Third and goal. The Stadium on its feet.
On both plays, they'd gone left, toward Youso-and on third down, Unitas went right back at Youso again, handing off to Ameche. Frank was a quick learner. On this play, Berry, the wide receiver, would stay in to block down on Youso. On paper, Frank outweighed Raymond by about eighty pounds, but Raymond had already shown himself to be a lot better blocker than he should have been. At the snap, Berry went low on Frank-and Youso went down to meet him, closing the hole. Frank was getting the hang of things.
Meanwhile, inside, two all-pros were waging the rarest of battles: offensive tackle Jim Parker was trying to block offensive tackle Rosey Brown. Our guy won. Rosey stood Parker up, and pushed him right back into the hole, just as Ameche was trying to run over Parker's broad back.
Again, the whole thing could have gone either way, until Jimmy Patton slammed into the pile from behind. Jimmy may have been small, but he was one tough guy. Ameche, trying to get through the pile, was spinning his wheels. As Alan tried to get a last bit of traction, Carl finally came in and wrapped him up on the 1.
On fourth down, no one even looked at the sideline to see if Myhra was coming in to try a field goal. I suspect that even if Weeb had tried to trot Myhra out there, Johnny would have pushed him right back to the sideline. But Weeb didn't want three points.
Years later, Ewbank said, "I wanted to bury them right there with a touchdown."
Johnny had tested the inside of the line three times, and failed. He didn't have the room for a Berry square-out, or a slant to Moore. Now he'd finally go to the right-but not with a conventional play.
On paper, his call looked risky. And it was. The call was "428."
The "28" meant Ameche would be going wide around the right side. The "4" designation in front of the 28 meant that Ameche would then be passing the ball, to Mutscheller, who was supposed to slide off his block of Livingston and drift into the end zone.
"It was supposed to work," Mutscheller told me, "because Ameche hadn't thrown the ball all year, and it would surprise the heck out of them." They'd never used the 428 during the season.
But according to Mutscheller, they'd worked on it at practice.
In the radio booth, Boland set the stage: "This New York defense has been tremendous, but can they do it once more? They've had to dig deep into the emotional well . . . "
There comes a point in any game when, no matter what you might say later to the press, you know it's over. And a touchdown here meant it was over.
The din was really deafening; the two different sides' cheers mixed into one roar. The Stadium was on its feet, as we were on the sidelines. From this point on, no one would sit on the bench the rest of the day.
Berry split left. Moore split wide to the right. Johnny took the snap, and pitched it to Ameche, going wide right.
A great play by one man-Cliff Livingston-blew the whole thing up. Our high-living bachelor, the guy who played as hard on the field as off it, made the play of his career.
Mutscheller was obviously thinking about getting open, and his swipe-fake block didn't slow Cliff down a hair. Livingston completely ignored Mutscheller's block, designed to slow Cliff down for an Ameche pass attempt, and nailed Ameche from behind, dragging him down at the 5.
"John, in his most inventive way, called a pass," Ameche would say years later. "Not having heard that play before, I completely blew it, and I thought it was a sweep."
Ameche said it was the first time they'd called the 428 in six years, which is a little curious-Alan was only in his fourth year with the Colts. That's probably why he didn't hear the "4" part.
"I'm standing in the end zone by myself," Mutscheller told me. "And Alan doesn't realize he's supposed to throw the ball. I still remember it very distinctly. I'm standing there wide open. He just didn't even look at me. I went down three or four yards, turned out, and I'm right in the end zone. As I remember it, I was pretty much open."
Even if Ameche had known what he was supposed to do, he'd never have been able to get the pass off: Cliff was right on him.
At the snap, Unitas's pitch was a quick, hard line drive of a toss, but Cliff was just as quick in getting out there. I've never known a quicker linebacker than Cliff, and he proved it on this play.
If Mutscheller could have stuck with his block on Cliff a millisecond longer, Livingston wouldn't have been able to get to Ameche-but neither could Mutscheller have gotten open in the end zone. And Mutscheller would have had to be wide open. "Alan," Mutscheller says now, "was absolutely the worst passer in the whole world."
Bottom line: We had their trick play stuffed from the moment Cliff made his move.
"Why I was there, I have no idea," Cliff told me. "I have no idea. Then, as soon as Ameche had the ball, I made the tackle." He was being modest. It was a classic Livingston move. His instincts were perfect. He beat his block and made a super play on the ball.
The stadium went crazy-but the defense was completely cool.
The entire unit just trotted off the field. Not a single fist thrust in the air, not a single yell or taunt or chest-thump.
"It was a different time," says Cliff now, matter-of-factly.
When I told him, fifty years later, how impressive his reaction was, he answered with six simple words, and they spoke worlds: "We didn't win the football game." That's all he said about it.
And did anyone give Ameche grief, on the Colt sideline?
"Of course not," Mutscheller says. "We were too gentlemanly.
He was a heck of a guy. Alan had a heck of a game."
Neither Jim's nor Alan's days were done.
Charlie, Kyle, and I took off our jackets, pulled on our helmets, and headed for the field. We took over on our own 5. And I remember feeling at that point that we could take it all the way. I just didn't know how quickly we'd get there.
In the next five minutes, we completely turned the game around.
On first down, I got off a good one-not a long one, but a good one. I made something out of nothing on the 41 trap, and Marchetti came in untouched and swung a big right forearm straight at my head. Somehow, I ducked under it and slid ahead for five yards. I was already on the ground when Pellington came in way late, lowered his shoulder, and nailed me in the back. There was an official standing right there. No flag.
Another run and Phil King got three yards; our rookie from Vanderbilt was spelling Webster. Now it was third and two. We couldn't give it up this deep again. The defense was exhausted. It was time for Charlie to shake it up a little. He went to the play Kyle had suggested during halftime.
"We'd worked on that earlier in the week," Kyle said years later. "I'd told Charlie that I noticed how every time he pitched out, the safety came flying up to stop the run and it was giving us trouble. So I suggested we fake the pitchout, and when the safety came up, I could get behind him."
Kyle had no idea how big it was going to work this time.
"Give me some time, guys," Charlie said in the huddle.
"Brown right, L-split [Kyle], fake 48. L-down and in. Break." That put Webster split to the right, and Kyle at the left end, split to the left.
At the snap, Charlie faked the pitch to me, then faked another handoff to King going up the middle. The fakes froze everyone except Marchetti. As soon as Charlie turned to look up the field for Kyle, there was Gino, leaping, both arms in the air to block the pass. Charlie didn't have time to do anything-set his feet, or even completely cock his arm. He just let it rip downfield, off his back foot.
Charlie's pass hit Rote perfectly, in stride, at the 35. Kyle had beaten Milt Davis by a step; Milt just couldn't cut on the broken foot. Kyle, the old running back, tucked the ball under his right arm and turned upfield.
Now Taseff, their cornerback, had the angle, and met Kyle in full stride at our 45. Taseff lowered his shoulder, but Kyle gave him a super move, and Taseff missed a sure tackle. As Kyle headed for midfield, he looked back to his right-and here came Andy Nelson, gaining fast; Kyle could
have used some of the speed he left back in that gopher hole, when he tore up his knee as a rookie. At the Colt 45, Nelson corralled him, and started to drag Kyle down-and here came little Ray Brown to finish the job. The lawyer from Charlie's hometown popped them both.
The famous Clarksdale, Mississippi, guy had thrown the pass.
Now Clarksdale's other native had forced the fumble.
"All I remember," Nelson says now, "is that I hit Rote. I didn't know he had fumbled, though. I'd have tried to get it. As it is, I was flying in the air, then I hit the ground and did a backward somersault."
"Andy and I both knocked it loose," Ray Brown says now. "I saw it bounce, and I thought, I'll he damned. Man, I was gonna get that ball-until it bounced right into Webster's hands."
Webster? What was Alex doing down there?
"I think it's the only play in my whole career I ever happened to get downfield on," Alex told me. "I wasn't in the pattern. I'd run a circle route, and when Kyle made the catch, I just started running upfield, and then Kyle got hit pretty good, and the ball just sort of bounced into my hands. Looking back, I didn't realize I was that slow."
Running full speed-such as it was-Red scooped the ball up perfectly, and took off toward the goal line. Well, maybe "took off " is a slight exaggeration; "rumbled" is a lot more like it. It was Taseff, who'd missed the tackle on Kyle at midfield, who got up and chased Alex down. No surprise there. Artie considered Taseff to be the best athlete on the team. (A few years later, Taseff would be called into duty as a running back when all the other Colt running backs were hurt-and gained 100 yards in the game.)
Alex headed for the corner of the end zone, but Taseff dove at his knees, and took him out at the 1.
"I was happy to get out of bounds," Alex told me, laughing. "I ran out of gas completely."
Alex slowly rose to his feet-as a group of fans vaulted from the stands toward him. One of them actually put his arms around Alex to help him up, giving him a friendly pat on the backside as he walked back onto the field.
The play had covered 86 yards, by way of a 27-yard pass, a 20-yard run, a 15-yard fumble, and Alex's 24-yard sprint.
For all the fluky things that had happened on the play-Taseff missing a wide-open tackle, Alex pursuing, then making the perfect scoop-this play belonged to Charlie. It had been one hell of a pass.
Now we had the ball first and goal on the Colt 1. "We're in the huddle," Alex remembers, "and Charlie says, 'You got it here-take it in.' So I got the handoff, straight ahead, a 20 quick-trap, and I got clobbered in the line. And I got hit hard in the head. Hard."
Donovan had Alex low, and as Webster went down, a trio of Colts fell on him.
Now the Colts were bracing for their own goal-line miracle.
Second and goal from the 1.
In the huddle, Charlie offered to let Alex try again. Alex was having none of it: "I'd never run over forty yards in my life. I was beat. And the tackle on the play before . . . I swear, that was the hardest I was hit in my whole career. So I said to Charlie, 'Give it to Mel.' What the hell. I don't have to score a touchdown. That was the way we were. No one could care less who scored. We just wanted to score."
So Charlie gave it to Triplett. Mel ran straight-and up. He vaulted over the line, landing in a huge pile of bodies, with Artie somewhere in the middle. Both teams had collapsed inside, and the crowd was so big that the goalpost was shaking.
To this day, Artie refuses to give us that touchdown: "I hit him, and he hit the goalpost, but the ball never crossed the line.
The ball never got over. I swear it."
As usual, Artie's version of things is wrong. We had our first touchdown of the day. It was 14-10, Baltimore.
Back on the sideline, none of the Giants celebrated. Charlie didn't say a thing. He never did. He was a man without artifice, attitude, or ego. In execution, in cool under fire, that pass to Rote epitomized Charlie Conerly. It wasn't a laser pass; it wasn't a 60-yard bomb. It was the perfect touch pass, at the one moment in the whole game when we needed it most. If we punted from our end zone, maybe they would have come back and put it away. Instead, Charlie had pulled one out of his hat. It was the best pass of the day, Unitas's included. No one remembers it-as, to my way of thinking, not enough people remember Charlie Conerly.
Charlie was really a straight shooter." Perian Conerly says now.
"What you saw is what you got. He had a quiet dignity about him. They didn't have any money when he was a child. Well, no one had any money. His daddy was a policeman in Clarksdale. At one point, his daddy was the jailer. They all lived in an apartment in the county jail. Charlie once said to me, 'I'll tell you one thing: I never wanted to be a criminal after I saw what those poor slobs had to go through in jail.'
"With his first contract, Charlie bought his daddy a little farm between Duncan and Alligator, Mississippi."
Charlie and I started rooming together in 1954, out in Salem, Oregon. We were the most unlikely pair you could imagine: a kid from USC, by way of the oil fields and Hollywood, and a former marine from Mississippi. Charlie had a lingering distrust of Northerners. In my first year, I said to him, "Charlie, I'm not a northerner . . . I'm from California.'
"I know," he said, "but y'all are fruitcakes out there."
Iwo Jima, Tarawa, Kwajelein. Places I'd only heard of from newsreels. I guess being in the war made it easier for him to endure all the grief he took, year after year after year. Charlie played with a terrible football team at the start, in the lowly Polo Grounds, in a town that was very unsophisticated about football. The fans would boo Charlie for things he couldn't help, or had nothing to do with.
He didn't have an offensive line. He had poor receivers, and the crowd was brutal.
"I remember one game where Charlie completed nine in a row," Perian remembers. "The tenth fell incomplete, and they booed."
That first season I saw my first "Conerly Must Go" signs. It shocked me. The boos shocked me; the signs shocked me. He never said one word about it. It never seemed to affect him one way or the other. But I'm sure it did. Years later, I tried to get Charlie on the veterans' ballot for the Hall of Fame. But you just can't overcome some of the Hall's criteria. You just can't say, "If only he'd had an offensive line, better receivers . . . " He lost four years at the beginning of his career, playing for bad teams. A career that had already been postponed by a little thing called World War II. For what it's worth, Charlie's been in my hall of fame since the day I met him.
We hadn't given the defense much time to rest. We'd gone 87 yards in four plays. But they didn't need any more rest. Charlie's completion had pumped everyone back up; it no longer felt like a one-sided game anymore. And the defense was as fired up as we were.
And three plays later, it was the Giants who had the momentum: Kat stuffed a Dupre run; Mo sacked Unitas; and though Johnny was able to scramble for a few, Svare brought him down well short of the first down. The Colts punted it right back. It had been a textbook defensive series and, more important, we had brought some pressure on Unitas. Youso was getting his sea legs, and Mo's motor was really running.
When we returned to the field this time, we were a completely different unit-literally. Phil King, the rookie, had replaced Webster. Rote had been replaced by our reserve wide receiver, Ken MacAfee. With his bad knee, Kyle wouldn't play the rest of the game. On paper, it was a big loss. But Kyle's absence now gave a shot to our underused tight end, Bob Schnelker.
Bob was a big, talented receiver with excellent speed and sure hands. He had been a clutch receiver for us, in the last two seasons making forty catches for an astounding 21-yard-per-catch average. He was a quiet guy, a substitute teacher whose passion was mathematics.
The Colts seemed to have forgotten about him. Charlie hadn't.
Charlie was ready to take over this game. On second down from the 22, Charlie called Bob's number. We lined up Brown left, R-split, R down and in. That split Schnelker to the right, where he would run the down and in. He ran it, as alw
ays, with precision.
Charlie had his best protection of the day as Bob curled in front of Taseff at the 40, and gathered the pass into his stomach, just as Taseff wrapped him up. Taseff 's coverage was good, but Charlie's pass was better.
The pass had been good for 17.
"Charlie had seen something," Bob told me, not long ago, as we sat together in the stands for a high-school football game between my son Cody's Greenwich (Connecticut) High School team and a local Florida powerhouse. "He was good at that. Saw something in the coverage. Or maybe it was the first time I was that open."
Bob hadn't suggested the play; Bob rarely suggested plays. Bob never said much of anything. He was simply a really savvy football guy you could always count on to execute. "I never asked to get the ball, that's for sure," he told me. "If Charlie called your play, then that's the way it happened, and your job was to get to the place he expected you to be."
We had it first and ten on the Colt 40. The quarter ended, and we felt good for the first time that day.
CHAPTER 7 FOURTH QUARTER
Full shadow blanketed the field, which was dotted with bits of paper and debris that had floated down through the gathering dusk like a strange, man-made snowfall. On the sideline, some of our guys were wrapped in full-length capes, huddling against the chill. We had a hamburger cooker near the bench to keep warm.
In the huddle, before the first play of what we thought would be the final quarter, Charlie pulled out all the stops: he was going to go right back to Schnelker again-but this time he was going deeper. Vince and Charlie had been talking on the sideline. They knew the Colts would still be playing run.
Charlie stepped into the huddle: "Listen up now: Brown right, fake 47, R down and in. Give me a little time, now. On three break."
Our formation gave nothing away: both backs in, both ends tight. At the snap, Charlie faked a handoff to Phil going up the middle, then faked another into my belly. I gave it the full Oscar, pretending to tuck the ball in and head upfield. Taseff bought the whole thing. Meanwhile Schnelker broke off the line and headed straight downfield-surprising Ray Brown, the safety, with his speed. Schnelker was wide open, and Charlie put it in his hands, 35 yards downfield.
The Glory Game: How the 1958 NFL Championship Changed Football Forever Page 18