It was all arranged. When Bruce called and asked me out, I knew what he was going to say. I agreed to a first date at ten that Saturday night after he flew back from a game against the University of Minnesota.
On Saturday, I’m in my room. I’m waiting and waiting and the clock keeps ticking and ticking. No Bruce. It’s finally getting close to midnight. Fine, I think. Go ahead and stand me up. Maybe you are a jerk after all. I change into my sweats.
The phone rings. It’s Bruce: “Hi, what are you doing?”
“Well, I was thinking of going to bed soon.”
“No, no, I’m coming to get you. We have a date.”
“Our date was two hours ago.”
Bruce explains that the flight was delayed and he’s just gotten back.
“It’s too late now.”
“No, no, we can go to a midnight show.” Bruce talks me into going. I get dressed again, he picks me up, and we see the only movie playing in Westwood, The Life of Brian. After the movie, we’re walking toward his car and I’m chatting away.
Suddenly, with lightning reflexes, Bruce spins and grabs me with both hands, his grip firm. I freeze. “What are you doing?”
“Look down,” he says.
I look. There’s a taut wire stretched across the sidewalk in front of me at ankle height. It’s apparently meant to block the entrance to a parking lot. If I had taken another step I would have done a faceplant into the asphalt.
Since Bruce saved me from harm as well as humiliation, I decide he isn’t a jerk at all. He’s actually a pretty nice guy. In fact, he’s my hero.
Carrie and I started dating regularly after that. I called my mom to tell her about it. “Mom, I’ve met this girl,” I said. “She’s awesome.” I soon realized that as far as I was concerned, this was it. I could see myself spending the rest of my life with Carrie. On my next visit home, I sat down with Mom. “This girl’s really special,” I said. “Mom, I’ve found her. She’s the one.”
Carrie and I were talking on the phone after a couple of months of dating and I found myself saying, “Yeah, I wouldn’t mind marrying you.”
“Really?” Carrie said in a surprised voice.
“Heck, yeah.” From that point on, we talked often about marriage. You could say that my social life had taken a dramatic turn for the better.
In early December, Carrie came to Arcadia to meet my parents for the first time. It meant a lot to me that they loved her from the start. Mom started calling her “Sweet Carrie”—they hit it off right away. Dad showed his approval by displaying his unique brand of humor. He spun Carrie around and said, “You look like good breeding stock.” I was relieved that Carrie wasn’t offended and took it as intended. It was one more sign that she was the perfect girl for me.
My sophomore football season included several highlights as well. We started the year ranked fifth nationally and moved up as high as number two before a couple of late-season losses. I played well at times, but never felt entirely comfortable as a starter. I was still learning what was required to excel at the college level. Then, in our final game against second-ranked Notre Dame, I finally put it all together and played my best game of the season. Our running backs gained more than two hundred yards rushing and we beat the Fighting Irish, 20–3.
I was disappointed to see the season end. I’d come a long way. I was playing with more consistency and getting a handle on the fundamentals. I was beginning to believe I might actually become pretty good at this football thing.
My junior year was a lot of fun. I’d been in a studio apartment with Don Mosebar my sophomore year. Don and I moved into a bigger apartment with another roommate, Doug Branscombe. Doug was an industrial engineering major from New Hampshire and just as competitive as any of the guys on the football team. We played a lot of video games and tennis—whatever the competition, he hated to lose. He remains a good friend today.
That year was fun on the field as well. We had a tremendous rushing attack led by Marcus Allen, who became the first college running back to rush for over two thousand yards in a season. Blocking for Marcus was a pleasure. He was one of the toughest dudes around and one of the greatest I ever played with.
Marcus didn’t talk much on the field. He just ran the ball hard, got up, walked back to the huddle, and did it again. He wanted to be the best at everything—not just running the ball, but blocking and even passing on trick plays. When we were in the NFL, I loved watching him take on a safety or linebacker on a blitz. He wasn’t content to just block them. He tried to drop them. Playing with Marcus was one of the highlights of my football career.
Another teammate not nearly as famous, but just as dedicated, was Dave Holden. Dave was a walk-on, one of my best friends at USC and still a good buddy now. Like me, he loved the game, knew a lot about football history, and noticed the little things when we watched teams on film. I always had so much respect for the walk-ons. They rarely played, yet worked just as hard as the regulars.
That 1981 team came together quickly. In our third game, we were ranked first nationally and our opponent, Oklahoma, was number two. The teams battled back and forth, with Marcus gaining 208 rushing yards. It came down to the game’s final play, when our quarterback, John Mazur, tossed a seven-yard touchdown pass to my freshman-year roommate, Fred Cornwell. We beat the Sooners, 28–24.
We stumbled a couple of times that season, losing to Arizona and Washington, before coming back for a 22–21 victory over UCLA. We took on Penn State in the Fiesta Bowl, including a couple of Nittany Lions who would be important in my future: Mike Munchak and Chet Parlavecchio. I’d never heard the kind of trash talk those guys dished out. They tackled Marcus for a loss on the first play and someone started yelling, “It’s not your day, Marc! It’s not your day!” No one ever called Marcus Allen “Marc.” But I had to give them credit. They backed up the talk with a great game and beat us, 26–10.
Marcus deservedly won the Heisman Trophy that year. It was a thrill to be invited along with Don Mosebar, Roy Foster, and fullback Todd Spencer to New York’s Downtown Athletic Club for the ceremony. I got to meet several previous Heisman winners. The whole weekend was awesome.
Roy was a senior that season and was chosen in the first round of the NFL draft by the Dolphins. When that happened, I thought, Yeah, I can do this. I’d played with Roy for three years and saw us as being in a similar class. For the first time, the idea of a career in the NFL started feeling less like a pipe dream and more like a reality.
I was a senior in fall 1982. Suddenly my college experience was flying by. I was so focused on doing well on the field and in the classroom that year that I didn’t always appreciate what a special time it was. I wish now that I’d slowed down once in a while to savor it all.
The Trojans were ranked eleventh going into the season. I was named a preseason All-American and one of three team captains. We opened with a tough loss at Florida, 17–9. I had a great game with the exception of three penalties.
Our home opener was the next week against Indiana. In the second quarter, our quarterback, Sean Salisbury, was scrambling near the Indiana bench when their safety took him down with an especially hard hit. What was worse in my eyes, however, was when the safety stood over Salisbury, pointing down at him and celebrating the hit. I was trailing the play and saw it all. I was livid. Before I stopped to think about it, I ran full speed at the safety and just drilled him. Unfortunately, he was two yards out of bounds at the time.
A referee threw me out of the game. Then Lee Corso, now an analyst for ESPN’s College GameDay but then Indiana’s coach, got in my face and started yelling at me. I yelled back. It wasn’t one of my proudest moments. After I calmed down, I was embarrassed. Carrie was at the game. So was my family. I felt I’d let my team down. Coach Robinson had to sit me down the next week and ask me to tone my passion down a notch. I felt terrible about it.
What’s funny is that a few months later at one of the NFL combines, an official for one of the teams came up to me and s
aid, “Hey man. You made yourself a lot of money by drilling that guy on the sidelines.”
“What?” I said.
“The Indiana game. We liked that.” Apparently my passion and willingness to stand up for a teammate got the NFL’s attention. It just shows that there’s a silver lining to every disaster.
Our record improved to 3–1 after wins over Oklahoma and Oregon. Then we beat Stanford at their place, 41–21, on October 16. The game was not my biggest highlight that weekend in the Bay Area, however.
I’d gotten permission from the coaches to stay an extra night so I could take Carrie to Ghirardelli Square by Fisherman’s Wharf, where we had dinner reservations. I had a ring with me. I’d already asked Carrie’s parents, Dr. Clyde Kitchen and his wife, Janet, if I could marry their daughter, and I’d received their blessing. My plan was to propose to Carrie during dinner, but even though I was sure I knew what she’d say, I was still nervous and just wanted to have it done. We were waiting near the restaurant on a park bench with a view of San Francisco Bay. I decided the time was now.
I pulled out the ring and got down on one knee.
“What are you doing?” Carrie said.
“Carrie,” I said, “I’ve thought about this and I know I want to spend the rest of my life with you. You would make me the happiest man on earth if you would marry me.”
She said yes.
I must have been a little distracted during our candlelight dinner. When we were finished and I got up to leave, our dishes started crashing to the floor. I’d accidentally tucked the tablecloth into my pants and was pulling it away when I stood. It was a great weekend anyway.
We finished the football season with a record of 8–3, including a 17–13 victory over Notre Dame at the Coliseum in my final game. I’m definitely proud of the fact that during my four years at USC I never lost to the Irish. When people ask me which opponent I most wanted to beat in college or the NFL, I usually say, “Whoever we were playing that week.” But I have to admit that Notre Dame was near the top of my list of teams I wanted to see go down.
Another favorite memory of that last season is traveling to New York to tape the Bob Hope Christmas Special at Rockefeller Center. Every year, the show’s producers flew in the Associated Press All-America team. We introduced ourselves one at a time on camera and had a moment with Bob. When my turn came, Bob said, “I understand you come from a football family.” My scripted reply was, “That’s right, Bob. My dad played for the 49ers and my brother plays for the Browns.” Then I jogged off the stage.
My last semester of college was a whirlwind. There was a Pro Day at USC and NFL scouting combines, where pro teams had a chance to evaluate me and other prospective players. During a Pro Day before my senior year, I’d run a forty-yard dash in five seconds flat, shaving a full second from my time when I started at USC. I was pleased about that.
One of the combines was in Tampa, Florida. I was getting dressed when a man came up to me. “Hey Bruce, I want to introduce myself,” he said. “I’m Bill Parcells, the new head coach of the New York Giants.” This was of course before he’d led the Giants to two Super Bowl championships and the Patriots to another Super Bowl appearance. I didn’t know who he was.
“I just want you to know,” he said, “that if you’re still available we’re going to take you with the number-ten pick in the draft.”
That blew me away. By this time I figured I’d be drafted, but I had no idea teams were considering me at that level. The draft itself took place in New York on April 26. John Elway went first and Eric Dickerson second. The Giants never got the chance to follow through on Bill Parcells’ words. The Houston Oilers chose me with pick number nine.
I didn’t have a lot of time to think about what life might be like in Houston and the NFL. On May 13, I graduated from USC with my degree in industrial engineering. Two weeks and a day later, I was in a church in Carrie’s hometown of Fullerton, California, sweating in a tuxedo and saying “I do” at the appropriate moment. Carrie had told the pastor who married us that she wanted a traditional ceremony, no jokes or shenanigans. The pastor kept his promise to do that—until the moment we were officially married. We were still walking down the aisle when we heard the organist, as the pastor had arranged, switch from playing the wedding march to the USC fight song.
I couldn’t believe how much my life had changed in four years. I’d started college as a kid who lacked confidence in his football ability, was afraid to talk to girls, and was trying to figure out his place in life. Now I had a college degree, was about to join the NFL, and was married.
I was blessed beyond belief. I also had no idea how many more blessings—and heartaches—were just around the corner.
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HEART AND SOUL
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A mother is a person who seeing there are only four pieces of pie for five people, promptly announces she never did care for pie.
TENNEVA JORDAN
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THE HOUSTON OILERS, LED BY colorful coach Bum Phillips, unstoppable running back Earl Campbell, and defensive stars Elvin Bethea, Gregg Bingham, and Robert “Dr. Doom” Brazile, had an outstanding team at the end of the seventies. They twice came within a single victory of the Super Bowl, losing in the playoffs in both the 1978 and 1979 seasons to the eventual champion Pittsburgh Steelers. Houston’s fans rallied around their Oilers in an era dubbed “Luv Ya Blue” by Campbell.
By 1983, however, the Oilers hardly resembled a perennial championship contender. They still had Campbell, but the coach was now Ed Biles. The window of opportunity for those great Houston teams had passed. The current Oilers squad was young and facing a period of growing pains. I was supposed to be part of the new youth movement.
For the first couple weeks of training camp, however, I wasn’t part of anything. The last thing I wanted was to get my career started on a bad note, but I did want to be paid a fair salary. Most professional football players make a pile of money, especially these days, but they also risk permanent injury every time they walk onto the field and never know when their career is going to end. My agent, Howard Slusher, and I agreed that the Oilers should have offered me a salary that fell between what the eighth and tenth picks in that year’s draft received. In an era before the current wage-scale system for draft picks, the Oilers offered less.
Howard was known for clients who held out for better contracts and he advised me to do the same. He said I’d regret it if I didn’t stand up for what was fair. I agreed and Houston’s training camp started without me. I believed it was the right thing to do, but it was hard. I felt an obligation to be there, but I also didn’t want to be taken advantage of.
Fortunately, the Oilers soon agreed to what we proposed, and I signed a four-year contract on July 25. I was twelve days late when I arrived in the middle of the night at the Oilers’ camp at Angelo State University in San Angelo, Texas. I wondered what kind of reception I’d get from my new teammates at my first practice. For the most part, they ignored me. I think they were just trying to get through another day of Texas heat.
Our quarterback was veteran Archie Manning, a two-time Pro Bowler who’s now just as famous for being the father of Peyton and Eli Manning. I hardly expected Archie to even know who I was, so I was shocked when he came over at the end of that first practice and said, “Hey Bruce, why don’t I take you out for a beer and pizza?”
As a kid, I’d watched Archie Manning during his college days at Ole Miss and then in the pros for the New Orleans Saints. I couldn’t believe that just the two of us were sitting down for pizza. It was a wonderful gesture that helped an uptight rookie begin to feel like part of the team.
More of the Oilers made me feel welcome as the preseason went on. We all stayed in the campus dorms and someone had stocked a refrigerator with beer. Each night, fifteen or twenty guys gathered around the fridge to just talk and get to kno
w each other. It was surreal for me to be sitting with guys I’d watched play on television. Those sessions created an important spirit of camaraderie, not just for me but for the whole team.
I needed all the team spirit I could get that preseason. Other than my broken leg back in seventh grade in Illinois, I’d never suffered an injury in football, but in the fourth quarter of our first preseason game, veteran left tackle Doug France threw a defender my direction. The player hit me in the back of my right leg. Suddenly, I felt shooting pain in my ankle and knee. I was sure it was serious. I was afraid I’d ended my NFL career before it had even started.
I missed the next two preseason games. Fortunately, my knee quickly got better. My ankle improved as well, though it bothered me some the rest of the year. With the help of a cortisone shot, I was able to play in our final preseason contest, a nationally televised affair against the Dallas Cowboys. I went into the lineup in the second quarter.
In those days, teams played their starters most of the way in the final preseason game to tune up for the regular season. Everyone went all out. Soon after I came in, acting on instinct, I made a cut block on a Dallas defender on a screen play. A cut block is when you dive for an opponent’s legs to take him out of the play. It’s an aggressive move that does include some risk of injury for the defender, but it’s within the rules. (If you do the same to a defender who’s already been engaged by another blocker, it’s a chop block, which is against the rules.)
The player I cut turned out to be Ed “Too Tall” Jones. Too Tall was a handful at defensive end—six foot nine, 270 pounds, and a veteran All-Pro. After the play, I was walking back to the huddle when someone blasted me in the back and sent me sprawling. The culprit was Too Tall. “Hey rookie, don’t you ever cut me!” he yelled while standing over me. “I just embarrassed you in front of the whole nation. You don’t cut me!”
Inside the NFL’s First Family Page 8