Rozelle

  contractual obligation with one league, he is within his rights to

  move to the other one. I could not void Gogolak’s contract.”

  Dan Reeves was upset. The Bidwill brothers were angry. Art

  Rooney and his son Dan joined in. Over the roar Lombardi released

  a fusillade at both Wellington and Pete. “That contract never

  should have been offered by you, Wellington, and never approved

  by you, commissioner. What are we paying you for . . . to put us

  all on the road to bankruptcy?”

  “Yes,” Rozelle later told me, “he was livid. But I think he was

  angrier at Wellington than he was at me for approving it. But I can

  tell you one thing with certainty. No matter what you may have

  heard, he never said my job was in jeopardy— absolutely never.”

  Modell jumped up and called for an immediate recess. “I wanted

  one, too, so the owners could break into smaller groups and digest

  what had happened,” Rozelle explained. “I didn’t like it that much

  myself, but we had no legal grounds to deny Wellington since

  Gogolak was a genuine free agent, and to deny it would have risked

  a huge lawsuit.”

  As Rozelle approved the adjournment, Lombardi came around

  the edge of the table next to where Mara was speaking, put his

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  Sex, Lies, and Bringing Up Baby

  quivering jaw maybe three inches from Mara’s nose, and shouted, as Mara later told me, “‘Wellington, I like you . . . You are an old

  friend . . . I respect you . . . But goddammit, you have no idea

  what,’ etc., etc., etc.”

  During the recess Reeves, Lombardi, and Bidwill joined Mod-

  ell in his suite, still not sure what to do. In the middle of a highly confused and emotional discussion, Tex Schramm knocked on the

  door, and someone shouted, “What now?”

  “Look, guys,” he said. “Before you pass judgment I think there

  is something you should know and you don’t. You don’t and Wel-

  lington doesn’t. Nobody in this entire league does except the com-

  missioner does. I’ve been seeing Lamar Hunt.”

  Or as they say in the soap operas, the husband is always the last

  to know. Nobody involved in the negotiations between the leagues

  bothered to tell Davis about them. He truly believed he was in a

  fight that his owners wanted him to win.

  “I was absolutely furious,” Modell later told me. “Here I am

  an owner in this league, and nobody tells me what’s going on. I

  was outraged at Rozelle. Now I figure, the hell with Gogolak. I

  demand to know what’s going on.

  “Looking back now,” he later told me, “Pete was right. All we

  needed was one slip and the whole thing would have crashed, and

  what I had forgotten in the heat of that moment was that Tex really

  couldn’t have committed to anything. But that day with all that

  went on, I was steaming.”

  “Y’all can do whatever you want about Gogolak,” Tex said,

  breaking the sudden dead silence that engulfed the room, “but I

  have to let you know something else about these talks. I think we

  just might almost be there.”

  Now, everyone in that room decided that they really needed

  a lot more time to think. And what they didn’t know— not even

  Schramm knew— was that Rosenbloom had on his own initiative

  called Ralph Wilson in Buffalo and given him his best “We are

  all reasonable men” speech and had said he thought that the two

  leagues could merge under certain conditions and no franchises

  Sex, Lies, and Bringing Up Baby

  123

  would be moved. The afl would pay twelve million dollars. Wilson said he’s ask around and get back to him.

  Rosenbloom, as usual, had gone off on his own. Wilson called

  back and said, “Yes to franchises and merger, but no to the money.”

  Ever the diplomat, Rosenbloom suggested Wilson bend over and

  perform an anatomically impossible act.

  Meanwhile, up in New York, at the Al Davis bar mitzvah (“Today

  I am a commissioner”) press conference, they had no way of know-

  ing that the nfl was not exactly totally united. Now Davis had

  begun to speak about what had to be done to put some teeth into

  its identity and some fear into the nfl when Jack Horrigan, the

  Buffalo publicist, had left the room to answer an urgent phone

  call. When he returned he whispered the news about Gogolak’s

  signing to Davis.

  Davis was visibly angry but not necessarily because he believed

  his league had been wronged. He was a pragmatist, and he could

  live with the loss of one placekicker— particularly with what he

  was already planning to do. He was angry because he felt that the

  nfl (read Rozelle here) with its keen sense of public relations and

  newspaper reaction had set out to eclipse his personal press con-

  ference, which is exactly what happened in the next day’s papers.

  Without so much as a pause, Davis personally delivered the

  news about Gogolak and then told the assembled press he felt the

  favor could be returned— indeed, must be returned. He had come

  to New York to wage war, and not one isolated defeat in which he

  wasn’t even involved would change that plan.

  With offices on the same street, there were metaphorically eye-

  ball to eyeball . . . very different yet very much alike.

  Rozelle: Smooth, tan, socially aware. White Anglo- Saxon Prot-

  estant, California. Determined to do what had to be done.

  Davis: Husky- voiced, intense, all football all the time. Jewish,

  Brooklyn raised. Determined to do what had to be done.

  What a fight. Only Don King was missing.

  The one critical variable that no reporters considered was the

  unspoken truth that there were key afl owners who wanted estab-

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  Sex, Lies, and Bringing Up Baby

  lishment acceptance and love even more than they wanted victory.

  But that would surface later

  Now, from start to finish, neither Rozelle nor Davis would

  blink . . . not then . . . not after . . . not even for the next three decades. From the moment of the dueling press conferences, in

  the words of Sherlock Holmes, “Watson, the game is afoot.”

  Sex, Lies, and Bringing Up Baby

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  9

  Ain’t Gonna Study No War No More

  Oh, it can end all right, mister. It can end all right, if somebody does what he is supposed to do.

  —Vince Lombardi on his growing frustration

  Here’s two guys meeting behind statues and in the park and they’re deciding our fate and we don’t even know that it’s happening. I’m steaming.

  —Art Modell on being left out of the afl- nfl merger loop

  This was the early spring of 1966. The nfl had just approved the

  Giants’ signing of Buffalo’s Pete Gogolak— the first case of an afl

  player using his free agency to jump to the nfl. Now the National

  Football League had convened a great public relations gathering

  of coaches and general managers. During one long afternoon they

  spread them around at various locations in a large hotel banquet

  room, plastered posters of their teams on the walls behind them,

  and invited the press to stop by and visit. It was an idea
l coach- to-

  writer chance for a relaxed interview.

  There was a stand- up bar, always a media attraction. The only

  thing missing was a string quartet grinding out multiple choruses

  of “Getting to Know You,” probably because since Rozelle took

  office, the league had been very sensitive about overkill.

  If you are a working newsman, there is a value to this kind of

  gathering. In a relaxed atmosphere you can pick up all kinds of

  background information. It was at that gathering in New York that

  I first got the feeling that all was not peace and harmony among

  the troops at Camp Rozelle over how to conduct and, perhaps,

  even end the ferocious battle with Al Davis and his commandos.

  126

  The shoulder- to- shoulder, let- us- all- man- the- barricades image the nfl was projecting was apparently not as unanimous as it

  seemed. Until now all the yearning and whining for peace had

  come from the rebels. But now, for the first time, I was to hear a

  member of the establishment utter similar sentiments.

  And what a member.

  Vince Lombardi was seated on a couch with a huge poster on

  the wall behind him of Jim Taylor moving forward with an expres-

  sion that seemed to indicate he was about to knock down the Great

  Wall of China. There was a drink on the low table in front of him.

  “Glad to see you,” he said, which was a lie because the three things

  in his world that irritated him to his very core were fumbles in his

  offensive backfield, Packer fatigue of any kind in the fourth quarter, and obligatory sessions with the press anywhere and at any time.

  We talked briefly about the draft and about the unsigned play-

  ers and about the impact the new afl commissioner, Al Davis,

  might have on this interleague war. And then we spoke about the

  suddenly elevated new role of player agents and the big money the

  Packers had to shell out to sign Texas Tech’s Donny Anderson and

  Jim Grabowski of the University of Illinois. It was the most money

  the Pack had spent since this interfraternity battle had erupted.

  “The way it’s going now,” I said, “it looks like this thing is never

  going to end.”

  His response was immediate and forceful in the manner that

  only Vince Lombardi could fire back. “Oh, it can end all right,

  mister.” His jaw tightened and his eyes burned fiercely beneath

  his glasses like twin lasers. “It can end all right, if somebody does

  what he is supposed to do.” Then he lapsed into a kind of Trappist-

  monk silence designed to drive a visitor away— which it did.

  I didn’t know it at the time, but he was already on the record

  with that in terms of his colleagues with a burst of outrage during

  the owners’ Gogolak discussion. The “somebody” he was speak-

  ing about was Pete Rozelle. It was clear that he felt Rozelle had

  to take the steps needed to end this before both sides lost a fran-

  chise or two. He had good reason.

  Ain’t Gonna Study No War No More

  127

  Lombardi did not personally know Al Davis, but he knew enough about him to understand the economic danger that an adversary

  like Davis could pose.

  In order to pose such a threat, Davis had to make sure he had

  sufficient leverage. His first act, therefore, was to finalize his contract that paid something like sixty grand a year— a pretty good

  salary in those days— for five years. Of more importance was a

  clause within it that stipulated that if he was fired or if he quit

  because the owners ignored his advice, he would be paid in full.

  And he had something else. Wayne Valley, the man who had

  hired Davis and the man who was then the Raiders’ managing part-

  ner, had sent him off to lead the troops with a fail- safe weapon in

  his back pocket. It was an iron- clad legal document guaranteeing

  that if he left the commissioner’s job for any reason whatsoever,

  he was guaranteed a return to Oakland as managing partner with

  equity in the ownership franchise.

  With both commissioners rock solid in their authorizations

  and both league offices just a few city blocks apart in Manhattan,

  the great face- off began. One of the first things Davis did was

  to get his newly assembled pr staff moving to cut into the mas-

  sive advantage the nfl had enjoyed. And inch by inch it began to

  earn respect in various sports departments around the country.

  Davis was a quick learner in this area, but he was also a longtime

  grudge holder, so his pr staff had to walk a gossamer tightrope to

  squeeze concessions from him in that area— particularly in the

  matter of whom he would agree to sit down with for interviews.

  Davis was approached by Mickey Herskowitz, who had used his

  old- boy Texas network to get Steve Perkins of the Dallas Morning

  News to agree to an in- depth interview with Davis. Mickey understood that this was a coup of major significance because Perkins

  was a major local writer in his city who was perceived as having a

  track record of closeness to Clint Murchison and the nfl Cowboys.

  It was, indeed, an accomplishment, and when Mickey told Davis

  what he had scheduled, he had every right to expect an enthusi-

  astic response. Davis sat silently for what seemed an eternity, and

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  Ain’t Gonna Study No War No More

  then he said, “Don’t you have any sense at all? Don’t you know he is the enemy and Dallas is an enemy city?”

  “Look,” Herskowitz said. “In the first place, it doesn’t work

  that way, and, second, if you get a favorable piece in an nfl city,

  that has to help.”

  “Okay,” Davis said, still not convinced, “but if he crucifies me,

  I’ll never take your advice again.”

  Perkins came and interviewed him. The piece was to run the

  following Sunday. On Monday morning Davis called him in and

  demanded: “What did he write about me?”

  “Al, the piece ran yesterday in Dallas, Texas. We are in New

  York City. This is Monday. I can’t get a Dallas paper until this

  afternoon, and neither can you.”

  “Davis said nothing,” Mickey recalled. “He just sat there, and

  then he pulled a desk drawer open and yanked out a long piece of

  yellow Western Union paper. He had gotten a friend to wire the

  entire story to him.”

  “In the future,” Davis told him, “I wanna know what’s said about

  me before anyone else does. I wanna be ready to answer the next

  set of questions.”

  If Davis tested his pr soldiers intensely, there was one public

  relations— minded guy he did not have to challenge. He knew

  what Jets owner Sonny Werblin could do for the afl with both

  his wallet and his imagination.

  His mca experience made him the most valuable television asset

  in either league. It also gave him a rare big- money negotiator’s

  talent. As a case in point, I remember having dinner with Sonny

  in Houston on the eve of the 1965 All- Star Game.

  Just before dessert, Jack Kemp, the Buffalo quarterback and later

  a highly respected member of Congress, approached the table. He

  was the afl’s first player representative. “I’m sorr
y to interrupt

  your meal, Mr. Werblin, but I wondered if we could talk about

  our player contract after dinner.”

  “Jack, I am with a very important guy doing a very important

  interview that will help this league. Let’s do it tomorrow morning.”

  Ain’t Gonna Study No War No More

  129

  After Kemp left I said to Sonny, “You really sounded arrogant,” and he said to me, “Arrogant? Hell, I just had three glasses

  of scotch. If he thinks I’m going to negotiate after that, he’s out

  of his mind.”

  Nobody ever had an edge negotiating with him. And as a star

  maker in Hollywood or on Broadway or on the Jets’ sidelines,

  nobody had an edge over him there, either.

  A year earlier had changed the thrust of this battle for as long as

  it would last. When it happened, he locked up every front page in

  America for the American Football League. In the spring of 1965

  Werblin, the old star maker, saw exactly what he was looking for

  in “Joe Willie” Namath, the University of Alabama quarterback.

  Namath had also been drafted by the Cardinals, who then gave

  the rights to the Giants, who never made a bid. They already knew

  that Werblin was offering more than four hundred thousand dol-

  lars, the largest contract then in the history of pro football.

  Werblin did, in fact, proceed to create a superstar, and the

  league’s first media star . . . Broadway Joe Namath . . . Namath

  with a white llama rug and a plethora of airline stewardesses as his

  apartment decor . . . Namath, the darling of every New York gos-

  sip columnist . . . Namath, who spoke with a sexy Alabama drawl

  although he was raised in a small Pennsylvania town near Pitts-

  burgh . . . Namath, from the playing field to Manhattan’s glam-

  orous nightlife, who fulfilled every criteria to qualify as a New

  York matinee idol.

  Suddenly, his Jets began to leave large footprints all over the

  city’s newsprint. The afl had its first big- city headline grabber.

  It also now had its first genuine superstar player and its first com-

  missioner who was not only willing but eager to engage in a street

  fight. With his own contract written in stone and with Namath

  as the first afl attention getter already in place, Al Davis was lev-

  eraged to launch his battle plan.

  It was known in the afl office as the 50- 50- 50 plan. Davis would