachers that faced a parking lot and not the field, many of
the spectators were uncomfortable. All of the writers were
terrified. Perched 100 feet above ground, the crowded press
box shook with every gust of wind and trembled with every
sneeze. The writers were not relieved to discover that $300,000
in insurance had been taken out on their lives.

The Giants weren't as fortunate. They didn't even have
insurance. Cuff missed a 42-yard field goal early in the first
quarter and the Packers took over the rest of the waywin-
ning 27-0, the most decisive playoff victory in history. In the
last quarter, Packer fans broke through police lines and
rimmed the field, heckling the Giants and throwing programs
and paper pellets at them.

"The Giants were badly handicapped/* wrote Hearst col-
umnist Bill Coram. "They had the second-best team."

Tim Mara was slightly consoled by the record gross of
$83,510. "The only thing I regret/' he told Green Bay coach
Curly Lambeau, "is that we didn't lose to Washington last
week. Then Marshall and the Redskins would have been here
to take this beating."

The Giant players were not consoled by the record losers*
shares of $455.57. Unable to shower or change out of their
uniforms at the ball park, the Giants climbed aboard their

bus, defeated and humiliated. Tuttle and Burnett sobbed
openly. No one else said a word. Finally big Jim Lee Howell
broke the silence. "Come on, fellas/* he said. "We're lucky to
have escaped alive."

At that moment, a Green Bay fan tossed a bottle through
the window of the bus, spraying the Giants with glass. Even
Burnett and Tuttle had to smile. It was the perfect end to a
perfect day.

Once again NFL attendance climbed to a new highI, 280,-
332 in 55 games. And once again the Giants led all the rest
233,440 in seven games. At the annual meeting, the NFL In-
creased the player limit to 33 and the franchise price to
$50,000, and the Pittsburgh team changed its name from the
Pirates to the Steelers.

It was a time of plenty and the Giants couldn't let one
loss to the Packers or anything else bother them. Even when
Walls, Richards, Danowski, White, and Karcis quit and Strong
was hospitalized with an ulcer, the Maras smiled and talked
optimistically of the future. They already had signed two of
the finest backs in the country Arkansas' Oliver Kay Polk
Eakin, the top passer in the United States, and Southern
California's Grenny Lansdell, the top runner on the West
Coast.

By the end of one week of training, a third rookie had made
a noticeable impression. Without even trying, Gilford (Cac-
tus Face) Duggan, a 250-pound tackle from Oklahoma, broke
one chair, two golf clubs, one water pitcher, one sugar bowl,
and one tackling dummy. "Sometimes/* said Owen, "Cactus
Face forgets himself/'

Several Giant fans, who happened to be allergists, had come
to the rescue of fullback Nielsen and designed a special nose
filter for him. To keep clear of pollen, Nielsen lived in New
York and only reported to the Blue Hills Country Club for
practice.

The war in Europe was still something most Americans re-
fused to think about, but Tim Mara wasn't taking any chances.
He rented 35 rifles, sent them to camp, and organized a Giant
drill team. With reserve officers Miller and Nielsen com-
manding, the football Giants drilled one hour a day and
learned the manual of arms. By the College All-Star game,

the Giants were playing soldier better than they were playing
football. Before 39,405 fans, the Giants, 2-1 favorites, played
dismally, and the All-Stars beat them at their own game-
intercepting five passes and winning 16-7. It was the irst
time a Giant team had ever lost to the College All-Stars.

Once the season started officially, the Giants improved but
not much. Kay Eakin and Grenny Lansdell ivere promising,
but they were not ready to replace Ed Danowski and Bull
Karcis. The Giants came from behind to tie Pittsburgh, 10-10,
in the opener; lost, 21-7, to Washington; and defeated Phila-
delphia, 20-14 and 17-7. It was a bad week for the Giants.
One war threatened in Europe and another exploded across
the 155th Street Bridge. Thirty-one Giants and Bo Molenda
registered under the Conscription Act and tried to think of
football. And across the bridge in Yankee Stadium, another
group of Wall Street brokers was at it again trying to bite
into the Mara's profits with a six-team league, 55-cent seats,
and Bill Hutchinson of Dartmouth as their chief draw. The
war in Europe would last a lot longer than the rival league.

New York defeated Pittsburgh, 120, but the victory was
costly. Tuffy Leemans, the Giants top back, aggravated an old
back injury and X-rays showed he had fractured three verte-
brae. With three victories and a tie in their first five games,
the Giants trailed the Redskins by only one game. Yet the
Giants had been losing fans with their defensive football. A
Giant game invariably followed the same formula the Giants
would always kick off, wait for a fumble or poor pass, kick a
field goal, and then play defense the rest of the afternoon.
With good material, the formula won games but influenced
few people. With mediocre material, it was disastrous.

The Giants hit bottom in the first half against the Bears.
With five minutes still left in the second quarter, Chicago
already led, 30-0. The Giants were heading for their worst
rout in history when suddenly they forgot about defensive
football and started throwing the ball from all over the field.
Nielsen bucked over for one touchdown and Miller com-
pleted sixteen of 28 passes for 288 yards and two more scores.
To the 42,219 fans, the Giants were far more popular in de-
feat 37-21 than they had been in victory all season. Against

176

the offense-minded Dodgers at Ebbets Field, the Giants re-
verted to defensive football and won, 10-7.

Returning to the Polo Grounds, the Giants lost another
game, 13-0, to Clevelandand two more starters Miller and
Cuff. Owen was desperate. With Green Bay due in town next,
the Giants did not have a proven play-caller. Surprisingly,
Owen turned to Mel Hein and gave him the job of calling
plays in the huddle. He did unusually well The Giants scored
in the first quarter and held on to win, 7-3. Hein did even
better against the Redskins. The Giants, 13-5 underdogs,
scored first and scored last, held Baugh to four completions
and 25 yards, intercepted five passes, and upset the Eastern
Division leaders, 21-7.

With one game left, the Giants decided to hold a day for
one of their players and honor him with gifts. The choice was
a natural: thirty-one-year-old Mel Hein, the only man in Na-
tional Football League history to make the All-Pro team eight
consecutive seasons. Before the game with the Dodgers, Mayor
La Guardia and Tuffy Leemans made speeches, and Hein re-
ceived a new car, a radio, luggage, and a silver tray and loving
cup. Then the Dodgers won the game, 14-6, their first vic-
tory over the Giants since 1930, and finished ahead of their
New York rivals for the first time in history. It was a disap-
pointing afternoon and a frustrating season. "We're sorry we
couldn't win for Mel," said Hank Soar. "Hell, every day the
Giants have played in the last ten years has been Mel Hein
Day."

Saying good-bye to his players, Owen already was thinking
of 194L "Have a good vacation, boys," he said. "I've got to
find us some halfbacks who run like Jesse Owens.**

To bounce back in 1941, the Giants would need a lot more.

177

The Message Was Urgent

"ATTENTION, please," bellowed the voice over the Polo Grounds
loudspeaker. "Attention, please. Here is an urgent message.
Will Colonel William J. Donovan call Operator Nineteen in
Washington immediately?"

To most of the 55,051 fans watching the New York Giants
and the Brooklyn Dodgers in the final regular-season game
of the 1941 season, the message was meaningless. Some colo-
nel's wife probably had given birth or something like that.
To the few who knew that Donovan was deeply involved in
cloak-and-dagger work for the U. S. Government, the message
was alarming.

In the press box, a Western Union operator glanced at his
ticker at 2:18 P.M. and turned to the sportswriter seated next
to him. "How do you like that?" he said. "The Cards are
beating the Bears by one touchdown."

Minutes later, he leaned forward to read another message
coming over his ticker. "Oh, my God/' he said.

"The Cards score again?" said the writer.

"No/* said the Western Union operator. "The Japs have
attacked Pearl Harbor."

It was Sunday, December 7, 1941, and the world of pro-
fessional football suddenly seemed very unreal and very un-
important. In both dressing rooms, players huddled around
radios listening to news bulletins. One after another they
came, each more ominous than the one before it. Surprise at-
tack by the Japanese . . . U.S. Fleet in ruins . . . Toll of lives in
thousands . . . President Roosevelt is meeting with his cabinet
. . . Declaration of war is imminent.

Brooklyn back Ace Parker shook his head and started pac-

178

Ing nervously up and down the locker room. "What do we
do?" he said to no one and everyone. "What do we do now?"

Neither team felt like playing football any more, but the
Dodgers, leading 14-7 at half time, held on to win, 21-7. By
the end of the game, everyone had the news. "Attention/'
bellowed the voice over the loudspeaker once more, "all offi-
cers and men of the Army and Navy are to report to their sta-
tions immediately. We repeat. All armed forces personnel
will report to their stations Immediately/* A final announce-
ment that the New York Giants would meet the Chicago
Bears for the National Football League championship at
Wrigley Field In two weeks was heard, but ignored. America
was at war. Who had time for games?

The war would soon change the face of the world. It had
already changed the shape of the National Football League
and the New York Giants. Never had a year started so glori-
ously for the NFL. In February, the league hired its first com-
missioner. Baseball had Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis;
now the NFL had Elmer Layden, the thirty-seven-year-old
coach and athletic director at Notre Dame. Marshall had been
out to get President Carl Storck, who had replaced Carr in
1939, since the field-goal Incident of 1939 and in early 1941,
he succeeded. Over the objections of Bert Bell, Dan Topping,
and Tim Mara, Marshall and George Halas had railroaded
Layden in on a five-year, $20,QOQ-a-year contract and forced
Storck out. Yet even Bell, Topping, and Mara had to admit
that Layden, one of college football's most respected leaders,
brought new prestige to the NFL.

The Giants themselves had not been inactive. They had
sold their Jersey City farm team to the Cleveland Rams,
switched their training camp back to Superior, Wisconsin,
and hired Bill Owen and Mike Palm, two former Giant play-
ers, as assistant coaches. Yet the biggest change was in player
personnel. The rookie backs were the best the Giants had
ever had and the linemen weren't too far behind them. By
the time the team broke camp and headed for home, Owen
had decided to keep fifteen rookies backs Len Eshmont of
Fordham, Frank Reagan of Pennsylvania, Marion (Dookie)
Pugh of Texas A & M, Andy (Grip) Marefos of St. Mary's,
Red McLain of Southern Methodist, Howie Yeager of Santa

179

Barbara State, and AlI-American George Franck, a 9.6 sprinter
from Minnesota; ends Vince Dennery of Fordham, Don Vos-
berg of Marquette, and Jack Lumraus of Baylor; tackles Ben
Sohn of Southern California and Win Pedersen of Minnesota;
guard Len Younce of Oregon State; and centers Chet Glad-
chuk of Boston College and Lou DeFilippo of Fordham.
"We've had good rookie groups before but never one with so
much speed in the backfield," said Owen. "Franck is the
fastest, Reagan the best broken-field runner, Eshmont the
best defensive back, and Marefos a fine plunger and blocker."
When Ed Danowski decided to end his retirement, the
Giant coach knew he had the makings of a potential cham-
pion. Arriving in New York, Owen was greeted with criticism
by fans and writers for his defensive football. "If it's new/'
wrote one old sportswriter, "Close~to-the-Vest Owen won't
try it." Owen had a few surprises for his critics his rookie
backs and an explosive offense. Even when Ed Widseth broke
his ankle in an exhibition game, the Giant coach was only
mildly disturbed. After defeating the College All-Stars, 233,
New York beat Philadelphia, 24-0 and 16-0, Washington,
17-0, and Pittsburgh, 37-10 and 28-7. Against the Steelers,
Dookie Pugh broke his arm and umpire C. W. Rupp nearly
committed suicide. His aim with the starting gun was poor
and he only blew a hole through his hand.

The war in Europe came a little closer when Reagan was
called up by the Marines and, for the first time, the Giants
showed their age and inexperience losing 16-13 to the Dodg-
ers and 10-7 to the Cardinals. After the second defeat Owen,
who had already made plans for his playoff money, decided a
haircut might change his luck and disposition.

"Nice day," said the barber.

"What's nice about it?*' snapped Owen, shutting his eyes
and trying to make believe he was asleep.

"You know who you remind me of?" said the barber.

"No," said Owen.

"You remind me of Steve Owen," said the barber, tweaking
his customer's beefy neck with the clippers. "You look just
like him. He's the fellow that manages the football team, the
Giants. You ever go to the football games?"

180

/* said Owen, knowing he was fighting a losing bat-
tle. "Once in a while."

"I'd sure like to meet this fellow Owen," said the barber,
"I have a play for him that can't miss. I call it the Baffler be-
cause it baffles everybody."

"It ought to be good," said Owen.

"In this play, Leemans gets the ball but he really don't get
it," explained the barber. "You understand?'*

"Well, who gets it?" asked Owen, now mildly interested.

"One of the other fellows gets it, but wait a minute," said
the barber. "Leemans fakes like he's got it and spins. He goes
round and round and round. And everybody thinks he's got
the ball, but he ain't got it. You understand?"

"Yeah, I understand/* said Owen, "but who's got the ball?"

"One of the other fellows, like say Eshmont, has the ball,"
said the barber. "He has it and he runs to the left and one of
the other fellows, say like Franck, he runs to the right. And
they meet smacko and they go down. And everyone thinks
they are killed."

"That's fine," said Owen, "but who the hell has the ball?"

"By this time, one of the other fellows has the ball," said
the barber, finishing with his scissors and applying the lather.

"But who?" said Owen.

"Falaschi," said the barber, "and he runs for a touchdown.
And it's so baffling he has to hold up the ball and holler
after he crosses the goal line because everyone is watching
Leemans."

"What's Leemans doing?" asked Owen.

"He's still spinning, don't you understand?" said the bar-
ber. "And everyone is also watching Eshmont and Franck
because it looks like they've killed each other."

"And Falaschi scores?" asked Owen.

"With ease," said the barber. "Like I said, everybody's
fooled. That's why I call it the Baffler."

"That sounds swell," said Owen, staring at himself in the
mirror, "but I wouldn't tell anybody else about it."

"Why not?" asked the barber, removing the sheet from
Owen's neck.

"I happen to know that Steve Owen already knows about
that play," said Owen.

181

1 Is that so?" said the barber.

"Yeah/' said Owen, paying and heading for the door, "he's
saving it against the day he wants to retire. That's going to be
his last play. And this is going to be my last haircut."

Without using the Baffler, the Giants ended their slump-
defeating Detroit, 20-13, and Cleveland, 49-14. Only Wash-
ington stood in the way of the Eastern Division championship,
but the bookmakers favored the Redskins.

WE'LL MURDER THOSE GIANTS, GROWL SKINS, growled a
Washington newspaper in an eight-column headline.

HALAS SEES SKINS IN PLAYOFF, headlined a Chicago paper.

Both stories made interesting reading and Owen, always
interested in furthering his players' intellect, clipped them out
of the papers and taped them to the dressing room wall. "If
anyone's going to murder them," explained the coach, "they
at least ought to know about it."

With rain turning the infield to mud, Mara refused to allow
the Redskin band to march around the Polo Grounds and
the Giants refused to allow the Redskin players to win their
second straight division championship. Franck scored two
touchdowns and Marefos one, but it was Cuff, Monk Edwards,
and Soar who brought the title back to New York. Trailing
13-10 with nine minutes left, Cuff, who had gained all but
5 yards in a 50-yard march to the Washington 30, was hit hard
and badly shaken up. It was fourth down and 7 yards to go
and Leemans, who was calling the Giant plays, knew it would
be foolish to run or pass. "We should go for the three points,"
said Leemans in the huddle, "but Ward is too badly hurt. So
I guess well"

"Don't be ridiculous, Tuffy," interrupted Cuff. "You just
put it down and 111 kick it." He did from the 38 and the
Giants had pulled even.

Nicknamed Monk because of his short, friar haircuts, Bill
Edwards had come to the Giants as twenty-year-old rookie in
1940 and improved 100 percent in 1941. Light at 205 pounds,
Edwards was remarkably fast and remarkably rugged. "Monk's
just about the best lineman in the NFL," said Owen. "He's
on a par with any lineman I've ever coached or seen." Against
the Redskins, Edwards was at his best opening huge holes in
the Washington line and making 50 percent of his team's

182

tackles. After Franck's Erst touchdown, Edwards returned to
the huddle with a big grin. "I thought he'd been knocked
goofy, he was laughing so hard/' said Leemans. "I asked him
how he felt and he said, 1 feel great. I just put that Wee
Willie Wilkin on his beam end/ "

With three and a half minutes remaining, Baugh gambled
and lost deep in his own territory. Buster Poole, only one
day out of a sick bed, intercepted and returned the ball to the
Washington 7. On a fake reverse, Franck knifed inside tackle
for a touchdown and a 2013 lead.

The Skins still had time to scoreand Baugh started pass-
ing on almost every down. Hank Soar, a fine runner who was
developing into a finer pass defender, stared at the clock as
the final seconds ticked off. "Hank/* shouted Owen from the
bench, "will you stop looking at the clock and keep your
eyes on the game?"

Soar's answer was brief and to the point. "Don't bother us
now, Coach!" he shouted. "Can't you see we're busy?"

The Giants held and clinched the Eastern Division cham-
pionship. Except that it was Tuffy Leemans Day, the Dodger
game was uneventful until the Japanese intervened. At first,
the NFL considered canceling the championship game, but
the owners finally decided to go ahead with it. From the
Giants' point of view, it was a disastrous decision. In 1940,
the Bears had beaten the Redskins, 73-0, to win the NFL
title. In 1941, with an explosive offense built around Luck-
man, Osmanski, Norm Standlee, and George McAfee, Chicago
lost only one game and set a half-dozen records, scoring 396
points and gaining 4,265 yards 1,000 more than the second-
best team in eleven games.

It was an exciting team, one of the strongest in football
history, but the war had cast a shadow over everything. A
record 1,188,616 fans had attended NFL games during the
season, but only 13,341 paid their way into Wrigley Field for
the championship game. Before 32,000 empty seats, the Bears
exploded for 28 points in the second half for a 37-9 victory
and became the first team to win two straight NFL playoff
championships. It was a rough game and even the officials
seemed to be against the Giants. On one play, rookie line-
man Sohn had his jersey torn off his back and Steve Owen

183

waddled out to the center of the field to demand a holding
penalty. He lost his argument and was chased back to the
bench. "Maybe I was wrong/ 7 he said. "I guess the Bears
didn't hold Sohn and rip his jersey off after all. It must have
been moths."

For the first time in history, not a single Giant was named
to the All-Pro first team. And for the first time in eleven
seasons as a professional, Mel Hein did not even receive
honorable mention. Yet the young Giants of 1941 had the po-
tential to dominate the NFL for several years if the war
hadn't intervened. "That 1941 team could have held its own
in the two-platoon football of the 1960's and in the days of
the Iron Men teams," said Wellington Mara. "If the war
hadn't come just then, the Giants would have been back on
top for the next few years."

By August of 1942, the bigger game was painfully appar-
ent to the NFL. Eighteen Giants already were in service,
four more had quit for coaching jobs, and even Wellington
Mara was missing commissioned in the United States Navy.
The first day of practice, Owen had 22 men to work with,
and at least half of them fell in a category Bert Bell called
"dog meat." The change was immediately noticeable to the
Giant veterans. "I took one look at the squad and I felt like
crying," said Tuffy Leemans. "I wanted to go home. It hurt
to see the Giants I loved having as miserable a group as we
had there."

Of the 20 rookies who made the 1942 Giants, two would
have stood out in almost any group. Fullback Merle Hapes, an
Ail-American from Mississippi, was good. Tackle Al Blozis,
6-foot-6 and 245 pounds of bone and muscle, was potentially
great. Owen had first spotted Blozis throwing the shot put
more than 55 feet in an exhibition meet for Finnish Relief at
Madison Square Garden. "What a pair of shoulders!" raved
Owen. "Look at the size of that fellow. Look how fast he
moves. See what muscle control he has."

Mrs. Owen smiled. "He isn't a football player, too, Steve?"
she asked. Blozis, who later broke the world indoor record
with a toss of 57 feet, ^4 inches, was an outstanding football
player at Georgetown. As a Giant rookie in 1942, Blozis, big
and eager, could be fooled, but seldom a second time by the

184

same man or maneuver. When BUI Owen, the Giant line
coach, suggested Blozis might give opponents the "old up and
under/' a somewhat rough system of lineplay perfected at
Notre Dame and practiced widely in the NFL, the rookie
refused. "No, sir/' he said. "I'm big enough to get my man
without resorting to rough stuff/'

Blozis was Owen's pride in a season of considerable pain.
Yet against the Washington Redskins in the opener, the Giants
won, 14-7, on a wet field. The upset was surprising, but the
method was startling. The Giants did not make a single first
down, completed only one pass, and gained only 1 yard rush-
ing. On their first play from the scrimmage, Leemans passed
50 yards to Will Walls for a touchdown. In the third quarter,
rookie end O'Neale Adams intercepted a pass on his own 35
and sprinted down the sideline for the winning touchdown.

The rest of the season wasn't as pleasant. At one point,
rookie halfback Leo Cantor of UCLA interrupted Leemans
in the huddle after he had called a play. "What do I do on
this one?" asked Cantor.

"Leo," said Leemans kindly, "just get out of my way/*

In 1942, Owen tried everything patience, punishment, and
even a little T-formation but nothing worked consistently.
After the victory over the Redskins, the Giants lost to the
Steelers twice, the Bears, and the Dodgers. They defeated the
Eagles twice, then lost the second game with the Redskins.
Heading for their worst season in history, the New York
Giants tied the Green Bay Packers and defeated the Chicago
Cardinals and Brooklyn Dodgers to finish at 5-5-1 and in third
place in the Eastern Division.

It had been a disappointing season for the Giants, but it
had been a disastrous one for the league. Attendance had
dropped and threatened to drop even farther. When owners
George Halas of Chicago and Dan Reeves and Fred Levy of
Cleveland entered the service, a move to suspend play in the
NFL for the duration of the war began to gain momentum.
By early 1942, suspension seemed a strong possibility. It was
the easiest and least expensive way out of an unpromising
situation. Yet two men, thinking only of the future, refused
to let the National Football League die.

185

The Sound of Drums

EARLY in the summer of 1943, New York sportswrlter Grant-
land Rice received a letter from Bill Alexander, football
coach at Georgia Tech. "There's a kid down here by the
name of Bill Paschal," wrote Alexander. "He couldn't get by
at Tech. He tried to get into the army, but was turned back.
But he can play a lot of football. I'd like to see him have a
chance under Steve Owen of the Giants. Would you mind
passing his name along to Steve?"

A few days later, Rice telephoned the Giant coach and read
him the letter. "If Alex says he can play football, I know he
can play football/* said Owen. "I'm kind of worried about the
fact that Georgia Tech and the Army couldn't use him, but
maybe the Giants can. With what I've got left, I'll take the
chance. I can use almost anybody now."

In 1943, Owen's plight was the plight of professional foot-
balL Only the old men and the 4-F's remained, but Tim
Mara and George Marshall were still convinced that any NFL
was better than none at all. "We had worked too hard and too
long to get ourselves established," said Mara. "The major-
league baseball people weren't going to quit and neither
were we."

To exist in these days of restricted travel and limited talent,
the NFL had to adjust radically. The Cleveland Ram fran-
chise dropped out for the season and the, Pittsburgh Steelers
and the Philadelphia Eagles combined to form the Steagles.
The schedule was cut to ten games and the player limit to 28,
and a free-substitution rule was introduced for the first time.
It was football at its artistic worst: and anyone was eligible to

186

play sandlotters, high school dropouts, servicemen on fur-
lough, and tired, retired veterans. And right at the head in
the scramble for mediocrity were the Giants of New York.
By the fall of 1943, 45 alumni of Mara Tech had left for
graduate work in the military and Owen was so desperate
that he placed newspaper ads for prospective football players.
No one escaped the hungry eye of the Giants. When Mel Hein
retired after the 1942 season and accepted a job as coach at
Union College, the Maras wished him the best of luck and
officially retired his No. 7 jersey. It was one of the shortest
retirements in history. Union dropped football, and Hein
returned to the Giants as a weekend-game-only center. Tuffy
Leemans, who after seven seasons in the New York blues, had
stepped to the sidelines as a backfield coach, plunged back
into uniform before the season began. Even Bull Karcis, fat
and nearing forty, was brought back to New York. Leland
Shaffer, who had retired after the 1942 season, dropped in to
visit his former teammates at their new training camp at Bear
Mountain and was talked into remaining.

The newcomers were a fairly transient group. From one
practice to the next, Owen rarely knew how many players
he'd have on hand. One rookie tackle lingered for three days
without ever turning out to the football field. It finally oc-
curred to Owen that the only place he ever saw the rookie
was in the dining room. "I finally caught up with him and
practically had to tear the plate out from under him," said
the Giant coach. "We needed players, but we weren't running
a breadline.**

Of the newcomers, Bill Paschal, 6-foot and 195 pounds, was
the most pleasant surprise. A slashing runner with tremen-
dous drive and balance, Paschal was the ideal fullback for
Owen's A-formation. The blond-haired youngster had not
played football for two years when Owen got in touch with
him. In his first game as a Giant, against the Bears in an ex-
hibition at Buffalo, Paschal took a kickoff on his I, fol-
lowed his interference, and sprinted 99 yards for a touch-
down. Two other rookies Carl Kinscherf of Colgate and
Emery Nix of TCU-scored, but the Giants lost, 42-28. The
first four times the Bears had the ball, they ran straight at
rookie linebacker Bill Piccolo. It was good strategy but it had

one flaw. The Bears couldn't get by tackle Al Blozis to get
to Piccolo. Blozls just kept battering Chicago ballcarriers,
greeting each of them with a smile and a few words of advice.
"Sony/' said Blozis, who had been fairly easy to trap as a
rookie in 1942, "but this is a new year." It didn't take the
Bears long to adjust. Blozis could play only one side of the
line. After the game, Doc Spears, a Washington Redskin
scout, offered his condolences to Tim Mara. "Your Giants/*
said Spears, "are the worst pro team I've ever seen."

Owen didn't agree. "Well have our bad games/' he said,
"but this team is twenty-five percent better than last year's."

In the opener against the Steagles in Philadelphia, Owen's
mathematics seemed a little faulty. Leading 14-7 at half time,
on an interception and a blocked kick, New York's pass de-
fense crumbled. Despite a record ten fumbles, the Steagles
led, 21-14. With less than two minutes to play and the ball
on the Giant 4, Coach Greasy Neale turned to his reserve
quarterback a little left-hander named Allie Sherman.

"OK, Allie, get in there," said Neale. "Above all, hang onto
that ball. Wait a minute! If you want to try that ^quarterback
sneak you've been trying to sell me, go ahead. It's a safe place,
anyway."

In the huddle, inventive Allie explained the play to his
teammates and plunged over for the final touchdown.

With Paschal gaining most of the yardage and doing most
of the scoring, the Giants defeated Brooklyn, 20-0, and the
Steagles, 42-14, before 42,081 in the Polo Grounds opener. In
1942, New Yorkers had been too troubled by the war to pay
much attention to their professional football team. In 1943,
they were still troubled by the war, but once again they were
spending their Sundays at the Polo Grounds. Experimenting
with season tickets for the first time, the Maras were able to
sell 1,780. It may not have been a good year for football perfec-
tionists, but it was going to be a vintage one for the owners. To
supplement their salaries, eleven Giants took jobs coaching
football with New York schools, but after a 35-21 loss to the
powerful Packers, they looked more like war casualties than
teachers.

After four games Paschal, who was injured in the last few
minutes against Green Bay, had gained 208 yards and scored

188

eight touchdowns. Without him against the Detroit Lions,
the Giants moved past midfield only once and were satisfied
with a 0-0 tie.

The Chicago Bear T-formation and man-in~motion had
revolutionized professional football. Most coaches compro-
mised by switching over to it. Dedicated to his own A, Owen
decided to fight the T, sometimes with great success. "The T
places tremendous pressure on the backers-up/* he explained.
"They must hold their moves momentarily to diagnose fakes
and wait for the play to develop and then ferret out the ball-
carrier. The backers-up get no second guess. They've got to
think as fast as the Bears. When they're fooled, the T travels."

But against the Bears, backers-up Hein, Shaffer, and Karcis
were humiliated. Before 56,691 fans, Chicago's Sid Luckman
completed 23 of 30 passes for 453 yards, 120 more than the
previous high, and a record seven touchdowns. In all, the
Bears gained 702 yards and routed the Giants, 56-7. With five
minutes left in the game, Luckman passed 40 yards to Hamp-
ton Pool for his seventh touchdown and Bobby Snyder booted
the extra point for a 56-7 lead. As the ball shot through the
uprights, Charley Avedisian, the Giants' fiery little right guard,
stomped away in disgust. "What's eating you, Charley?" asked
Mel Hein.

"Hell, Mel," snapped Avedisian, "that was the point that
beat us/'

Avesdisian was one of the Giants* few wartime blessings.
Built like a fireplug, 5-oot-9, 200-pound Avedisian graduated
from Providence College in 1941 and joined the Giants in
1942. Whatever he may have lacked in size and native ability,
he more than made up in speed, desire, and intelligence. He
was good and he was colorful. In victory or defeat, Avedisian
always seemed to have some sort of a problem. "I'll never for-
get before one road game when Charley called me over/' says
Wellington Mara. "He looked like the world had come to
an end/*

"Hey, Well/* said Avedisian, "I've got a problem/*

"What's wrong now?" asked Wellington.

"I think I left my shoes at home/* said Avedisian, who
really had left his shoes at home.

Always aggressive on Sunday, Avedisian sometimes loafed

189

a little on Tuesday and Wednesday. One day, Owen noticed
tiiat Avedisian was taking it unusually easy blocking for the
passer, letting tacklers pour through on every play. Owen
thought for a moment and decided on a novel solution Ave-
disian would get a chance to play quarterback. Instructing
his offensive lineman not to block, Owen left Avedisian in
the backfield for almost fifteen minutes. Pounded almost
senseless, Avedisian quickly got the message. "Coach, I see
what you mean now/' he said. "I'm ready to go back to
guard."

The Luckman massacre could have ruined the Giants for
the rest of the season. One of the reasons it didn't was the
unexpected return of Private 1st Class Hank Soar, Owen's
favorite scapegoat, who had received the Army's permission
to play pro football on weekends. An aging ballcarrier, Soar
remained a brilliant defensive halfback. Against the Cardi-
nals, he surprised his coach with a new facet of his game-
throwing a slashing block on a punt return. "What's the idea
of starting to block now at your age?" shouted Owen. "You
never did before."

"Just wanted to show you I could, Steve old boy," said Soar,
whose ego had not suffered in the military.

Soar's return helped, but the real hero in the victory over
the Cardinals was twenty-nine-year-old Ward Cuff, a veteran
of seven Giant seasons and many more bruises. As the Giants
left the dressing room, Dr. Sweeny stopped Owen. "You're
not going to use Cuff, are you?" said the team physician.

"Not for more than sixty minutes," said Owen, who then
learned that Cuff had been awake all night with a high
temperature and the flu. The Giant coach told Cuff to go back
to the dressing room, but he refused and insisted on playing.
He won kicked one field goal, and three extra points, scored
one touchdown, and sprinted 65 yards on a reverse and so did
the Giants, 24-13. "In all my days connected with football,"
said Owen, "I have never seen Cuff's equal for heart."

Against the Dodgers, Paschal and Cuff each scored twelve
points in a 24-7 victory. Playing in six of eight games, the
rookie from Georgia Tech was first in the NFL in scoring and
fifth in rushing. "You know why he's so hard to stop?" said
Cuff. "Besides being a powerful runner, he always travels at

190

an angle. If you don't get him around the ankles, he's good
for at least four yards every time."

Because of a schedule conflict with a college football game,
the first Giant-Redskin game had been pushed from its cus-
tomary October Sunday into early December. With only two
games remaining on the 1943 schedule, the Giants would play
two straight with the Redskins. By winning both, New York
could finish in a tie with Washington and force a playoff for
the Eastern Division championship. To reach the NFL cham-
pionship game, the Giants had to win three straight from
the Redskins. The odds against its happening, according to
bookmakers, were 100-1 with no takers.

Trailing 10-0 late In the third quarter against the Red-
skins, Paschal carried three straight times for 26, 16, and 3
yards finally bucking over for a touchdown. In the final
period, Owen walked over to Paschal, who was seated on the
bench. "How do you feel?" asked Owen.

"Tired, Coach," puffed Paschal. "Real tired."

"You've got all winter to rest," said Owen. "Get back into
the game." With less than four minutes remaining, Paschal
got his chance. Taking the ball on his own 47, tailback Emery
Nix faked a hand-off to wingback Dave Brown, who pulled
the entire Redskin defense over with him, and then slipped
the ball to Paschal. Following Blozis, Paschal cut inside his
right guard and sprinted down the middle of the field for a
touchdown and a 14-10 upset victory. On the day, Paschal
carried 24 times for 188 yards and both touchdowns and
moved within 90 yards of league-leader Jack Hinkle of the
Steagles. The Polo Grounds crowd of 51,308 brought the
total home attendance for 1943 to 245,398, nearly double the
1942 total, and with one game left, the Giants still had a
chance for the title.

Betting on professional football games had soared into the
millions tor the first time in 1943, and rumors of big gam-
bling coups had Increased steadily toward the end of the
season. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, scandal threatened the
NFL. In a copyrighted story, the Washington Times-Herald
reported that Commissioner Layden was investigating rumors
of possible Redskin corruption and player association with
known gamblers.

191

It was a shocking story and Commissioner Layden did not
deny it. "The penalty for betting is expulsion from the game,"
he said. "We have been investigating these rumors and so far
we haven't been able to find a single bit of evidence of col-
lusion between anyone in the league and gamblers/'

Redskin owner George Marshall also heard the rumors and
asked Major Edward J. Kelly, District of Columbia police
chief, to investigate. Kelly's probe uncovered no wrongdoing,
but Marshall still wasn't satisfied. Forcing himself out of a
sick bed, he called his players to his offices and questioned each
of them fully. This time, he was satisfied, but the rumors per-
sisted and Washington bookmakers refused to accept bets on
the second Giant-Redskin game. Though nothing would ever
be uncovered about the Redskins of 1943, the integrity of the
National Football League had been seriously challenged for
the first time.

In New York, the Giants were more interested in Marshall's
health than they were in the Redskins' acquaintances. GET
WELL FAST, Tim Mara wired Marshall, BECAUSE WE CAN'T BE

SURE OF WINNING UNLESS YOU'RE ON THE BENCH NEXT SUNDAY.

Marshall stayed in his box seat because his players de-
manded that he stay off the bench or else but the Giants
didn't need his help. Paschal gained 91 yards to give him 572
and the rushing championship, Cuff scored thirteen points,
and the Giants won, 31-7. Immediately after the game, Mar-
shall and Mara met with Commissioner Layden in Cal Griffith's
stadium office to determine if the divisional playoff would be
held in Washington or New York. When Layden realized he
had forgotten to bring any change for the toss, Griffith volun-
teered a lucky silver dollar. It was only bad luck that day. Mara
won the toss and the playoff site and Griffith lost a $10,000
Washington rental.

Soar, who had almost single-handedly stopped Sammy
Baugh's passing in the first two games, was of little help in
the third and last. Paschal bucked for 56 yards, but the Giant
line lost its drive and the Redskins won, 2S-0.

"At least/* said Tim Mara, "it will let me spend Christmas
with my grandchildren."

Owen, who was pleasantly surprised by his team's 6-3-1
record after three early season losses, wasn't overly disap-

192

pointed either. "Coaching Is a funny occupation/' he said.
"It's like a monkey on a rope. You meet the same people go-
ing up and coming down." Then, turning to his players,
many headed for the armed forces, he added, "Well, I'll be see-
ing you next year, I hope."

If 1943 had been a surprising year for the Giants, 1944
would be baffling. By September, Blozis, Cuff, Brown, Nix,
and Paschal had all left for military duty, and Leemans had
retired for good. His No. 4 jersey would never be worn again,
not even by Leemans. The first week of practice, veteran
Leland Shaffer limped toward the sideline. "Charley/* Shaffer
called to trainer Charley Porter, "I've banged up my knee.
Feel it. You can hear it click/' Shaffer's kneecap was splintered
in two places, and he was finished for the season. With the loss
of Shaffer, Owen was left with the most nondescript backfield
in the NFL: veteran bench warmer Hub Barker; untested
newcomers Howie Livingston and John Miskinis; and Arnie
Herber, the former All-Pro Packer passer, who had not thrown
a football for three years and reminded several writers of a
well-aged "tub of lard." At thirty-four, Herber was so out of
shape and out of practice that he spent most of the training
period confusing his new teammates by calling Green Bay
plays. The Giants were so shorthanded that Jack Mara talked
thirty-seven-year-old Ken Strong, who had not kicked a foot-
ball in more than two years, Into rejoining the team as a field-
goal, extra-point specialist.

It was easily the low point of Steve Owen's coaching career.
He had had bad teams before, but this one was ridiculous.
Seated in front of the big fireplace at Bear Mountain Inn one
evening. Owen stared silently at the dancing sparks, finally
turning to Red Smith, his new assistant coach. "Red," said
Owen, "I honestly don't see how we're going to win a single
game this season."

"The terrible thing," said Smith, "was that I had to agree
with him/'

While Owen struggled with his nightmares, the NFL strug-
gled with reality. Cleveland and Philadelphia moved back into
the league, Ted Collins started a Yankee franchise In Boston,
the Brooklyn Dodgers changed their name to Tigers, and the
Chicago Cardinals and Pittsburgh Steelers merged to form the

Carpitts. "It's a shame Army didn't merge with Pittsburgh/'
quipped one sportswriter, but the NFL wasn't laughing. Ru-
mors of new leagues and feeble attempts at competition were
nothing new. Yet now, suddenly, there was talk of three
new leagues the All-America Conference, the Trans-America
League, and the U.S. Football League and for the first time,
the competition seemed to have big names and big money
behind them. It would be another two years before the foot-
ball war would really begin, but the NFL owners already had
begun to hear the sound of drums.

To Steve Owen, it was the sound of sharp blocks and
sharper tackles that remained most important. After the ini-
tial shock of 1943, Giant prospects brightened remarkably.
Cuff was discharged, Paschal received permission to play on
weekends, Livingston quickly developed into a brilliant de-
fensive back, and Herber lost 25 pounds of lard and came
very close to passing the Giants to the league championship.

With Strong, Hein, Cuff, and Herber totaling 136 years in
age, the Giants' showing in 1944 was testimony to the NFL in
time of war. The games might be close and exciting, but the
quality of football was definitely second-rate. There were
times when the Giants' age proved more of a help than a
hindrance. In an exhibition game against the Bears, Chicago's
All-Pro center Bulldog Turner raced downfield and headed
for Ken Strong, who had just kicked off. Just before throwing
his huge body at Strong, Turner stopped abruptly. "Hell," he
said, walking away, "I can't hit you. You're too damn old."

In their first three regular-season games, the Giants com-
pleted only fourteen passes, but they also intercepted fourteen
and defeated the Yanks, Tigers, and Carpitts. The next week,
Paschal gained 139 yards against the Eagles, but Philadelphia
won, 24-17. New York defeated Boston; then, with Herber
regaining his touch, came from behind to tie the Eagles. Trail-
ing 21-7 with less than six minutes to play, Herber com-
pleted five of six passes for 114 yards and two touchdowns, the
last to end Frank Liebel for the tie. Despite an injured knee,
Paschal gained 70 yards and scored one touchdown in only
fifteen minutes of play as New York defeated Green Bay,
24-0. "What I like most about Paschal is that he gets that
goal-line fever," said Owen. "He's just like a mule looking

194

over a fence at rich pastureland. You know damn well he's
going to get In there."

The real hero of victory over Green Bay was Howie Living-
ston, the 6-foot- 1, 190-pound sprinter from Fullerton (Calif.)
Junior College. He scored one touchdown, but more Impor-
tant, he throttled Don Hutson, the NFL's top scorer, and In-
tercepted two passes, bringing his total to eight for the season.

When Blozis* who had just received an Infantry commis-
sion at Fort Benning, Georgia, was given permission to rejoin
the Giants temporarily, the team that couldn't win a game
won Its last threeagainst Brooklyn and two against Wash-
ingtonand captured the Eastern Division championship with
an amazing 8-1-1 record. In ten games, the Giants had allowed
only 75 points, 56 less than the second-best defensive team.
For the second straight year, Paschal led all NFL ballcarriers,
this time with 737 yards gained, more than anyone else since
Cliff Battles in 1937.

In the final game of the regular season at Griffith Stadium,
the Giants decided to give Ken Strong a chance to show his
twelve-year-old son that he could carry a football as well as
kick one. With New York leading 31-4) In the final minutes,
rookie quarterback Keith Beebe, a seminary student who
played football on weekends, told Strong to carry off tackle,
then made the mistake of calling for an end run at the line of
scrimmage. With Strong heading off tackle and the Giant line
blocking for an end run, the Giant veteran was battered by
three Redskin tacklers for a 4-yard loss. Dizzy, a sharp pain
spreading from his back to his neck, Strong staggered into the
huddle. "I'm hurt," said Strong. "You carry the ball." Beebe
carried twice and gained 13 yards. With fourth down and one
and time for only one more play, Strong tried again. This
time, he picked up 2 yards before a Redskin rookie rocked
him off his feet. Battered and bruised, he had one consolation
Ken Strong Jr. had finally seen his father carry a football.
He dressed quickly and was surprised to see his wife standing
alone outside the dressing room. "Where's Ken?" he asked.

"Oh, I meant to tell you/* she answered. "He had a cold and
I thought it would be best for him to stay home."

It was the last time Ken Strong risked carrying a football in
the NFL for anyone.

195

Against the Packers before 46,016 at the Polo Grounds, the
Giants watched Don Hutson and fullback Ted Fritsch stole
the championship, scoring both touchdowns in a 14-7 vic-
tory. On the Giants* first play of the game, Paschal carried,
his knee buckled, and he and the Giants were through for
the afternoon.

The miracle team had fallen short. The dream of a cham-
pionship had ended. By next fall, the Giants would have to
face reality. The NFL was facing reality already and bearing
up fairly well. The All-America Conference had signed its
first two All-Americans -Notre Dame's Angelo Bertelli, who
was in the Marines, and Tulsa's Glenn Dobbs, who was in the
Air Force. When representatives of the new league, which
planned to start operating in 1946, went to see NFL Com-
missioner Layden and tried to set a working agreement, the
former Notre Dame back rejected all possibility of com-
promise. "Let them get a football and play a game/' he said.
"Then maybe we'll have something to talk about." The drums
of war were beating a little louder now.

For the Giants, 1945 was to begin in tragedy and end in
defeat. Of the fifty-seven Giants who had joined the armed
forces, two would not be coming back. On May 4, 1st Lt.
John Lummus, a Giant end in 1940 and 1941, was killed
by a land mine while leading an attack against the last
Japanese stronghold on Iwo Jima. On January 31, less than
two months after he played his final NFL game and on his
first combat assignment, Lt. Al Blozis, Giant tackle in 1942-
43-44 and an All-Pro selection, was killed by German ma-
chine-gun fire while searching for a missing patrol during a
blizzard in the Vosges Mountains of France.

With George Franck, Dookie Pugh, and a half-dozen vet-
erans expected back shortly, Owen was optimistic at the be-
ginning of the 1945 season. His optimism was a sometime
thing. The Giants routed Pittsburgh, 34-6, and tied Boston,
13-13, then plunged into their most disastrous season in his-
tory. Opening before 43,070 spectators in the Polo Grounds,
New York lost, 21-7, to Pittsburgh. It was the Steeler's first
victory in fifteen games. Late in the game, the referee penal-
ized the Giants for unnecessary roughness and Owen signaled
him over to the bench. "That unnecessary roughness penalty/*

196

said the Giant coach, "Is the nicest compliment paid to us all
afternoon.**

After the game, Columbia coach Lou Little asked Owen If
he wanted to borrow some tackling dummies. "Lou/' he said,,
"I have too many tackling dummies already."

The Giants got Paschal back from the Army and signed
Junior Hovious, a flashy halfback from Mississippi and the
U.S. Navy, but they continued losing to Washington, Cleve-
land, and Philadelphia. Owen tried everything, but nothing
seemed to help. "We have hit rock bottom/* he said after the
loss to the Eagles. "Aside from Paschal, we don't have a back
who could make another NFL team. It's the worst line I
ever had. Only two or three players will be back next year/"

Criticized for his unspectacular attack In victory, Owen was
pilloried In defeat "Steve's defense Is his offense/* said
Greasy Neale, defending him. But It was a poor excuse for
fans attracted to the deception and excitement of the Bears.
To every critic, Owen mailed a form letter. Brother, It read,
you've got a break. All you have to do is turn off your radio
or walk out of the Polo Grounds. I have to sit there every
Sunday and watch them.

For the first time all season, Owen finally had a good seat
against the Detroit Lions. With the score tied 7-7 in the first
quarter, he decided to gamble and sent 165-pound Junior
Hovlous Into the game. The gamble paid off handsomely.
Little Junior completed ten of nineteen passes for 197 yards
and three touchdowns and rushed for 42 more yards in the
35-14 victory. Against Green Bay the next week, Hovious
completed twelve of twenty-three for 176 yards and one
touchdown, but his protection fell apart and the Packers won,
23-14. Before the Eagle game, the Giants dedicated plaques
in center field to Lummus and Blozis and then retired the
big tackle's No, 32 jersey.

Trailing 21-0 after Steve Van Buren's 98-yard touchdown
run with the second-half kkkoff, Herber, who had not thrown
a touchdown pass in six weeks, started firing passes from all
over the field. In four minutes and forty-eight seconds of the
third quarter, he threw three touchdown passes to Frank
Liebel, a 6-foot-l, 205-pound end from Norwich. Then, after
Livingston intercepted in the final quarter, Herber passed

197

three more times, the last to Sam Fox for the winning touch-
down. Playing less than half the game, Amie Herber, a thirty-
five-year-old has-been, completed ten of sixteen for 187 yards
and four touchdowns in one of football's most thrilling
performances. "Hutson was great," said Herber, "but that
day against Philadelphia, Liebel was as great an end as ever
caught a pass."

With General Dwight D. Eisenhower watching from a box
on the 30-yard line at Griffith Stadium, the Redskins put the
final touches on the worst season in Giant history. Only once
did New York move into Washington territory and that was to
the 49, where they immediately gave the ball up on a penalty.
The Skins won, 17-0, and Eisenhower left after the second
touchdown.

Mara was too busy to fret over the Giants' 3-6-1 record.
The war in Europe and Asia had just ended, but the football
war was just beginning. The sound of drums was deafening
now.

198

The Shorty, Sad Career of Frankfe

IT was late afternoon when the telephone rang in Tim
Mara's office at 1 1 West 42nd Street. Though it was Saturday
and the regular 1946 season was over, he was not surprised by
the sound. The phones had been ringing almost continually
since he had arrived at work early that morning. Everyone
wanted to know if there were any tickets still available for
tomorrow's championship game between the Giants and Chi-
cago Bears at the Polo Grounds.

Mara picked up the receiver, ready to apologize for the
anticipated sellout. He never got the chance. This time it
wasn't a prospective customer. It was Mayor William O'Dwyer
calling from Grade Mansion. "You'd better get over here
right away," he said. "I can't discuss it on the phone, but
something's come up that you've got to know about imme-
diately."

Within minutes, Tim Mara was in a taxi speeding cross
town. At Gracie Mansion and later at Police Headquarters,
Mara learned what had been important enough to disturb
the mayor's weekend and too important to discuss over the
telephone. The story was startling. Less than 24 hours be-
fore the 1946 NFL championship playoff, two Giant stars
Frankie Filchock and Merle Hapes were being questioned
about their roles in an attempt to fix the title game.

Hapes, scheduled to start at fullback, admitted receiving
an offer of $2,500 and a f 1,000 bet to throw the game from a
small-time gambler-hoodlum named Alvin Paris, but denied
having accepted it. Filchock, an All-Pro halfback, admitted
knowing Paris but denied knowing anything about a bribe

199

offer. Neither player, who had been wined and dined by
Paris, had reported his association or the bribe offer to the
Giants, the league, or the police.

Shocked by the scandal and disappointed by his players,
Owen exploded when Police Commissioner Arthur Wallander
told him that Paris had refused to cooperate in the investiga-
tion. "If you let me take that s.o.b. into the inspector's room
for a few minutes, while you look the other way/' said the
Giant coach, "I guarantee I'll get his confession."

"I believe you would, Steve/' said Wallander, smiling
weakly, "but you know I can't let you do it that way."

When the police decided later that night that neither
Filchock nor Hapes had committed a crime, they were re-
leased. Now it was up to the league to take action. Bert Bell,
who had replaced Elmer Layden as commissioner in January,
met with the Maras, the mayor, and the police commissioner,
while the rest of the NFL waited. Some owners felt Hapes and
Filchock should be barred from football immediately; a few
suggested that the championship game be postponed. "Every-
body wanted me to act, but all I had was an allegation, not
proved anywhere at the time/' said Bell "There wasn't even a
rule in our book covering the situation."

Mara offered to keep both his players out of the game, but
Bell finally decided this wouldn't be necessary. After con-
ferring with police officials, the commissioner ruled that
Hapes, who said he had received a bribe offer, couldn't play,
and Filchock, who said he hadn't, could.

Most of the Giants knew nothing of the scandal until the
morning of the game. A few heard the first reports over the
radio. "I was driving over the Triborough Bridge on the way
to the ball park when I heard it on my car radio/' said Ken
Strong. "I was shocked. The report was unclear and I remem-
ber speeding the rest of the way to the Polo Grounds."

Reverend Benedict Dudley, a friend of Tim Mara's and the
team's honorary chaplain, was given the job of breaking the
news to the players. It wasn't easy. In 22 seasons in the Na-
tional Football League, nothing similar to this had happened
to the Giants or any other team. "This game of yours has
always been played in the sunlight," Father Dudley said, after
telling the players about Paris and their wayward teammates.

200

"Because of this Incident, today's game will be played in the
shadows the shadows of doubt. It's up to you to restore the
faith of the fans in pro football/ 7

As the players knelt to pray, Frankie Filchock, who had al-
most single-handedly brought the Giants to the championship
game, was a man alone with his thoughts. Only he, Hapes, and
Paris knew that Filchock had lied to his teammates, to the
Maras, to the mayor, and to the police. He, too, had been
offered money to throw the game, but, unlike Hapes, he had
refused to admit it. By lying, he had earned himself another
chance. His only thought now was to play the best game of
his life. Maybe then, by some miracle, everything would again
be all right.

Frankie's troubles were just beginning; the NFL had been in
trouble since the end of the 1945 season. The All-America
Conference had proven more than idle talk. Dan Topping,
who had recently bought an interest in Yankee Stadium and
the Yankee baseball team, asked the NFL for permission to
move his dormant Brooklyn franchise to the Bronx. "If I'm
going to pay rent for a football park/* he said, "I might as
well be paying it to myself." The Haras felt that Brooklyn
was close enough.

Despite Topping's threat that he might jump the NFL if
he didn't get his way, Tim Mara battled with him over Sun-
day home games and stubbornly refused to relinquish more
than four choice dates. When the All-America Conference
offered him all the home games he wanted not to mention
$100,000 and a free player from each team Topping deserted
the NFL. With the one franchise it needed most, the AAC
was finally in business in Yankee Stadium, Brooklyn, Buf-
falo, Miami, Chicago, Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Cleve-
land. Unlike the rival leagues of the past, this one had
enough money for a long war with Ben Lindheimer, Arthur
McBride, Tony Morabito, and Topping. And this time, the
new league was willing to bid astronomical sums for person-
nel. While the NFL had smbbornly refused to adjust its pay-
rolls to its profits or the changing times, the new league had
been paying prospective players extremely well for not play-
ing as early as 1945. Otto Graham, the Northwestern All-
American, had been drafted by the Detroit Lions before he

201

entered the service, but he had never been contacted by a
single official of the club. When Paul Brown, coach-to-be of
the Cleveland Browns of the AAC, offered to pay Graham
$250 a month while he was in the service just to sign with
his team, Otto forgot all about the NFL. So did a lot of other
servicemen and college stars. The battle for talent was on.
The Giants lost Len Eshmont, John Mellus, Marion Pugh,
Andy Marefos, Dom Principe, O'Neale Adams, and Cactus
Face Duggan but they weren't hit nearly as hard as some
of the other NFL teams. Before the NFL even entered the
bidding, the AAC had signed three former National League
Most Valuable Players Parker Hall, Ace Parker, and Frank
Sinkwich plus Angelo Bertelli, Glenn Dobbs, Pug Manders,
Spec Sanders, Buddy Young, Crazy Legs Hirsch, Frankie Al-
bert, and Bob Hoeraschemeyer.

At first, NFL owners smugly passed a rule that would bar
anyone from playing in their league if he had jumped to the
AAC. When this didn't stop the exodus, the NFL plunged
desperately into the bidding for talent. Linemen, who only
one year before were easily satisfied with a $4,000 season con-
tract, were demanding and getting close to $12,000. Big-name
backs, who averaged close to $10,000 in 1945, were holding out
for $20,000-plus contracts in 1946. Aware that the skyrocket-
ing payrolls eliminated any chance for profit, the owners
could do nothing to stop the bidding. To keep established
players, the NFL had to triple salaries. To get new stars, both
leagues had to go even higher. For the first time since Red
Grange had left Illinois in 1925, the owners had lost control
of their checkbooks. They could only lose; the players and
fans could only gain.

The NFL had to blame someone for their lack of foresight,
and Commissioner Layden, who had told the new league to
"get a football," was the most likely candidate. Surprisingly,
one of the few men who fought against his dismissal was Tim
Mara, who had been opposed to Layden's appointment five
years before. Shortly after he received the job, Layden met
Mara for the first time. "You don't like me, do you, Mr.
Mara?" he said.

"That is nonsense," said Mara. "T don't like you and I
don't dislike you. But I'll tell you this: I don't like the way

202

you were railroaded Into the job, I'll tell you something eke.
I wouldn't be surprised if the day should come when all the
rest of the guys are hollering for your scalp and 111 be the
last one in your corner/'

It worked out exactly as Mara had predicted. With Bos-
ton's Ted Collins leading the assault on Layden, Mara was
unable to put together the seven votes necessary to reelect
him. With reelection impossible, Bert Bell, one-time owner
and coach of both the Philadelphia and Pittsburgh teams, was
nominated as his successor. But only six owners, one short of
election, voted for him, Mara, Halas, Lambeau, and Gus
Dorais of Detroit were undecided. "I am not against Beit/*
said Mara, leader of the rebels. "I think he would make a
good commissioner and I am prepared to vote for him. But
I won't vote for him until you all agree to assess each club
$2,000 and pay Layden another year's salary/ 7

Layden got his bonus and Bell got the commissioner's
job. At the same meeting, the owners barely averted another
intramural battle when they approved the transfer of the
championship Cleveland Rams to Los Angeles. With the
Rams moving to the West Coast, the battle lines between the
two leagues were clearly drawn in three cities in Chicago,
where the NFL had two teams and the AAC one; in New
York, where the AAC had two teams and the NFL one; and
in Los Angeles, where each had one team. Mara, who prob-
ably could have prevented the all-out war by granting the
home dates to Topping and had angered Halas and Marshall
by not doing so, remained adamant and confident. "There
may be room for two leagues in New York/' said Tim Mara.
"We will find out now. It will be up to the fans to decide
where they get the best football. We wish the new league the
best of luck, which they will have to have."

To compete with the Yankees, the Maras, who in the past
had preferred to get their talent from Emporia Teachers and
other smaller schools, quickly altered their policy. They signed
Notre Dame All-American Jim (Superman) White, a 220-
pound tackle with a boxer's instincts and a sprinter's speed*
and then went after bigger game. When DeWitt Coulter, a
225-pound All-American tackle, was dropped from West Point
for deficiencies in mathematics, he immediately announced he

203

was enrolling at Georgia Tech to study commercial art. Mara
found nothing wrong with the youngster's mathematics and
finally signed him for $11,000 plus a $2,000 bonus. "It's taken
a while/' quipped one sportswriter, "but the pros are finally
paying football players bigger salaries than the colleges do."

By virtue of their size alone, White and Coulter would
help, but Owen still needed a back to run his offense. One of
Owen's basic problems with his A-formation had been its lack
of variety. Even in 1944, when they nearly won the champion-
ship, the Giants rarely used more than three running plays-
Paschal up the middle, Paschal off tackle, and Cuff on a
reverse. Yet the A-formation's failure was not due to its in-
ventor. It was due to his material. He needed a hard-running
back who was also an exceptional passer to make his A go
and, in 1946, Owen decided to get one. After studying the
personnel of the nine other NFL teams and the colleges, the
Giant coach made up his mind. "Get me Frank Filchock,"
Owen told Mara.

Signing Filchock, who had not exactly flourished In Sammy
Baugh's shadow at Washington, was Mara's problem. To get
him he broke not only his salary ceiling, but also a firm con-
tract policy. None of his stars, including Hein, Leemans, and
Cuff, ever received more than a one-year contract. Even Benny
Friedman and Steve Owen worked without written contracts,
settling instead for a yearly discussion and handshake. Filchock
wanted more security and got it $35,000 for three seasons, the
first contract of its kind in Giant history.

He was worth every penny he received. At 5-IOi^ and 193
pounds, he was the perfect back for Owen's offense. Because
Filchock could pass and run equally well from the T and A,
the Giant coach altered his attack. For the first time, the
Giants of 1946 came out of their huddle into a T, then either
ran a play from it or shifted to the A or a single or double
wing. "I'd been wanting to do it for several seasons," said
Owen, "but we never had the personnel. Frankie was the
difference."

A poverty-hardened youngster from a mining town in Penn-
sylvania appropriately named Crucible, Filchock learned early
in life that there were only two sure ways to escape the pits:
many the mine owner's daughter or play football better than

204

anyone else. Football was the easier way out for Frankle. It
won him fame at Redstone School, a scholarship at

Indiana University, and nine broken noses.

From his first week In camp at Superior, Wisconsin, Fil-
chock was obviously the man to make the Giants move. Off
the field, he remained quiet, yet confident, completely ac-
cepted by his new teammates. One of the prime topics of con-
versation was the controversial field goal of 1939 when Bo
Russell's kick was ruled no good and the Giants defeated the
Redskins for the Eastern Division title. That afternoon, Fil-
chock had one of the best seats to watch the kick he was the
man holding the ball. "You know, fellows," he told a group of
his new teammates, "when I was down in Washington, I felt
sure that kick was good. But now that I'm up here, it's a
funny thing, but I'm beginning to change my mind. 1 think
Russell missed that kick."

With Filchock sparking the attack, the Giants split four
exhibitions, opened with two straight road victories over Bos-
ton and Pittsburgh, then moved into Washington. In his first
arm-to-arm meeting with his former teammates, Filchock once
again took a back seat to Sammy Baugh. Slinging Sam out-
slung Flinging Frank, and the Skins upset the Giants, 24-14.
Frankie wasn't outclassed for long. Against Paul Christman,
the NFL's leading passer, and the Chicago Cardinals, Filchock
had his finest day in the Polo Grounds opener before a record
crowd of 50,682. Trailing 17-7 into the third quarter, Frankie
started connecting all over the field. He completed three in a
rowthe last to Bill Paschal for 20 yards and a touchdown--
then hit Paschal again, this time for 40 yards and a 21-17
lead. Taking the kickoff 5 yards deep In his end zone, Cardi-
nal quarterback Frank Seno sprinted 105 yards for a touch-
down and a 24-21 lead. Two minutes later, Filchock had the
Giants ahead to stay. He faked a hand-off to Paschal, then con-
nected with Llebel on a 55-yard pass for a 28-24 victory. "It's
amazing," said Owen, "what a difference one man makes on a
ball club."

It was one of the most exciting home openers In history
and the Maras didn't have nearly enough seats for their second
game against the undefeated Chicago Bears. By game time,
62,359 fans had crammed into the ball park and more than

205

10,000 others had been turned away. "I never saw anything
like it," said Tim Mara, "not even that day in 1925 when Red
Grange made his debut here."

The last time Luckman had visited the Polo Grounds, he
had left with a record of seven touchdown passes. This time,
the Giants were ready for him. Rushing brilliantly with at
least four men on every pass play, New York shut out Chi-
cago, 140, the Bears' second shutout in seven years. Filchock
ran for one touchdown and passed to Liebel for the other, but
he was only one of two dozen Giant heroes. For the full
60 minutes, the Giant defense was superb intercepting five
passes and preventing the league's top offensive team from
moving the ball closer than the 35. "We waited until Luck-
man called set and then we shifted into our defenses/' said
right guard Len Younce, the man responsible for determining
which of their six defenses the Giants would use. "I was never
luckier in calling them. I hit almost every time, so the Bears
were running to our strength/'

Liebel, who scored one touchdown, also intercepted two of
Luckman's passes. "He should be the best end in the busi-
ness/' said Owen, "but Frank, you know, played college ball
at Norwich and never learned to be mean enough/'

Despite an upset loss to the Eagles when Giant receivers
dropped three touchdown passes, Filchock had New York run-
ning smoothly again. The Giants defeated Philadelphia and
Pittsburgh, tied Boston, lost to Los Angeles, and went to work
preparing for the final game of the season against Washington.
For the Giants, one more victory would clinch the Eastern
Division title.

This time, Sammy Baugh never had a chance. When a
Giant assistant coach spotted a gap in the Redskin line, Fil-
chock carried for several sizable gains and set up a touchdown.
When the Skins finally adjusted, Filchock took to the air-
completing nine of fourteen for 142 yards and two touch-
downs. On one third-down play, he hit Jim Lee Howell for a
touchdown, but the referee ruled that the lanky end had
caught the ball outside the end line. On fourth down, Fil-
chock faded back again, faked the pass to Howell, pivoted
slightly, and hit Liebel for the touchdown and a 31-0 vic-
tory. Not since Benny Friedman had one man so completely

206

dominated the fortunes of the Giants. In one season, he had
broken Giant records for completions (87-169), yardage (1,262),
and touchdowns (twelve) and led the team In rushing with
71 yards and two touchdowns. Only thirty years old, his
future as a Giant star seemed unlimited. He was well paid and
well liked. "Without Mm, we'd be" said Owen. "Let's just
say we'd have been eliminated a long time ago. He's going to
be a Giant star for a long, long time/'

Filchock did seem to have everything In the world going
for him until he met Alvin Paris and his life of bright lights,
late nights, and corruption. What made Frankle Filchock
throw away one of the most promising careers In football? No
one will ever really know because Filchock has already paid
for his Indiscretion and today refuses to discuss the past.

Seated In front of his locker on December 15, 1946, Fil-
chock knew he was a marked man. Though the program car-
ried a full-page story about him and called him the Most
Valuable Giant, Frankie was greeted by a chorus of boos for
the first time since he had come to New York. When the
Bears scored twice In the first quarter, Filchock, his nose
broken for the tenth time, blood running down his face,
could have given up but he didn't. He passed 38 yards to
Liebel for one touchdown, then hit Steve Fllopowicz from
the 5 to tie the score in the third quarter. "No one ever saw
a boy give a more spirited and courageous performance/' said
Owen. "Honestly It choked you up, knowing how hard he
was trying. In his heart he hoped the past would be forgotten/ 1

But Filchock couldn't do It alone and the Bears were too
strong for the Giants. Luckman, who rarely ran, ran 19
yards for a touchdown in the final quarter, and a 26-yard field
goal completed the scoring. The Bears had won, 24-14, and
Frankle Filchock had lost, The game was over and so was
Fllchock's career as a Giant. At Paris's trial, Filchock admitted
that he had lied earlier. He had been offered a bribe, but he
had turned It down and neglected to report It. With the con-
viction of Paris and three associates, Bell took the only
action left open to him. He had made a mistake by letting
Filchock play in the tide game; he would not make another.

"As commissioner of the National Football League, I find
Merle Allison Hapes and Frank Filchock guilty of actions

307

detrimental to the welfare of the National Football League
and of professional football and I hereby suspend each of
them indefinitely/' he announced. "This suspension prevents
the employment of Hapes or Filchock by any club in the
National Football League as player, coach, or in any capacity
whatsoever."

Though Paris, the comipter, was out of jail in less than a
year, Filchock was not reinstated until 1950 and Hapes not
until 1954. Bell had learned a lesson and, at the NFL meeting
in January, demanded and received full powers to fine and/or
suspend anyone not reporting a bribe or an attempt to fix a
game. To avoid a recurrence, Bell began to organize a staff
of FBI-trained investigators to check out all and any rumors
of player corruption and gambling.

In one season, the integrity and the security of the National
Football League had been threatened. Though gamblers and
a small minority of fans would always question the integrity
of professional football, BelFs quick and thorough action had
restored faith in the game.

The security of the NFL was a far more pressing problem.
The All-America Conference had not collapsed as Mara had
outwardly predicted and inwardly hoped. Unable to make
money because of their ridiculously high payrolls, Topping's
Yankees had still done fairly well and so had the AAC teams
in Cleveland and San Francisco. As 1946 ended, Mara realized,
for the first time, that he was deeply involved in a struggle that
could destroy his football empire.

208

Bottom and Purftcay

THE New York Giants of 1947 were like an automobile with-
out a driver. In the continuing battle with the All-America
Conference for top talent, the Maras had signed several bright
prospectsbacks Choo Choo Roberts and John Cannady and
end Ray Poole, Jim's brother but they had not been able to
sign the versatile quarterback-tailback they so desperately
needed to replace Fllchock.

With no one to drive their offense, the Giants couldn't get
started. After tying Boston, they lost three In a row to Phila-
delphia, Washington, and Boston. Just when he needed an
exciting winner most of all, Tim Mara was saddled to an un-
exciting loser and an expensive one at that. The Giant player
payroll, which totaled less than 1 100,000 In 1945, had sky-
rocketed to $286,000 in 1947. And to add to his financial
worries, his competitor, Dan Topping, was doing Improving
business at Yankee Stadium. The AAG had rid Itself of its
weakest link replacing Miami with Baltimore and, through
lavish promotion, big-name stars, and cut-rate tickets, had pre-
pared itself for a long siege.

"The team just kept getting worse and worse/* said Welling-
ton Mara. "Something had to be done before It was too late."
In desperation, the Giants traded their best ballcarrier, full-
back Bill Paschal, to the Boston Yanks for their best passer,
Paul Govemali An Ail-American and Maxwell Trophy win-
ner at Columbia, Govemali already had a large New York
following and he could throw a football. Unfortunately for
the Giants, 5-foot-lOiy^ and 190-pound Paul could do little

209

else. With poor pass protection and little running attack, he
spent most of the season looking up at opposing tacklers.

In eight games as a Giant, Govemali broke nearly every New
York passing record completing 72 of 186 for 1,350 yards and
13 touchdowns but he couldn't produce a winner single-
handedly. For the first time in history, the Giants, 2-8-2 on
the season, had lost seven games in a row and finished in last
place in the Eastern Division. And for the first time since the
pro football explosion in the early I930's, attendance had
dipped rather than risen. "We knew where we needed help,"
said Owen. "The problem was to get it."

To get it, the Giants drafted two Ivy League All- Americans
end Bill Swiacki of Columbia and Skippy Minisi of Penn
but the two players who were to help the most were not on
New York's original negotiation list.

One weekend late in 1947, Owen and Wellington Mara
boarded an airplane and headed for Mississippi and the Delta
Bowl. The reason for the trip: a lanky, reticent tailback from
Ole Miss named Charles Albert Conerly Jr.

"Do my eyes deceive me/' said Mara, "or is that Sammy
Baugh down there?"

"Sure looks like him/* said Owen. Tall and angular, Con-
erly did bear a striking resemblance to Washington's All-Pro
quarterback. They both cocked the ball like a baseball catcher
ready to throw to second, held the football until the last possi-
ble moment, and, varying short bullets with long floaters, hit
their receivers with startling accuracy. Conerly, who had
broken almost every intercollegiate passing record and could
run and kick, too, was just the man to get the Giants rolling
again. There was only one problem: Chunkin' Charlie, as he
was called by enthusiastic Ole Miss fans, belonged to the
Washington Redskins.

After finishing two years at Mississippi, he had enlisted in
the Marines and spent most of three seasons passing hand
grenades in the South Pacific. When his college class grad-
uated without him, in 1945, the Redskins drafted him. "I
received notice of my being drafted on Guam/' said Conerly.
"It didn't seem particularly important at the time."

Discharged from the service, he first considered turning pro,
but then decided to return to Mississippi for his college de-

210

gree. Tired of waiting, Washington had drafted Harry Gil-
mer, the All-American passer from Alabama. With Baugh
and Gilmer, the Redskins were willing to part with Conerly,
but the Giants weren't the only team bidding for him. Branch
Rickey, owner of the AAC's Brooklyn franchise, wanted the
6-foot-l, 183-pound Ail-American so badly that he offered
a four-year contract calling for $80,000 plus an additional
15,000 in bonuses. The Giants didn't match Rickey's offer,
but Conerly still decided in favor of the established league-
receiving 62,500 for five seasons plus a 10,000 bonus.

To get Emlen Tunnell, the Giants had to pay little and
promise less. An outstanding halfback at Iowa, 6-foot-l, 187-
pound Tunnell had been overlooked by both leagues. He
had already made arrangements to play with a semi-pro team
in Pennsylvania when he decided to visit the Giant office in
June of 1948 to see Steve Owen.

Owen had never heard of Tunnell. Fortunately for the
Giants, general manager Ray Walsh had. "There was a Tun-
nell who played for Iowa," said Walsh. "Maybe we'd better
see him."

Wellington Mara, who had little to do that afternoon, called
Tunnell into his office. "What can I do for you?" asked the
Duke of Mara.

"I'm looking for a job/* said Tunnell.

"What kind of job?" asked Mara.

"Playing football," said Tunnell. "I'm a football player
and I think I can make your club."

After receiving glowing recommendations from his college
coaches, Mara signed Tunnell. Yet Emlen Tunnell was not
just any other rookie. He was the first Negro ever to play
for the New York Giants. On a team that was one-third
Southern, Owen initially was fearful of a possible adjust-
ment problem. He had little reason to worry, "After a few
days in camp," said Owen, "Em was going to the movies with
all of them and he was as popular as any man on the team."

With the player limit raised to 35, Owen brought 50 rook-
ies to camp and returned to New York with 20. It was a
young team, but Owen and the Maras were building for the
future. In the opener at Boston, Conerly passed for two
touchdowns and the Giants won, 27-7. When the third quar-

211

ter ended with the ball on the Yanks' one-yard line, Conerly
trotted over to the bench for instructions. "What play should
I use, Coach?" the rookie asked.

"You're calling them/' said Owen, who figured it was as
good a time as any for the young quarterback to assert him-
self with his older teammates. "Use your own judgment."

Back on the field, Conerly listened quietly as the ten vet-
erans offered their suggestions. Giving everyone his chance,
the rookie finally took command. "Listen," he said, "does
anyone mind if I use a quarterback sneak?" On the next
play, Conerly sneaked over and the veteran Giants had a
rookie leader. It took Emlen Tunnell longer to get started.
Uncertain where to use him, Owen juggled Tunnell between
offense and defenseand the rookie's confidence and play
wavered accordingly.

Against the Redskins, Tunnell was particularly poor on
pass defense. Baugh had a field day, passing for five touch-
downs, and the Redskins won, 41-10. After the game, Owen
called Tunnell into his office. "Isn't Sammy the best passer
you ever saw?" said Owen,

"Yes sir," said Tunnell, who realized he had played poorly
and was surprised by Owen's question.

"I hope you had a good look and enjoyed every minute
of it," said the coach. "It's going to cost you a one-hundred-
dollar fine. If you want to watch, buy a ticket."

The fine did not solve all of Tunnell's problems. Against
Philadelphia, the Giants returned to the dressing room at
half time trailing by three touchdowns, and Owen started
criticizing Tunnell for letting his man get behind him on
one play. The more Owen lectured, the more the rookie
fumed. "I could see the resentment beginning to flare in his
eyes," said Owen, "and he knew I could see it. I figured he
was just about to snap at me."

Before he got the chance, Charley Porter, the Giants' vet-
eran trainer and a Negro himself, walked up behind Tunnell,
leaned heavily on the rookie's shoulders, and whispered into
his ear. "Boy," said Porter, "you just sit there and listen and
you'll learn something."

Tunnell listened and, after the game, a 45-0 Eagle victory,

walked over to Owen. "Coach," he said, "I'd like to apologize
for iaring up like I did at half time."

TunnelPs problems continued in the home opener. The
Cardinals had not forgotten an upset loss to the Giants the
year before and they were determined to run up a score. They
succeeded brilliantly and Tunnell did his best to help them.
Warned to signal for a fair catch on any punt where a defen-
sive man was within 5 yards, Tunnell followed Instructions
and was soundly booed. Angry and unnerved, he fumbled a
second punt, made the wrong moves on two touchdown passes,
and Injured his ribs missing a tackle. Unlike previous years,
the Giant fans of 1948 did not come to the Polo Grounds to
cheer their heroes. Disgusted by the team's pathetic play,
they came Instead to boo their villains. It was a new breed of
New York fan, and Tunnell was the first of many Giants to
hear their scorn.

Watching the Cardinal game, the fans did have a legitimate
reason for booing. By the end of the game, Chicago had a
63-35 victory and New York had Its third loss In a row. "The
Scoreboard was like a pinball machine," said rookie guard
Ed Royston. "By the time It was over, we were all a little
punchy."

Owen wasn't punchy; he was Infuriated. "If anybody ever
calls me a defensive coach again," he said, "I'll spit in his eye."

Owen's only joy was the progress of Conerly. The rookie
had driven Govemall to the bench and had taken over com-
pletely. Striking from the A-formatlon, Conerly was an ex-
cellent passer, a good runner, and an Intelligent, quiet leader.
He passed the Giants to a 34-27 victory over Pittsburgh, but
couldn't do It alone the next three weeks as New York lost
to the Bears, 35-14, the Eagles, 35-14, and the Rams, 52-37.
Owen had finally put together an explosive offense, but his
defense had fallen apart.

As attendance dropped perilously low, the Maras feared a
loss of $200,000. Though losing considerable money itself, the
All-America Conference was still in business. The fans didn't
care about Tim Mara's finances, but they did care about the
state of Giant football. Hundreds of letters poured into the
Giant offices each week, and almost every single one of them
offered the same suggestion: Get rid of Steve Owen. It was

not a radical thought. "I still didn't know much aboot foot-
ball," said Tim Mara, "but I knew from what my sons told
me that what was happening to us wasn't the coach's fault*
We just weren't giving Owen the players to win, and that
was our fault, not his."

Mara's sons were right, but it is debatable how long they
would have taken the blame had the Giants continued losing.
When his job seemed shakiest, Owen finally found the right
combination. For the first time as a Giant, Tunnell played
brilliant defensive football against Green Bay intercepting
three passes, sprinting 55 yards for a touchdown, and tackling
ferociously. On one play, he hit Green Bay's Indian passer,
Jack Jacobs, so hard he knocked him out of the game. "Em
bowled him over right near the Packer bench/' said Owen.
"All they could do was roll the Indian under the bench and
throw a blanket on him. He was stiffened."

With Tunnell dominating the defense, Conerly continued
to dominate the offense. He passed superbly and called a
perfect game. "If we had Conerly on our side," said Packer
coach and ex-Giant Bo Molenda after New York's 49-3 vic-
tory, "we'd have beaten you fellows, forty-nine to three."

Conerly played well again as the Giants defeated Boston,
28-14, but reached his passing peak against Pittsburgh. He
completed a record 36 passes in 53 attempts for 363 yards and
3 touchdowns, but the Giants still lost. On one play, a Steeler
lineman broke through the New York blockers and dumped
Conerly. Lying on his back, Charlie spotted Choo Choo Rob-
erts standing alone 5 yards in front of him and, without get-
ting to his feet, quickly flipped a pass for a touchdown. "Now
I've seen everything," said Owen. "I've never seen better
passing in my life."

Despite another fine day by their young quarterback, the
Giants closed the season with a 28-21 loss to the Redskins,
For New York, the 1948 season had brought eight defeats and
the poorest defensive record in history (388 points in twelve
games), but it had also brought Conerly, Tunnell, Swiacki,
and hope for the future. Swiacki, who had won college fame
by making a diving catch to upset undefeated Army, had
developed into Conerly's favorite target and the fifth best
receiver in the NFL. With 162 completions (twice as many

214

as any Giant before him) In 299 attempts for 2,175 yards and
22 touchdowns and an additional 5 more touchdowns on the
ground, Conerly was a unanimous choice as Rookie of the
Year.

Giant football was getting better, but Giant finances weren't.
NFL attendance had fallen off 247,737, and the Giants had
contributed more than their share 50,847- Their only con-
solation was that the Yankees, who had fewer fans to lose,
lost nearly 100,000. With the Cleveland Browns totally domi-
nating AAC competition, fans lost Interest in watching most
of the other teams play, and by the end of 1948, the new
league was in desperate trouble. It had been a senseless war
from the beginning, but Tim Mara and George Marshall re-
fused to concede. At a peace meeting after the 1948 season,
the Giant owner had offered a proposal: The NFL would
grant franchises to Cleveland and San Francisco of the rival
league. The AAC demanded more and, when Mara refused
to budge from his final offer, decided to stick It out for one
more year.

The war had taken its toll In both leagues. In the AAC,
the Brooklyn owners gave up, but Ben LIndhelmer, who had
already lost $L4 million in Los Angeles, decided to continue.
In the NFL, Ted Collins gave up his Boston franchise,
changed his team's name to the New York Bulldogs, and
moved into the Polo Grounds to play on alternate Sundays
with the Giants. To escape bankruptcy, the Packers had to col-
lect 1 170,000 in a statewide appeal. In Los Angeles, Dan
Reeves, who had lost f 750,000, decided to continue. In Phila-
delphia, Alexis Thompson, who had lost more than $200,000
In winning the NFL title in 1947, decided to sell his cham-
pionship franchise for only $250,000. The business of pro
football had suddenly become a very expensive plaything.

For Owen, 1949 was another year of building and another
season of wailing. On a team once again heavily dominated
by rookies, only Joe Sulaitts had been with the Giants for
more than four seasons. Yet from the first days of practice,
Owen could notice a change. One evening Tex Coulter, who
had been switched to center, relaxed next to Owen on the
porch of the training camp. Scrimmage had gone well that
day and Coulter, who had known only victory at West Point,

was smiling. "Steve/' said Coulter, "1 don't ever want to play
on a losing team again. We work out all morning, then we
study plays all afternoon, and then we come back at night
to look at the movies and get some more dope. That goes on
all week, and when Sunday comes we just take another
shellacking. Ill take a winner anytime. With them, it's a
morning workout, maybe a light session in the afternoon, and
we play more football on one Sunday than we do in a whole
losing season/'

The Giants of 1949 were not real winners, but they weren't
losers either. They defeated the Redskins twice and the Bull-
dogs, Bears, Packers, and Cards once each, and went into
their last two games with a 6-4 record. Though they lost both
to the champion Eagles, the third-place Giants, who had hit
bottom, were finally moving back. The biggest factor in the
move was Steve Owen's decision to switch over to the T-
formation. Conerly, who had played only single and double
wing in college, was convinced he would take less punishment
and last longer as a pro working out of the T. Owen agreed
with him, but the problem was to find someone to install the
new offense. Owen's close friend Greasy Neale, the Eagle
coach, knew just the man Allie Sherman, a little left-handed
quarterback who had first learned the T at Brooklyn Col-
lege and perfected it at Philadelphia. In 1948, Sherman had
coached the Paterson Panthers to the American Association
championship, and though he was only twenty-seven years
old, he knew as much about the T and its variations as any-
one else in football. Knowledgeable, quick, yet patient, he
drilled Conerly on basic T fundamentals for hour after hour,
day after day. Unsure of himself at first and troubled by the
complete change in passing technique, Conerly slipped a little
in 1949 to 152 completions in 305 attempts for 2,138 yards
and 17 touchdowns but, by the end of the season, he felt
better in the T than he ever had in Owen's A.

With the free substitution rule again in effect, Owen split
the Giants into two platoons, but unlike the first-and-second
unit system he had used in the 1930's, the coach this time
assigned personnel to offensive and defensive teams. Deep
man on the defensive unit, Tunnell, the troubled rookie of
1948, became the brilliant veteran of 1949. He intercepted

216

10 passes for 251 yards and 2 touchdowns and ran back
26 punts for 315 yards, finishing third In the league In both
departments.

Owen was not surprised by Conerly and TunnelL He
was amazed by Choo Choo Roberts, the 5-foot-ll, 188-pound
sprinter from Chattanooga. A disappointing rookie in 1947,
Roberts, playing every backfield position except quarterback,
scored 17 touchdowns In '49, just one short of the NFL record,
gained 634 yards rushing and 711 more catching passes. In
four different games, he tied the Giant record of 3 touch-
downs. Against the Bears, he went 85 yards with a Conerly
pass in the closing minutes for the winning touchdown.
Against the Redskins, he Injured his shoulder early In the
game and headed for the dressing room. Popping his shoulder
back In place, he returned to the field, substituted himself
back into the game, and scored two touchdowns.

It wasn't great football, but the Giants and the NFL were
getting stronger again. Dick Duden, Navy's All-Amerlcan end,
played with the Giants for only one season (1949) but never
forgot some of the poundings he received. On a Giant ques-
tionnaire several years later, Duden wrote:

PRO HONORS ATTAINED: None. Lucky to be alive.

By the end of 1949, the Giant organization was lucky it
was still alive. The Maras had again lost money a reported
1100,000 but Topping and the rest of the AAC lost more
than 1 1 million and the war was over. On December 9, Bert
Bell announced the price of peace: San Francisco, Cleveland,
and Baltimore would join the ten NFL teams and form a new
two-conference league. For both leagues, it had been a costly,
senseless struggle that had continued only because Mara and
several other men had let themselves be guided by their hearts
and not their heads.

The owners had lost heavily; now It was the players' turn to
lose. Before next season, salaries would be slashed. After the
four-year war, only the football fen had gained. With a new,
united league straddling the United States, professional foot-
ball was on the threshold of its golden era.

217

The Umbrella Had Holes in It

Football is a game played down in the dirt, and it always
will be. There's no use getting fancy about it

To fifty-two-year-old Steve Owen, this was the only way. It
had brought him recognition as an early pro tackle. It had
brought him fame and two National Football League cham-
pionships as a professional coach. And in the next four years,
facing his greatest defensive challenge, it would bring him
glory and pain.

In the first year of the new National Football League, the
Giants were given no chance of winning the American Con-
ference championship. The reasoning was simple. How could
Owen's defense-minded Giants possibly finish ahead of the
explosive Cleveland Browns, winner of four out of four AAC
titles and loser of only four of 58 games? With the shrewdest
brain (coach Paul Brown), the finest arm (quarterback Otto
Graham), and the strongest body (fullback Marion Motley)
in professional football, the Browns seemed unbeatable.

The few remaining skeptics were convinced when Cleve-
land routed the Philadelphia Eagles, NFL champions for the
last two seasons, and won the 1950 opener, 35-10. To defend
against the Browns, Eagle coach Greasy Neale used a con-
ventional six-man line and counted on the fierce rush of his
ends and tackles. The defense had worked before against
passing teams, but it did not work against Paul Brown's
high-powered machine. When the Eagles charged, Graham

218

threw flat passes to halfback Dub Jones or handed off to Mot-
ley on trap plays. When the Eagles decided to drop back,
Graham ran sweeps or passed deep to ends Dante Lavelli and
Mac Speedie. It was an awesome display of wide-open, offen-
sive football. Obviously, Paul Brown did not believe football
was a game played down in the dirt.

Yet from the moment he learned Cleveland would be in
the same conference with the Giants, Owen, the defensive
wizard, went to work perfecting the defense that could stop
the Browns. His 1949 team had been young and promising,
but he still needed personnel to strengthen his offensive and
defensive platoons. Drafting wisely and trading well, Owen
and his assistants Sherman, end coach Jim Lee Howell, and
line coach Ed Kolman picked up ends Bob McChesney,
Kelley Mote, and Jim Duncan, guard Jon Baker, center John
Rapacz, quarterback Travis Tidwell, fullback Eddie Price,
and halfbacks Randy Clay and Forrest Griffith. Then, when
the AAC's Yankees folded, the Giants were given the choice
of five of their players with the rest going to Ted Collins*
Bulldogs, who had moved over to Yankee Stadium and
changed their name to the New York Yanks. The one-time
Yankees All-Pro tackle Arnie Weinmeister, guard John Mas-
trangelo, and defensive backs Otto Schnellbacher, Harmon
Rowe, and Tom Landry were the key men in Owen's plans.

The Giants had the personnel; now they needed a defense.
The first day of training, Owen asked each of his former AAC
players to deliver a scouting report on the Browns. Finally,
it was Weinmeister's turn. "The problem of the Browns Is a
simple one/* said the University of Washington tackle. **The
way to beat them is to knock them on their butts."

Weinmeister's way did not work for his smaller teammates.
To beat the Browns, Owen knew he had to stop Graham's
passing and still not let Motley run wild. Scouting Cleveland
in five exhibition games, the Giant coach finally came up with
his system. In their opener against Pittsburgh, the Giants
showed nothing unusual and won, 18-7. Then, moving into
Cleveland, Owen startled the Browns and professional foot-
ball with his revolutionary umbrella defense (so called be-
cause the placement of backs resembled an open umbrella):

219

E T G G T E

Duncan Weimneister Baker Mastrangelo DeRogatis Poole

Cannady

H H

Landry Rowe

H H

Tunnell Schneilbacher

Lining up in a 6-14, the Giants switched into a 4-1-6 with
ends Poole and Duncan dropping back, sliding, and floating
to pick off Graham 's passes. And, with Cannady playing Mot-
ley man-to-man, they also nullified Cleveland's chief rushing
threat. Caught totally by surprise, the shrewdest brain, the
finest arm, and the strongest body in professional football
couldn't adjust and floundered dismally. In the first half,
Graham did not complete a single pass and the Giants in-
tercepted three. During intermission, Brown quickly altered
his offense, but Owen altered his defense. With Graham pass-
ing short and running wide, Poole and Duncan stopped slid-
ing and started charging while halfbacks Landry and Rowe
moved up to make the tackles. When Eddie Price plunged
over for a touchdown, the Giants had all the points they
needed. Owen's defense had shut out Brown's offense, the first
scoreless defeat Cleveland had ever suffered. Suddenly, the
umbrella was the talk of the NFL and the four halfbacks who
made it work were New York heroes. "Until I teamed up
with Landry, Rowe, and Schneilbacher, I still hoped Steve
Owen would switch me to the offensive team/" said TunnelL
"But that was the best tackling backfield I ever saw. Everyone
knew what the other fellow was going to do and that's what
made it so much fun. After that first Cleveland game, I never
really wanted to play offense again/'

With a 21-17 victory over the Redskins, the Giants returned
home to Polo Grounds cheers for the first time in four years*

220

As every Giant fan knew, Owen was the NFL's top coach,
Conerly the top passer, Price the top runner, and Weinmeister
the top lineman. The dreams did not last long. Suffering a
sodden letdown, the Giants lost, 17-6, to the Steelers and
the Cleveland Browns were doe into the Polo Grounds next.
"We knew a lot of people thought that first win was a fluke/*
said Weinmeister. "We knew it wasn't and we were de-
termined to prove it to everybody else."

It wasn't a fiuke but this time the Giants had to come from
behind to prove it. In the first half, the umbrella worked to
perfection, but the Information stalled. Trailing 6-3, rookie
halfback Jim Ostendarp forgot to cover the kickofL The
Browns recovered on the 1 and scored to take a 15-3 lead into
the dressing room. As the Giants climbed up the stairs into
the clubhouse, Owen feared his veterans' reactions to Osten-
darp 's error. Instead of abusing him, the veterans spent most
of the intermission assuring the rookie it didn't matter and
pleading with him to stop apologizing. Price, the talkative
fullback from Tulane, had the final word as the Giants re-
turned to the field. "Don't let it bother you, Jim," said Price.
"We're going to win this one."

And, in unadulterated Grade-B movie fashion, the Giants
did win. With Conerly throwing for long yardage and Price
rushing for short gains, the Giants scored their first touch-
down to cut Cleveland's lead to three points. With five min-
utes remaining, Owen, a coach who supposedly never gam-
bled, gambled. On fourth down and two yards to go, the
Giants could have gone for a certain field goal and tie, but
they decided to go for the touchdown and victory. Faking to
Price, Conerly handed off to halfback Joe Scott, who skirted
across for the winning touchdown. Owen and the Giants had
done the impossible for the second time in four weeks. The
umbrella was in the Polo Grounds to stay.

Though Owen wasn't to realize it until too late, the um-
brella's success could be attributed almost entirely to the per-
fect blending of the four deep backs. Landry and Rowe, the
close men, were conservative, vicious tacklers, rarely gam-
bling, seldom shooting for the big play. Tunnell was daring,
taking risks with Ms blinding speed and delicate balance,
always shooting for the big one. Yet Schnellbacher, a 6-foot-2,

221

185-pound Ail-American basketball player from Kansas, was
the Giant who welded the daring and the conservative into
a brilliant defense. Nicknamed the Claw because of his power-
ful hands, Schnellbacher was an early master in defenseman-
ship. "Sure glad the ball wasn't thrown this way," he would
tell a young receiver he had just covered. "You had me clear
out of the play, pal/' Invariably, the rookie would rush back
to his huddle, tell his quarterback how he had Schnellbacher
beaten on the last play, and say he was sure he could do it
again. Invariably, Schnellbacher intercepted on the next play.
"Sorry, pal," he would say, "I just did get to it this time."

Weinmeister was the key to the Giant defense. If opposing
lines could have kept him out of their backfields, their quar-
terbacks would have had time enough to rain passes through
the umbrella. But no one in the NFL could stop Weinmeis-
ter 's defensive charge. Mammoth at 6-foot-4 and 240 pounds,
he could outrace most of the league's halfbacks. One of the
Giants' favorite stunts was the training squad races, when
Howell would casually match Big Arnie against his rookie
ends in a 100-yard dash. When Weinmeister won and he
never lost Howell would howl at his rookies. "How do you
expect to make the Giants/' he would say, "when you can't
even keep up with a big, fat tackle?"

A willing but unofficial spokesman for his fellow players,
Arnie remained first and foremost a spokesman for Amie
Weinmeister. Though his grumblings about pay and his rum-
blings about expense money would help destroy the 1953
team, Weinmeister in 1950-52 was the Giants' pride. When
the Giants trained at Saranac Lake, there was a hill that taxed
walkers and defied runners. One afternoon, Conerly bet Wein-
meister $1 he couldn't carry him to the top of the hill. Pick-
ing the Giant quarterback up on his huge shoulders, Wein-
meister started running, slowed to a trot halfway up, and
finally staggered to the top. "It was unbelievable how he did
it," said Wellington Mara. "The hill looked like it ran one
city block straight up. But it wasn't the dollar bet so much
as the challenge to his strength and endurance. Weinmeister
wasn't apt to be shown up by anyone/*

Letting down again, New York lost to the Chicago Cardi-
nals, but bounced back with a victory over the Redskins.

222

When Cardinal coach Curly Lambeau succeeded in stopping
Owen's T so convincingly, Owen decided to surprise him the
next time they met Lambeau wasn't surprised; he was over-
whelmed. Instead of the T, Owen reverted to his A-formation
and the Giants rolled up 600 yards and a 51-21 victory. After
the game, Lambeau stomped across the field to congratulate
Owen. "It was quite a show," said Lambeau, "but why the
hell did you have to pull It on me?"

At dinner that evening, Owen basked in glory until a friend
joined him for a drink. "Still and all," said the friend, who
had seen the Giant rout, "I've seen you use that A before and
I still like something with more deception."

Owen was stunned, but only momentarily. "Look, we scored
fifty-one points/' said the Giant coach, nearly choking on his
snuff. "Don't you think somebody was fooled?" Using both
formations, the Giants crushed Baltimore, 53-20, and the
Yanks, 51-7, and edged the Eagles, 7-3. Weinmeister's speed
saved the victory over Philadelphia. Trailing by only four
points late In the game, the Eagles drove to the Giant 4. With
fourth down coming up, the play was obvious Steve Van
Buren around end and the blocking was perfect. The defen-
sive end w r as pushed In and halfback Landry was knocked off
his feet. Only Weinmeister, who had pulled out of the line and
taken off after Van Buren, had a chance. Running laterally
to the sidelines, Van Buren, seeing only the end zone In front
of him, veered In sharply. Yet In a split second, Weinmeister
lunged forward and knocked the Eagle All-Pro out of bounds
for a half-yard loss. "Amle's the only tackle In football who
can pull out of the line and catch an end run/' said Landry,
"and that's no mean stunt."

With one game remaining, against Philadelphia, the Giants
needed a victory to tie the Browns and force a playoff. This
time, It was Tunnell and the umbrella that dominated play.
Emlen intercepted one pass In the end zone, exchanged
punches with end Jack Ferrante, and dumped Van Buren
with crippling tackles, "I've been hit hard," said Van Buren,
who rarely could be stopped by only one tackier, "but never
that hard." The 9-7 victory gave the Giants a 10-2 season
record and tied them with the Browns, the team they already
had beaten twice.

223

For the third straight time, the Giant defense did what no
other NFL team was able to do all season. Stopping Graham
on an icy, snow-blown Municipal Stadium field, the Giants
drove deep into Brown territory. "It was all tied three-to-
three and I knew Charlie was going to throw to McChesney,"
said Owen. "Just then, I got a brainstorm. I sent Kelley Mote
into the game at the other end. He was a good blocker and
I figured he'd give Charlie some extra protection/*

Conerly had all the protection he needed hitting McChes-
ney in the end zone but Mote, cold and overanxious, was off
side on the play. The Browns held and, with Graham carry-
ing himself for the first time all season, moved ahead when
Lou Groza booted a field goal. A safety in the closing minutes
added two more points and Cleveland had beaten New
York, 8-3, and won the conference championship. The Giants
had lost, but Owen had won. In three meetings, Owen's de-
fenses held the Browns to only one touchdown (and that on
Ostendarp's misplay), Motley to a total of 86 yards rushing,
and Graham to a total of 288 yards passing. In one season, the
Giant defense had intercepted 27 passes with 20 stolen by
the umbrella foursome Tunnell, Schnellbacher, Landry, and
Rowe.

Seated in the dressing room after the loss to Cleveland,
Owen turned to Jack Mara and a New York writer. "Jack,"
said the coach, "I know the fellow I'd like to have next ^ear."

"Kyle Rote, 111 bet," said Mara and he was right. As a
senior at Southern Methodist, the 6-foot, 190-pound tailback
rushed for 762 yards, passed for 490, caught passes for 221,
and returned kickoffs for 336 a total of 1,809 yards gained.
"Rote is the wildest thing I ever tried to tie on to," said
Emil Sitko, after Notre Dame had beaten SMU, 27-20.
"Rote," said Notre Dame coach Frank Leahy, "is the most un-
derrated back in the country."

"Rote always wins at whatever he does," said Dallas sports-
writer Bill Rives. "You can have him nine-down on the first
nine holes of a golf match, but hell win the next nine and
beat you on the first extra hole. He plays football the same
way."

The Giants wanted Rote, but so did every other team in
the NFL. And in the regular 1951 draft, the Giants, because

224

of their record, had next to last pick. ""Maybe we'll be lucky/'
said Jack Mara, "and get him on the bonus pick."

In 1951, the bonus pick would go to the team drawing a
lucky marked slip out of a hat. It was obvious that the win-
ner of the bonus pick would select Rote.

At the annual draft meeting, Jack Mara had an idea.
"Well," said Jack Mara, "why don't we let the left-hander
try? He might change our luck."

Standing on his toes, Owen reached up, dipped his left
hand into the hat held high above Bert Bell's head, and
picked out a slip of paper. Owen had changed the Giants'
luck. "Kyle Rote," shouted the red-faced coach and the New
York Giants had drafted the top college football player in
the United States. Before they finished for the day, Owen
and the Maras had also drafted three top ends Bob Hudson
of Clemson, Bill Stribling of Ole Miss, and Bob Wilkinson of
UCLA and 250-pound tackle Ray Krouse, an All-American
from Maryland.

It was a spectacular rookie crop, but Rote, the most spec-
tacular, was the .most disappointing. He twisted his left knee
practicing for an exhibition and reinjured it a few days later
in the game. Rather than risk permanent injury, Rote, who
would have the knee operated on as soon as the 1951 season
ended, was used only sparingly. The rookie wasn't the only
exhibition casualty. Suffering from a shoulder separation, Gon-
erly insisted he was in top shape for the opener. Owen played
him and stayed with him the rest of the season, but the
Mississippi All-American, secretly receiving medical treatment,
could barely throw the ball, "Why didn't you tell me?" asked
Owen when he finally discovered why Gonerly couldn't throw
a long pass.

"Why bother?" said Gonerly. "You had no other quarter-
backs. They were all injured. So I figured that I was better
than none at all."

The training season had not been a total loss. Arriving in
Dallas for an exhibition game, the Giants were greeted by
former teammate DeWitt Coulter, a sportswriter-cartoonist
for a Texas paper. Coulter didn't get his story, but Owen
talked him into returning to the Giants. Quiet and refined off
the field, Coulter was rough and mean on it. On a bad day for

the Giants, Coulter sometimes totaled as much yardage in
penalties as his teammates gained. When Gene Pepper, a fool-
ish young Redskin guard, challenged Coulter to a fight after
a game in 1951, a veteran Washington tackle grabbed his
teammate and dragged him to safety. Coulter was just taking
off his face mask and heading for Pepper when Owen, who
had warned Tex against unnecessary violence, caught up to
him. "What's going on?" asked the Giant coach.

"Coach," said Coulter, "he told me to take off my mask and
he'd show me something. I felt I ought to protect myself."

"Son," said Owen, grinning, "I always want you to feel free
to defend yourself."

Coulter was tough, but Weinmeister was tougher. When
Don Stonesifer, a rookie Cardinal end, missed a block and
accidentally tripped Weinmeister with his hand, the Giant
tackle picked him up off the ground and stared right into his
eyes. "I don't like to be held," he said. "Remember that! No
holding! Understand!"

"Yeah man," said Stonesifer. "I understand."

With Rote and Conerly saddled by injuries, the 1951 Giant
attack was almost a one-man show. As a rookie in 1950, Eddie
Price had gained 703 yards. In 1951, he gained 971 and set
a league record for total carries with 271. At 5-foot-ll and
190 pounds, Price was the smallest fullback in the league,
but he was also the fastest. "I've never seen a back start any
faster," said Owen. "When he takes his second step he's run-
ning at top speed and that speed makes it harder for the
defense to cover him."

Toward the end of the season, Price was the team's only
healthy ballcarrier and a marked man for enemy defenses. To
rest him, Owen decided to have him sit out one practice. Half-
way through the scrimmage, the Giant coach noticed Price
sitting by himself at the far end of the field. Eddie Price, the
NFL's most durable ballcarrier, was crying. "I earned the job
on Sunday and I want to keep it through the week," he said. "I
don't want to sit out a minute."

With everyone healthy, the 1951 Giants might have won
the NFL title. Even with a half-dozen key players sidelined
most of the season, New York still finished second in the

226

American Conference winning nine, losing two, both to
Cleveland, and tying Pittsburgh.

Because of their Injuries, Rote and Conerly remained ques-
tion marks, and the Giants again drafted another top back-
Frank Gifford of Southern California. There was absolutely
nothing the handsome 6-foot-l, 190-pound GaKfornlan couldn't
do on a football field. He was a spectacular runner, a fine
passer, a brilliant receiver, a better-than-average kicker, and
one of the best defensive halfbacks In the U.S. The Giants
wanted him desperately, but Gifford, who had hoped to play
for the hometown Los Angeles Rams, took his time In reach-
ing a decision.

"You have to realize how small time professional football
was in those days/' says Gifford. "I remember how one Los
Angeles writer called me up and asked me how It felt being
drafted by the New York Giants. I had no Idea what he was
talking about, and for a second, 1 thought the baseball team
had drafted me. In 1952, the football Giants didn't mean
much to someone at USC." But though he received a $10,000-
plus offer to play with the Edmonton Eskimos of the Canadian
League, Frank finally signed with the Giants for about half
that amount. "At least," says Gifford, smiling, "I knew where
New York was. Edmonton? I had never even heard of the
place."

Handsome enough to act In several Hollywood films while
a campus hero at USC, Gifford was confident enough to think
professional football would be a lark. It wasn't. Popular with
his teammates, he was less popular with the coaches. Annoyed
by his attitude and his habit of carrying the ball loosely In
one hand, Owen decided to teach Gifford a lesson during the
first week of training. On one play, Gifford carried up the
middle and staggered off the field. "So many guys clobbered
me I thought they came off the bench to take whacks at me/ 1
he said.

Owen was waiting for him. "This Is a mighty tough league
you're In now, son," said Owen, grinning.

"Later," said Gifford, "I found out they had opened the
gates on me to hammer me down to size."

After three weeks, the Giants still weren't overly impressed.
"At the beginning, I didn't believe he was putting out," said

227

Howell. "He had such a smooth easy stride the boys nick-
named him Tippy Toesit looked as though he were loafing.
We might have released him if he wasn't our first draft
.choice." Instead of releasing him, Owen assigned Gifford, po-
tentially one of the finest rushers and receivers in football, to
his defensive unit

It was a disappointing season for most of the Giants. One
of the exceptions: Rote, whose knee was better, gained 421
yards rushing and 240 more receiving. As Kyle improved,
Charlie Conerly declined. He played well on the road, but
was a dismal disappointment at the Polo Grounds and mid-
way in the season, the boos began. The Giants, who had still
managed to win six of nine games, hit bottom on the road
against the Steelers. For the Giant fans, who were watching
all the away games on television for the first year, it was the
final humiliation, Lynn Chadnois ran back the opening kick-
off 91 yards for a touchdown and the rout was on. Before
the first half had ended, Conerly reinjured his right shoulder
and his substitute, rookie Fred Benners, suffered torn lig-
aments In his leg. The Giants did not have another quarter-
back. Defensive ace Tom Landry had played some quarterback
at Texas, and Owen sent him in to replace Benners, "Actually
Tom didn't do a bad job/* said Kyle Rote. "I was knocked
unconscious In the third quarter but unfortunately I came to,
and had to go back into the game. Discipline in the huddle de-
teriorated rapidly. 'Oh no you don't/ one player would say. 1
carried the ball last time. Give it to Eddie. It's his turn/ To
which Eddie would reply, 'It is not either. I carried It twice in
a row a while back. Give it to Joe* . . . and so on.

"Finally Tom engineered a beautiful drive right down the
field and passed into the end zone for the score. We really
pulled that game out. That made it Giants 7, Steelers 63."

Owen's umbrella had sprung a leak.

Though Conerly threw four touchdown passes In the final
game to defeat Cleveland for the second time in 1952 the
Giants, 7-5 on the season, had shown the first signs of decay
and dissension.

Owen had proved a point with his umbrella defense. De-
fensive football could be exciting, but it couldn't supplant
the offense. Still obsessed with the A, he refused to experi-

228

merit with the untapped possibilities of the T. Unlike Paul
Brown, who was working on the prototypes of the split-end
and flanker offense, Owen was a man chained to the past.

The year 1953 would be a bad one for Conerly, but a
tragic one for Owen. The team lost nine games, more than
any Giant team in history, and dropped to fifth In the Eastern
(changed from the American) Conference. Hampered by inju-
ries and handicapped by poor protection, Conerly still passed
surprisingly wellcompleting 143 of 303 for 1,711 yards and
1 3 touchdowns but he was the one Giant the fans paid money
every Sunday just to boo. By midseason, signs hung from the
upper deck and bleachers of the Polo Grounds: BACK TO THE
FARM, CONERLY. . . . CHARLIE MUST GO.

"It's outrageous the way the fans boo Conerly/' said Price,
who was sidelined most of the season with an injured ankle.
"He gets blamed for everything that goes wrong and every
criticism of him Is absolutely unfair. There Isn't a better
passer in the league than Charlie, but he can't do It alone.
We have no ends who can catch passes, so Conerly has to
throw to the backs. Every team is ganging up on us, playing
us so tight that we can neither pass nor run. Our offensive
line Is inexperienced and doesn't give Charlie any protection.
Who gets the blame? Conerly."

It got so bad that Conerly rarely left his Concourse Plaza
hotel room. One of the few evenings he did go out, he and
his lovely wife, Perian, accompanied a group of Giants and
their wives to Madison Square Garden for a Ranger hockey
game. Before the game was over, the announcer barked into
his loudspeaker: "And as guests of the Garden, we have the
members of the New York football Giants. Will you please
stand?" The Giants stood; the boos were deafening. One fan
started cursing at Conerly.

"Let me handle this, Charlie," said Weinmeister. "Hey you
up there . . ."

The fan took one look at Weinmeister and took off around
right end. "We ought to catch that fellow and sign him up,"
said tackle Bill Austin. "He's faster than anybody on the
team."

"Yeah/' said end Jim Duncan, "but who can catch him?"

Tired of the boos and battered by the punishment he had

229

been receiving every Sunday, Conerly, the thirty-two-year-old
veteran of six professional seasons, had reached a decision-
this was going to be his last year as a Giant.

With Rote and Price sidelined, Gifford finally was given
a chance to play offense and defense. "I know it isn't fair to
you and I'm sorry about it," explained Owen, "but you can
see I'm so short of men I can't do anything else." In the last
five games, Gifford averaged 50 minutes, led the team in scor-
ing (with seven touchdowns, one field goal, and two extra
points), rushed for 157 yards, caught eighteen passes for 292
yards, completed three of six passes for 47 yards and one
touchdown, and gained 433 more yards on punt and kickoff
returns.

Weinmeister was the only Giant named to the 32-man All-
NFL team, but even Arnie was leaving for the Canadian
League. The Giant front office was not particularly disap-
pointed to see him go. A leader in 1950-52, he had become
a clubhouse lawyer in 1953 and had added dissension to the
team's growing list of problems.

New York finished its road seasonwith a humiliating
62-14 defeat by the Browns and returned home. Paul Brown,
a master of detail, had mastered Owen's umbrella. With Rowe
and Schnellbacher both gone, the defense had proven woefully
inadequate, but Owen stubbornly continued using it. "By
1953, the umbrella was no good/' says Gifford. "Against Cleve-
land, it was one hell of a leaky umbrella."

It was Monday, December 7, when Owen received a mes-
sage to stop in and see the Maras. It was the time of the year
to plan draft choices and Owen mentally reviewed the top
prospects as he walked down the hall toward Tim Mara's
office. Tim and his two sons were waiting. "Hello," said
Owen, dropping into a chair. "What's up?"

In good years and in bad, Tim Mara had always said that
the Giant coaching job was Owen's as long as he wanted it.
Now, suddenly, Jack Mara was telling him they had changed
their minds. For the good of the organization, they were go-
ing to hire a new, younger coach. "You've got a place with the
Giants as long as you live, Steve," said Jack Mara. "I hope
you know that."

Owen coached the Giants in the final game of the 1953

230

season, lost 27-16 to Detroit, then retired from Mara Tech
permanently. He was a football coach not a front-office man.
After 28 seasons as a Giant, Steve Owen was through.

"It was one of the most difficult things I ever had to do/*
said Jack Mara, "but it was necessary."

It was necessary. There was no room for Owen in the
highly complex, supremely inventive world of Cleveland's
Paul Brown and Detroit's Buddy Parker. Steve Owen never
learned he couldn't hold back an avalanche with an umbrella.

Big Jim Answers the Call

THE telephone was disconnected and the valises were packed.
The Giants had lost the final game of the 1953 season the day
before, and Jim Lee Howell and his wife were ready to leave
their rented apartment on Staten Island for their 700-acre
ranch in Lonoke, Arkansas. Only one thing remained to be
done. "I received a telegram from Wellington Mara that
morning asking me to stop by the office before we took off
for home/' explains Howell. "He didn't say what he wanted,
but I assumed it was some routine matter about personnel."

While his wife waited in their double-parked Buick sedan,
Howell dodged quickly through the afternoon traffic and into
1 1 West 42nd Street to keep his appointment. Upstairs, on the
seventeenth floor, all three Maras were waiting for him.

"Jim, you'd better take a seat or you may fall down/' said
Jack Mara. "How would you like to coach the Giants?"

For a moment thirty-nine-year-old Howell, who had first
joined the Giants as an end in 1937 and rejoined them as
an end coach in 1948, was too startled to speak. "I sure
would," said Jim Lee, a big smile sweeping across his face. "I
sure would." One hour later, the new head coach of the New
York Giants stepped out of the Maras' offices and into reality.

Downstairs, his wife was waiting with another surprise a
policeman in the process of giving her a ticket for double-
parking. "I only thought I'd be gone for a few minutes/' ex-
plained Howell. "I never thought I'd be gone this long. I
never thought they'd make me coach."

"Coach?" said the policeman. "Coach of what?"

"The Giants," said Howell. "You know, the football team."

23*

"Coach o the Giants?" said the policeman, pocketing his
pen and ticket, "Mister, you've got enough troubles without
this. You need all the breaks you can get"

In seasons to come, the Maras' decision to hire Howell
would prove brilliant, but in December of it seemed

senseless. What did Howell have to offer? He lacked the big
name that would help at the gate. He lacked detailed knowl-
edge of the T-formation that would help on the field. And
he lacked Owen's widespread popularity that would help with
the press. "He has great character and knows pro football
Inside and out," said Jack Mara, explaining the decision.
"That's enough for us/'

It wasn't enough for several New York sportswriters, who
Insisted that the Giants had hired Howell solely because he
could be had for a lot less money than they would have had
to pay a big-name coach. If this sniping troubled Jim Lee,
the amiable Southerner never showed it. The days of the four-
month football coach were ended, Paul Brown and the others
of the new wave had seen to that. Coaching in the NFL was
a year-round job, and Howell had no time to waste.

As a Marine captain in World War II, big Jim had learned
the Importance of the chain of command and the necessity
of giving responsibility to his subordinates. It had worked in
the Marine Corps and it would work in the NFL. "A famous
coach once told me that the job of a head coach is to keep
order and see that the footballs are pumped/* said HowelL
"My first job was to hire the best possible assistants and
then get the most from each man/'

When Allie Sherman left the Giants for a head coaching
job in Canada, Howell selected Vince Lombard! as his back-
field coach. A member of Fordham's famous Seven Blocks of
Granite and a classmate of Wellington Mara, Lombard! had
helped run Red Blaik's dynamic T at West Point. "Lombard!
teaches the style of football I like and believe in," said
Howell, indicating for the first time that the Giants would
add deception to their offense. "VInny is daring and he's
brainy/*

Howell then retained line coach Ed Kolman, persuaded
Bill Swiacki to leave his insurance business and tutor the
ends, and promoted Tom Landry, his top defensive back, to

defensive coach. Working under Howell, Lombardi and Lan-
dry would revolutionize the offensive and defensive faces of
football.

One of Howell's chief problems was settling on a quarter-
back to make his T go. Unlike Giant fans, Jim Lee was con-
vinced Charlie Conerly was a key man in his future plans,
and he set out to win him back. He finally caught up to
Conerly loading fertilizer near a railroad siding 75 miles
northwest of St. Louis. After a big hello and some small talk,
Howell, who had once served in the Arkansas Legislature,
went to work mending his football fences.

"Charlie, I've heard from the Maras that you don't want
to play any more football/* he said. "I hope it isn't true be-
cause I'm counting on you for next year/'

"It has nothing to do with you, Jim/* said Conerly. "It's
just that I'm tired of taking a beating every Sunday and tired
of spending all that time looking up at the sky. I like foot-
ball, but not enough to get hurt. It's not worth it."

Howell nodded his head in agreement and then offered a
suggestion. "Charlie, I need you," he said. "If I promise to
try and get you the guards and protection you need, will you
give it another try?"

Conerly glanced down at his hands and then smiled. "OK,
Coach," said Conerly. "If you try, I'll try."

Howell not only tried, he succeeded. Second-year linemen
Roosevelt Brown, Jack Stroud, and Ray Wietecha had been
impressive, but the Giants still needed help. They got it from
the draft fullback Bobby Epps, halfback Dick Nolan, and
quarterbacks Don Heinrich and Bobby Clatterbuck. They
got it from trades ends Bob Schnelker and Barney Poole
(the third Poole brother to play for the Giants), halfback
Herb Rich, linebacker Bill Svoboda, and tackle Ray Col-
lins. And they got it from the military linebacker Cliff Liv-
ingston and offensive end Ken MacAfee. It was a beginning
and the changes in attitude and technique were noticeable
immediately.

Though writers joked about their training in Salem, Ore-
gon ("It's a shame they don't play all their games there/'
wrote one), the Giants of 1954 were responding well to the
new regime. "Your future's at stake here as well as mine and

I want you to stand on your own as much as possible/' Howell
told the players the first day of camp. "I want you to make
your own rules of conduct subject to my approval. Then you
fellows elect your own committee to enforce the rules, I want
to know what goes on but I won't move in unless the system
bogs down."

At the meeting to set up a player committee, one veteran
suggested a 25 fine for anyone breaking curfew or arriving
late for practice. "Not enough," said Conerly, one of the
leaders. "It should be $50." Within a week, the Giants' party
fund had its first $50 contribution from Charlie Conerly. "I
knew it was cutting it close/' Conerly later told his writer-
wife, "but that was the best movie I'd seen in years and I
couldn't tear myself away until I saw how it ended/'

There was not a single man in camp who did not feel or
see the changes. Practices started exactly on time, not ten and
fifteen minutes late as they had under Owen, and every single
minute of every single drill had specific meaning. Easygoing
and relaxed as a player and assistant coach, Howell was strict
and serious in his new job. The players, who had been sur-
prised when Jim Lee received the job, were impressed, "I
could have fallen down when I heard Howell was our new
coach," says Gifford, "Any time they change coaches, it helps.
But this time it helped a lot more. With Jim, we always knew
where we stoodon or off the field."

The first day of camp, Howell introduced Lombard! to
Gifford and the other backs. After a short talk, Lombardi
walked over to Gifford and told him exactly what he had
wanted to hear since he first joined the Giants. "We're through
fooling around with you," the assistant coach said. "From
now on, you're going to be our left halfback."

Like Paul Brown, Howell was a detail coach, convinced that
there was no limit to the amount of football knowledge that
could be learned from studying films and scouting reports.
Football was like war. You looked for a weakness in the
enemy, you probed it, and then you struck. If you looked hard
and long enough, you probably would win. If you didn't,
you'd lose. Whereas Owen refused to let his assistants act in-
dependently, Howell split everything into offense and defense.
Lombardi and Landry would study only one-half of the films,

235

grade their players separately on performance, and rely on
Howell to put everything together.

Offensively, Howell scrapped the A, simplified his termi-
nology by giving a descriptive term for each of five basic
formations (the 90-split, the H, the Belly Seven, the F, and
the 31), and added deception to Owen's unimaginative T.
During the spring, he had visited with Clemson coach Frank
Howard and come away impressed with his use of "conver-
sions." A prototype of the audibles, checkoffs, and automatics
(names for a system where the quarterback can change the
play at the line of scrimmage), Howard's conversions fit nicely
into the over-all simplicity of the Giant attack. When Conerly
decided he wanted to change a play at the line of scrimmage
he would simply repeat his snap signal, notifying his team-
mates that Conerly's next words would indicate the new play.

Defensively, Landry, who had helped make Owen's um-
brella a byword in New York homes, carried it even farther-
switching from the original 6-1-4 to an early 4-3-4, which soon
evolved into the modern three-linebacker setup.

The Giants* work did not go unrewarded or unrecognized.
The biggest difference between the 1953 and 1954 teams was
the play of the offensive ends. In Owen's last season, the ends
caught three touchdown passes. In Howell's first, they caught
twenty with Schnelker and MacAfee scoring eight times each.
''They saved us/' says Howell.

With ends to catch his passes, and guards and backs to pro-
vide protection, Conerly bounced backcompleting 103 of
210 passes for 1,439 yards and seventeen touchdowns. He had
his biggest day against the Redskins, passing for four touch-
downs in a 51-21 victory. His last scoring pass of the year
a 68-yarder to Schnelker against the Rams on November 21
was his 1 00th as a professional. Only Sam Baugh and Sid
Luckman had thrown more. Six and three with three games
left, the Giants still had a chance for the division title. But
on the first play against the Browns, Conerly was carried from
the field with torn ligaments in his kneeand New York's
slim chances went with him.

"Clatterbuck/' shouted Lombardi at the sidelines. "Where's
Clatterbuck?"

Bobby Clatterbuck, the Giants' 27th draft choice, was where

236

he had been all season sitting on the bench. With Conerly
hurt, the rookie's long-awaited moment had finally come.
Clatterbuck, who wore glasses off the field and contact lenses
on it, was ready except for one thing. So sure he wouldn't
play, he had unconsciously left his lenses in the dressing room.
Calling plays and throwing passes from memory, Clatterbuck
squinted his way through the first half. With his eyes in the
second, he didn't do much better, and the Browns won, 16-7.
The rookie had an excellent day against the Steelers complet-
ing seventeen of twenty-two and the Giants won, 24-3. He
had less success in the season finale against Philadelphia and
its murderous defensive line, and New York lost, 29-14.
"It was a start," said Howell, commenting on the team's 7-5
record and third-place finish. "We're headed in the right
direction."

And so was Giant attendance. While NFL totals had sur-
passed 2 million for three straight years, the Giants had drawn
poorly until the middle of 1954 when 46,565 turned out to
see the Eagles. The fans still booed Conerly occasionally, but
at least the signs had been taken down. Across the country,
television had begun to make national heroes of the NFL's
top stars, but at least one organization had its reservations
about the game's growing popularity. It all started when
a youngster appeared on a quiz program being broadcast
nationally.

"What does a military salute mean?" asked the announcer.

The youngster, who obviously knew his football, paused,
then answered loudly, "Unnecessary roughness." It was a cor-
rect answer the NFL's signal for unnecessary roughness was
a military salute by the official but not the expected one.
Within a week, the network was flooded with mail, mostly
from members of the American Legion, complaining about
the corruptive and disruptive influences of professional foot-
ball. To restore peace, Bert Bell, trying hard not to laugh,
announced at the annual meeting that the military salute
would be eliminated as an NFL signal. The American Legion
had won, but the NFL was making headway.

Building a championship team is like filling in a 33-piece jig-
saw puzzle. Without 33 pieces in place, the puzzle remains
incomplete. By 1955, the Giant puzzle was nearly finished. The

237

Giant management team had another big year at the drafting
board signing fullback Mel Triplett, halfback Jim Patton,
and tackle Roosevelt Grier. They also picked up guard Ray
Beck from the service, and end Walt Yowarsky and linebacker
Harland Svare in trades.

Everything seemed perfect then the Canadian League really
started raiding. With Weinmeister recruiting for them, the
Canadian teams convinced a half-dozen top players to jump
the Giants. Something had to be done and done fast. "There's
only one way to teach them a lesson/* said Wellington Mara.
"Let's get the best they have." Canada's best was Alex Web-
ster, a powerful 6-foot-3, 215-pound halfback from New
Jersey, and the Giants got him. "Webster is starting from
scratch in our camp," said Howell. "Press clippings mean
nothing to me. He has to prove by himself that he belongs
in the big league and he knows it."

Webster also knew that he had tried the NFL once before
and failed. An outstanding tailback at North Carolina State,
Webster had been the Washington Redskins' twelfth draft
choice in 1953. With a half-dozen returning veteran backs,
Washington coach Curly Lambeau (in his third head coaching
job in five years) never even bothered looking at Webster on
offense. He did use him on defense, but when the Lions cut
Don Doll one day before the season began, Lambeau called
Webster in to see him. "I'm sorry/' said Curly, who would be
even sorrier when Joe Kuharich would replace him in the
middle of the season. "You're a good ballplayer, but Doll has
more experience. We're going to have to let you go."

Heavily in debt and unemployed, with his wife due to give
birth in a few weeks, Webster was desperate. Then he re-
membered that Peahead Walker, who had coached at Wake
Forest and had seen him play, was now head coach with the
Montreal Alouettes. That evening, he sent a night letter to
Walker: i HAVE BEEN CUT BY THE REDSKINS. I'M IN GOOD SHAPE

AND IF YOU ARE LOOKING FOR A HALFBACK CAN GIVE GOOD REC-
OMMENDATIONS FROM COACHES. Walker remembered Webster
and answered immediately: COME ON UP TODAY FOR A TRYOUT.
He made the team, scored six touchdowns in seven games,
and, the next season, broke the league's rushing record and

238

tied Its scoring record. In 1954, he was the Canadian League's
Most Valuable Player.

A good pass receiver, an excellent blocker, and an excep-
tional runner, Webster wasted little time in convincing Howell
and the Giants he could play in the National Football League.
He scored three touchdowns in the first two exhibition games,
moved in as the starting right halfback, and enabled the
coaches to shift Kyle Rote, the team's premier receiver, to end
where his often-injured knee would receive less punishment.

Grier, a mountain of a man at 6-foot-5 and 261 pounds, was
another pleasant addition to the Giants with his football, his
guitar, and his sense of humor. Possessing the inner security
of a big man, Grier didn't mind telling jokes at his own ex-
pense. When he had been at Penn State, the team had once
taken a train to the Midwest for a game with a Big Ten op-
ponent. As the train pulled into Indianapolis, Grier turned to
one of his teammates.

"What's the name of this town?" Grier claimed he asked.

"I believe it's Indianapolis/* the teammate replied.

"Good," said Grier, "let's get off and play them Navy
fellows."

While Grier joked openly, Triplett was something of a
problem as a rookie. A smashing runner and a vicious blocker,
the 6-foot-l, 215-pound Triplett was the big back the Giants
had always wanted. "He wasn't a good pass receiver and he
may have fumbled on complicated exchanges," says Howell,
"but Triplett was a brute. He was a lot of man." He was
also a temperamental man, whose emotions robbed him of
consistency and All-Pro recognition.

Son of an Indianola, Mississippi, sharecropper, Triplett had
not had an easy childhood. "When I was six, I was working
a plow with two mules," he said. "When I was nine, I worked
a plow with four mules just like my father. When worktime
came, we forgot about school. Football? It was only a word to
me. All I knew was cotton, cotton, cotton. I'd probably still be
there if not for those tornadoes."

When a series of tornadoes ruined the crop in 1944, Trip-
lett's family moved to Ohio, where his father found a job in
a steel mill. Mel seemed headed for the same mill until he
accompanied his brother to high school football practice one

afternoon. Impressed by Mel's size, the coach asked him if he
wanted to try out for the team.

"I told him it looked like rasslin' to me/* said Triplett. "So
the coach said, 'Wanna rassle?' I told him I'd try. He gave me
a helmet and some shoulder guards, put two of the biggest
men on the team in front of me, and told me to fight my
way past them and get the ball/'

Triplett did what he was told. He knocked both linemen
out of the way and rassled the ballcarrier to the ground. "You
sure you haven't played football before?" asked the coach.

"No, I never have/* said Triplett, who then beat the team's
fastest backs in a 100-yard race. The next day, Mel had a foot-
ball uniform and a future. Married and already the father of
two children, Triplett chose the University of Toledo from
26 college scholarships because the Ohio school guaranteed
him a job. By the time the Giants got him, Triplett had the
makings of an outstanding pro.

The backfield was set, but the Canadian defections had seri-
ously weakened the defense. A dark-horse choice to win the
Eastern Conference title, the Giants couldn't get started. They
lost their first three to the Eagles, Cardinals, and Steelers
before winning their first, against the Cards. When New York
lost another, 19-17 to Pittsburgh, Howell dropped in to see
Wellington Mara and offered his resignation. It was refused,
but the team still refused to realize its potential, splitting the
next two games routing Washington and losing to Cleveland.
The day after the Brown defeat, the coaches met in the Polo
Grounds office.

As usual, Howell asked for suggestions.

"Maybe Kolman and I have something that will help/* said
Lombardi.

"Let's have it then," said Howell.

The idea was to incorporate T-formation rushing with
single-wing blocking. "Everyone is brush-blocking with the
T these days," said Lombardi. "Ed and I thought if we put
double-team blocking into our running game, we'd catch a
lot of teams by surprise. I don't think there's a lineman in the
game today who can handle a double- team block."

Howell liked the idea and the braintrust returned to the
drawing board. The result: two running plays called 47 power

and 26 power. In 47 power, Gilford, the No. 4 back, would
take the ball on a quick opener through the No, 7 hole, be-
tween tackle and end, with MacAfee and Dick Yelvlngton
double-teaming the end and Triplett and Austin double-
teaming the outside linebacker. On 26 power, Webster, the
No. 2 back, would hit through the No. 6 hole on the opposite
side of the line with similar double-team blocking ahead of
him. Completely devoid of deception and rarely freeing a
back for more than a short gain, the new plays revitalized the
Giant attack and revolutionized football thinking. "If the
men carried out their assignments, the plays always picked up
at least three or four yards/" said Howell. "When the defenses
adjusted to the two-on-one blocking, it opened them up for
our passing and sweeps. What a difference it made in the
Giants."

From last place in the league, the Giants won four and
tied one in their last five games and finished third in the East
with a 6-5-1 record. Webster led the team in rushing with
634 yards gained in 128 carries for an impressive 5-yard aver-
ageand Gifford, Tunnell, and Austin were named to the All-
Pro team. "You could feel it over those last five games," said
Gifford. "We were really beginning to move."

241

It Beats Working in the Mines

LIFE in Jamison No. 9, a coal-mining camp in the hills of
West Virginia, was an education in self-preservation. The les-
sons were etched sharply into the coal-gray faces of the men
and women who lived there. You were tough or you didn't
survive. If you saw someone walking around with a chip on
his shoulder, you knocked it off. It was that kind of com-
munity. For the youngsters of Jamison No. 9, all roads seemed
to lead to the mines.

Robert Lee Huff, nicknamed Sam by his parents, was tough
and rough. He not only survived; he found a road away from
the mines. The Farmington High School yearbook of 1952
told his story in faulty, but factual, verse:

That good-looking boy is our muscleman.
At football he is great.
Sammy used his brains as well as brawn.
He made first team, Class B, All-State.

Playing high school football, Sam Huff got his chance a
scholarship to West Virginia University and made the most
of it. Even if he could have forgotten the coal-mining camp,
his coach, Art (Pappy) Lewis, wouldn't have let him. When-
ever Huff made a mistake, Lewis would say, "If you don't like
it here, you can always get yourself a No. 3 red shovel/' Sam
did not make many mistakes. By the end of his senior year, he
was a 235-pound Ail-American tackle and the third draft
choke of the New York Giants.

Most likely to succeed, read one Giant scouting report on
him, and Huff, the college hero, thought he had it made. He
was in for a surprise. When he arrived at the training camp

242

at St. Michael's College in Winooski, Vermont, Huff, who had
played in the College All-Star game, was already a week late.
Not only weren't the Giants overjoyed to see him, but they
didn't seem to know what to do with him.

The game of professional football had changed radically
during the 195Q's and nowhere was the change more notice-
able than in the requirements for linemen. By 1956, defen-
sive linemen and offensive tackles weighed between 240 and
280 pounds. Huff wasn't big enough. Offensive guards weighed
less but possessed exceptional speed. Huff wasn't fast enough.
That left only the linebackers and the Giants already had
three veterans, Harland Svare, Ray Beck, and Bill Svoboda.

By the end of his first week in practice, Huff was discour-
aged and dissatisfied. Then one afternoon he happened to
overhear two of the assistant coaches discussing personnel,
"What are we going to do with this kid Huff?" asked one.

"I really don't know," said the other. "He's a step too slow
for offensive guard and he's too light for defense235 pounds
isn't enough weight for this league."

That was all Huff had to hear. "I was homesick and I was
miserable/' he said. "When 1 heard that, I felt whipped."

Back in his room, he started talking with Don Chandler, a
rookie halfback from the University of Florida and the top
intercollegiate punter. Hampered by a chronic bad shoulder,
Chandler had grown moody and more nervous every practice,
convinced that he wouldn't be able to make the Giants on the
strength of his kicking alone. Within a half hour, the two
rookies decided they were unwanted and started packing.

Before they could leave, line coach Ed Kolman caught up
with Huff. "Sam," he said, "you'll never forgive yourself if
you leave now. You must give it another try. If you don't,
you'll feel like a quitter the rest of your life. Stay with it."

"It's no use, Ed," said Huff. "I'm just wasting my time
here."

"Listen kid," said Kolman, making a last attempt. "I know
football and football players. I've seen all the great ones. I'm
telling you, Sam, you can be one of the greatest in a few years.
But you must stick it out now. You've got more talent than
any of these guys. For heaven's sake, stay and use it. Don't
throw everything away."

This was exactly what Huff had been longing to hear. "OK,
Ed," he said, "I'll give it a couple more days."

Sam found Chandler trying to talk another rookie into driv-
ing him to Burlington Airport. "Kolman talked me into stay-
ing," said Huff. "How about you?"

"No one asked me to stay," said Chandler. "I'm still
leaving."

Even though he was staying, Huff decided to ride to the
airport with Chandler. Don's plane wouldn't be leaving for
another hour and the two players settled down in the wait-
ing room, silently alone with their thoughts. The longer he
waited, the more uncertain Huff began to feel. Maybe Kol-
man was just conning him. He'd heard what the coaches had
said about him before. Maybe he should still get on that
plane with Chandler. Maybe . . . Just then, a station wagon
screeched to a stop in front of the terminal and Vince Lom-
bardi jumped out and sprinted toward Chandler. "You may
not make this club," said Lombardi, "but you're sure as hell
not quitting on me. And neither are you, Huff, in case you
have any ideas about running out." Herding the two rookies
into the automobile, Lombardi drove them back to camp.

"If Don's plane had been on time," says Huff, "he'd have
been on it and maybe I'd have gone with him."

Within a few days, Huff had been moved to middle guard
(the early designation for middle linebacker) behind Ray
Beck, and Chandler had taken over as the team's top punter.
They were pleased, but Howell and his assistants were de-
lighted. Never had a pre-season training camp gone so well.
The few remaining weaknesses had been filled and the 33-
piece puzzle was swiftly nearing completion.

In addition to Huff and Chandler, they drafted defensive
end Jim Katcavage of Dayton. They did even better by trad-
ingpicking up defensive tackle Dick (Little Mo) Modze-
lewski, defensive end Andy Robustelli, and halfbacks Gene
Filipski and Ed Hughes.

The Robustelli deal was one of the shrewdest ever made.
A two-time All-Pro with the Los Angeles Rams, Andy asked
permission to report two weeks late for practice because his
wife was due to give birth. When the Rams refused, Robustelli
threatened to sit out the season at his Stamford, Connecticut,

244

home. One afternoon, Andy's telephone rang. It was Welling-
ton Mara, calling from New York. "I was just wondering/' said
Mara. "Would you be interested in playing for the Giants?"

"I sure would/* said RobustellL The next day, the 6-foot-l,
230-pound end from tiny Arnold College was a New York
Giant. Smart and quick, Robustelli was a fierce rusher and
tackier whose powerful hands cleared bigger men out of his
way. "When you analyze Andy Robustelli piecemeal, there's
little about him that suggests a great defensive end/' said
Tom Landry, who had retired from the field to devote all his
time to coaching the defense. "He seems lacking in size, speed,
and other traits. But as soon as you put them all together, you
have the best there is/'

Modzelewski, a 5-foot-lli/|, 260-pound Ail-American from
Maryland, shook hands with Howell the first day of practice.
"Coach/* said Little Mo, whose brother Ed played fullback for
the Cleveland Browns, "last year Paul Brown traded for my
brother and won the championship. This year, it's your turn/'

The acquisition of Robustelli and Modzelewski put to-
gether one of the most fearsome foursomes in football history.
With Little Mo and Rosey Grier at the tackles, Robustelli at
one end, and Yowarsky and Katcavage sharing the other, the
Giants' front line of defense averaged more than 250 pounds
a man. Behind them, Svare, Beck, and Svoboda averaged 220.
The men and the machine were already there, but it would
take a rookie, Sam Huff, to bring special excitement and
glamour to the Giant defense.

The offensive line with Rote and Schnelker at the ends,
Yelvington and Brown at the tackles, Austin and Stroud at
the guards, and Wietecha at center averaged 234 pounds and
had speed and drive equal to any in the NFL. With Conerly
and Heimich sharing the quarterback chores, Gifford and
Webster at the halfbacks, and Triplett at fullback, the Giants
had an explosive attack that could score from any place on
the field.

The Giants of 1956 not only had a host of new heroes; they
also had a new home. During the winter, the Maras had re-
ceived an offer of $1 million for the Giants from a syndicate
that wanted to move the team to Yankee Stadium. The Maras
rejected the offer, but decided to leave the Polo Grounds

245

themselves for the more spacious (67,206 seats), more modern
stadium across the bridge. Now if another league tried to bat-
tle the Giants in New York, the Maras controlled the best
stadium.

It was another big year for the NFL. Only the Eagles and
Cardinals had lost money in 1955, and a new television con-
tract, the first with a network (CBS), would bring in added
revenue and stimulate interest nationally. Only the road
games would be broadcast in league cities with a 75-mile
blackout imposed on all home games. Unlike baseball, which
destroyed its minor leagues and weakened its majors by un-
restricted telecasting, the NFL had settled on a sane and
sound policy.

Even Sports Illustrated, a weekly magazine dedicated only
to the best of everything, added professional football to its
list of accepted sports in 1956 and began to cover it regularly.
In their season preview, one writer, who had never been ac-
cused of letting the facts stand in the way of his fancies, called
the Giants "one of the invalids of pro football." He must have
been talking about Kyle Rote's knee. The Giants never were
healthier.

In camp, Rote, the most popular Giant, had established
himself as the team leader and just about everything else.
Three of the players had already named sons Kyle and four
more would follow. One evening at dinner, Rote, who had
been kept out of practice to rest his knee, announced to the
players that Bill Svoboda had been named captain of the de-
fensive platoon. "The honor went right to Bill's head," said
Rote. "The first thing he wanted was a room by himself. We
didn't mind that. Then he pasted his press clippings on the
door. We didn't mind that either. But when he"

"Just a minute," said Svoboda. "I didn't want a room by
myself. I wanted to move in with Kyle so we two captains
could look out the window together and watch the rest of
you guys hard at practice."

Rote got his first chance to practice late in the second quar-
ter of a full-dress intersquad game. With fourth down and
15 yards to go on the 20, Charlie Conerly was delighted to
see Rote, one of his favorite receivers, trot in to right end.
Driving to his left, Rote suddenly shifted gears and headed

246

straight at a rookie defensive back. Faking one way, Rote
stepped the other and was all alone in the end zone to take
Conerly's pass. "You should be ashamed of yourself," said
Conerly. "An old man like you using all those fakes on a
young kid."

"The older you get," said Rote, smiling, "the more tricks
you need."

In action, even during a practice, Rote was a study in per-
fection. Handicapped by his weak knee, he had developed
into the NFL's most deceptive receiver. "No matter what de-
fense he's up against, no matter how many backs are covering
him, and no matter how good they are, Kyle will get into the
open," said Yelvington. "When the ball comes to him, hell
catch it and when he catches the ball, nobody's going to
catch him."

Rote was at his best in the NFL opener against San Fran-
ciscoand the Giants, striking on the air and on the ground,
won, 3821. Moving into Chicago, the Giants were surprised
by the Cardinals split-T offense and shocked by their elec-
tronic coach. To make sure his quarterback and defensive
captain called the "right" play, Chicago coach Ray Richards
set up an elaborate transistor radio system and controlled the
entire game from the bench. The Giants couldn't defense the
split-T and couldn't fathom the transistors and lost, 35-27.
Even in defeat, Rosey Brown, New York's 245-pound offensive
tackle and the fastest big man in the league, blocked bril-
liantly, receiving a 91 percent rating (75 is very good) from
his coaches.

Suddenly, the electronic coach was the rage of the NFL.
Paul Brown was using one instead of his customary player
shuttle system, and several other clubs were considering it.
The Giants were the exception. Howell, who had never be-
lieved in calling all the plays from the bench, didn't plan to
switch over just because of one defeat. For most of 1955 and
1956, he had depended on a system of his own. Don Heimich,
a good short passer and a master prober, would start every
game. When Heinrich had opened up the defense with his
short passes and running plays, Conerly, the master long
passer, would replace him.

Yet the Giants did not go into Cleveland empty-handed.

247

They had bought a set of transistors, neatly adjusted them to
Paul Brown's wave length, and tapped his signals. Discover-
ing that the Giants were stealing his plays, Brown switched
back to his shuttle system, but it didn't make much of a
difference. When Beck was injured and rookie Sam Huff was
sent in to replace him as middle linebacker, the Browns de-
cided to work on the youngster. Play after play, fullback Ed
Modzelewski pounded inside his tackle and straight at Huff.
Play after play, Huff was waiting and tossed Modzelewski for
losses. Sam had won his first battle as a pro. The Browns
stopped running and tried passing, but Robustelli broke
through six times and dumped quarterback George Ratter-
man for losses of 60 yards. With Cleveland's defenses stacked
against Conerly's passing Howell stayed on the ground, Gif-
ford, Webster, and Triplett gained 256 yards rushing, and
New York won, 21-9.

Two days later, commissioner Bell permanently barred the
use of electronic coaching devices. "It's a good thing," said
Giant end Bobby Topp. "If the trend had continued, the No. 1
draft choice of the Giants next year would have been the
valedictorian of MIT."

Before 48,108 fans, the largest opening-day crowd in Giant
history, Conerly, Gifford, and Rote took full advantage of a
rookie defensive back and defeated Pittsburgh, 38-10. It was
Gifford again the next week as the Giants beat Philadelphia,
20-3. On one play, Conerly faked a hand-off to Webster,
slipped the ball to Gifford, and stepped back to watch his
teammate's run. When the hole closed up at the line of scrim-
mage, Gifford spun around, spotted Conerly, and flipped the
ball to him. The Giant quarterback had barely enough time
to cradle the ball before 1,500 pounds of linemen landed on
top of him.

"What was that for, Frank?" said Conerly, looking up at
his halfback. "I didn't want the ball."

"Charlie," said Gifford, laughing as he helped Conerly to
his feet, "I was just trying to protect my rushing average."

In 1956, twenty-six-year-old Frank Gifford, a halfback of
unlimited versatility and potential, had come into his own.
"He has faster pickup going through a hole than anybody
around," said Lombardi. "But his burst of speed is good for

248

only twenty yards. Fifty backs can outrun him over a long
stretch. Two intangibles make Gifford greathis versatility
and his alertness. He gives the opposition fits by keeping it off
balance. If the secondary comes up fast to check his run, hell
heave the ball downfield; if the defense holds back, Frank'll
keep on running. He and Rote are the smartest players I've
ever seen for coming up with a bright idea to take advantage
of a situation on the field."

Gifford also was a master for taking care of situations off
the field. Though Kyle Rote was his closest friend, Gifford
delighted in needling him. Frank's master achievement was
an anonymous story posted in the Giant dressing room: "The
Saga of Carl Roth, Player of Football." Depicting Roth as a
sly, sinister youth, he wrote, "My fearless, ferocious approach
to the game stems from early training at home. There were
twelve of us who sat down to the supper table each night.
Dear old Mom encouraged us to be self-reliant by putting
only eleven pork chops on the platter."

Like most winners, the Giants of 1956 were a happy, closely
knit team. Grier played his guitar, Little Mo sang Polish folk
songs, and the Bulls (the defensive unit) and the Horses (the
offensive unit) competed amiably but fiercely for attention.
"One year you're nobody and then all of a sudden your
phone's ringing all the time and everyone wants you for some-
thing," said Gifford. "None of us had ever seen anything like
it before. It was a ball."

The Giants defeated Pittsburgh, 17-14; then beat the Cardi-
nals, 23-10, before 62,410 fans at Yankee Stadium. The of-
fense struck quickly and effectively, but Huff and the defense
stole the show. Keying on Ollie Matson, the Cardinals* All-
Pro halfback and the No. 2 rusher in the NFL, Huff was
almost a team in himself holding the Chicago star to 43 yards
in thirteen carries. Too slow to be an offensive guard and too
small to be a defensive lineman, Huff was fast enough and
big enough to be an instinctively brilliant middle linebacker.
A middle linebacker has four primary responsibilities, and the
rookie from the coal mines was unusually adept at all four. He
could throw off a blocker and bring down the runner; he
could cover a halfback on pass defense; he could slow down
an end and spoil a pattern; and he could break through and

249

dump the passer. With Huff and the rest of the Bulls making
big plays all over the field, Giant fans suddenly were excited
by the defense and defensive football. A long touchdown pass
was still exciting, but so was the sight of Sam Huff and Andy
Robustelli crashing through and throwing the opposing quar-
terback for a sizable loss. By the end of the season, pro foot-
ball fans had a new vocabulary:

RED-DOG: The two outside linebackers crash into the of-
fensive team's backfield.

BLITZ: The middle linebacker crashes in.

KEY: Study one offensive player to see if his actions

tip off or key the play.

JUKE: Make a false move to confuse the offense.

A tough man on the field, Huff talked tough off it. "I've
learned quickly that there's no room for nice guys in pro foot-
ball/' he said. "I've been slugged and I've been clipped, but
that doesn't stop me from feeling good when I hit someone.
When I go out on the field, I know I'm mad at every one of
them. The hell with them all. Look out for Ole Sam Huff.
He's mean today."

The Giants slumped, losing to Washington and tying the
Bears, but rebounded against the Skins. Standing with Lom-
bardi on the sidelines during the first quarter, Conerly de-
cided that Washington linebacker LaVern Torgeson could be
exploited. Anxious to make every tackle and lacking speed,
Torgeson was easily exploited. When he red-dogged, Conerly
trapped him or passed over him. When he held, the Giants
double-blocked and ran over him. Gifford scored three touch-
downs and passed for a fourth in a 2814 victory.

After losing 24-7 to the Browns, the Giants clinched the
Eastern Conference championship with a 21-7 victory over
the Eagles, For the first time since they had joined the NFL
in 1950, the Cleveland Browns did not win their conference
title.

The Giants' success had been a team's success, but Gifford's
performance still stood out. He finished fifth in the NFL in
rushing (819 yards and a 5.2 average), third in receiving (51
for 603 yards), and tenth in scoring (five touchdowns running,

250

four passing, eight of nine extra points, and one field goal).
He also completed two of five passes for two touchdowns. (In
five NFL seasons, he had completed twelve of twenty-seven
passes and nine had been for touchdowns.)

Three days before the playoff game with the Chicago Bears,
Andy Robustelli heard the weather report freezing temper-
aturesand began to worry. That evening, he telephoned
Frank Yohan, a district manager for the U. S. Rubber Com-
pany, who lived nearby. "Frank," said the Giant end, "I've
been thinking. If the weather stays this cold, we'll be playing
Sunday's game on cement. All the players have basketball
shoes, but they're old ones and the rubber soles must be
pretty well dried out. Would fresh gum soles on brand-new
shoes grab the ground better?"

Yohan was convinced that new soles and shoes had to help.

"Tell you what to do," said Robustelli, who owned a sport-
ing goods store in Stamford. "You know those Big League
sneakers I'm stocking? Better get me four dozen pairs in all
sizes from nine through thirteen. Get them over to my store
by Saturday morning, and I'll bring them to the Stadium
Sunday morning just in case."

The shoes arrived on schedule and so did the freezing
weather and frozen field. By game time, the Giants were ready
for the Bears. "When it came time to play the game," said
Howell, "we just opened the door and got out of the way.
No one and nothing could have stopped the Giants that day."

Aided by Robustelli's sneakers, the Giants humiliated the
Bears before 56,836 fans who loved every freezing minute of
it. "We played the Bears before and I knew I could fake J. C.
Caroline, their rookie back, out of position," said Gifford.
With third down on the Bear 38, Gifford headed for Caroline,
cut in, and took Heinrich's pass to the 17. Taking a quick
hand-off, Triplett bolted off left tackle, trampled umpire Mike
Wilson and teammate Jack Stroud, and dragged three Bears
over the goal line with him. Two field goals by Ben Agajanian
gave New York a 13-0 lead as the first quarter came to an
end. Early in the second quarter, the Giants moved 43 yards
in five plays with Webster scoring from the 3. Huff, who had
done a remarkable job stopping All-Pro fullback Rick Casares,
was blocked out on one play and Casares carried 9 yards for

25 1

the Bears' first touchdown, cutting the Giant lead to thirteen
points. It was the only time Casares escaped Huff all afternoon.

Before the half ended, Webster bucked over from the 1,
and rookie Henry Moore recovered a blocked punt in the
end zone for a 34-7 lead. The Giants picked up where they'd
left off in the second half. After an exchange of punts, New
York traveled 80 yards in three plays, scoring on a 9-yard pass
from Conerly to Rote. Early in the final quarter, the Giants
started moving again. Starting from their own 45, Gifford lost
7. Triplett picked up 15 on a draw play, and Webster slashed
for 4 more and a first down. On the next play, Gifford swung
wide on the same pattern that had fooled Caroline in the
first half. Ray Smith, who had replaced Caroline, diagnosed
the play perfectly and cut in to break it up. But this time,
Gifford didn't stop. He sidestepped Smith and continued run-
ning. Conerly lofted a 29-yard pass to his halfback and hit
him again for a touchdown and a 47-7 victory.

"I got away with murder when I ran behind Smith, for 1
violated a cardinal rule never cross up your quarterback,"
said Gifford. "If Charlie had thrown to the spot he had called
for in the huddle, Smith would have intercepted for a long
runback and possibly a touchdown. But I was sure Charlie
would size up the situation and anticipate my move. I was
lucky he was psychic."

Despite the chilling winds and the 18-degree temperature,
Giant fans stormed the field, tearing down the goal posts and
pounding their heroes, their champions. Conerly, the man
they had booed into retirement, had completed seven of ten
passes for 195 and had called a near-perfect game. Gifford,
Webster, Triplett, Robustelli, Huff, they were all heroes now.

"Do you realize we're champions of the world?" Conerly
kept repeating at a victory party that evening. "That covers
a mighty lot of territory/'

"Don't forget Afghanistan," shouted one Giant. "And what
about Outer Mongolia?" bellowed another.

Grasping a glass of beer in his skinned fists, Sam Huff
grinned. The boy from Jamison No. 9, who almost walked
out of the Giants' training camp five months before, was sit-
ting on top of the world. "Ya know/' said Huff, "this sure as
hell beats working in the mines."

252

For Want of a Couple Inches

Q. SPORTSWRJTER: Can one football player single-handedly
win an NFL championship?

A. NFL COACH: Not a chance. Professional football is a
complex team game played and won by
33 men. One player can make a big dif-
ference^ but he can't do it alone.

Ask this question to any NFL coach and, invariably, you
will receive this answer. It is not surprising. It's good sound
football reasoning based on good sound football logic. In fact,
there was only one thing wrong with it in 1957. It simply
wasn't true.

In 1956, Jim Lee Howell had gambled. To develop a cham-
pionship football team, he had sacrificed future draft choices
for established professionals. It paid off miraculously. With
Robustelli and Modzelewski bolstering the toughest defensive
line in professional football, the Giants had ended Cleveland's
six-year domination of the Eastern Conference and won the
NFL championship. Despite the loss of mammoth tackle
Rosey Grier to the Army and several pre-season injuries,
Howell figured to have a potential champion in 1957. He
did, but it didn't make any difference.

Paul Brown had drafted a rookie halfback from Syracuse
and the Giants didn't have a chance. In 1957, Jimmy Brown
was the difference between first and second place in the East-
ern Conference. At Manhasset High School in Long Island
and at Syracuse University, Brown was an All-American at
football and lacrosse, brilliant at track and field, and out-

standing at baseball and basketball. In Paul Brown's system
at Cleveland, Brown, a flashing 228-pound college halfback,
became the fastest and finest fullback professional football has
ever known. As a rookie, he led the NFL in rushing, gaining
942 yards and averaging 4.7 a carry, made the All-Pro first
team, and single-handedly transformed the Browns into an
Eastern Conference champion. With Brown's rushing forcing
the defenses in tight, Tommy O'Connell, a journeyman quar-
terback in 1956, completed 63 of 110 for 1,229 yards and 9
touchdowns and led the NFL in passing in 1957.

Howell and Tom Landry, his defensive specialist, experi-
mented with a variety of alignments against Cleveland before
finally settling on one assigning Huff to key off Brown and
stay with him for the entire game. In future years, Huff would
stop Brown in some of the game's classic individual duels, but
in 1957 the Giants couldn't stop the Browns.

They lost, 6-3, to Cleveland in the opener, ran up a three-
game winning streakover Philadelphia, Washington, and
Pittsburgh and then lost to the Redskins. They won four
more twice over the Cardinals and once over the Packers
and Eagles before losing their third to the 49ers. Against San
Francisco, Huff, improving in every game, made one of foot-
ball's greatest tackles. On one play, quarterback Y. A. Tittle
faded back eight yards and lofted a screen pass to Hugh Mc-
Elhenny, who headed for the sidelines with Bruce Bosley and
Lou Palatella, two huge linemen, running interference in
front of him. Huff, studying Tittle's movements, had diag-
nosed the play perfectly. The moment Y. A. started to drop
back, Huff headed full speed for McElhenny. Barreling straight
ahead, the Giant linebacker snapped his left fist into Bosley's
chest, his right into Palatella's, and sent both of them hurtling
backward into McElhenny for a sizable loss.

The next week, the Giants eliminated themselves from title
contention by losing to Pittsburgh, then got their second look
at Jimmy Brown. Though the game was meaningless, the
Giants played exceptional football. Conerly and Gifford had
big afternoons, but New York's secondary gave way and the
Browns finally won, 34-28. Seven and five on the season, the
Giants finished a disappointing second in their conference,

254

but the Browns had not seen the last of Sam Huff and the
Giant defense.

It was obvious that the Giants desperately needed help in
the defensive secondary and they wasted little time in getting
it. They traded rookie Bobby Joe Conrad and Dick Nolan to
the Chicago Cardinals for Lindon Crow, a talented young pass
defender. As a throw-in, the Giants also received Pat Summer-
all, a twenty-eight-year-old veteran end whose principal con-
tribution had been as a field-goal specialist. In three years, he
had not kicked a single field goal of more than 42 yards, but
the Giant job was his until he lost it.

With Grier back from the Army, Howell also helped him-
self in the draft fullback Phil King, halfback Don Maynard,
tackle Frank Youso, and guard Bob Mischak; and in trades--
defensive back Carl Karilivacz and guard Al Barry. But the
new defensive backfield of Patton, Crow, Tunnell, and Hughes
did not help immediately. The Giants lost five of six exhibi-
tion games, then split the first four of the regular season-
dividing with the Cardinals, defeating Washington, and losing
to Philadelphia. Disturbed by his team's dismal start, Howell
was discouraged when Gifford, his top ballcarrier and receiver,
was sidelined with torn ligaments in his knee.

Resting in St. Elizabeth's Hospital, his knee packed in ice,
Gifford opened his eyes one morning at 5:30 and shook his
head. There, standing directly in front of him, was a monster
of a man waving his hands wildly. "I thought I must have
been having a nightmare," says Gifford, "but this big guy just
wouldn't go away. He shook my bed and then walked over to
the window and started flipping the blinds like a machine
gun. All the time, he was shaking like a leaf."

"Hey you, Gifford!" the intruder shouted. "What's wrong
with you Giants? You need someone like me to play for you.
I'm tough. I was in Korea and I've killed guys. That's what
you need a killer. I'll rip 'em to pieces." He paused, twitched
violently, and shook Gifford's bed for emphasis.

"By now I was praying it was a dream, but the more he
raved the more I realized some madman had walked into my
room/' says Gifford, who frantically had been ringing the
buzzer for a nurse without any luck. "I could hardly move but
I reached over and grabbed the water pitcher. I figured if he

255

was going to kill me I at least was going to get one good
shot at him. 1 '

Gifford had one last hope. "Hey, you're wasting your time
here/' he said. "The man you want to see is Jim Lee Howell,
our coach. He's at Yankee Stadium and he'll take good care
o you/'

The intruder stared at Gifford, shook again, and strode out
of the room, banging into Gifford's bed on the way. Moments
later, a nurse looked into the room. "Did you ring for us?"
she asked.

"Did I ring?" he said. "Where did that madman come
from? Who let him in? What kind of hospital is this?"

"Madman?" she said. "What madman? The only visitor
we've had here this morning was some man who said he was
your brother and wanted to see you before he left for work."

Gifford's "brother" wasn't through for the day. Shortly be-
fore ten, he burst into the Giant dressing room, shouted, "I'll
show you guys how to throw a block," and dove into a large
desk, sending it sliding across the room. The half-dozen Giants
in the room were too startled to speak.

"Hey, Modzelewski," he hollered at Harland Svare, "what
were you doing there Sunday? Playing tiddlywinks?" Glancing
at the players, he gave a quick rundown of past Giant per-
formances and then remembered that he had come to see
Howell "Where's Howell?" he shouted. "The trouble with
this team is the coach. Where is he?"

For emphasis, he grabbed a handful of balls out of a box
and started dropkicking them around the room. By now, the
Giants realized this wasn't a practical joke and they were con-
siderably relieved when four policemen, summoned by one of
the trainers, dragged the intruder toward the door. "All right,
so you don't appreciate me," he shouted as the police carted
him away. "You'll see. I'll go down to Baltimore and help
Johnny Unitas out."

Since the first week of training, the Giants had been so
disappointed by Mel Triplett that Howell twice had threat-
ened to release him if he continued to give less than a full
effort. "Mel always plays better when the other team has a
superior fullback, not necessarily superior to Mel, but out-
standing," said Howell before the Cleveland game. "The

256

Browns have a great fullback In Jimmy Brown. With that in
mind, we've been working on Triplett all week/ 7

One of the chief workers was Tom Landry, a defensive
genius with an acerbic wit. "How is it Jimmy Brown gains
more in one game than you gain in a whole season?" asked
Landry. "It just doesn't make sense to me."

By game time, Triplett was ready to give a 100 percent
effort. Brown entered the game with 15 touchdowns (league
record: 18 by Van Buren) and 928 yards gained rushing
(league record: 1,146 by Van Buren), but with Cleveland
halfback Lew Carpenter sidelined, the Giant defense was
totally geared to stop the big fullback. In his poorest after-
noon of the season, he gained 113 yards on thirteen carries.
Triplett gained 116.

Triplett and the defense played superbly In the 21-17
Giant victory, but Charlie Conerly was the real hero. He
threw three touchdown passes, bringing his career total to
140, second only to Baugh's 187, all the time standing up to
a fierce and punishing rush by the Cleveland linemen. In the
dressing room, Conerly was a battered and bloodied winner.
His face, his legs, and his body were covered with scrapes,
welts, bruises, dried blood, and mud. "Ain't I a mess?'' he
said looking in the mirror.

Jack Mara, who had been seeing battered football players
since he was a teen-ager, was still shocked by Conerly's condi-
tion. "Charlie/' Mara said, "I know now that they had you
in mind when they wrote that song, 'You Gotta Have Heart/ "

Gifford, who had watched the game from the bench,
glanced over at his close friend and roommate. "Hurt much,
Charlie?" he asked.

"You know how it is, Frank/' said Conerly, smiling. "It
never hurts much when you win. It's when you lose that it
hurts something fierce."

The Browns had been tough, but the unbeaten Baltimore
Colts, despite the loss of quarterback Johnny Unitas with
three broken ribs, figured to be a lot tougher. Before a record
crowd of 71,163 fans at Yankee Stadium, Conerly, Rote, Gif-
ford, and the defense were at their best, but the Giants had
to turn to a newand surprisinghero. In his first six games
as a Giant, Pat Summerall had kicked three of ten field goals

257

and had missed two extra points. He had been so discouraged
that he had contemplated quitting, changing his mind only
at the last minute. It was a lucky decision for the Giants. The
final score: Giants 24, Colts 21. The difference: a 28-yard field
goal by Summerall with 1:59 left. Summerall kicked another
the next week, but Pittsburgh's defense and red-dogging over-
whelmed Conerly, and the Steelers won, 31-10. With four
games to play, New York, 5-3, could not afford to lose an-
other game.

They routed Washington and Philadelphia, then headed for
Briggs Stadium in Detroit. The Giants led briefly, fell be-
hind, and trailed 17-12 into the final quarter. With fourth
down and 21 yards to go on their own 44, the Lions in-
explicably decided to gamble. It was one of the stupidest
gambles in pro football history. Instead of punting, Yale Lary
ran. He gainedone yard and the Giants took over on De-
troit's 45. Five plays later, Gifford sliced over and New York
led, 19-17.

Neither the game nor the poor play-calling was over yet.
With the victory already clinched, the Giants decided to pass
and Detroit's Terry Barr intercepted on his 19 and raced
back to his 43. Moving swiftly, the Lions drove to the Giant
20 with 73 seconds left. With Jim Martin, who rarely missed
inside the 35, set to kick from the 25, the Giant title hopes
seemed slight. "Svare was playing just outside me," explained
Robustelli. "We work out a plan on every extra-point and
field-goal attempt. This time, I pulled the Lion end inside
with my block and left an alley clear for Svare." That was all
Svare needed. Shooting past the Detroit cornerman, he dove
forward, deflecting the kick with his arm and preserving the
19-17 victory. To reach the NFL championship game, the
Giants now had to defeat Cleveland in the final game of the sea-
son and then defeat them again in a playoff. To even the
staunchest Giant fan, the team's chances did not seem par-
ticularly good.

They were a lot worse when Jimmy Brown slipped away
from Huff on the first play of the game and raced 65 yards
for a touchdown over the Yankee Stadium ice and snow. By
half time, the Browns led 10-3, but Kyle Rote had spotted
a flaw in Cleveland's defensive backfield. When Gifford,

258

whose passing had been hampered by an injured elbow,
overshot Webster on an option play in the first half, Rote
noted that the Browns* secondary had overshifted completely
to guard against a run and not a pass. In the fourth quarter,
after Robustelli recovered a fumble on Cleveland's 45, the
Giants decided to try the option play again. Faking a hand-off
to Webster, Conerly handed the ball to Gifford, who circled
to his right, feinting a run and drawing the defense with
him. Rote, who had brush-blocked the Cleveland right tackle
and then swung away, sprinted all alone down the left side-
line, took a high running pass from Gifford, and carried to
the Cleveland 6. Two plays later, on the same pattern, Gif-
ford faked a run and a pass to Rote, and then hit Schnelker
in the end zone for a touchdown and a 10-10 tie.

The Browns, who needed only a tie to qualify for the
championship game, refused to gamble. Rosey Grier broke
through twice, tossing quarterback Milt Plum for sizable
losses, and the Browns punted. With the ball on the Cleve-
land 31 and 4:30 left in the game, Summerall trotted out to
the middle of the field. Before the game had started, he had
tested his swollen right knee and told Don Chandler he had
better warm up. "I don't think I'm going to be able to kick
today/' he said, but he changed his mind after a few practice
boots. Lining up the field-goal attempt, Summerall stared up
into the snowy haze, stepped into the ball, booted it firmly
with his 10i/ E kicking shoe, and missed. "I'd have liked to
have gone anywhere but back to the bench," he said. "But
four or five of the guys came over and told me to forget it,
that they'd get me another chance."

They did. They stopped the Browns again and, after three
passes failed, Howell decided to give Summerall another
chance, this time with 2:07 remaining from the 49. "On the
one I missed, I figured it would fade from left to right a
bit," he explained. "It went straight as an arrow. On the
last one, I just kicked it straight ahead. I knew I had to hit
it good."

He did, "I looked up as soon as Pat hit the ball," said Con-
erly, who held it for him. "It looked real good and it made
me feel real good. There was a lot of guilt riding on that one."

In the dressing room, Tim Mara, the proud father, sat

259

huddled in a heavy winter overcoat. "How do you like that
Summerville?" said Mara, who never had been particularly
concerned about his players' names. "That Summerville is
some kicker/' Mara, the fan, paused; Mara, the businessman,
added, jokingly, "But what the hell? I'm paying him good
money and he doesn't even play. All he does is kick. That kick
today was the least he could do to earn his money."

Leaning back in his chair in his private office, Howell tried
to unwind, but the writers wouldn't let him. They all pressed
him about next week's playoff with the Browns at Yankee
Stadium. Could the Giants possibly beat the Browns three
times in one season? "Next week?" he said. "To tell you the
truth, I don't know. This is a great team emotionally. The
greatest. But how many times emotionally can you do this?"

The Giants obviously could do it at least one more time.
With Huff and the defense surpassing their previous per-
formances, the Giants held Jimmy Brown to 18 yards rushing
and won, 10-0. "Brown was in a tough spot," said Huff.
"Cleveland likes to run its plays to perfection. As long as
they run the play perfect, they figure your mistakes will beat
you. Well, here I was knowing Jimmy would run and just
where he would run. I wasn't about to make any mistakes."

Defensing the Colts was an entirely different problem.
With Unitas back, Baltimore had the most versatile attack
in professional football The Colts had an excellent fullback
(Alan Ameche), brilliant receivers (Lenny Moore, Raymond
Berry, and Jim Mutscheller), and awesome protection. And
their defensive line (255-pound Don Joyce, 288-pound Big
Daddy Lipscomb, 270-pound Art Donovan, 275-pound ex-
Giant Ray Krouse, and 240-pound Gino Marchetti) was the
biggest and roughest in the NFL. Unlike the Browns, the
Colts would not be pushed around by the Giants' lines. In
fact, with Grier hampered by an injured leg, Baltimore started
pushing the Giants around in the first half.

Though the Giants scored first on a 36-yard field goal by
Summerall Baltimore tackle Jim Parker completely over-
powered Andy Robustelli, cutting off the home team's chief
pass rusher, and Unitas quickly went to work. Two Gifford
fumbles and the Colts had a 14-3 lead at half time.

When Baltimore drove for a first down on the Giant 3

260

early in the third quarter, even Wellington Mara, the world's
No. 1 Giant fan, began to lose hope. Then, for the first time
all day, New York's defense, aided by the slippery footing,
held for four downs and took over on the 5. It was the first
time the Colts had been stopped inside the 10 all season. Two
running plays moved the ball to the 13, and Conerly called
for a pass. Rote beat his man, grabbed the floater over his
shoulder, and raced to the Colt 25, where he was hit hard and
fumbled. For a few seconds, it seemed as if the moment had
been frozen in time. No one moved as the ball took first
one bounce and then another. Then, Alex Webster bent down,
picked it up, and ran to the 1 before he was dragged down.
On the first play, Triplett hurdled into the end zone, and the
Giants now trailed by only four points. Suddenly, the whole
complexion of the game had changed. "GOOOOoooo Giants/'
chanted many of the 64,185 fans in Yankee Stadium and the
Giants, battling heroically, started to go. The Colts, who had
controlled the game, had lost control. Robustelli and Modze-
lewski broke through and dumped Unitas for losses and the
Colts were forced to punt. In the first half, Wellington Mara,
who took pictures of the action with a Polaroid camera from
the press box and then tossed the prints down to the bench
in a weighted sock, had uncovered a weakness in the Baltimore
secondary. When the Giants ran from a strong-right forma-
tion, the Colts overshifted to the right. After completing
two passes to Schnelker for 17 and 46 yards Conerly brought
the Giants up to the line in a strong-right formation. Just
as he had hoped for, the Baltimore backs once again over-
shifted. Fading back, he faked a pass to his right end, then
hit Gifford along on the left sideline for the touchdown and
a 17-14 lead. Beaten and exhausted, the Giants had battled
back.

On one play, Huff plowed into Berry and the two players
rolled out of bounds near the Baltimore bench. Colt coach
Weeb Ewbank, convinced that Huff had deliberately tried to
injure his end, rushed at the Giant linebacker, cursed him,
and hit him in the neck. "I looked at him and popped him on
the chin," said Huff. "If they hadn't pulled us apart, I would
have hit him again because I didn't like the way I got him.
I wanted to cream him. I was wild/'

261

So were the rest of the Giants. They rushed Unitas mer-
cilessly and again the Colts had to punt. Two running plays
gained 6 yards for the Giants. With third and 4 on their
own 39 and little more than two minutes left in the game,
Conerly called for a Gifford sweep to the right. Running wide,
Gifford noticed that Marchetti had fought off Schnelker's
block and decided to cut inside tackle. Lunging sideways,
Marchetti grabbed Gifford and slowed him down until Lip-
scomb pounced on top of them. At the bottom of the pile,
Marchetti, whose ankle snapped when his huge teammate fell
on top of him, screamed out in pain.

"I had that first down made/' says Gifford. "If that referee
hadn't been so concerned about helping Marchetti and had
marked the ball first, we'd have had the first down and the
championship. But he took so much time getting Marchetti
out that by the time he put the ball down we were still a
few inches short of the first down. It was a rotten call."

With fourth down on their own 43, Howell went by the
book and not by the wildly screaming fans and sent Chand-
ler In to punt. With less than two minutes to play, Unitas
started on his 14 and, with the Giant defense laying back to
guard against the long touchdown pass to Moore, completed
four short passes three to Berry for 25, 15, and 22 yards to
the Giant 13. Without huddling, the Colts shifted into field-
goal formation and Steve Myhra booted the ball from the
20. It was good. With seven seconds remaining in the game, the
NFL championship playoff was tied, 17-17. For the first time
in history, it would go into a sudden-death overtime.

The two teams rested on the sidelines for three minutes, then
Unitas and New York co-captains Rote and Svoboda met at
midfield for the toss of the coin. Unitas called. It was his last
wrong call of the afternoon. If the Giants could score even
if it were only a field goal they would be the 1958 NFL
champions. But the drive and momentum that had carried
them from certain defeat in the third quarter to certain vic-
tory in the fourth had been spent. On first down, Gifford
rushed for 4. On second down, Conerly passed incomplete.
And on third down, Conerly, trapped, his receivers covered,
ran with the ball, but was tripped one foot short of a first
down. With fourth down on their own 29, the Giants had to

262

give up the ball. Chandler's punt was excellent and Unitas
had to start from his own 20. Mixing his plays up brilliantly,
calling for short passes when the Giants dropped back, switch-
ing to a trap when they rushed, Unitas completed four of
five passes two to Berry for 33 yards and, within twelve
plays, the Colts were down to the Giant 1. Ameche, who
had picked up 23 yards and an important first down during
the drive, sliced off tackle on the thirteenth play of the series
and into the end zone. At 8:15 of the NFL's first sudden-
death overtime period, the Baltimore Colts had won the pro-
fessional championship, 23-17.

Though it wasn't the greatest game ever played, as one
magazine insisted on calling it, it was the richest and most
exciting. The playoff had drawn 64,185 fans and $698,646
(on $10 box seats and $7.50 reserved, and radio-TV rights),
giving $4,718.77 to each Colt and $3,111.33 to each Giant.
And it had given each player and each fan a memory he would
never forget.

"It was quite a season/' said Vince Lombardi at a dinner
that evening. "But I have only two complaints about it. It was
a couple inches too short and seven seconds too long."

263

The High Cost of Winning

THE New York Giants had lost, but the National Football
League had won. Baseball might still be called America's na-
tional pastime, but professional football was clearly America's
favorite spectator sport. The dark ages were over, the hand-
to-mouth existence had vanished for good. By 1959, it took
$1.5 million to operate a NFL franchise and more than 30,000
fans at each home game to break even, yet almost everyone
was making money. Business was so good that a Texas mil-
lionaire and several of his friends, stymied in their attempts to
obtain NFL franchises, began early in 1959 to make lavish
plans for a new league that would begin play in September
of 1960. Unlike previous rival groups, which came primarily
to battle, the American Football League at first came prima-
rily to share. Though battle lines eventually would be drawn
in New York, Dallas, Los Angeles, and San Francisco, the
newcomers didn't have a chance.

To the Giants, who had met and conquered rival leagues
before, the AFL had the same effect as a bee buzzing around
the face of Sonny Listen. It might sting, but that was all it
was going to do. Tim Mara had made the Giants too powerful
and too popular, but now, for the first time, Mara's sons
would have to make all the decisions by themselves. On the
night of February 16, 1959, seventy-one-year-old Timothy
James Mara, who had turned a nickel-and-dime newspaper
route into a six-figure race-track business, only to give that
up to build professional football's most lucrative franchise,
died of a heart attack in his Park Avenue apartment.

T. J.'s death was tragic, but he was not the team's only loss.

264

Vince Lombard!, whose coaching had brought new dimen-
sions and discipline to the New York offense, quit to accept
the head coaching job at Green Bay and, almost immediately,
traded for Emlen Tunnell, the finest defensive back in Giant
history. An aging veteran of eleven professional seasons, Tun-
nell had slowed up and could be replaced. Finding someone
to replace Lombardi wouldn't be as easy.

The obvious choice was Allie Sherman, who had been back-
field coach under Steve Owen before taking a head coaching
job in Canada in 1954 and had returned to the Giants as
personnel scout in 1957. There was only one problem: Some
people, including a group of New York sportswriters, were
convinced that Sherman lacked imagination. Wasn't it his
offense the Giants had used when they lost nine games in
1953? And wasn't it his offense that cost Steve Owen his job?
What could Sherman possibly offer the Giants? The Maras
and Jim Lee Howell knew the answerand they wasted no
time in naming Allie Sherman backfield coach. Despite the
team's poor record, they knew Sherman had been a shrewd
and scientific expert in modern T-formation football, hand-
icapped by Owen's one-man rule and A-formation mania.
Allie had been given the job of converting Conerly, a college
tailback, into a T-quarterback, and he had succeeded. Under
Howell, Sherman would be given the same opportunity Lom-
bardi had received. "It's your offense now," Howell told him.
"Run it the way you want. If there's something I don't like,
you'll hear about it."

Sherman's first problem in 1959 was a unique one. In a
game where coaches never have enough material, the Giants
suddenly had too much at quarterback. It all started shortly
after the playoff loss to the Baltimore Colts. Unlike Unitas
and Pittsburgh quarterback Bobby Layne, Conerly was strictly
a passer who presented no threat at all as a runner. Realizing
this, opponents acted accordingly. When Conerly dropped
back to pass, they knew he was going to pass and were able
to adjust their defenses. Frank Gifford, Conerly's roommate,
always had wanted to play quarterback professionally, but
didn't do anything about it until 1959. After discussing his
idea with Sherman, he wrote a lengthy letter to Howell re-
questing permission to try out for quarterback. Gifford's idea

265

wasn't out of the question. An exceptional runner and a bet-
ter-than-average passer, he would force the other NFL teams
to gamble defensively. YOU WILL BE GIVEN EVERY OPPORTUNITY,
wired Jim Lee HowelL i HOPE YOU SUCCEED AND PROVE TO BE
THE BEST IN THE LEAGUE. At twenty-nine, a veteran of seven
pro seasons, Gifford, the most versatile halfback in professional
football history, was going to become a rookie for the second
time. With only Conerly and Don Heinrich to compete against,
Gifford had an excellent chance. But when the Giants drafted
All-American Lee Grosscup of Utah and then traded for
George Shaw of the Baltimore Colts, the quarterback position
became both crowded and confusing. Yet the situation was
not without its lighter moments. One afternoon that summer,
Gifford and Conerly spent the day playing golf. After break-
fast and a dozen holes, Conerly still hadn't mentioned his
teammate's well-publicized plan to try and steal his job. Gif-
ford finally lost his patience as Conerly methodically lined up
a short putt. "Charlie," he said, "you know I'm likely to take
your job away from you this year, don't you?"

Without looking up, Conerly stroked his ball firmly,
watched it plop into the cup, and marked his score on his
card. Then, and only then, did he turn to Gifford. "Giff," he
said, "please, in the future, don't talk to me when I'm
putting."

The role of Lee Grosscup was less clearly defined. In col-
lege, he had been an excellent passer with unlimited en-
thusiasm and a desire to write creatively. His talent for pass-
ing won a Giant contract; his talent for writing won the scorn
of his new teammates. During his senior year at Utah, he had
written a series of letters to Murray Olderman, Newspaper
Enterprise Association's talented writer-cartoonist, and, less
than a month before reporting to the Giants' camp, he gave
permission to Sports Illustrated to publish them. Gushing
with enthusiasm and blushing with naivete, the letters were
both embarrassing and damaging. "They are a great bunch,"
he had written after meeting the Giants the year before.
"Fine gentlemen, very spirited, close knit, good drinkers,
great physical specimens . . . This pro football is the greatest
challenge of my life. I want to make good so bad I can taste
it"

266

Handsome, talkative, and articulate, Grosscup was a natural
for probing sportswriters. But to professional football players,
rookies are seen and not heard and Grosscup had already
made more noise than all the other Giants put together. He
would soon learn to regret it, "In training camp, a player
has enough on his mind to keep him busy twenty-four hours
a day without having to pamper mopers or guys with emo-
tional problems," says Gifford. "When you're a rookie, you're
not going to have anyone pull you in. You've got to make it
on your own." When Grosscup told one writer Gifford was
his boyhood idol, Frank flinched. When Grosscup told an-
other his mother was younger than Conerly, Charlie almost
choked. It made good reading for Joe Fan, but it only antag-
onized the Giant veterans.

Naturally shy, Grosscup withdrew even further when the
veterans, who normally avoid forming associations with any
rookie until he has definitely made the team, ignored him
completely. He finally got his first chance to play football in
an exhibition game against the Lions. Leading by 24 points in
the final quarter, Howell signaled to his rookie quarterback.
"OK, son/' said the coach, "get in there."

Working with the second-team backfield, Grosscup faked
a hand-off to his fullback on the first play, stepped back, and
hit rookie halfback Joe Morrison with a 55-yard touchdown
pass. "Son, you're batting a thousand," said Howell. "The only
way you can go now is downhill."

"I'll try to stay at the same level, sir/' said Grosscup.

Rookie and coach were both delighted, but the other play-
ers were more reserved. A quarterback must command a team
whether quietly like Conerly or aggressively like Layne
and Grosscup could not command the Giants until he had
earned their respect. "Nice going, kid," said Sam Huff, a
smiling athlete with a sharp needle. "Now you ought to be
able to write another letter to that magazine."

Huff and the other veterans finally felt sorry for the rookie
toward the end of training. One night at Bear Mountain Inn,
Huff decided he couldn't finish a pizza by himself, looked up,
and noticed Grosscup sitting alone at a corner table. "Come
over here/' the veteran called, "and help me finish this, you
lonely son of a gun/' Grosscup's life was a little more cheerful

267

from then on, but it still didn't help him make the team. He
was the first quarterback to go, but when the other teams re-
fused to claim him on waivers out of favor to the Giants, he was
named to the New York taxi squad. A phenomenon of the
late 1950's, the taxi squad supposedly got its name from one
owner a taxi tycoon who would pay his regulars from the
team payroll and his others (those above the NFL limit) from
his taxi company's earnings. Taxi squad players were paid and
practiced daily with the team, but they were not allowed to
dress for games.

Gifford's tribulations as a quarterback received almost as
much publicity as Grosscup's. Running through an early prac-
tice at his new position, he faked a hand-off neatly, faded back
quickly, and spotting a hole in the middle of the line, decided
to run. The hole didn't wait for him, but Sam Huff did
with a sharp, punishing tackle. "Were you going somewhere,
Buddy?" said Huff, grinning.

"I guess not/' answered Gifford, not grinning.

By the end of the first three weeks of practice, Gifford had
shown remarkable improvement and promise, but, from the
beginning, three factors had been working against him. One:
he didn't have enough time. Two: the acquisition of Shaw
to back up Conerly gave the Giants all the quarterbacks they
could realistically use. Three: he was too talented a left half-
back to waste anyplace else. When he caught two touchdown
passes from Conerly in the exhibition victory over Detroit,
the experiment was over and Gifford was back at halfback.

Working in their new offices on the sixteenth floor of the
Coliseum Tower building on 59th Street, Wellington Mara
and the coaching staff didn't stop their dealings when they
traded for Shaw. They needed help in the defensive backfield
and at offensive guard and they got it, once again by giving
up future draft choices. They picked up halfbacks Dick Lynch
of the Redskins and ex-Giant Dick Nolan of the Cardinals,
and offensive guard Darrell Dess of the Steelers.

The opening game of the season before 71,297 fans in the
Los Angeles Coliseum would set the tempo for the entire
season. Before the game, Sherman sat with Conerly in a cor-
ner of the dressing room. "Charlie, I want you to throw the
ball anytime you see an opening," said Sherman. "Loosen

268

them up. Scare them. Show them we can throw the long ball,
too, this year. 1 ' Conerly was an A-plus pupil. He passed the
Giants into a 17-0 lead, then, when the Rams scored three
times to go ahead, returned to the game. He completed five
passes for 74 yards to set up a Summerall field goal, which cut
the Los Angeles lead to one point. Then, with less than three
minutes remaining to play, Conerly decided to pass on fourth
down and 1 1 yards to go on his own 45. It was now or never.
Fading back, he faked a short pass to Gifford and hit Schnel-
ker for a first down on the Ram 20. Two running plays
picked up 7 more yards and on third down Summerall booted
an 18-yard field goal for a 23-21 Giant victory. It was a game
the Giants couldn't afford to lose. "It was an anxious period
for us/' said Sherman. "The Giants had been figured as a
club with no real speed, and no breakaway threat. Opposing
teams had been showing less respect for our scoring range in
exhibition games. We had to get them out of this way of
thinking and the Ram game was our big test."

It was a happy team of Giants that returned to New York
and started getting ready for their game with the Philadelphia
Eagles. "The Eagles aren't much/' said scout Walt Yowarsky,
a former Giant lineman, who made the mistake of delivering
the highly derogatory scouting report with a New York sports-
writer sitting in the dressing room. His story the next day-
detailing how little the Giants thought of the Eaglesinfu-
riated the Philadelphia players and worried Howell. "The
Eagles are so mad now they'll be dangerous/' he warned his
players. "You've insulted them. What are you going to do
about it?"

After a momentary silence, Rosey Grier, the mammoth de-
fensive tackle, offered a suggestion. "Maybe/' he said, "we
should write them a letter of apology."

The line was funny, but the Eagles weren't. Playing with-
out injured Jim Patton, the key to the New York pass defense,
the Giants couldn't contain little Tommy McDonald. He
caught three passes for touchdowns and ran back a punt 81
yards for a fourth. The overconfident Giants were further
humiliated when Philadelphia rookie Art Powell sprinted 95
yards with a kickoff and a 49-21 Eagle victory.

The Giants had learned their lesson and, with Patton back

269

In the lineup, they defeated the Browns, 10-6. Don Chandler,
one of the NFL's top punters, had one of his finest days as a
professional averaging 54 yards for eight punts with kicks
going out of bounds on the Cleveland 4-, 5-, and 6-yard lines.
It was an impressive performance, but it was overshadowed
by the news waiting for the team in the dressing room.
Commissioner Bert Bell, who had guided the NFL through
its biggest war and the Filchock-Hapes scandal, and into
its golden era, died watching the Steelers and Eagles play
that afternoon. "I'd trade every game we ever won if it would
bring Bert back," said Jack Mara. BelFs assistant, Austin
Gunsel, was named acting commissioner until the end of the
season.

Despite slippery new jerseys that contributed to five New
York fumbles, the Giants were ready for the Eagles in the
Yankee Stadium opener. With Lindon Crow and Patton dou-
ble-teaming McDonaldand holding him to two completions
the Giants won, 24-7. The next week, Huff recovered a
fumble to give the Giants a 21-16 fourth-quarter lead over
Pittsburgh, but Joe Morrison fumbled on his own 16 with
1:30 left and the Steelers had one more chance. Two run-
ning plays brought the ball to the 6i/ 2 , less than 1 yard short
of a first down, and Brown and Youso, 505 pounds of offensive
linemen, trotted out onto the field to bolster the defense. It
was one of football's most impressive stands. Twice fullback
Tom (The Bomb) Tracy tried to bomb through and twice
Giant linemen fought off double-team blocks to stop him for
no gain. With 49 seconds to play, the Giants ran out the
clock. "I was beginning to worry out there," said Katcavage
in the dressing room.

"Not me/' said Grier, "they never even came close."

"If they got any closer than that/' said Harland Svare, "I'll
be getting old before my time and I'm too young for that/'

The victory had been very costly. Conerly had aggravated
an ankle injury. Yet even without their ace quarterback, the
Giants, their defense slowly reaching peak performance, over-
whelmed the Packers and Lombardi, 20-3. "They're the great-
est defensive team in football," said Lombardi. "These guys
just don't make mistakes."

To win games, a team must score and Summerall, who

270

booted two 49-yard field goals, was New York's chief threat.
"Week in and week out, that guy kills you," said Redskin
scout Wayne Millner. "There's only one way to defense him
and that's by giving him an ingrown toenail."

They were exceptional, but the Giant defense and Summer-
all could not do it alone. He kicked three field goals to beat
the Cardinals, 9-3, and kicked three more as the Giants lost
to the Steelers, 14-9. The Browns, who had routed the Red-
skins, were now tied with the Giants for first place in the
Eastern Conference.

The pressure was on and it began to affect Jim Lee Howell.
A fun-loving, easygoing player, Howell had become a fair but
militant coach. Success had not spoiled him, but it was coin-
ing close to ruining him. Losing was bad, but the cost of
winning suddenly was becoming almost as high. "Being a
slave driver just wasn't my nature/' says Howell, who had
promised his wife in 1956 that he would retire after he won
a second championship. "I was never a dedicated football man.
It got so bad in 1959 that I was sacrificing everything my life
and my family to football. I'd spend all day at practice, snap-
ping at my players, then take my snarling disposition home
with me. I couldn't sleep and I couldn't unwind. It just
wasn't worth it anymore. It reached a point where I couldn't
stand to lose and I didn't get any kick out of winning."

Howell's disposition mellowed temporarily when Conerly
returned to lead the Giants to a 30-20 victory over the Cardi-
nals. "He really shouldn't have been playing," said Howell,
"but we couldn't keep him out of there. Charlie is an old
pro and he knows the only way to make money in this busi-
ness is to win. So he got back into the lineup to do the job
himself."

The relationship between Conerly and the Giant fans had
finally come full cycle. Driven into retirement momentarily
after the 1953 season because of the fans' bitter criticism of
his play, Conerly now found himself the darling of New
York. He was so popular that the Redskin game was officially
dedicated as Charlie Conerly Day. The BACK TO THE FARM
signs were gone. In their place was a large banner: CONERLY
FOR PRESIDENT. "I've had my ups and downs here with the
Giants," said Conerly, after receiving $25,000 in gifts includ-

271

ing two cars and a trip to Europe. "I want to thank you all
for sticking by me." Conerly said thank you again once
the game started. He threw three touchdown passes in the
first half, then watched as his teammates routed Washing-
ton, 45-14. When the 49ers upset the Browns, the Giants
clinched at least a tie for the conference championship.

They had needed help to clinch the tie; they needed no
help to clinch the title. Scoring more than a point a minute
for the first three quarters, the much-maligned Giant attack
exploded against the Browns, rolling to a 48-7 lead into the
final minutes. "I never saw anything like it," said a Baltimore
scout. "Those big four men in the defensive line put so much
pressure on the quarterback that the Giants don't even have
to red-dog. From the start, the Giant linemen were on them
like mad dogs/'

For the first time in his collegiate and professional career,
fullback Jimmy Brown was tackled so hard by Huff that he
had to leave the game. "The only way to stop Cleveland is to
stop Jimmy Brown," said Huff. "And the only way to do that
is to hit him as hard and with as many men as you can.
That's exactly what we did. There was nothing dirty about it.
Jimmy will tell you that. But, man, was he hit!"

Enjoying his finest season as a professional, Conerly, the
amazing old man, completed 14 of 21 passes for 271 yards and
3 touchdowns, but the screaming New York fans still weren't
satisfied. "We want fifty!" they chanted. "We want fifty!"
With two minutes left to play, 3,000 fans bolted out of their
seats, raced onto the field, and started tearing down the goal
posts. While the Giant players watched the wild, spontaneous
scene, Paul Brown and his Browns quickly raced through the
Yankee Stadium dugout and into their dressing room. The
police were helpless and the public-address announcer kept re-
peating, "If this game is not completed, the Giants must for-
feit and the Browns will win/'

For nearly fifteen minutes, total chaos and total jubilation
reigned. Most of the Giants relaxed and enjoyed the un-
scheduled brawl. Rosey Grier was an exception. "It's me, Big
Rosey talking to you," he shouted, running from one group
of fans to another. "Please get off the field. Please." Finally,
the fans did leave, the Browns returned, and the game ended

272

with no further scoring. "Humiliated?" said coach Brown
afterward. "We didn't belong on the same field with them
today."

Despite the overwhelmingly satisfying victory, the pressures
of his job continued to weigh heavily on Howell. One after-
noon, Wellington Mara, well aware of his coach's torment,
walked into Howell's office. "The draft meeting is coming up
and Fin not as well prepared for it as I used to be," said the
Duke of Mara. "Jack and I have been toying with the idea of
creating a new position and hiring someone to supervise all
personnel. The ideal candidate would have to be a sound
football man who knows our setup and maybe even retired
as coach of the Giants." Mara paused and grinned. "Know
anyone who might qualify?"

"Are you kidding?" said Jim Lee.

"No," said Mara. "Are you interested?"

"I'd be interested if I didn't have to travel and if I got
the same salary I'm making now," said Howell. "If I could
make as much money doing something else as I do coaching,
I'd leave this minute."

"It's all right with us," said Mara. "Same salary and very
little travel. Why don't you think it over and let us know
after the season?"

With relief in sight, Howell was finally able to relax. The
Giants defeated the Redskins, 24-10, to finish the season with
a 10-2 record, then started getting ready for the championship
game. It was the chance the Giants had been praying fora
second playoff meeting with the Baltimore Colts. Offensively,
the coaches reasoned, the Giants should be able to score
against the Colts. Conerly, who completed 113 of 194 passes
for 1,706 yards and 14 touchdowns with only four Intercep-
tions, had led the NFL in passing for the first time and was a
near-unanimous choice as the league's Most Valuable Player.
Gifford, who caught 42 passes for 768 yards, had become the
all-time Giant leader in rushing (3,442 yards), receiving (233
for 3,208), and touchdowns (52). And Summerall, who had
kicked 30 of 30 extra points and 20 of 29 field goals, had
scored 90 points to finish second in the NFL. With Sherman's
wide-open passing attack and Conerly at his best, the Giant
offense, which did not reach its peak until the end of the

273

season, could score quickly and often. It was the defense and
the deep men's handling of Unitas and his receivers that
concerned the Giant coaches. "We decided to concede two
touchdowns to Lenny Moore and cover him with only one
man/' said Tom Landry. "This way, we could double-team
Ray Berry and Jim Mutscheller. This way we'd be giving
them their strength, hoping to cut off everything else. If our
defense worked, I thought we might win, 17-14 or 21-17."

The defense did work Moore scored once and set up an-
other touchdown with a reception but the Giant offense
didn't. The Colts scored almost immediately before the cheer-
ing 57,545 fans at Baltimore's Municipal Stadium on a 59-
yard pass from Unitas to Moore. Spotting a weakness in the
Colt defense, Conerly faked a pass and handed-off to fullback
Mel Triplett, who powered for 28 yards to the Colt 16. Be-
fore Baltimore's middle linebacker could adjust, Triplett hit
up the middle for 6 yards, and a Conerly-to-Schnelker pass
picked up 4 more for a first down on the 6. Shooting their
linebackers, the Colts pushed the Giants back to the 19 in
three plays, and New York had to settle for a field goal. In the
second quarter, Summerall kicked his second field goal, from
the 37, and, in the third, he kicked another, this time from
the 22, to put New York ahead, 9-7. "Football's a game of
momentum/' said Howell. "We had been playing poorly, but
with the third field goal we started to pick up momentum
and move." The Giants moved to the Colt 38 when the
Baltimore line again tightened. Three plays gained more than
9 yards and suddenly the Giants were faced with a familiar
situation. For the second straight championship meeting with
the Colts, the Giants had a fourth down and inches to go in a
crucial situation. In 1958, they didn't go for it and lost. This
time, they did go for it but they still lost. Webster was
stopped inches short and the Colts took over. "That was the
turning point," said HowelL "From then on, we were on the
defensive."

Unitas passed 36 yards to Moore for a first down on the
Giant 14 early in the fourth quarter. It was a big gain, but it
was a bigger play. Pulling loose from a tackle, high-stepping
Moore kneed Crow in the face and knocked him senseless for
the rest of the game. With Patton already sidelined with a

second-quarter injury, New York's airtight pass defense began
to leak. With Mutscheller covered, Unitas faked a pass and
sprinted past the still-dazed Crow for a 5-yard run and a
touchdown. It was still anybody's game but the Colt defense
forced Conerly into a dangerous gamble. With third down and
8 to go on his own 10, Conerly, who did not want to give up
the ball, decided to pass. Andy Nelson picked it off on the
31 and raced to the Giant 14. Faking to Berry, Unitas swung
around and hit rookie end Jerry Richardson for a 12-yard
touchdown and the rout was on. Johnny Sample ran 42 yards
with an interception for one touchdown, and then set up a
field goal with a second steal. The Giants finally scored their
first touchdown with 32 seconds left on a 32-yard Conerly-to-
Schnelker pass, but it was too little and too late. Scoring 24
points in the final fifteen minutes, the Colts won their second
straight NFL championship, 31-16. The Giants had lost the
two games by a total of 21 points, but, to Howell and the
players, it was more a matter of fifteen inches.

The Littlest Giant

JIM LEE had not changed his mind. Immediately after the
Senior Bowl game, Howell, who had one season remaining
on his $22,000~a-year contract, told the Maras he still wanted
to give up coaching for personnel work. The Maras had not
changed their minds either. "It was all set/' says Howell, "but
when the Maras wanted more time to find a replacement, I
agreed to coach for one more season."

A lame-duck coach can hurt a football team. Howell did not
hurt the Giants, but a series of injuries and defections did.
Defensive specialist Tom Landry quit to accept the head
coaching job with the Dallas Cowboys, and linebacker Har-
land Svare, his replacement, was handicapped both by inex-
perience and his decision to play and coach at the same time.

The injuries started the first week of training and con-
tinued throughout the season. In an exhibition game against
the Cowboys, Alex Webster, the team's most consistent ground-
gainer, crashed off tackle, cracked into two tacklers, and
churned desperately for a few extra feet. It was a typical
Webster run strong, aggressive, and unyielding with on'e ex-
ception. This time Alex did not bounce to his feet and trot
back to the huddle. Ligaments in his left knee had been torn.
Sidelined most of the season, Webster, who had averaged
more than 500 yards gained rushing in each of his five seasons
as a Giant, gained only 48 yards in 22 carries in 1960. The
Giants would have survived Webster's injury if it were the
only one. It wasn't. Conerly, Rote, Gifford, and Katcavage
were all hurt during the season, and after winning their first
three games on the road, the Giants started to stumble. When

276

they tied Washington and lost to the St. Louis Cardinals, who
had moved from Chicago, Howell decided he had to get
tough. "Professional football players are men and should be
treated like men/' said Howell. "But there are times when
they must be disciplined."

Howell's discipline paid off. In a remarkable demonstra-
tion of brute force and controlled violence, the Giants smashed
the Cleveland Browns before 82,872 at Municipal Stadium.
The Giant defense held Jimmy Brown and his teammates to
6 yards on the ground, and Conerly, troubled by infected
teeth, a wrenched ankle, and a swollen elbow, outpassed and
outthought the Cleveland secondary. Changing 50 percent of
his plays at the line of scrimmage, he relied on the power of
fullback Triplett, who gained 137 yards in 24 carries, and the
agility of halfback Gifford, who sprinted 6 yards around end
for a third-quarter touchdown and a 17-13 victory. It was a
happy team in the dressing room, and one of the happiest
Giants was Modzelewski, who mixed grins with grimaces as
Dr. Sweeny stitched up a deep cleat wound in his hand.

"I got stepped on/' said Little Mo. "I didn't notice it until
I saw the blood pouring down my hand. Then I showed it to
Sam [Huff] and said, 'Look, my hand's cut open/ He said,
'Shove it together and keep pushing in there/ So I did."

The Giant defense and Conerly were the difference again
against Pittsburgh. To add to Conerly's physical ailments, the
Steeler linemen tried to rearrange his knee bones, but, with-
out telling Howell or the doctor, Charlie continued to play
despite the agonizing pain. Trailing 14-0, he moved the
Giants to two touchdowns and a field goal, and after Pitts-
burgh scored a touchdown and a field goal to go ahead in the
final quarter, Conerly limped back onto the field. He passed
to Gifford for one touchdown, and when Dick Nolan inter-
cepted a pass, he started to drive his teammates upfield one
more time. Twice he faded to pass and twice, his receivers
covered, his knee throbbing with pain, he ran gaming first
15 yards and then 17. With time remaining for one more
play, Conerly bent his painful knee, put the ball in place,
and glanced up as SummeralFs winning field goal sailed be-
tween the uprights. "You could play this game all your life,"

277

said second-string quarterback George Shaw, "but watching
Charlie Conerly you realize you never stop learning/'

"Charlie's a real tough pro, mentally and physically/' said
Allie Sherman. "He's level, calm, ice-cold blue all the time,
and it rubs off on you from just his presence. He has the
ability to spot receivers better than anybody else in this
league, and that, my friend, is what separates the pros from
the amateurs/'

Despite the growing list of injuries, the Giants returned to
Yankee Stadium confident and content. A thoroughly vet-
eran team with no cliques, the Giants had learned to live
with each other and appreciate each other's personalities. To
relieve the tension that increases with every NFL game,
players like to joke and, like athletes in all sports, their
humor tends to be pointed. Sam Huff and Dick Lynch re-
ceived more than their share of the needling. Huff, whose
name and fame had spread across the United States through
a television documentary called "The Violent World of Sam
Huff," enjoyed the publicity but blanched at the reaction of
other players. "As a football player/* Rosey Grier told Huff,
"you're one hell of an actor/'

The needling of Lynch, a handsome bachelor, was less
cutting. When he dated Kim Novak one evening, an event
duly noted in the Broadway columns, Lynch's teammates
taped one of the columns to the dressing room wall and sur-
rounded it with a half-dozen pictures of the glamour girl.
Beneath the display was a carefully crayoned message:

IN ONE BATE WITH DlCK, KlM LEARNED MORE DEFENSIVE
MANEUVERS THAN LYNCH HAS BEEN ABLE TO ABSORB IN TWO
WHOLE YEARS AS A PRO.

The Giant levity ended against the Philadelphia Eagles.
With Conerly reduced to part-time status, the Giants fumbled
away a 10-0 lead and trailed, 17-10, into the final minutes in
the game that would determine first place in the East. Taking
a pass from Shaw, Gifford started to cut toward the sideline
on the Eagle 30 when Philadelphia linebacker Chuck Bed-
narik knocked him off his feet with a slashing blind-side
tackle. The tackle had been so hard and so unexpected that
the ball popped out of Gifford's hands and Chuck Weber

278

recovered on the 30. As Gifford lay totally motionless on the
ground, Bednarik, elated that the Eagles had held and re-
gained possession of the ball, danced in delight over the fallen
Giant hero. When the game ended minutes later, the con-
versation in both dressing rooms was not of the Eagle victory,
but of Gifford, who had been rushed to St. Elizabeth's Hos-
pital. "Bednarik's a cheap-shot artist," said Conerly. "Some-
day they'll kill somebody," said Dr. Sweeny. "Then they'll be
sorry."

Distraught over the damage he had done, Bednarik stub-
bornly defended his tackle. "I hit him good and I hit him
clean," he said. "In this game a man can get hurt."

Bednarik was rough, but right. Gifford, who had narrowly
escaped a fractured skull and had suffered a severe concussion,
defended Bednarik's tackle as hard but clean. "It wasn't any-
one's fault," he told his wife. "He didn't mean it. It was a
clean play."

Bednarik, a surprisingly sensitive brute, suffered most dur-
ing the week of the accident. He flooded the hospital with
flowers, telegrams, and letters, but Gifford refused to answer
him. "We were playing them again the next Sunday," said
Gifford, "and I was hoping that he'd worry himself into a
poor game. I was planning to wire him right after the game."

The Giants needed more than psychology to beat the
Eagles. Even when Shaw passed 71 yards to Rote for a touch-
down on the first play and the Giants added two more first-
quarter touchdowns, the Eagles didn't quit. Their defense
stole four of Shaw's passes and their offense, with Norm Van
Brocklin passing magnificently, rallied for a 31-23 victory.
With little chance left for the title, the Giants hit bottom by
tying the Dallas Cowboys, 31-31, a team that had lost its
ten previous games. Yet even in defeat, the Giants had to
smile at the final comment of Clint Murchison, the rookie
owner of the Cowboys. "Well," said Murchison, congratulat-
ing Landry and his players for the first time, "you can't win
'em all." Eliminated from conference contention, the Giants
defeated the Redskins, 17-3, in a game played on top of a
frozen tarpaulin, then lost the final game of the season, 48-34,
to the Browns.

In his final season as head coach, Howell had to settle for a

279

6-4-2 record and a third-place finish. The Giants had grown
old (the offense averaged 30, the defense barely under 30)
and the players had grown frail. Triplett was gone, in a trade
with the new Minnesota Vikings, and so was Gifford to a
career as a sports broadcaster. New blood was needed and
Howell's replacement was faced with one of the biggest
rebuilding jobs in Giant history.

When Vinny Lombardi had left the Giants and accepted
the Green Bay job, Wellington Mara, a classmate and close
friend, had promised him first call on the Giant position if
Howell ever decided to quit. If Howeil had quit a year
earlier, Lombardi would have been the new Giant coach.
Now, having finished first in the Western Conference and
accepted the title of general manager, Lombardi decided to
stay in Green Bay. Though he had been their announced first
choice, the Maras were not particularly disturbed when he
turned the offer down. "We had two men in mind from the
beginning," said Wellington Mara. "When Vinny said no,
there was only one man we wanted and that was Allie."

It was a job that thirty-eight-year-old Allie Sherman had
dreamed about since he was a little boy tossing a football in
the streets of Brooklyn and packing a brown bag with sand-
wiches and riding the IRT subway to the Polo Grounds. As
a youngster, he had been too small to make the Boys High
School team and had to settle for handball. At Brooklyn Col-
lege, where they were less particular, left-handed Sherman,
now a robust 125 pounds, finally got his chance. When coach
Lou Oshins decided to switch over to the T-formation, an
offense used by George Halas and the Chicago Bears and
almost no one else, he needed a quarterback and settled on
Sherman.

Allie's career undoubtedly would have died a glorious
death at Brooklyn College ("we beat City College," he once
said proudly) if Greasy Neale, head coach of the Philadelphia
Eagles, hadn't made up his mind to experiment with the T.
Searching around for an experienced T-formation quarter-
back, Neale finally signed Sherman, who, at nineteen, was a
powerful 5-foot-10 and 160 pounds. With the Eagles, Sherman
quickly experienced the futility of a little man in a big man's

280

world. He knew what to do, but he had neither the strength
nor the ability to do it.

"What's the matter, kid?" Neale asked him one afternoon.

"I'll never make a pro quarterback/' said Sherman. "I'm
not big enough and you're always hollering at me."

"Listen kid," said Neale, "someday you're going to be a
good one because I holler at you. The time for you to start
worrying is when I stop hollering. Then you'll know I've
lost interest."

Sherman was a better judge of talent than his coach, but
Neale never lost interest in his little left-hander. Though he
rarely played more than a few minutes each game, Allie soon
was sitting next to Neale on the bench, discussing strategy
into the early morning hours. When Steve Owen was look-
ing for someone to install the T in New York, Neale imme-
diately recommended Sherman. "He knows more about that
darn T than anyone else," said Neale. "Allie is the smartest
man in football."

A brilliant offensive strategist and a master psychologist,
Sherman, unlike Howell, had established a close personal re-
lationship with his players that he decided to maintain. He
also weakened Jim Lee's chain-of-command system by as-
suming more active personal control of the various coaching
units that make up a professional team. His assistants Don
Heinrich, Ken Kavanaugh, Ed Kolman, and Harland Svare
continued to play major roles, but Sherman dictated all
offensive and defensive planning. "I am a man who is working
at what he loves most in the place he loves most," said
Sherman, after signing a three-year, $25,000-a-season contract.
"What more could I ask?"

Sherman did not ask for players. He and Wellington Mara,
football's master trader, went out and got them. In a series
of almost unbelievable deals, the Giants traded for quar-
terback Y. A. Tittle of San Francisco, ends Del Shofner of
Los Angeles and Joe Walton of Washington, and defensive
back Erich Barnes of Chicago. In the draft and as free agents,
they also picked up halfbacks Bobby Gaiters, the nation's lead-
ing rusher from New Mexico State, Joel Wells of Clemson, and
Allen Webb of Arnold. By the time the squad was trimmed to
the mandatory 36 men, 16 members of the 1961 Giants had

281

come to the team by trades. "I call Wellington 'Pretzel/ " said
Dan Reeves, the owner of the Los Angeles Rams. "He twists
and turns every which way but he always come up with a
winner/'

Yelberton Abraham Tittle, a bald, thirty-four-year-old vet-
eran of three seasons with the Baltimore Colts and ten with
the San Francisco 49ers, was the Giants' all-time winner.
When 49er coach Red Hickey decided to switch from the T to
the Shotgun, an offense that stressed running as much as pass-
ing, Tittle, 196 pounds and 6 feet, was considered expendable.
Told that he had been traded to New York, Tittle, disen-
chanted about leaving his wife, three children, and insurance
business in Palo Alto, first considered quitting, but then
changed his mind. In the Giant plans, Tittle would provide
relief for forty-year-old Conerly. But the Giants were in for
a surprise.

Tittle's new roommate was Del Shofner, a 6-foot, 185-pound
end, who could run the 100 in 9.8 and outfake nearly every
defensive back in the NFL. After two exceptional seasons with
the Rams, he had started poorly in 1960, suddenly found him-
self on the bench, and played little the rest of the year. The
Giants were interested, but they were worried that per-
haps Shofner had been injured permanently the year be-
fore. "There's no one around tougher to defend against,"
said Lynch. "He was tough two years ago and he was tough
last year when they threw to him. Even if he doesn't do a
thing for us, you'll be doing me a favor. With him on the
Giants, I'll have one less deep man to worry about."

With speedster Shofner as a deep man and Walton, a
bruising blocker with excellent hands, as a tight end, Sherman
moved Rote to flanker back, using him solely as a pass re-
ceiver, installed more man-in-motion, and set up an explosive
attack. To make the offense work, Sherman needed a heavy-
duty runner, but, as each day of training passed, he began
to grow more and more desperate. Joe Morrison, Phil King,
and Joel Wells were good, but not good enough. Rookie Gai-
ters was making progress, but he was still too inexperienced.

Gifford and Webster were naturals for Sherman's wide-
open offense, but Frank had retired and Alex was battling
to make the team. When he had signed his 1961 contract a

282

few months before, Wellington Mara had told Webster that
the Giants were skeptical about his future. "Give me an in-
centive," said Webster. "I know I can make it. Give me a
bonus if I finish among the top ten ground-gainers."

"If you win that bonus," said Mara, "well win the
championship."

"Then well win the championship," said Webster, "be-
cause I'm going to take your money."

When Sherman broke tradition and brought the rookies to
camp one week early, Webster reported along with the first-
year men. "I made up my mind I was going to make it," he
said. "It was like starting all over again as a rookie. I had
to win my job."

To prepare himself, the man the Giants call Big Red
strengthened his legs by walking stairs and bowling during
the off-season. While he worked under the blazing sun at the
Fairfield, Connecticut, camp, his teammates joked. "Big Red,"
said Conerly, who was having conditioning problems of his
own, "no matter how much running you do, you're never
gonna get in shape."

Partially deaf in his left ear from a mastoid operation,
Webster would cock his head, grin, and, as the sweat rolled
off his face and stained his sweatshirt, continue trotting
around the football field. It was an agonizing four weeks
but it worked. By the opening game, he had slashed his
weight from 235 to 215, the lightest he had been in years, and
battered his way into the Giant backfield. Quicker than he had
ever been before, Alex also benefited from Sherman's decision
to station him as a setback permanently instead of tiring him
out by occasionally using him as a man-in-motion.

Though no one picked them to finish higher than third in
the Eastern Conference, the Giants of 1961 were a highly
confident team when they broke camp for their first exhi-
bition game. The confidence lasted one play. On his first
play as a Giant, Tittle bobbled the ball from center and fell
forward on top of it. Two Rams immediately fell forward on
Tittle, breaking two transverse processes in his back, and
sidelining him for five weeks. "I felt awful," said Tittle. "I'd
been having problems learning the Giants' numbering sys-

tern and I had been counting on the experience of exhibition
games."

By the time the Giants returned to New York for the
opener, Tittle's back was improved, but Sherman decided to
go with Conerly. Having two first-string quarterbacks on one
team can tear a team apart, and Sherman acted quickly to try
and prevent the explosive situation from igniting. "Every-
thing we're going to do is going to be for the team, regardless
of who's in there," Sherman told the two veterans. "You'll
just have to put your faith in my judgment."

"Put me on record," said Conerly. "It doesn't make any
difference who starts if that's the best move for the team."

"I've been around for a long time and I didn't come here
to be a kingpin," said Tittle. "I just want to help."

Conerly needed help against the ceaseless Cardinal red-dog,
but, with Tittle still out, didn't get any. A fumble, a blocked
kick, and an interception led to three St. Louis touchdowns,
and the Giants had lost their opener, 21-10. Then when
Conerly couldn't move Sherman's offense against Pittsburgh,
Tittle got his first chance as a Giant. He made the most of
it completing his first eight passes and ten for twelve for
the afternoonand led the Giants to a 17-14 victory. Tittle
had won himself a job, but Sherman had won himself a
problem. Conerly, a proud, quiet man, had been the Giants'
star and a close friend of Sherman's. The emotional explo-
sion came the next week against Washington. When Conerly
passed into the hands of a Redskin halfback early in the first
quarter, Tittle, who had been warming up on the sidelines,
was sent into the game. Conerly, who thought he had been
taken out solely because of the interception, brooded alone
on the bench and exploded before Sherman and his teammates
in the dressing room. It was a highly volatile moment that
could have destroyed the Giant season, but Sherman acted
quickly and intelligently.

"I deserve better than that," said Conerly. "I have one pass
intercepted and you embarrass me in front of everyone."

Sherman stared up at Conerly. "Charlie," he said, "we've
been friends for a long time. You know me better than
to think I'd pull a man out of a game because of an intercep-
tion."

284

With Tittle completing twenty-four passes for 315 yards,
the Giants bounced back in the second half to win, 24-2 L
Arriving back in New York, Conerly, who still didn't believe
his coach, learned from his wife and Betty Rote, who had
watched the game on television, that Tittle had been warm-
ing up before the interception. The next day at practice,
Conerly apologized to Sherman and the Giants, but the
situation remained tense as they defeated St. Louis, 24-9.
Against Dallas the next week, Landry's defenses stopped Tit-
tle's passing, but it didn't hamper his play-calling. Since the
first day of practice, Gaiters had been handicapped by a bad
habit of slowing up for a split second before moving into the
line. "Don't wait to see the hole open," Sherman told him
time and time again. "Blast off as soon as you get the ball.
The hole will be there when you arrive."

The first time Tittle handed-off to Gaiters against Dallas,
the rookie hesitated just long enough for a Cowboy tackle
to throw him for a loss. Before Gaiters could get to his feet,
Tittle was kneeling next to him, shouting in his ear, and
pounding the ground with his fists. "That's the last time you
do that while I'm out here," snapped Tittle. "Bust in there
or get off the field."

"Yes sir," said Gaiters, who then rushed for 129 yards to
dominate the Giant attack. The big play came in the third
quarter when Dallas, trailing 17-10, drove deep into New
York territory. The drive ended a moment later when Barnes,
a slick, speedy defensive halfback, picked off a pass in the
end zone and raced 102 yards for a touchdown. The Giants
scored again a few minutes later and won, 31-10.

Conerly, who, had not played a single minute against Dallas,
was still on the bench in the game against the Los Angeles
Rams at Yankee Stadium. Tittle had passed the Giants into
an early 10-0 lead, then, completing only six of eighteen,
contributed little as the Rams moved ahead 14-10 in the third
quarter. With only 3:45 left, Sherman decided to make the
change. "Tittle had to come off," said the coach. "He was
losing his rhythm. It happens to all quarterbacks."

After failing to move the team his first series of downs,
Conerly, the old pro, began to click. He hit Rote with a
pass to put the Giants ahead, 17-14, then tossed a 37-yard

285

pass to Shofner two minutes later for another touchdown.
Almost everyone in the cheering crowd of 63,053 was on his
feet screaming Conerly's name. Perian Conerly and Betty
Rote turned to each other, tears streaming down their faces,
and said, at exactly the same time, "Do you have an extra
Kleenex?"

In the dressing room, the players mobbed Conerly, pounded
him, shook his hand, and told him how much he had helped.
"Imagine a guy who's been kingpin and then had to sit on
the bench, coming back and doing the job Charlie did," said
Rote.

"Charlie and I haven't lost faith in each other," Sherman
told a group of writers. "He knows how I feel about him
and I know just how he feels. It's the people who've been
figuring him as dead."

"When you win, you're an old pro," said Conerly, less
moved than many of his teammates. "When you lose, you're
an old man."

The old men took a beating against Dallas the next week
when Eddie LeBaron's passing sparked a 17-16 victory and
dropped the Giants into a second-place tie with Cleveland,
one game behind Philadelphia. But Tittle's slump didn't
last long. In one of the greatest offensive assaults in Giant
history, Tittle passed for three touchdowns as New York
routed Washington, 53-0. Tittle threw for three more touch-
downs in a 38-21 defeat of the Eagles, but Pete Previte,
the Giants' assistant trainer, received most of the publicity.
Throughout the season, Sherman received more than 100 let-
ters each week, detailing wild and unorthodox plays the fans
thought the team should use. "Most of them would always
have twelve or thirteen men playing for the Giants at one
time," said Sherman. "But the Eagle game we came up with
a good one."

Sitting around the locker room one day, Previte, a free-
thinker, posed an interesting question to the Giant assistant
coaches. "When the Yankees want to score a run," said Prev-
ite, who doubled as a Yankee clubhouse man during the base-
ball season, "they put in their fastest man as a pinch-runner.
When we need a touchdown, why don't we use our fastest
men?"

286

It was an interesting question and it led to the Previte
Special. Jim Patton and Erich Barnes were the two fastest
men on the team, but they played defense and never carried
the ball or caught passes. In the first half against the Eagles,
with the ball on the Giant 38, Sherman decided to try the
Previte Special, a pass from an exaggerated spread, and sent
Barnes and Patton into the game. Before the Eagles could
adjust to the spread formation, Tittle quickly called signals,
dropped back into his pocket, and calmly lofted a long high
pass to Barnes, who had sprinted past the defensive halfback
for a 62-yard touchdown. "Pete had a good idea/' said Sher-
man, "but you should have seen some of the plays we received
after that/*

In a rugged, grueling afternoon, the Giants defeated the
Steelers, 42-21, and, when Cleveland defeated Philadelphia,
New York held sole possession of first place for the first time
all season. The first three times Webster carried the ball
against Pittsburgh, he gained 25 yards. The fourth time, 290-
pound tackle Big Daddy Lipscomb pounced on top of Web-
ster and buried his knees into his back. His face pressed into
the dirt, Webster screamed for the referee and shouted at
Lipscomb, "You big slob! Get your big behind off me/'

Tittle, who had taken as fierce a pounding as Webster,
showered quickly and, after removing two rolls of tape from
his body and adding a fresh patch to his bloodied left eye,
greeted his two young sons, who had seen their father play
for the first time. "How'd you like the game?' 1 asked Tittle,
who had completed eighteen of twenty-four for 307 yards.

"Fine/* said his sons.

"Boys," said Tittle, "if it weren't for that adhesive tape,
I'd be in bad shape/*

Carrying on a roll-out in the third period, Tittle, who had
caught Lipscomb's elbow in the eye earlier in the game, was
chased over the sideline bench by 235-pound Lou Michaels.
"I got hold of his face mask and I was scared to turn him
loose/* said Tittle, the man the Giants now called YAT and
Y. A. "He'd have knocked the hell out of me and I don't
blame him. I know you're not supposed to touch someone's
face mask, but I wasn't worrying about the rules. I was
worrying about staying alive."

387

Tittle's health and performance were prime topics of con-
versation in the Giant locker room. "YAT takes an awful
beating on those roll-outs/' said Webster. "He picks up five
yards for us, but he could get hurt bad. If we lost him, we'd
lose an awful lot."

"He was the master all the time he was out there/' added
Conerly.

"It was an exceptional performance/' said Sherman. "He
moved our people. He made excellent play selections. His
passing was perfect. He was great on automatics/'

With 80,455 fans jamming into Cleveland's Municipal Sta-
dium, Tittle took another physical beating, but completed
seventeen of twenty-six for 233 yards, and the Giants won,
37-21. "In the end it comes down to one thing," said Huff.
"Man against man. The best ones win."

Man against man, the Giants weren't strong enough against
the Green Bay Packers. Leading 17-13 into the final quarter,
New York lost the ball on a fumble and the game a few mo-
ments later, 20-17. "Don't worry, fellas," said Tittle in the
dressing room, "we'll play 'em again." The victory gave the
Packers the Western Conference title. The defeat dropped
the Giants into a tie with the Eagles.

In the decisive game against Philadelphia, New York trailed
10-7 in the second quarter when Sherman substituted Con-
erly for Tittle. "I made the move so YAT could see from the
sidelines that the Eagle linebackers were stunting and using
different spacing on defense," said Sherman. "I planned to
put him right back into the game." Allie never got the
chance. In five plays, Conerly moved the Giants 50 yards,
tossing a 35-yard pass to Walton for the touchdown. Later in
the game, he hit Shofner with two touchdown passes, and
New York had won the big one, 28-24.

"Nobody realizes how much a man Charlie is and had to
be under the circumstances," said Sherman. "This was a fel-
low who'd made it real big. Suddenly, it's taken away from
him. It's natural to let up. After all, this isn't a man who
was fighting to get here. He's been here. Yet he never relaxed
the physical and mental conditioning you need to play this
game. This is the real story of Charlie Conerly. The way he
pushed himself in practice to stay sharp as though he was go-

288

ing to be the key figure every Sunday although he knew he
could only get in as a relief pitcher. People think of pro
football as sixty minutes on Sunday, but pro football is
a game of Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays.
That's when the job is done. And that's when Charlie never
quit on the job.

"He could have hurt Tittle. And maybe you'd understand
it. But from the day the three of us talked after the exhibi-
tion trek, Charlie gave me all he had. That's the true testi-
mony to both of them. That they could withstand the personal
pressure for the team effort. It wasn't easy."

It wasn't an easy season for any of the Giants. They clinched
the Eastern Conference championship by tying Cleveland,
7-7, with Webster, tortured by a pulled groin muscle, batter-
ing the Brown defense for 91 yards in 21 carries. He was in
pain every step of the way, but he was smiling broadly at the
finish. He had won his bonus finishing third in the NFL in
rushing with 928 yards in 196 carries. "Too bad you're washed
up, kid," said Jack Mara, slapping Big Red on the shoulders.

"I told you I had a lot of years left," said Webster.

"I had to run the hell out of Alex today and I knew how
hurt he was," said Sherman. "I didn't think he could make
a whole game, but he just about did. This is a great pro. I
don't think anybody could be greater than he was today."

There was enough greatness for the rest of the Giants.
Tittle completed 163 of 285 passes for 2,272 yards and 17
touchdowns, and received the league's Most Valuable Player
award. Shofner caught 68 passes for 1,125 yards and 11 touch-
downs, and was named to the All-Pro first team. Yet it had
been the littlest Giant Allie Sherman who had worked the
biggest miracle. Blending a superb football mind with in-
fectious enthusiasm, he had taken an old and ailing football
team, patched it together with trades, and produced a winner.

"Bring on Green Bay!" shouted one Giant after the Brown
game

Sherman, who had just been named Coach of the Year,
grinned. "It's been a wonderful year," he said. "Y. A. told
me that he never knew football could be like this everybody
working together for the same thing, all happy, all part of

289

it. As for the Packers, I've never had a greater feeling of
confidence."

To stop the Packers, Sherman set his defenses to stop full-
back Jim Taylor. The Giants were ready, but the chilling 2 1
degrees, the frozen field, and the 10-mile-an-hour wind both-
ered them from the moment they left the dressing room at
Green Bay's City Stadium. After experimenting with sneak-
ers during practice, the Giants switched back to cleated shoes
for the game. "The Giants were more concerned about the
weather than anything else/' said Bill Forester, Green Bay
linebacker and defensive captain. "They came with tennis
shoes and gloves and scarfs. We just came to play."

Against the Giants' unorthodox five-man line, the Packers
started slowly, then turned the championship into a rout with
twenty-four points in the second quarter. With Tittle having
his worst day as a Giant, completing only six of twenty for
65 yards and four interceptions, and Conerly passing no
better, New York's attack failed completely when Webster
skidded on a patch of ice in the second quarter and sprained
his knee. It was a brutal, humiliating afternoon as the Packers
added ten points in the third quarter and a field goal in the
fourth to win, 37-0. "We met a solid ball club," said Sher-
man, close to tears in the dressing room, "and we have no
alibis. Today they were the better team. Maybe next time,
we'll be better."

Stunned by the defeat, the Giants, their supreme confidence
shattered by the violent power and fury of the Packer lines,
still had one consolation. "That," said Pat Summerall, after
receiving a record loser's share of $3,339.99, "was the most
profitable humiliation I ever participated in."

290

The Old Men and the T

ALLIE SHERMAN, the littlest Giant, had several pressing prob-
lems. Charlie Conerly solved one of the biggest ones in Febru-
ary, 1962. He retired. After fourteen seasons as a Giant, forty-
year-old Conerly, who had completed 1,418 of 2,833 passes
for 19,488 yards and 173 touchdowns, was returning to his
farm in Clarksdale, Mississippi. "I just figured I'd played
long enough," said Conerly, who had talked of retirement for
the past ten seasons. "It gets a little tougher every year
mentally and physically, but especially mentally."

"Charlie was a great performer whether he was with a fair
team or a great team/' said Sherman, turning to face Conerly
at a testimonial luncheon at Toots Shor's. "I am grateful for
the exposure I had to you."

"If you should change your mind and return," said Jack
Mara, presenting him with an engraved watch, "you can still
keep this watch. It won't seem like the Giants without you."

The personality and the memory of Conerly would be
missed. The fading talents wouldn't be. The taciturn, drawl-
ing quarterback was too proud and had come too far to
persist as Y. A. Tittle's relief man and, in the Giant plans
for 1962, that was the only thing left for him. By coming
off the bench to rally the Giants to two victories in 1961, he
had finished on top. "Charlie," said Kyle Rote, who, with
Conerly and Frank Gifford, formed the Three Musketeers of
New York, "leaves a legacy of dignity."

In the violent, brutally passionate world of professional
football, dignity is an intangible, possessed by the very few
but admired by all. Conerly had it. So did Rote. And so did

291

Gifford. When Rote, the sensational college runner who had
carved a new career for himself as a professional pass receiver
after injuring his knee, followed Conerly into retirement as
Giant backfield coach, the Three Musketeers were gone. They
weren't gone for long. At thirty-two, Frank Gifford, handsome,
healthy, and happy, needed professional football as much as
President Kennedy needed Castro. In his one season away
from the NFL, Gifford, who had completely recovered from
the concussion, worked as a TV sportscaster and prospered,
scouted for the Giants and prospered, and posed for cigarette
and swimsuit commercials and prospered. It wasn't difficult to
understand Allie Sherman's surprise when Gifford walked
into his office early in March and said, "Allie, I want to play
again."

Why had Gifford changed his mind? One New York colum-
nist told an intriguing story: Gifford, pressed forward in his
seat, had watched the Packers slaughter the Giants in the
1961 playoff, 37-0, and had said to himself, "What am I doing
up here? I should be down there with them. I'm not a scout.
I'm a player." It was a touching anecdote with only one
flaw. It never happened. "In the first place I was home watch-
ing the game on television/' says Gifford. "But even if I was
there, the last place in the world I wanted to be that freezing
afternoon was down on that icy field getting the hell kicked
out of me."

At first, Gifford joked about his return. "It's simple/' he
told one writer. "I'm playing again because I couldn't buy a
good season ticket to Giant games." To Sherman, the Maras,
and teammates, Gifford told a more convincing story. "Every-
one thinks I have some secret motive for coming back," he
said, "and I guess I do. I like to play football and I missed
the game and the life last year. But, most important, I
wouldn't be here if I didn't think I could help the team."

Gifford's return enabled Sherman to realign his backfield
and his attack. Tittle and Webster were set at quarterback
and fullback, but the other two positions remained indefinite.
Disappointed by Gaiters, who, despite an encouraging rookie
season, continued to make the same mistakes over and over
again, Sherman traded him to San Francisco for end Aaron
Thomas, installed Gifford at flankerback in place of Rote,

and alternated Phil King, Joe Morrison, and Paul Dudley at
the other halfback. When Summerall retired, Chandler, a
master punter who had never kicked a field goal or an extra
point in his life, was given the new job, and Ken Strong was
hired to coach him. The Giants also helped themselves by sign-
ing a bright crop of rookiesJohnny Counts, an elusive kick off-
return specialist from Illinois; Bill Winter, a powerful line-
backer from tiny St. Olaf College, who replaced Cliff Livingston
as a starter; end Jim Collier of Arkansas; and guards Bookie
Bolan of Mississippi and Ken Byers of Cincinnati. When
Sherman traded for Ralph Guglielmi, the twenty-eight-year-old
former Notre Dame quarterback, Lee Grosscup, the contro-
versial collegian who never grew into a Giant, was released. He
failed to catch on with another NFL team, then, in desperation,
drifted to the New York Titans of the American Football
League. It was a big letdown for the almost Giant

Entering its third season of existence, the AFL, stocked
with inexperienced All- Americans and NFL rejects, had made
little headway. Only in Dallas, where two new teams battled
for the patronage, could it honestly be called a war. Yet even
here, the NFL's Cowboys were beginning to pull ahead.
Though losses totaled nearly $5 million for the first two sea-
sons, the new league had been saved by television revenue.
The AFL was still alive, but it could not approach the NFL
artistically or financially.

In 1961, football experts had given the Giants little chance
to finish first in the East. The experts were wrong, but they
didn't learn. In 1962, they once again carped about New
York's old men and the T. This year, for sure, the Giants had
to collapse. Cleveland with a new quarterback (Jim Ninow-
ski) and a new offense patterned after Green Bay's and St.
Louis were younger and supposedly stronger than New York.
In the opener against the Browns, the Giants played as though
they were trying to live up to their notices. With Tittle limp-
ing from stretched ligaments in his leg and Gifford playing
uncertainly in his new position, New York showed little in
losing, 17-7.

They showed a lot more in winning their next three games
on the road over Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, and St. Louis
before returning home for the Yankee Stadium opener with

293

the Steelers. Pittsburgh quarterback Bobby Layne, a master
at diagnosing a defensive weakness and exploiting it, passed a
little, but probed a lot. Rushing to the side of rookie line-
backer Winter, the Steelers gained 231 yards on the ground.
Tittle, whose pass protection from guards Darrell Dess and
Greg Larson ranged from little to none at all, still completed
eighteen of thirty-nine for 204 yards, but Pittsburgh won,
20-17.

"I guess," said Steeler coach Buddy Parker, "Tittle spent
more time on his can today than he has in many a game."

With a 3-2 record, the Giants could not afford to lose again
so early in the season. But oddsmakers gave them little chance
against the Detroit Lions, whose defensive line was even more
menacing than Pittsburgh's. Tickets were so scarce for this
game and for every Giant home game in 1962 that the only
way Gifford could get his son into Yankee Stadium was by
having him work as water boy. Trailing early in the game,
New York called a time-out and Tittle, Gifford, and Shofner,
who had been forced into the role of a decoy because of a
badly separated shoulder, huddled to discuss strategy. The
discussion was interrupted by little Jeff Gifford. "No, Jeff/*
said Gifford, "not now." Turning back to his teammates,
Gifford felt another tug at the back of his jersey. "Dad," said
Jeff, "the bathroom? How do I get to the bathroom?" Shaking
his head and laughing, the Giant veteran trotted to the side-
lines, pointed the way to the washroom through the baseball
dugout, and returned to the field.

On the next play, Tittle faked a hand-off to Webster and
started running to his right, lowering his head and hunching
his shoulders as he knifed between two tacklers for the goal
line four yards away. He made it, for the tying touchdown
but the two Lions got to Tittle first. Trotting to the sideline,
Tittle was stopped by Sherman. "Come here," said the coach.
"I want to talk to you about an automatic. Thirty-four."

"What's thirty-four?" said Tittle, a glazed look settling over
his eyes.

"Y. A.," said Sherman, "you better sit down and rest for a
while."

"I just couldn't think of anything," said Tittle, as Dr.
Sweeny applied icebags to his head and neck. "I knew the

294

people around me, but I couldn't think of a play, any play.
The doctor kept asking me questions and I just couldn't
collect myself. It sure was a funny feeling/'

While Tittle regained his senses on the bench, Guglielmi
almost lost his on the field. When Detroit defensive end Darris
McCord smashed him across the bridge of his nose, the Giant
quarterback could barely see and scarcely think. After two
more punishing tackles, Guglielmi simply handled the ball
and let his teammates call the plays in the huddle. "They
knew we had only two quarterbacks," said Guglielmi, whose
previous service as a Giant had been limited almost exclu-
sively to holding the ball on extra-point and field-goal at-
tempts. "And they weren't about to let me have an easy after-
noon."

Fortunately, for the Giants, Tittle shook off the cloud in the
second half. He set up one touchdown with a pass and a field
goal with another to win the game, 17-14. "It was a physically
tough game/' said Sherman. "We're glad we won and we're
glad it's over. But the big one's next week."

If New York's old men had surprised some people in 1962,
the Washington Redskins had baffled everyone. Winner of
only one game in 1961, the Redskins had broken their color
line, picking up halfback Bobby Mitchell from Cleveland,
several veteran linemen, and a new outlook. With sophomore
quarterback Norm Snead passing superbly, the first-place
Skins came to Yankee Stadium unbeaten.

"It's funny how no matter how much you scout some
teams, you never seem to find the keys and weaknesses you're
searching for," said Gifford. "Other weeks, all you have to do
is look at the films once and you know what to do. We felt
pretty confident about the Redskin game."

They had good reason. Studying films and scouting reports
of Washington's six previous games, the Giants had spotted
serious weaknesses in the Redskins' secondary. Tittle, the
NFL's leading passer, couldn't wait to take advantage of them.
In the most phenomenal passing demonstration in Giant his-
tory, Tittle completed twenty-seven of thirty-nine passes for
505 yards and 7 touchdowns, tying the NFL record held by
Sid Luckman of the Bears and Adrian Burke of Philadelphia.
The old men had won, 49-34, drawing within a half-game

of the first-place Skins, and Tittle, the Bald Eagle from Mar-
shall, Texas, and Louisiana State University, was the toast of
New York. He was a perfect hero. With 1:21 remaining in
the game, Tittle had passed up a chance to try and break the
record. "I thought it would be a little egotistical of me to call
my own play again/' he said, grinning. "Besides, why add
insult to injury? We've got to play these guys again."

In one afternoon of 60 minutes, Allie Sherman's brilliant
passing attack had reached a state of perfection. "They were
running their pass patterns just the way they look on the
board/' said Bob Toneff, Washington's defensive captain.
"Their protection was great, their fakes were good, their
timing was excellent, and Tittle was unbelievable."

Tittle, who had been troubled by the changeover to the
Giant system for a good part of 1961, was troubled no more.
In word and deed, the Bald Eagle with the sidearm bullet was
the leader of the Giants. If a pass misfired in practice, he
would rip off his faded blue baseball cap, toss it on the
ground in disgust, and stamp on it. When he had carried for
a 21 -yard touchdown earlier in the season, he had been so
delighted that he had tossed the football into the air, run a
few steps, tripped, and fell on his face. "Y. A. is like a high
school kid with a Univac brain and a great passing arm,"
said Gifford. "His attitude's great for our young players.
When they see a thirty-six-year-old man get so fired up, they
have to get excited, too. Hell, so do I, and I'm no kid."

Tittle's success at thirty-six was the success of a perfectly
blended passing attack. Blockers Rosey Brown and Ray Wie-
techa provided the protection, and Y. A/s powerful right wrist
enabled him to hold the ball a half-second longer before re-
leasing it. Splitend Shofner, who had humiliated Redskin
halfback Claude Crabb by catching eleven passes for 269
yards and one touchdown, could run with the speed o a 9.8
sprinter, which he had been at Baylor. "Other receivers may
have better moves," said Rote, "but Del has great speed,
wonderful hands, and good leg drive." Flankerback Gilford,
quickly regaining his timing and elusiveness, lacked Shofner's
open-field speed, but was more deceptive. Tightend Joe Wal-
ton, who caught three touchdown passes against Washington,
was a vicious blocker and aggressive receiver on short passes,

296

particularly when opponents double-teamed Shofner. Fullback
Webster, the team's top ballcarrier and a solid blocker, was
Tittle's favorite receiver on screen passes. With Tittle at his
best, which he was throughout most of the 1962 season, the
Giant attack was devastating.

The Giants came up with another pass receiver against the
Cardinals. Trailing 21-17 early in the fourth quarter, the
Giants had a fourth down and 10 yards to go on the St.
Louis 31. New York lined up for a field-goal attempt, but
Guglielmi, instead of placing the ball to the ground for the
kick, jumped to his feet, raced to his left, and threw a pass
to Andy Robustelli, defensive captain and coach, who had
not had a single pass thrown to him in seven years as a
Giant. Robustelli carried to the 5, Webster scored two plays
later, and, after trading touchdowns, New York won, 31-28,
to move into undisputed possession of first place. "We had
that fake kick ready for six weeks/' said Sherman. "We finally
found the spot to use it."

In Sherman's highly complex, methodically detailed world,
the football week rarely varies from a set schedule. Starting
on Monday at 10 A.M., the head coach meets with Emlen
Tunnell, his chief scout, to discuss the next team on the
schedule. Later in the morning, the offensive and defensive
coaches split up into separate rooms to study films of their last
game and the next opponent, charting frequencies of plays
used by that team in every conceivable situation and against
every conceivable defense. Working into the early-morning
hours, the coaches are ready with their tabulations when the
players report for a short session of watching films Tuesday
afternoon. On Wednesday, the Giants move out onto the field
for the first time, setting up the defenses and perfecting and
polishing the fifteen to twenty plays Sherman believes will
work best against the next opponent. Though the Giants have
more than two hundred possible plays and variations in their
play book, they rarely enter a game with more than twenty. By
Friday, the players' polishing and planning is over, but the
coaches continue to recheck films and charts through Saturday
afternoon, when the team either boards a plane for an away
game or moves en masse into a hotel in midtown Manhattan
for a home game, a practice started by Sherman to build up

297

team unity. Not until Sunday night does Allie Sherman begin
to relax.

Knowledge of the game and dedication aren't enough to
guarantee coaching success in the NFL. There has to be
something more. Cleveland's Paul Brown was a dictatorial
disciplinarian. Green Bay's Vince Lombardi is a subtle psy-
chologist. And Allie Sherman is a proud emotionalist. When
someone criticizes the Giants, Sherman is hurt. When some-
one praises the Giants, he is elated.

Before the first Dallas game of 1962, many sportswriters
criticized the Giants. Compared to Tom Landry's inventive
system of shuttling quarterbacks and his high-scoring offense,
the Giants' passing attack, they reasoned, was unimaginative.
In three previous meetings with Dallas, Sherman had been
able to win only one and tie another. A close friend of
Landry's since the days they had worked together as assistant
coaches under Steve Owen, Sherman's pride was hurt and he
decided to try something different. The three times he had
played Dallas, Landry seemed to have been able to read
Sherman's mind and anticipate his attack. If Landry could do
it, why couldn't Sherman?

To get ready for the Cowboys, Sherman revised his entire
routine. Instead of charting frequencies of the Dallas offense,
he charted frequencies of his own offense. Counting on his
ability to second-guess Landry, he next planned defenses he
thought the Dallas coach would use against the Giant attack.
Then, Sherman drilled the Giants in an offense designed to
score against the anticipated Landry defenses.

It was a huge gamble, but Sherman's scheme succeeded bril-
liantly. Landry's defenses varied little from those Sherman
had anticipated. On one play, Gifford, who had not carried
the ball once all season as flankerback, momentarily drifted
downfield, stopped, quickly reversed himself, and, taking a
hand-off from Webster, sprinted six yards for the touchdown.
''There wasn't anybody near me but the guard who pulled
out to lead the play," said Gifford. "I thought for one quick
second about handing him the ball and letting him score.
Can you just see his eyes bug out? But it was early in the
game and I didn't feel I could take the chance then."

It wouldn't have made any difference. Battering the Dallas

298

offense and shattering the defense, the Giants routed the Cow-
boys, 41-10. "The Giants got mad about it," said Sherman
proudly. "We had read so much about how tricky their offense
was. I think our defense made up its mind to handle it and
you saw what happened."

Chandler kicked four field goals in the rain and snow
to beat Philadelphia, 19-14, the Giants buried Washington,
42-24, and Chandler kicked another four as New York de-
feated the Bears, 26-24, to clinch the Eastern Conference
championship. Though the two remaining games were mean-
ingless, Yankee Stadium was sold out for both Cleveland and
Dallasand for the first time in the team's history, the Giants
had sold out for every single home game, drawing an all-time
high of 439,456 fans.

Before the Brown game, Sherman reviewed last-minute strat-
egy and said, "Now get going. Get moving out there today/'

Randy Sherman, Allie's nine-year-old son, turned to Kyle
Rote. "Gee/' said the youngster, "he hollers a lot harder than
that when he wants me to run."

The Giants didn't stop running. They defeated Cleveland,
17-13, then beat Dallas, 41-31. The season had ended far
differently from the way it had started with the dismal loss
to the Browns. Tittle, the NFL Player of the Year, finished
with a four-touchdown flourish against the Cowboys to wind
up with 200 completions, 3,224 yards gained, and 33 touch-
downs, an NFL record. Chandler, who had never kicked a
field goal or extra point before the season began, kicked
enough to score 104 points, finish fourth in the league, and
break the Giant scoring record of 102, set by Choo Choo
Roberts in 1949.

For the second straight season, Sherman was named Coach
of the Year and, one week later, suffered another bitter de-
feat by the Green Bay Packers. The season was over, but
the work was beginning all over again for Sherman and Well-
ington Mara. With Tittle and Robustelli back for their last
seasons, Wietecha quitting to take a coaching job, and several
other veterans considering retirement, help was needed and
help was coming. Looking to the future, the Giants drafted
quarterback Glynn Griffing, who had broken all of Conerly's
passing records at Mississippi, and traded for Hugh McElhenny,

299

a thirty-four-year-old halfback with Minnesota, and John Lo-
Vetere, a 283-pound defensive tackle with Los Angeles. It was
the same formula that had brought success in the past giving
up draft choices for proven young veterans.

For the Giants, it was the end of an old era one of the
greatest in history and the beginning of a new one. If not this
year, then next, the great names Gifford, Robustelli, Brown,
Kat, Modzelewski, Huff, Patton, Webster, and Tittle who
had made professional football a status symbol in New York
would be gone, joining Leemans, Strong, Hein, Cuff, Conerly,
and the hundreds of others who had worn the Giant uniform
through the years. Mara Tech might shake, but it would
never crumble. The Giants of New York had come a long way.

300

All-Time Records

ATTENDANCE

Largest Yankee Stadium Crowds
71,163 vs. Colts Nov. 9, 1958
68,783 vs. Eagles Oct. 18, 1959
68,436 vs. Browns Dec. 6, 1 959
67,837 vs. Packers Nov. 1, 1959
66,786 vs. Steeiers Nov. 15, 1959

Largest Away Crowds

82,872 vs. Browns Nov. 6, 1960
81,1 15 vs. Browns Sept. 16, 1962
80,455 vs. Browns Nov. 26, 1961
74,284 vs. Browns Nov. 2, 1958
71,297 vs. Rams Sept. 26, 1959

Largest Opening Day Attendance at Yankee Stadium
68,783 vs. Eagles Oct. 18, 1959

Largest Home Attendance (Season)
439,456 in 1 962 (Seven games)
423,949 in 1 961 (Seven games)
389,603 in 1959 (Six games)
357,649 in 1960 (Six games)

Largest Road Attendance (Season)
347,259 in 1962 (Seven games)
326,705 in 1961 (Seven games)
276,124 in 1960 (Six games)
250,273 in 1959 (Six games)

Largest NFL Title Game Crowds

64,892 vs. Packers Dec. 30, 1962 (Yankee Stadium)
64,185 vs, Colts Dec. 28, 1958 (Yankee Stadium)
58,346 vs. Bears Dec, 14, 1946 (Polo Grounds)
57,545 vs. Colts Dec. 27, 1959 (at Baltimore)

301

GIANTS IN PRO BOWL GAMES

1951 Emlen Tunnel!

1952 Emlen Tunnell

1953 Emlen Tunnell, Frank Gifford

1954 Emlen Tunnell, Frank Gifford, Kyle Rote, Bill Svoboda, Bill
Austin

1955 Emlen Tunnelf, Frank Gifford, Kyle Rote, Tom Landry, Ray
Wietecha, Jack Stroud

1956 Emlen Tunnelf, Frank Gifford, Kyle Rote, Andy Robustelli, Rosey
Brown, Jack Stroud

1957 Emlen Tunnell, Frank Gifford, Kyle Rote, Charlie Conerly, Rosey
Brown, Andy Robustelli, Rosey Grier, Jack Stroud

1958 Frank Gifford, Ray Wietecha, Alex Webster, Rosey Brown, Bob
Schnelker, Sam Huff, Jimmy Fatten

1959 Frank Gifford, Rosey Brown, Sam Huff, Lindon Crow, Jim Patton,
Bob Schnelker, Andy Robustelli

1960 Sam Huff, Andy Robustelli, Rosey Brown, Jimmy Patton, Jack
Stroud, Ray Wietecha, Rosey Grier

1961 Sam Huff, Andy Robustelli, Jim Patton, Alex Webster, Jim
Katcavage, Y. A. Tittle, Rosey Brown, Del Shofner, Erich Barnes

1962 Rosey Brown, Ray Wietecha, Darrell Dess, Del Shofner, Y. A.
Tittle, Erich Barnes, Jim Patton, Jim Katcavage.

GIANTS' LONGEVITY RECORDS
(MOST YEARS WITH CLUB)

15 MelHein(1931-1945)

1 4 Charlie Conerly (1 948-1 961 )

12 Emlen Tunnell (1948-1959)

11 Kyle Rote (1951-1961)

10 Leland Shaffer (1935-43, 1945)

Frank Cope (1938-1 947)

Joe Suloitis( 1944-1 953)

Dale Burnett (1930-1 939)

Frank Gifford (1952-1960, 1962)

MOST CONSECUTIVE GAMES

1 33 Ray Wietecha (1 953-1 962)
1 26 Emlen Tunnell (1 948-1 958)

GIANTS 1 ALL-TIME CAREER RECORDS

MOST POINTS

41 8 Frank Gifford (10 years, 1 952-60, 1 962)
351 Ken Strong (8 years, 1 933-35; 1 944-47)
3 1 9 Ward Cuff (9 years, 1 937-45)
317 Pat Summerall (4 years, 1958-61)
312 Kyle Rote (1 1 years, 1951-61)

GIANTS' ALL-TIME CAREER RECORDS (eont.)
MOST POINTS (cont.)

295 Ben Agafanian (5 years, 1949; 1954-57)
294 Alex Webster (7 years, 1 955-61 )
223 Ray Poole (6 years, 1 947-52)
174 Bob Schnelker (8 years, 1954-6O)
174 Bill Paschal (5 years, 1943-47)
158 Cene Roberts (4 years, 1 947-5O)

MOST TOUCHDOWNS

67 Frank OifFord (1O years, 1952-6O, 62)
54 Kyle Rote (1 1 years, 1951-61)
49 Alex Webster (8 years, 1 955-62)
29 Bob Schnelker (8 years, 1954-6O)
29 Blli Paschal (5 years, 1 943-47)

MOST TOUCHDOWNS RUSHING

34 Frank OifFord (1O years, 1952-6O, 62)
32 Alex Webster (8 years, 1 955-62)

MOST YARDS GAINED RUSHING

4,340 Alex Webster (8 years, 1955-62)

3,692 Frank Gifrord (1 years, 1 952-60, 62)

3,292 Eddie Price (6 years, 195O-55)

3,1 1 7 TufFy Leemans (8 years, 1 936-43)

2,31 6 Mel Triplett (6 years, 1 955-6O)

2,027 Kink Richards (7 years, 1 933-39)

MOST RUSHING ATTEMPTS

1 ,062 Alex Webster (8 years, 1 955-62)
926 TufFy Leemans (8 years, 1 936-43)
858 Frank Gifrord (1 O years, 1 952-60, 62)
847 Eddie Price (6 years, 195O-55)

LONGEST RUN FROM SCRIMMAGE

91 Hap Moran (vs. Green Bay) in 1934

MOST TOUCHDOWN PASSES

1 72 Charlie Conerly (1 4 years, 1 948-61 )

MOST PASSES ATTEMPTED

2,833 Charlie Conerly (1 4 years, 1 948-61)

MOST PASSES COMPLETED

1 ,41 8 Charlie Conerfy (1 4 years, 1 948-61 )

MOST YARD GAINED PASSING

19,488 Charlie Conerly (14 years, 1948-61)

GIANTS' ALL-TIME CAREER RECORDS (cent.)
HIGHEST PERCENTAGE OF COMPLETIONS
50.0 Charlie Conerly (14 years, 7948-61)

FEWEST PASSES HAD INTERCEPTED (over 6OO attempts}
42 Ed Danowski (7 years, 1934-39; 1941)

MOST INTERCEPTIONS MADE

74 Emlen Tunnel! (1 1 years, 1948-58)

MOST TOUCHDOWN PASSES CAUGHT

52 Kyle Rote ( 1 1 y ea rs, 1 95 1 -6 1 )
34 Frank Gifford (10 years, 1 952-60, 62)
29 Bob Schnelker (8 years, 1 954-60)
24 Frank Liebel (6 years, 1942-47)

MOST PASSES CAUGHT

301 Kyle Rote (11 years, 1951-61)

296 Frank Gifford (1 years, 1 952-60, 62)

1 89 Bob Schnelker (8 years, 1 954-60)

MOST YARDS GAINED ON PASS RECEPTIONS

4,808 Kyle Rote (1 1 years, 1 951 -61 )

4,348 Frank GifTord (10 years, 1 952-60, 62)

3,312 Bob Schnelker (8 years, 1954-60)

LONGEST SINGLE GAIN ON A PASS RECEPTION

88 George Franck (1 947)

71 Kyle Rote (1960)

69 Dei Shofner (1962)

62 Erich Barnes (1961)

MOST FIELD GOALS

60 Pat Summerall (4 years, 1958-61)

46 Ben Agajanian (5 years, 1 949; 1 954-57)
36 Ken Strong (8 years, 1933-35; 1944-47)
33 Ward Cuff (9 years, 1 937-45)

LONGEST FIELD GOALS

50 Ben Agajanian (1950)

49 Pat Summerall (1948, and three times in 1959)

47 Ken Strong (1934)

MOST EXTRA POINTS

157 Ben Agajanian (5 years; 1954-57)

147 Ken Strong (8 years, 1933-35; 1939; 1944-47)

1 37 Pat Summerall (4 years, 1 958-61 )

1 00 Ward Cuff (9 years, 1 937-45)

GIANTS' ALL-TIME CAREER RECORDS (coni.)
MOST CONSECUTIVE EXTRA POINTS

129 Pat Summered! (4 years, 1958-61)
81 Ben Agajaman (1954-57)
67 Ken Strong (1944-47)

HIGHEST PUNTING AVERAGE
47.4 Kay Eakin (1941)
46.6 Don Chandler (1959)

MOST PUNT RETURNS

253 Emlen Tunnel! (1 948-58)

GIANTS' ONE-SEASON RECORDS
MOST POINTS SCORED

1 04 Don Chandler (1 962)

1 02 Gene Roberts (1 949)

9O Pat Summerall (1959)

88 Pat Summerall (1961)

74 Ben Agajanian (1954)

72 Ken Strong (1 934)

72 Bill Paschal (1943)

72 Del Shofner (1962)

71 Pat Summerall (I960)

66 Del Shofner (1961)

65 Frank OiflFord (1956)

MOST TOUCHDOWNS

1 7 Gene Roberts (1 949)
12 Del Shofner (1962)
11 Del Shofner (1961)
1 Frank OiflFord (1 958)
10 Kyle Rote (1 960)

MOST YARDS GAINED RUSHING

971 Eddie Price (1951)
928 Alex Webster (1 961 )
83O TufFy Leemans (1936)
819 Frank OiflFord (1 956)

MOST RUSHING ATTEMPTS

271 Eddie Price (1951)
207 Alex Webster (1 962)
2O6 TuflFy Leemans (1 936)
1 96 Alex Webster (1 961)

305

GIANTS' ONE-SEASON RECORDS (cont.)
MOST TOUCHDOWN PASSES

33 Y. A. Tittle (1962) * set new League record
22 Charlie Conerly (1 948)

I 7 Charlie Conerly (1 949 and 1 954)
17 Y. A. Tittle (1961)

MOST PASSES ATTEMPTED
375 Y. A. Tittle (1962)
3O5 Charlie Conerly (1 949)

MOST PASSES COMPLETED

200 Y. A. Tittle (1 962)
163 Y. A. Tittle (1961)
1 62 Charlie Conerly (1 949)

MOST YARDS GAINED PASSING

3,224 Y. A. Tittle (1 962)
2,272 Y. A. Tittle (1 961 )
2,175 Charlie Conerly (1 948)
2,1 38 Charlie Conerly (1 949)

HIGHEST PERCENTAGE OF COMPLETIONS

58.2 Charlie Conerly (1 959)
57.2 Y. A. Tittle (1961)
55.2 Charlie Conerly (1 957)

MOST TOUCHDOWN PASSES CAUGHT

12 Del Shofner (1962)

II Del Shofner (1961)
TO Frank Liebel (1945)

Bill Swiacki (1948)
Kyle Rote (1960)
8 Kyle Rote (1955)

Bob Schnelker (1954)

MOST PASSES CAUGHT

68 Del Shofner (1961)
55 Frank GiflFord (1 956)
53 Del Shofner (1962)
53 Kyle Rote (1961)
47 Bill Swiacki (1949)
42 Frank Gifford (1959)
Kyle Rote (I960)

MOST YARDS GAINED ON RECEPTIONS

1 ,1 33 Del Shofner (1 962)
1 ,1 25 Del Shofner (1 961 )

306

GIANTS' ONE-SEASON RECORDS (ccmf.)

MOST YARDS GAINED ON RECEPTIONS (cont.)

805 Kyle Rote (1961)
768 Frank GifFord (1959)
750 Kyle Rote (1960)
734 Frank Gifford (1956)
714 Bob Schnelker (1959)
711 Gene Roberts (1949)

MOST FIELD GOALS

20 Pat Summerall (1959)
19 Don Chandler (1962)
14 Pat Summerall (1961)
13 Ben Agajanian (1954)

PatSummerali (1960)
12 Pat Summerall (1958)

Ray Pooled 951)

MOST INTERCEPTIONS MADE

11 Jimmy Patton (1958)

Otto Schnellbacher (1951)
10 EmlenTunnell (1949)

Frank Reagan (1 947)
9 Dick Lynch (1961)

MOST PUNT RETURNS

39 Emlen Tunnell (1 953, NFL Record)

GIANTS' SINGLE GAME RECORDS
MOST POINTS SCORED

18 Gene Roberts (1949 vs. Bears, Redskins, Bulldogs & Green Bay)

Frank Liebel (1945 vs. Eagles)

Joe Scott (1948 vs. Rams)

Kyle Rote (1953 vs. Eagles)

Bob Schnelker (1954 vs. Redskins)

Mel Triplett (1956 vs. Cards and 49ers)

Frank Gifford (1960 vs. Steelers)

Del Shofner (1961 vs. Redskins and Eagles)

Del Shofner (1962 vs. Redskins and Cowboys)

Joe Walton (1962 vs. Redskins)
17 Ken Strong (1934 vs. Bears in title game)

MOST YARDS GAINED RUSHING

21 8 Gene Roberts (1 950 vs. Cardinals)
1 39 Mel Triplett (1 960 vs. Browns)
129 Bob Gaiters (1961 vs. Cowboys)

GIANTS' SINGLE GAME RECORDS (cotif.)
MOST ATTEMPTS RUSHING

39 Harry Newman (7934 vs. Green Bay, NFL Record)

MOST TOUCHDOWN PASSES

7 Y. A. Tittle (1962 vs. Redskins, tied all-time NFL Record)
6 Y. A. Tittle (1962 vs. Cowboys)
4 Charlie Conerly

Paul Govern all

Amie Herber

Ed Danowski

George Shaw

MOST PASSES ATTEMPTED

53 Charlie Conerly (1 948)

MOST PASSES COMPLETED

36 Charlie Conery (1 948 vs. Steelers, NFL Record)

MOST YARDS GAINED PASSING

505 Y. A. Tittle (1 962 vs. Redskins)
363 Charlie Conerly (1948 vs. Steelers)

MOST TOUCHDOWN PASSES CAUGHT

3 Del Shofner (1 962 vs. Redskins and Cowboys)
Joe Walton (1962 vs. Redskins)

Del Shofner (1961 vs. Redskins and Eagles)

Kyle Rote (1953, 1960)

Frank Liebel (1945)

Gene Roberts (1 945, twice)

MOST PASSES CAUGHT

11 Frank Gifford (1957)

Del Shofner (1962 vs. Redskins)
9 Ray Poole
Bill Swiacki
Kyle Rote

MOST YARDS GAINED ON RECEPTIONS

269 Del Shofner (1 962 vs. Redskins)
212 Gene Roberts (1949 vs. Packers)

MOST FIELD GOALS

4 Don Chandler (1 962 vs. Eagles and Bears)

3 Pat Summeral! (1 958, 1 959, three times, 1 961 )
Ben Agajanian
Ray Poole
Don Chandler (1962 vs. Eagles)

308

GIANTS' SINGLE GAME RECORDS (conf.)
MOST PUNTS IN ONE GAME

14 Carl Kinscherf (1943, NFL Record)

GIANTS' ALL-TIME TEAM RECORDS SEASON
MOST POINTS SCORED SINCE 1933

398 in 1962 (74 games)
368 in 1961 (14 games)
297 in 1948 (12 games)

MOST POINTS SCORED PRIOR TO 1933

3O8 in 1930 (17 games)

FEWEST POINTS ALLOWED

2O in 1 927 (NFL Record)
75 In 1944

MOST TOUCHDOWNS SCORED

49 in 1962
46 in 1961

42 in 1948 and 1956

MOST YARDS RUSHING

2,336 in 195O

MOST YARDS PASSING

3,307 in 1962
2,740 in 1961
2,527 in 1959
2,504 in 1948

MOST TOTAL YARDS

5,OO5 in 1962
4,597 in 1961
4,173 in 1959

MOST FIRST DOWNS

275 in 1961

MOST PASSES INTERCEPTED

41 in 1951
33 in 1961

MOST FUMBLES RECOVERED

46 in 1946

43 in 1961

GIANTS' ALL-TSM1 TEAM RECORDS SINGLE GAME
MOST POINTS SCORED

56 vs. Philadelphia Eagles in 1933
53 vs. Washington Redskins in 1961
51 vs. Chicago Cardinals in 1950
51 vs. Washington Redskins in 1954
49 vs. Washington Redskins in 1962

MOST POINTS ALLOWED

63 by Chicago Cardinals in 1948
63 by Pittsburgh Steelers in 1 952

MOST FIRST DOWNS REGISTERED

31 vs. Pittsburgh Steelers in 1948

MOST TOUCHDOWNS SCORED

8 vs. Philadelphia Eagles in 1933
vs. Green Bay Packers in 1 948
vs. Baltimore Colts in 1 950

MOST YARDS GAINED (TOTAL)

625 vs. N. Y. Yanks in 1 950

602 vs. Washington Redskins in 1962

MOST YARDS RUSHING

423 vs. Baltimore Colts in 1950

MOST YARDS PASSING

505 vs. Washington Redskins in 1962

MOST PASSES INTERCEPTED

8 vs. Green Bay Packers in 1 948
vs. N.Y.Yanks in 1951

FEWEST FIRST DOWNS MADE

vs. Green Bay Packers in 1931
vs. Washington Redskins in 1942

FEWEST YARDS ALLOWED RUSHING

6 vs. Cleveland Browns in 1960

FEWEST YARDS ALLOWED PASSING

minus 6 vs. Washington Redskins in 1960

FEWEST COMPLETIONS ALLOWED

vs. Washington Redskins in 1 960
310

GIANTS' CHAMPIONSHIP GAME HISTORY

1933

Chicago Bears

23,

GIANTS

1934

GIANTS

30,

Chicago Bears

1935

Detroit Lions

26,

GIANTS

1938

GIANTS

23,

Green Bay

1939

Green Bay

27,

GIANTS

1941

Chicago Bears

37,

GIANTS

1944

Green Bay

14,

GIANTS

1946

Chicago Bears

24,

GIANTS

1956

GIANTS

47,

Chicago Bears

1958

Baltimore Colts

23,

GIANTS

1959

Baltimore Colts

31,

GIANTS

1961

Green Bay

37,

GIANTS

1962

Green Bay

16,

GIANTS

(Giants' 13 championship game appearances is N.F.L. record)

GSANTS' ALL-TIME LEAGUE RECORD

(League Divided in Two Conferences in 1933)

Opp.

Tied

Points

Tied

Points

1925

122

1944

206

1926

147

1945

179

198

1927

203

1946

236

166

1928

136

1947

194

313

1929

312

1948

297

388

1930

308

1949

287

298

1931

154

100

1950

268

150

1932

113

1951

252

161

1933

244

101

1952

234

231

1934

147

107

1953

179

277

1935

180

1954

293

184

1936

115

163

1955

267

223

1937

128

109

1956

264

197

1938

194

1957

254

211

1939

168

1958

246

183

1940

131

133

1959

284

170

1941

238

114

1960

271

*261

1942

155

139

1961

368

220

1943

197

170

1962

398

283

TOTALS

282 153 27

Index

Abbott, Bill, 29, 77-78

Adams, O'Neale, 185, 202

Agajanian, Ben, 251

Albert, Frankie, 202

Alexander, Bill, 186

Alexander, Joe, 27-28, 32, 37, 41-47,

51,53-54,68
Alexander, John, 42-43
Altrock, Nick, 45
Ameche, Alan, 260, 263
Anderson, Hunk, 81-83
Andrews, Leroy, 42, 64-66, 69, 72-73,

78-79, 102-103
Austin, Bill, 229, 241, 245
Avedisian, Charley, 189-190

Bach, Joe, 81

Baer, Bugs, 166

Badgro, Red, 72, 76, 89, 104, 107-109,

115, 139

Baker, Jon, 219-220
Barker, Hub, 193
Barnard, Hap, 156, 164-166
Barnes, Erich, 22, 281, 285, 287
Barnum, Len, 156, 161-162, 166, 168,

171

Barr, Terry, 258
Barrow, Ed, 40
Barry, Al, 255

Battles, Cliff, 136, 152-153, 195
Baugh, Sam, 149-150, 152-153, 172,

177, 183, 192, 204-206, 210-212, 236,

257

Beck, Ray, 238, 243-245, 248
Becker, Wayland, 165
Bednar, Al, 27
Bednarik, Chuck, 278-279
Beebe, Keith, 195
Beise, Sheldon, 137
Bell, Bert, 140, 167, 169, 179, 184, 200,

203, 207-208, 217, 225, 237, 248, 270
Bellinger, Bob, 112
Benkert, Heine, 27-28, 30, 33, 42

Benners, Fred, 228

Berry, Raymond, 260-263, 274-275

Bertelli, Angelo, 196, 202

Benvanger, Jay, 136-138

Bierman, Bernie, 169

Blaik, Red, 233

Blanchard, Doc, 12

Blood, Johnny, 69, 99, 159

Bloodgood, Al, 62

Blozis, Al, 184-185, 188, 191, 193, 195-

197

Bolan, Bookie, 293
Bomar, Lynn, 27-28, 33, 36, 41-44, 47-

48, 50-51, 53
Bosley, Bruce, 254
Boyle, Knuckles, 126
Brennan, Matty, 27
Brickley, Charley, 25
Brovelli, Angelo, 100
Brown, Dave, 191, 193
Brown, Jimmy, 253-254, 257-258, 260,

272, 277
Brown, Paul, 202, 218-220, 229-231,

233, 235, 245, 247-248, 253-254, 272-

273, 298
Brown, Roosevelt, 18-19, 234,245, 247,

270, 296, 300
Bruder, Hank, 90, 127
Brumbaugh, Carl, 90, 108, 114, 121-

122

Buivid, Ray, 146
Burke, Adrian, 295
Burnett, Dale, 72-73, 88, 90, 99, 104,

106, 109, 112, 115, 120-121, 124-125,

127-130, 132, 140-141, 143-144, 148,

151, 155, 158, 160, 166, 175
Burton, Lewis, 111
Byers, Ken, 293

Caddel, Eddie, 33

Cagle, Christian (Red), 75-77, 79, 83,

88, 97-98
Cahn, Bobby, 121

313

Caldwell, Bruce, 63-64

Campbell, Glenn (Turtle), 83, 89,

104

Cannady, John, 209, 220
Cannela, John, 104
Cannon, Jack, 81
Cantor, Leo, 185
Carberry, Glenn (Judge), 81
Carideo, Frank, 81
Carney, Art, 27, 36, 42, 48
Caroline, J.C., 251-252
Carpenter, Lew, 257
Carr, Joe, 25-26, 41, 155, 179
Carter, Joe, 158
Casares, Rick, 251-252
Casey, Eddie, 128
Cavanaugh, Frank, 111-112
Caywood, Les, 72, 89
Chadnois, Lynn, 228
Chamberlain, Guy, 93
Chandler, Don, 11, 243-244, 259, 262-

263,270,293,299
Chevigny, Jack, 81
Christensen, George, 144
Christman, Paul, 205
Clancy, Stu, 106, 113, 115, 127, 137
Clark, Dutch, 132, 136, 143
Clark, Potsy, 132
Clatterbuck, Bobby, 234, 236-237
Clay, Randy, 219
Cobb, Ty, 125
Cochrane, Mickey, 118
Cohalan, Neil, 122
Cohen, Abe, 111, 117-119, 123
Cole, Pete, 166
Collier, Jim, 22, 293
Collins, Ray, 234
Collins, Ted, 193, 203, 215, 219
Conerly, Charlie, 210-217, 221-222, 224-

230, 234-237, 245-248, 250, 252, 254,

257-259, 261-262, 265-279, 282-286,

288-292, 299-300
Conerly, Perian, 229, 286
Conrad, Bobby Joe, 255
Conti, Enio, 156
Cope, Frank, 156, 166
Corbett, George, 113
Corgan, Charles, 55, 57, 59
Corum, Bill, 78, 153, 174
Coulter, DeWitt (Tex), 203-204, 215-

216, 225-226
Counts, Johnny, 293
Crabb, Claude, 296
Crow, Lindon, 255, 270, 274-275
Crowell, Bill, 142
Crowley, Jim, 81-82
Cuff, Ward, 146-147, 150, 158, 160,

162-164, 166, 168-169, 171-172, 174,

177, 182, 190, 193-194, 204, 300
Currie, Dan, 21

Daniel, Dan, 78

Danowski, Ed, 111-113, 115, 117-123,

126-127, 130, 132-133, 136, 139-140,

143-144, 155, 157-161, 164-166, 170,

175-176, 180
Davis, Glenn, 12
DeFilippo, Lou, 180
Dell Isola, John, 112, 122, 126-127,

129-130, 143-144, 148, 150, 152-153,

155, 162-163, 165-166, 171
Dennerlein, Gerry, 147
Dennery, Vince, 180
DeRogatis, Al, 220
Dess, Darrell, 268, 294
Dietz, William (Lone Star), 105
Dilweg, Lavern, 76
Dobbs, Glenn, 196, 202
Doll, Don, 238
Donovan, Art, 260
Donovan, William J., 178
Dorais, Gus, 203
Dowler, Boyd, 21
Driscoll, Paddy, 44
Duden, Dick, 217
Dudley, Rev. Benedict, 200
Dudley, Paul, 293
Dugan, Len, 139
Duggan, Gilford (Cactus Face), 175,

202

Duncan, Bill, 156
Duncan, Jim, 219-220, 229
Dunn, Red, 90
Durfee, Jim, 63

Eakin, Oliver Kay Polk, 175-176
Eben, Sig, 168
Edwards, Big Bill, 41, 52
Edwards, Bill (Monk), 182-183
Edwards, Turk, 152, 163
Eisenhower, Dwight David, 198
Elder, Jack, 81-83
Emerson, Ox, 143
Enright, Rex, 83
Epps, Bobby, 234
Eshmont, Len, 179-181,202
Ewbank, Weeb, 261

Falaschi, Nello, 156, 162, 166, 170, 181

Farkas, Andy, 172

Farley, James, 11, 118

Feather, Tiny, 91

Feathers, Beattie, 113-115

Ferrante, Jack, 223

Filchock, Frank, 158, 172, 199-201, 204-

209, 270

Filipski, Gene, 244
Filopowicz, Steve, 207
Flaherty, Ray, 67, 85-86, 89-91, 99, 104,

107, 116-120, 124, 131, 139, 149, 162,

172-173

Folwell, Bob, 26-27, 30-31, 35-36, 41,

43,52

Forester, Bill, 290
Fox, Sam, 198

Franck, George, 180-183, 196
Frank, Matty, 26

Frankian, Ike, 112, 114, 121, 127, 139
Friedman, Benny, 56-57, 63-70, 72-84,

86-92, 96, 99, 102, 106, 135, 204, 206
Fritsch, Ted, 196
Fugazy, Humbert, 49-50

Gaiters, Bobby, 281-282, 285, 292

Galazin, Stan, 147, 166

Galento, Tony, 171

Gallico, Paul, 116

Garvey, Ed, 55, 57

Gebert, John, 81

Gelatka, Chuck, 147, 163, 166, 170

Gibson, Billy, 25-26, 34, 53, 71, 78

Gibson, Denver (Butch), 72-73, 89, 104,

106, 125
Gifford, Frank, 18-19, 23, 227-228, 230,

235, 241, 245, 248-252, 254-262, 265-

269, 273, 276-280, 282, 291-296, 298,

300

Gifford, Jeff, 294

Gildea, John, 156, 160, 165-166, 168
Gilmer, Harry, 211
Gladchuk, Chet, 180
Glaenzer, Jules, 1 1
Goldberg, Marshall, 168
Goodwin, Tod, 124-125, 127, 131-133,

139-141, 144-145
Governali, Paul, 209-210, 213
Graham, Otto, 201-202, 218-220, 224
Grange, Garland, 90
Grange, Harold (Red), 32, 34-42, 44,

47, 49, 52, 60-61, 67, 75, 84, 88, 96-

97, 109,116,135,202,206
Grant, Len, 72, 89, 99, 104, 122-123,

128, 139, 143, 150, 153, 166
Grier, Roosevelt, 18-19, 238-239, 245,

249, 253, 255, 259-260, 269-270, 272,

278

Griffith, Cal, 192
Griffith, Forrest, 219
Grigg, Ranger, 42, 48
Grosscup, Lee, 266-268, 293
Groza, Lee, 224

Guglielmi, Ralph, 18-19, 293, 295, 297
Gunsel, Austin, 270
Gutowsky, Ace, 132, 143-144
Guyon, Indian Joe, 33, 55, 59-60

Haden, Jack, 139, 166, 168

Hagerty, Jack, 42-45, 52, 57, 65, 67, 75,

79
Haines, Hinkey, 27-28, 30-32, 42-44,

46, 48-51, 57, 59-61, 63

Halas, George, 40, 51-52, 59, 65, 88,
120, 122, 151, 167, 179, 182, 185, 203,
280

Hall, Parker, 202

Halloran, Bill, 172-173

Hanken, Ray, 147, 166

Hapes, Merle, 184, 199-201, 207-208,
270

Hein, Mel, 85-89, 91-92, 99, 104-105,
107-109, 120, 122, 124, 126, 129, 132,
141-142, 148, 155, 162, 164-166, 169-
170, 177, 184, 187, 189, 194, 204,
300

Heinrich, Don, 234, 245, 247, 251, 266,
281

Henderson, Gloomy Gus, 172

Hendrian, Dutch, 27, 30, 32-33, 42

Herber, Arnie, 99, 161, 165-166, 193-
194, 197-198

Hewitt, Bill, 109, 114-115, 119

Hickey, Red, 282

Hill, Cowboy, 47

Hinkle, Clarke, 161-162, 164-165

Hinkle, Jack, 191

Hirsch, Crazy Legs, 202

Hoernschemeyer, Bob, 202

Horner, Sam, 22

Hornung, Paul, 21

Hovious, Junior, 197

Howard, Frank, 236

Howell, Jim Lee, 147, 159, 161, 164-
166, 169, 175, 206, 219, 222, 228,
232-241, 244-245, 247-248, 251, 253-
256, 259-260, 262, 265-267, 269, 271,
273-277, 279-281

Hubbard, Robert (Cal), 54-57, 62, 69,
113, 127, 143-144

Hudson, Bob, 225

Huff, Sam, 11, 18, 21, 23, 242-245,
248-252, 254-255, 258, 260-261, 267-
268, 270, 272, 277-278, 288, 300

Hughes, Ed, 244, 255

Hunsinger, Ed, 81

Hutchinson, Bill, 176

Hutson, Don, 144, 161, 164, 195-196,
198

Imlay, Tut, 55
Irvin, Tex, 104, 106
Isbell, Cecil, 161, 164-165

Jacobs, Jack, 214
Jappe, Paul, 27-28, 42
Johnson, Larry, 152, 166, 170
Jones, Dub, 219
Jones, Gomer, 138
Jones, Potsy, 104, 120, 143
Joyce, Don, 260
Justice, Ed, 173

315

Karcis, John (Bull), 159-161, 163, 166,

173, 175-176, 187, 189
Karilivacz, Carl, 255
Karr, Bill, 108-109, 150
Katcavage, Jim, 19, 244-245, 270, 276,

300

Kavanaugh, Ken, 281
Kawal, Ed, 120
Kelly, Edward J., 192
Kelly, John Simms (Shipwreck), 96-

98, 128

Kendricks, Jim, 56
Kenyon, Bill, 33
Kercheval, Ralph, 115, 161
Riesling, Walt, 120
Killinger, Glenn, 42
King, Phil, 21, 255, 282, 293
Kinscherf, Carl, 187
Kizer, Noble, 81-82
Kline, Jiggs, 156
Kolman, Ed, 219, 233, 240, 243-244,

281

Kopcha, Joe, 115, 131
Koppisch, Walt, 42-43, 47
Kramer, Jerry, 20, 22
Krause, Max, 108, 114
Krouse, Ray, 225, 260
Kuharich, Joe, 238

LaGuardia, Fiorello, 118, 177
Lambeau, Curly, 69, 90, 174, 203, 222,

238
Landis, Judge Kenesaw Mountain,

179
Landry, Tom, 219-221, 223-224, 228,

233-236, 245, 254, 257, 274, 276,

279, 285, 298

Lansdell, Grenny, 175-176
Larson, Greg, 294
Lary, Yale, 258
Lavelli, Dante, 219
Law, John, 81
Layden, Elmer, 81, 179, 191-192, 196,

200, 202-203

Layne, Bobby, 265, 267, 294
Leahy, Frank, 224
LeBaron, Eddie, 286
Leemans, Alphonse (Tuffy), 134-135,

137-138, 140-143, 145-146, 148, 150-

151, 155, 157-158, 161-163, 165-

166, 169, 176-177, 181-185, 187, 193,

204, 300

Leonard, Benny, 25
Levy, Fred, 185
Lewellen, Verne, 69
Lewis, Art, 135, 139, 143, 243
Liebel, Frank, 194, 197-198, 205-207
Lindheimer, Ben, 201, 215
Lipscomb, Big Daddy, 260, 262, 287
Liston, Sonny, 264

316

Little, Lou, 121-122, 197
Livingston, Cliff, 234, 293
Livingston, Howie, 193-195, 197
Locke, Doug, 156
Lombardi, Vince, 233-236, 240, 244,

248, 250, 263, 265, 270, 280, 293
LoVetere, John, 300
Luckman, Sid, 170-171, 183, 189-190,

206-207, 236, 295
Lummus, John (Jack), 180, 196-197
Lunday, Kayo, 147, 156, 160, 166
Lyman, Link, 119
Lynch, Dick, 268, 278, 282

MacAfee, Ken, 234-235, 241

McAfee, George, 183

McBride, Arthur, 201

McBride, Jack, 27-30, 32-33, 36-37,
41-44, 49-52, 55-56, 60-61, 91, 98-
99, 116, 119, 122, 136-137

McChesney, Bob, 219, 224

McCord, Darris, 295

McCrary, Hurdis, 77

McDonald, Tommy, 269-270

McElhenny, Hugh, 254, 299

McGee, Max, 22

McGinley, Ed, 27-28

McLain, Red, 179

McLeod, Bob, 168

McMillen, Jim, 60

McMillin, Bo, 54

Manders, Jack, 108-109, 114, 119-120,
128-129, 131, 136, 151

Manders, Pug, 202

Maniaci, Joe, 137, 171

Manton, Tillie, 139, 143, 145, 151-152

Mara, John (Jack), 12, 29, 35, 44, 71-
72, 93, 116, 125, 134, 136, 141, 159,
166-167, 193, 224-225, 230-233, 257,
270, 273, 289, 291

Mara, Tim, 11, 24-26, 29, 31-32, 34-
35, 37-42, 44-53, 57-58, 62-64, 66-
67, 70-72, 75-80, 83-84, 88-89, 92-
93, 96, 99-100, 102-104, 110, 116,
120, 123, 125-126, 130-131, 134-137,
141, 145-146, 151, 154, 167, 173-
175, 179, 186, 188, 192, 198-204, 206,
208-209, 213-215, 217, 230, 259-260,
264

Mara, Mrs. Tim, 30, 105, 134

Mara, Tim, Jr., 12

Mara, Wellington, 13, 29-30, 35, 44,
55, 72, 96, 100, 104-105, 125, 127,
134-135, 137-138, 142-143, 146, 163,
167, 184, 189, 209-211, 222, 232-
233, 238, 240, 245, 261, 268, 273,
280-283, 299

March, Harry, 25-27, 30, 41-42, 45-
46, 51, 53-55, 57, 60, 62-64, 75-76,
80, 83-84, 137, 142

Marchetti, Gino, 260, 262
Marefos, Andy, 179-180, 182, 202
Marshall, George Preston, 101-102,

110, 128, 137, 141, 145, 149, 153, 159,

162, 167, 173-174, 179, 186, 192,

203, 215

Martin, Jim, 258
Masterson, Bob, 170, 172
Mastrangelo, John, 219-220
Matson, Ollie, 249
Mattos, Harry, 156
Mauch, Gus, 114, 117
Maulbetsch, Johnny, 95-96
Maynard, Don, 255
Meehan, Chick, 117, 136
Mellus, John, 156, 166, 202
Michaels, Lou, 287
Michalske, Mike, 77
Mielziner, Saul, 69, 72
Miller, Don, 81
Miller, Eddie, 168-170, 175-177
Miller, Rip, 81
Millner, Wayne, 271
Milstead, Century, 27-28, 31, 33, 41-

42, 52, 57, 59, 62
Milstead, Mildred, 31
Minisi, Skippy, 210
Mischak, Bob, 255
Miskinis, John, 193
Mitchell, Bobby, 295
Mitchell, Joe, 141
Modzelewski, Dick, 21, 244-245, 249,

253, 256, 261, 277, 300
Modzelewski, Ed, 245, 248
Molenda, Bo, 69, 104, 106-107, 112,

115, 118, 121, 127, 139, 174, 176,

214

Molesworth, Keith, 109, 118-119, 121
Moore, Henry, 252
Moore, Lenny, 260, 262, 274
Morabito, Tony, 201
Moran, Dale (Hap), 65, 67, 75-76,

79, 83, 90-91, 98-99, 106
Morgan, Bill, 104, 115-117, 119-123,

129, 132, 139, 142, 144
Morrison, Joe, 267, 270, 282, 293
Mote, Kelley, 219, 224
Motley, Marion, 218-220, 224
Moynihan, Tim, 81
Mulleneaux, Carl, 165
Muller, Brick, 50
Murchison, Clint, 279
Murray, Frank, 146-147
Murtagh, George, 42-44, 49, 57, 65, 87
Musick, Jim, 141
Musso-, George, 108, 114, 117, 120,

171

Mutscheller, Jim, 260, 274-275
Myers, Tom, 27
Myhra, Steve, 262

Nagurski, Bronko, 75, 88-89, 106-109,

113-114, 119-120, 122, 128-129, 136,

144, 150

Nash, Nasty Bob, 27-28, 30
Nash, Tom, 76
Neale, Earle (Greasy), 124, 188, 197,

216, 218, 280-281
Neill, Jim, 147
Nelson, Andy, 275
Nesser, Al, 48-51, 57, 59-60, 62, 65
Nevers, Ernie, 39, 49, 58, 73, 137
Newman, Harry, 102, 104, 106-110,

112-115, 125-126, 128, 133, 136-137
Nielsen, Walt, 167-169, 175-176
Ninowski, Jim, 293
Nitschke, Ray, 21-22
Nix, Emery, 187, 191, 193
Nolan, Dick, 234, 255, 268, 277
Novak, Kim, 278

O'Brien, Davey, 168, 170

O'Connell, Tommy, 254

O'Connor, Bucky, 81

O'Dwyer, William, 199

Oldershaw, Doug, 168

Olderman, Murray, 266

Oldfield, Barney, 39

Oshins, Lou, 280

Osmanski, Bill, 168, 170, 183

Ostendarp, Jim, 221, 224

Owen, Bill, 47, 81, 89, 104, 106, 119,
122, 128, 131, 143, 159, 179, 185

Owen, Steve, 33, 42-43, 47, 55, 57-58,
60, 65, 69, 72-73, 79-81, 86-87, 93-
98, 102, 106-107, 111-119, 121-122,
125-127, 129-132, 139-140, 142-153,
155, 157-169, 171-173, 175, 177, 180-
194, 196-197, 200, 204-207, 210-219,
221-222, 224-231, 233, 235-236, 265,
281, 298

Owen, Mrs. Steve, 184

Owens, Jesse, 177

Owens, Pete, 156

Palatella, Lou, 254

Palm, Mike, 33, 36-37, 179

Paris, Alvin, 199-201, 207-208

Parker, Ace, 161, 178, 202

Parker, Buddy, 133, 231, 294

Parker, Jim, 260

Parnell, Fred, 27, 42, 50, 52

Parry, Ox, 147, 163, 166

Paschal, Bill, 186-188, 190-197, 204-

205, 209
Patton, Jim, 238, 255, 269-270, 274,

287, 300

Pedersen, Win, 180
Pepper, Gene, 226

3*7

Phillips, Ewell, 139

Piccolo, Bill, 187-188

Pinckert, Ernie, 127-128

Pixlee,Jim, 138

Plansky, Tony, 62, 65-67, 69

Plum, Milt, 259

Pond, Ducky, 28

Pool, Hampton, 189

Poole, Barney, 234

Poole, Jim (Buster), 147, 158, 162,

164, 166, 183, 209
Poole, Ray, 209, 220
Porter, Charley, 114, 117, 193, 212
Potteiger, Earl, 46, 54-55, 57, 63-64
Powell, Art, 269
Previte, Pete, 286-287
Price, Eddie, 219-221, 226, 229-230
Principe, Dom, 202
Pugh, Marion (Dookie), 179-180, 196,

202
Pyle, C. C. (Cash and Carry), 34, 39-

41, 44, 49-52, 64
Pylman, Bob, 158

Rapacz, John, 219

Ratterman, George, 248

Reagan, Frank, 179-180

Reese, Hank, 104, 107, 140

Reeves, Dan, 185, 215, 282

Reeves, Eddie, 163

Reynolds, Quentin, 11

Rice, Grantland, 41, 103, 186

Rich, Herb, 234

Richards, Kink, 106, 108, 122, 127,

129-132, 144, 150-151, 155, 158, 166,

175

Richards, Ray, 247
Richardson, Jerry, 275
Rickey, Branch, 211
Rives, Bill, 224
Robb, Stan, 48
Roberts, Choo Choo, 209, 214, 217,

299
Robustelli, Andy, 20, 244-245, 248,

250-253, 258-261, 297, 299-300
Rockne, Knute, 63, 78-81, 83-84
Rogers, Will, 33
Ronzani, Gene, 114, 118419, 121
Rooney, Art, 151
Rose, Gene, 139
Rote, Betty, 285-286
Rote, Kyle, 22, 224-228, 230, 239, 245-

249, 252, 257-259, 261-262, 276, 279,

282, 285-286, 291-292, 296, 299
Rowe, Harmon, 219-221, 224, 230
Royston, Ed, 213
Rupp, C. W., 180
Ruppert, Colonel Jacob, 40
Russell, Torrance (Bo), 172-173, 205
Ruth, Babe, 36, 173

318

Sample, Johnny, 275

Sanders, Spec, 202

Sarausky, Tony, 127

Schacht, Al, 45

Schissler, Paul, 128

Schnelker, Bob, 234-235, 245, 259,

261-262, 269> 274-275
Schnellbacher, Otto, 219-222, 224, 230
Scott, Joe, 221
Scott, Tom, 21
Sedbrook, Len, 90
Seno, Frank, 205
Shaffer, Leland, 125, 127-128, 131,

155, 158, 163, 165-166, 170, 187,

189, 193

Shakespeare, Bill, 137
Shaw, George, 266, 268, 278-279
Sherman, Allie, 19, 23, 188, 216, 219,

233, 265, 268-269, 273, 278, 280-299
Sherman, Randy, 299
Shofner, Del, 19, 281-282, 285, 288-

289, 294, 296
Shor, Toots, 11, 291
Silvers, Phil, 11
Singer, Walt, 132-133
Sinkwich, Frank, 202
Sitko, Emil, 224
Smith, Al, 47, 71, 73, 81, 89
Smith, Ray, 252
Smith, Red, 193
Smith, Riley, 137, 140, 149, 153
Smith, Willis, 112, 115
Smuckler, Dave, 136
Snead, Norm, 295
Snyder, Bobby, 189
Snyder, Gerry, 67
Soar, Hank, 147-148, 150, 163, 165-

166, 177, 182-183, 190, 192
Sohn, Ben, 180, 183-184
Sortet, Wilbur, 158
Spears, Doc, 188
Speedie, Mac, 219
Stahlman, Dick, 55
Standlee, Norm, 183
Steffen, Judge Walter, 103
Stengel, Casey, 118
Stephenson, Art, 42-44
Sternaman, Ed, 40
Sternaman, Joe, 36, 41, 60
Stoneham, Charles, 47, 57, 79, 83
Stonesifer, Don, 226
Storck, Carl, 179
Stribling, Bill, 225
Strong, Ken, 66, 79, 88, 102404, 106-

107, 109, 112-113, 115, 117-123, 125-

133, 136-137, 142, 168-170, 172, 175,

193-195, 200, 293, 300
Strong, Ken, Jr., 195
Stroud, Jack, 234, 245, 251
Stuhldreher, Harry, 41, 81, 83

Sulaitis, Joe, 215

Summerall, Pat, 255, 257-260, 269-271,

273-274, 277, 290, 293
Svare, Harland, 238, 243, 245, 256

258, 270, 276, 281

Svoboda, Bill, 234, 243, 245-246, 262
Sweeny, Dr. Francis, 164, 190, 277,

279, 294
Swiacki, Bill, 210, 214, 233

Taylor, Jim, 20-22, 290

Terry, Bill, 153

Thomas, Aaron, 292

Thompson, Alexis, 215

Thompson, Don, 50

Thorp, Ed, 166

Thorp, Tom, 57-58, 81-83, 91, 97, 173

Thorpe, Jim, 27-30, 47-48, 55, 103

Tidwell, Travis, 219

Tittle, Y. A., 11, 19, 20-23, 254, 281-

297, 299-300
Tomlin, Tom, 42
Toneff, Bob, 296
Topp, Bobby, 248
Topping, Dan, 128, 137, 179, 201, 203,

208-209, 217
Torgeson, LaVern, 250
Torrance, Jack, 170
Tracy, Tom, 270
Trafton, George, 67-68, 89-90
Triplett, Mel, 238-241, 245, 248, 251-

252, 256-257, 261, 274, 277, 280
Tunnell, Ernlen, 211-214, 216-217,

220-221, 223-224, 241, 255, 265, 297
Tunney, Gene, 25-26, 36, 71, 78
Turner, Bulldog, 194
Tuttle, Orville, 147, 150, 156, 166,

175

Twig, Little, 48
Twomey, Ted, 81

Unitas, John, 256-257, 260-263, 265,
274-275

Van Brocklin, Norm, 279

Van Buren, Steve, 197, 223, 257

Vergara, George, 142

Vezie, Joe, 81

Vick, Dick, 48

Vosberg, Don, 180

Voss, Tillie, 42-43, 49, 53

Wagner, Robert, 47, 118

Walbridge, Wally, 27

Waldorf, Lynn, 138

Walker, Jimmy, 45, 77, 80-81, 84, 89

Walker, Peahead, 238

Wallander, Arthur, 200

Walls, Will, 147, 175, 185

Walquist, Laurie, 36, 60

Walsh, Adam, 81-82

Walsh, Ray, 211

Walton, Joe, 21, 281-282, 283, 296

Webb, Allen, 281

Weber, Chuck, 278

Webster, Alex, 19, 21, 238-239, 241,

245, 248, 251-252, 259, 261, 274, 276,

282-283, 287-290, 292, 294, 297-298,

300
Weinmeister, Arnie, 219-223, 226, 229-

230, 238

Wells, Joel, 281-282
Wergeles, Chick, 58
White, Byron (Whizzer), 159
White, Jim, 203-204
White, Phil, 33, 36-37, 57
White, Roy, 59
White, Tarzan, 147-148, 156, 166, 170,

175
Widseth, Ed, 146-147, 150-151, 164,

166, 168-169, 180
Wietecha, Ray, 235, 245, 296, 299
Wilkin, Wee Willie, 170, 183
Wilkinson, Bob, 225
Williams, Joe, 27, 42
Wilson, Bobby, 136
Wilson, Mike, 251

Wilson, Mule, 55-56, 59-60, 62-63, 65
Winter, Bill, 293-294
Wolfe, Hugh, 156, 166, 168
Wood, Willie, 20
Woodward, Stanley, 116, 153
Wright, Martha, 11
Wrightson, Homer, 105
Wycoff, Doug, 41, 55, 75

Yeager, Howie, 179
Yelvington, Dick, 241, 245, 247
Yohan, Frank, 251
Yost, Fielding, 65, 68, 82
Younce, Len, 180, 206
Young, Buddy, 202
Youso, Frank, 255, 270
Yowarsky, Walt, 238, 245, 269

319

(Continued from fr:*t flap)

the great Charley ConerSy who quar-
terbacked the Giants for over a dec-
ade and helped turn a basically de-
fensive eleven into an offensive
powerhouse,-

the stars of the present, winners of
five of seven division championships
Kyle Rote, Frank Gifford, Y. A.
Tittle, Sam Huff, Andy Robustelli,
Rosey Grier and countless others.

Here are the men behind the scenes:
the Maras who have owned the Giants
through the years of feast and famine;
the coaches who have built the mem-
orable winners, Steve Owen, Jim Lee
Howell, and little Allie Sherman. Here
are accounts of epic games, like the
famous sudden death playoff of 1958
against the Colts or the titanic strug-
gle against the cold and the Packers
in 1962.

A book packed with anecdotes and
stories of Giants famous and forgot-
ten, THE GIANTS OF NEW YORK will bring

nostalgia to old-timers and delight
younger fans with its picture of the
teams behind the Giants of today. It
is a must for all sports lovers.

Barry Gottefirer, a former president of
the Magazine Sports Writers Associa-
tion, whose free-lance articles on
sports are well known to readers of
major magazines, has been Sports
Editor of NEWSWEEK until very recently
when he, was appointed NEWSWEEK'S
Press Editor.

Jacket design by Bob Gray
Photographs by Al Giese

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
PUBLISHERS SINCE 1838

200 Madison Avenue
New York 16, N. Y.

118996

>$,