Rozelle

  sense not to ask, “What’s for dinner?”— knowing full well it was

  them.

  Rozelle was smooth as silk as he ran the press conference, and

  Lamar sat there grinning. Occasionally, when the reporters asked

  a question Rozelle did not particularly like, he smiled and said,

  “I’ll let Lamar answer that one,” and handed over temporary pos-

  session of the microphone.

  As press conferences go, this one offered few surprises. The terms

  were not surprising when you consider that it had come about by

  throwing Davis under the American Football League’s love bus.

  In return for its money, the afl would participate in a common

  collegiate draft. There would be a championship game. And guess

  who would emerge as the commissioner?

  The next day Wilson, Hunt, and Sullivan showed up at the afl

  headquarters, went into Davis’s office, and closed the door. Then

  the shouting began.

  138

  Ain’t Gonna Study No War No More

  “I was in the next office with a couple of guys,” Herskowitz recalls. “As soon as we heard the shouting, we all pressed our ears

  against the wall so tightly it’s a wonder our molecules didn’t melt

  into the wood.”

  Above the raucous voices, they heard this:

  sullivan: We’re pissed off that you publicly said we three sold

  you down the river.

  davis: I never said that.

  wilson: Yes, you did.

  davis: I never did and I can prove it. I’ll call Sonny [Werblin],

  and he will verify what I said.

  hunt: He’s in the hospital.

  davis: I don’t care. I’ll get him in his room right now, and I’ll

  put it on speaker phone . . . [Sound of dialing] “Sonny, did I ever

  say Ralph, Lamar, and Billy sold me out? They are here with me

  in the room.”

  werblin: No, you didn’t. What you . . .

  Davis hangs up.

  davis: So all three of you are wrong. Now I’ll tell you what I really

  said. What I really said was that every one of you sons of bitches

  sold me down the river.

  Point . . . set . . . match.

  Later that day Davis walked into Herskowitz’s office. He sat

  down in Joe Foss’s old rocking chair and rocked in silence. Then

  he looked at Mickey and said in a soft, emotional voice: “Mickey,

  I hope someday, someplace, wherever you may be or I may be, you

  will have occasion to say something nice about me.”

  “I hope so, Al.”

  And then Davis exploded into laughter. “I was only kidding,”

  he said.

  “So was I, Al.”

  And then they both laughed and laughed and laughed.

  Ain’t Gonna Study No War No More

  139

  It was the end of an era.

  More properly, it was just the end of that particular era because

  Rozelle and Davis would clash again . . . and again . . . and again.

  Pete Rozelle had won the most fiercely contested 100- yard war

  in the history of professional football. But now there was the mat-

  ter of getting the mandatory antitrust approval to validate it. With-

  out it, there could be no merger. And arrayed against Rozelle on

  this alien battlefield would be one of the most powerful men in

  the United States Congress.

  140

  Ain’t Gonna Study No War No More

  1. Pete Rozelle and Jane Coupe at their 1949 wedding. Courtesy of

  Anne Marie Rozelle Bratton

  2. The young Rozelles and daughter Anne Marie. Courtesy of

  Anne Marie Rozelle Bratton

  3. Rozelle gets in some daddy time. Courtesy of Anne Marie Rozelle Bratton 4. Even in the office, not far from football. Pro Football Hall of Fame

  5. A fella in high places wishes Rozelle bon voyage after one of his many Washington lobby wars. White House photo

  6. Rozelle ( left) awards the Super Bowl XXI trophy to Giants co- owner Wellington Mara and coach Bill Parcells ( far right). Jerry Pinkus, New York Giants Sports Photo

  7. George Halas, who helped pro football through its infancy, and Pete Rozelle, who made it America’s passion, share memories in the press lounge during Super Bowl Week. Pro Football Hall of Fame

  8. The Hall of Fame committee meets with notables Lamar Hunt ( left), Rozelle ( center), and George Halas ( right front). Pro Football Hall of Fame

  9. Pete Rozelle cuts the ribbon and

  opens Pro Football’s Hall of Fame.

  Pro Football Hall of Fame

  10. And then along came

  Carrie Cooke, whom he

  married in 1974. Cour-

  tesy of Anne Marie

  Rozelle Bratton

  11. The Rozelles and the

  Cookes merge. Courtesy

  of Anne Marie Rozelle

  Bratton

  12. Pete’s special friends at his surprise

  birthday party at 21. Standing, left to right:

  Jack Landry, Herb Siegel, Bob Tisch, and

  Frank Gifford. Seated next to Rozelle is

  David Mahoney. Courtesy of Anne Marie

  Rozelle Bratton

  13. Thelma Elkjer and Anne Marie Rozelle

  Bratton share a private moment at Anne

  Marie’s wedding. Thelma was Rozelle’s

  executive secretary with the Rams and

  with the nfl. For forty years she was the

  gatekeeper to the commissioner’s office.

  She was also a much younger Anne Marie’s

  shopping guide, confidante, and watchful

  adult companion. Courtesy of Anne Marie

  Rozelle Bratton

  14. Rozelle and his Hall of Fame presenter and first boss, Tex Schramm, await the big moment. Pro Football Hall of Fame

  15. Pete Rozelle at the Hall of Fame banquet in the Land of the Autograph Hunters. Pro Football Hall of Fame

  16. The Hall of Fame

  Class of 1985. From the

  left: Frank Gatski, Joe

  Willie Namath, Pete

  Rozelle, O. J. Simpson,

  and Roger Staubach. Pro

  Football Hall of Fame

  17. The commish:

  Alvin Pete Rozelle.

  Courtesy of Anne

  Marie Rozelle Bratton

  10

  Bringing in the Sheaves

  What do you mean, you don’t know how to thank me? We have a deal.

  —Representative Hale Boggs, reminding Pete Rozelle of the merger

  approval’s quid pro quo

  What will I tell my little boy if he sees sixteen teams in one league and only ten in the other?

  —Al Davis on realignment

  And so it was over, the most bitter economic war in the history

  of all professional sports. On the surface there was something in

  it for everyone. Lamar Hunt got what he had always sought— the

  soft, warm comfort blanket of acceptance. For Wellington Mara

  and Lou Spadia there was eighteen million dollars guaranteed

  them as “war crime reparations.” And for all the owners, includ-

  ing Al Davis, headed back to Oakland, there was a common draft

  and an end to the dizzying spiral of incredible spending.

  For the players it was something else. While John Brodie did,

  indeed, get his hush money to keep that now famous cocktail-

  napkin contract from winding up in the courts, the nightmare of

  rival leagues trying to stone each other to death with their wal-

  lets was over.

  And for the influx of new college kids, there was the specter of
/>
  the dreaded common draft that emasculated much of their lever-

  age. The babysitting army was out of business, or as Mel Farr, a

  ucla All- America, told me on the eve of the first common draft:

  “When I was a junior, I couldn’t walk two steps without scouts

  coming around wanting to take me here or there or inquiring

  141

  about my welfare. Then they merged, and now nobody even offers me a cup of coffee.”

  Clearly, 100- yard peace in our time meant all things to all men.

  “All men” included the United States Congress and a willful, battle-

  tough senior citizen and constitutional scholar named Emanuel

  Celler.

  The football people could say they were merged, could act as

  though they were merged, could share a drink or a dinner as though

  they were merged. But in no way could they substitute the wish

  for the deed. Until Congress said so, they were a long way away

  from their one- monopoly, one- commissioner dream.

  Manny Celler never ran for the Senate. He didn’t need it. Year

  after year the people in his Brooklyn district kept sending him

  back to the House of Representatives, and with each reelection

  he moved higher within the power structure, as the seniority of

  retired or defeated congressmen melted away.

  Long before this merger, Celler was already chairman of the

  House Judiciary Committee and the powerful subcommittee on

  antitrust legislation. The prevailing wisdom was that he would

  not be a problem to Rozelle, since in 1961 he had gotten the

  nfl approval of its one- tv contract, one- payday- for- all antitrust

  exemption.

  Celler steered it through only because it could in no way bene-

  fit Major League Baseball, and Major League Baseball was much

  on his mind. The Dodgers had abandoned “his Brooklyn” and

  moved to Los Angeles for the 1958 season and, in so doing, had

  stolen what was considered a birthright by the constituency he had

  served for so long. Its pain was reflected in the words of a Brook-

  lyn doctor named Louis Lostfogel, who once diagnosed a patient

  as depressed. “It was something I thought about a lot because I

  saw so much of it in men of a certain age who were Dodgers fans.”

  It was as though Walter O’Malley had drilled a hole in the bor-

  ough’s soul. You do not get elected as often as Manny Celler did

  by the people of Brooklyn without understanding that. He was

  not going to cast a vote on anything that could be stretched into

  142

  Bringing in the Sheaves

  a benefit for O’Malley, the man who had taken Brooklyn’s beloved baseball team to the West Coast.

  Rozelle, as pro football’s savvy point man, had been down to

  Congress many times as the point man who defended all of pro-

  fessional sports during varied congressional hearings. But now he

  was caught in the cross fire between baseball and Manny. Anything

  that could benefit O’Malley in the slightest way was anathema to

  Celler, and too bad for pro football if it got caught in the middle.

  Not that O’Malley could possibly benefit from an nfl merger

  approval, but old political feuds neither did nor would fade away.

  Once he and O’Malley went around and around over the Dodg-

  ers, Celler opposed anything and everything pertaining to pro-

  fessional sports: mergers, franchise moves, anything he thought

  might strengthen the highly questionable Supreme Court deci-

  sion behind which baseball often hid.

  Celler was not bashful in expressing that idea to Rozelle. Unlike

  other commissioners and influential sports franchise owners,

  Rozelle immediately understood that it was imperative for him

  to change Celler’s mind or immediately find someone even more

  powerful in the Congress (not an easy task) and impress upon him

  the notion that football fans vote. What he next did, no commis-

  sioner of any sport before him had ever done.

  There is no doubt in my mind that none of the other players in

  this coast- to- coast arena could have had the diplomatic skill to do

  it— not Al Davis, not Lamar Hunt, nobody. Rozelle was the best

  at this, and there was no number two. To launch his campaign,

  he zeroed in on the only public forum that could enable him to

  mount the pressure necessary for a campaign to save the merger.

  The annual charity football game between the defending nfl

  champion and the college all- stars in Chicago was the perfect

  occasion. Here, where rival babysitters had once struggled to

  snatch eager young bodies in years past, all was now peace and

  harmony. This would be the first event where the old and new

  guards would gather as equals. It was, if you saw George Halas

  and Lamar Hunt in happy conversation there that week, the liv-

  Bringing in the Sheaves

  143

  ing example of what pro football fans (who were sitting on a lot of votes) deeply wanted.

  On August 5 Pete Rozelle addressed the Football Writers of

  America to launch that campaign. You couldn’t have kept him away

  from a stage like that with a gun, a whip, and a chair. He told them

  that with any chance of a formal catchall sports bill he sought now

  in limbo because of Celler’s fixation on the Dodgers, he had asked

  the congressman to consider a bill limited to approval of pro foot-

  ball’s recent peace agreement. He told his eager and highly friendly

  audience: “This would allow us to implement the merger plan we

  have already set forth. This bill is important to us. If it fails to pass, it does not mean the merger is dead, but it does mean we will have

  to look at it again and be responsible for the future of the game.

  “Time is our problem. It may be possible for us to get legisla-

  tion this session of Congress, but now the importance of the Civil

  Right Bill and the airlines strike have occupied everyone’s time.”

  That put Rozelle on the record before the most receptive audi-

  ence at the best possible time. If Mr. Celler needed a favorable

  opinion to act, Rozelle had placed it in the typewriters of the only

  people who could generate that kind of impact in every corner

  of the country. And because of the way he always thought three

  moves ahead, he knew he had an untapped but potentially deci-

  sive hole card in his pocket.

  It had been there for some time, placed there by a New Orleans

  antique dealer in the city’s French Quarter named Dave Dixon. His

  goal was to get an nfl franchise for the city, and in 1964, with no

  expansion planned by the league, Dixon gambled and brought the

  Cardinals and the Packers to Tulane Stadium for a preseason game.

  When a crowd of sixty- three thousand showed up, it was not

  lost on Rozelle or any of his owners that here was a genuine foot-

  ball town. Rozelle immediately made it his business to cultivate a

  friendship with the eager Dixon.

  The afternoon of the game, Dixon had rented space at the New

  Orleans Country Club for a kickoff luncheon and invited every

  civic official he ever knew or would like to know to a reception

  144

  Bringing in the Sheaves

  the
re. To his amazement Governor John McKeithen showed up and introduced himself. “I didn’t know him, and I didn’t expect

  he would come,” Dixon told me.

  But he was a north Louisiana hillbilly guy who loved football. I told

  him about my plans for the largest completely domed football stadium

  in the country to house a football team for the city of New Orleans.

  Most folks were laughing at that idea. But not him. He knew I didn’t

  have that kind of money, and he said he wanted to help with a bond

  issue when the time came on the condition that I call it the Louisi-

  ana Super Dome.

  Hell, I would have called it anything they wanted. And that was the

  beginning, because without the dome, we never would have had a team.

  Pete called me after he had this trouble with Congressman Cel-

  ler and wondered if I could help with Senator Russell Long and Hale

  Boggs, who was the House whip. He knew I knew them both. He also

  went out of his way to infer that the prize would be our nfl franchise and a couple of Super Bowls.

  Dixon had been active in state and local politics, and Rozelle

  knew that one of his biggest strengths was he never needed a score-

  card to know the players up at the capitol in Baton Rouge. Dixon

  responded immediately. He hired a fellow named David Klack, a

  well- known local lobbyist who had often advised Long and Boggs

  on election matters. Dixon sent him up to Washington to help

  generate emotion for a deal that would save the merger and cap-

  ture an nfl expansion franchise.

  It was Rozelle’s hope that with Long, chairman of the power-

  ful Senate Finance Committee, and Boggs, the House majority

  leader, he could find a way to neutralize Celler. Both were facing

  the possibility of bitter reelection fights. Nobody had to tell either one of them that Louisiana football fans were Louisiana voters.

  It was a powerful touchstone in a legacy that the commissioner

  was building that he dared to face down Emanuel Celler— one of

  the most powerful congressmen of all time. Nobody else in pro-

  fessional football or, for that matter, any professional sport could

  Bringing in the Sheaves

  145

  have done it. Diplomacy was not the biggest strength of either Davis or Hunt. The stakes were the kind of big ones on which