"He was my boss, my father figure, my dearest friend," I said that day. What I didn't say was how much I'd loved him. I can say it now.
I am still lucky to call myself part of the Mara family every Sunday. I watch every home game in the Mara box, sitting next to Ann. (Actually, I sit one seat away from Ann. The seat between us stays empty, to give Ann some space. She can get a little demonstrative during Giant games. She needs her room.)
I was in the Mara box on February 3 of this year, too, in Arizona-and afterward, down on the field, where the celebration, after the Giants' unlikely Super Bowl win over the undefeated Patriots, was joyous and stunning. For me, the thrill created by the Giants' victory extended beyond the Giant family-to my own. I watched Michael Strahan hand the Vince Lombardi Trophy to Cody to hold.
That was one moment my son, and I, will never forget.
It was magical down on that field, even for me. The players all came back out. Everyone started milling around, as if they never wanted the moment to end. It was the damnedest thing.
I also wondered, briefly-as the confetti swirled around me, and the waves of Giant emotion filled that field-whether the game I was writing this book about was now the second greatest game ever played. The one we'd just watched had been simply astounding, and I couldn't help but see some parallels: Another Southern kid, from Charlie's alma mater, Ole Miss, had worn the Giant quarterback's uniform-and endured his shares of boos, as had Charlie. And Eli Manning's final drive was certainly a thing that Charlie would have been proud of-and familiar with.
And once again, an enormous national audience had watched that rare championship-a game that transcended the network hype, the histrionics, the fireworks. A game that, despite all the distractions of modern championship games, turned out to be extraordinarily compelling for no other reason than the game itself.
The half-century that has passed since the '58 title game has been full of reunions, celebrations, parties, and gatherings. Sometimes they blur. But for me, none captured the glory of our game like the one in November of 2007, in a suburb of Baltimore. The occasion was a dinner to raise money for the Baltimore chapter of Fourth and Goal, the organization that has taken on the cause of helping older players who need our assistance: the guys who have gotten ill, the guys who have fallen on hard times, the guys who took a lot of shots to the head-a feeling I know as well as anyone.
Everyone in that room that night felt for the old guys who needed help. I wasn't surprised by the incredible turnout, or by the fact that the event raised more than $100,000-give them any occasion to salute their old Colts, and the people of Baltimore will be there. My old nemesis Artie Donovan was the night's honoree, and the evening's hosts had graciously invited me down to attend the dinner. I felt like a king being crowned.
What I hadn't expected was the feeling in the room something I'd never really understood, I guess, until that night. The game that gave birth to the modern NFL had meant as much, if not more, to the Colts: the team in white on the other side of the field. It wasn't really until that night, when I was surrounded by so many of the players from that championship game, that it really hit me: The Colts had been a band of brothers too. And their bond was as strong as ours.
After I had a chance to address the audience, and congratulate all of the Colts who were out there, and tell them how proud the Giants were to have played a part in the drama of that game, Artie took the podium.
"You know what, Frank?" he said. "We'll give you that damned first down."
The real highlight of that night, though, didn't come until the end, when Artie capped the evening with, of all things, a song. It was called "I Wish You Love," and Artie sang it beautifully.
Artie told me recently that he'd first heard the song at the funeral of an old friend, some years back. When he first told his wife, Dottie, that he was going to sing it at the end of this amazing evening, this tribute to the warriors we all fought alongside and against, she told Artie that he'd better get ready to cry. That night was about all of them-not just about the Colts, but about the Giants, too. That night, they brought the game of professional football into full fruition. In one way or another, the game has followed them throughout their lives, as it's followed me. And the thing that has been most gratifying for me is that, in following the path of that game for this book, it's led me back to all of them.
I think the final words should be Kyle's.
The poem is called "To My Teammates."
So many things I've wished I'd said
And wished much more I'd done
Back when we functioned as a team
Back when the game was fun.
So many times-I now recall
Those humid summer days
When we could barely practice through
Our list of basic plays
But then-someone among our group-
Would walk that extra mile
And lead us to complete the task
To exit with some style
The mind grows dim as years move on-
And details fade away
But essence of that band of boys
Is with me ev'ry day.
I've often thought that if we've learned
Some lessons during life,
The best of them at least were learned
Back then-on fields of strife.
I also feel the bonds we made
Did bind-solidify-
Those careful, precious memories
Until the day we die.
About the Authors
FRANK GIFFORD played for the New York Giants for twelve seasons (1952-1964). He received the NFL's Most Valuable Player Award in 1956 and was inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame in 1977. After his playing career, Gifford worked as a sports broadcaster for more than thirty years. In 1995 he received the Pete Rozelle Award for his television career covering the NFL, which included twenty-seven years in the booth for ABC's Monday Night Football. He lives in Greenwich, Connecticut, with his wife, Kathie Lee Gifford, and their children.
PETER RICHMOND is the author of three books. His work has appeared in the New Yorker, Vanity Fair, Rolling Stone, the New York Times Magazine, and GQ. He lives in Dutchess County, New York, with his wife.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
The Glory Game: How the 1958 NFL Championship Changed Football Forever Page 27