by Mark Bowden
There was, however, a weakness. All those bodies hell-bent for the passer left Buddy’s defensive backs, especially the lonesome cornerbacks, in a woefully vulnerable spot. A quarterback who was savvy, cool, and accurate enough to fire a pass in advance of the huffing horde could pick away with short slant passes or match up his best receiver one-on-one down the sidelines. Buddy refused to fault his design for these spectacular lapses. The problem, as he saw it, was finding capable cornerbacks. He spent years looking for young men fast and poised enough to handle this pressure, mostly without success—even during the Bears’ mighty ’85 season, Buddy, with characteristic cruelty, publicly called his cornerbacks, Leslie Frazier and Mike Richardson, “the sorriest corners in the league.”
But that was okay. Corners were a little too much like offensive players anyway, small, quick, agile, and pretty. Buddy’s ideal player, he always said, was Singletary, who combined quickness and agility with intelligence and size. His defenses were going to give up a few big plays here and there, but they were also going to make big plays— TAKE THE SUMBITCH AWAY…. The Jets back in ’68 had clobbered the Colts not with dazzling running or Namath’s amazing arm so much as with four interceptions and one fumble recovery. Unlike most coaches, Buddy didn’t believe turnovers were serendipitous. Turnovers were like the bubbles in water when you turned up the heat. Buddy hated most statistics—he would scoff at reporters who fussed over things like “third-down conversions rates” and “time of possession”—but he held one stat sacred: the ratio of takeaways to giveaways. That ratio was Buddy’s rune, a mystical measure of a team’s true worth. Bringing the heat was designed to fluster, if not flatten, opponents, to force mistakes—that is, turnovers. He told his boys that a tackle wasn’t over when the man with the ball fell down. No way! You kept on tackling the bastard until the ball came loose or the referee forced you to stop. Buddy’s were among the first players in the league to practice stripping the ball, launching their helmet right at the pigskin, or slapping at bottled-up running backs’ hands. His ’85 Bears had the best takeawaygiveaway ratio in football. They averaged three turnovers a game. And once his team stole the ball, Buddy didn’t expect the players to hand it timidly back to the offense. His boys would embark on wild adventures; defensive linemen would attempt dazzling open-field jukes; linebackers would pitch the ball back to safeties, who would in turn pitch it back to the quick little corners. It was blitzkrieg football, and as the Bears’ successes mounted in the eighties, many people felt it was Buddy who deserved the credit, not head coach Mike Ditka.
When he was hired in 1982, Ditka had been saddled with Buddy as his defensive coordinator after the entire defensive squad signed a letter to Chicago general manager Mike McCaskey begging him to keep Ryan on. McCaskey did, offering Buddy a contract package worth $600,000. Ditka’s reward for being upstaged on his own sideline was victory. The Bears won ten games in ’84 and went to the playoffs and bowled through the NFL the following year, losing only one game in the regular season, shutting out first the Giants and then the Rams in the play-offs, and then demolishing the New England Patriots 46-10 in front of the whole wide world. And who got carried off the field on his players’ shoulders after the triumph?
The fat guy with a crew cut and steel-rimmed glasses. Buddy had arrived, suitably borne on the shoulders of his players.
It was time to anoint a new High Priest.
NORMAN LEARNED about Buddy in the New York Times, a longtime Sunday habit around the Florida mansion. The pesky Miami Herald was also on the Bramans’ table (he was one of the newspaper’s biggest regular advertisers), and Norm sometimes enjoyed skirmishing with the local reporters, but for a man of the world, a man who surrounded himself with the best of the best, the last word in daily journalism could be nothing else.
The Times article about Buddy on January 6, 1985, page five, column six, started like this: “Almost every season, a new genius emerges.”
This from the most sober of sportswriting venues, a full year before the Bears conquered the world, so imagine the heights of journalistic hyperbole that awaited. Sportswriters make a living convincing fans that the obvious is more complicated than it seems—here’s the real story, folks—so the idea that the mercurial Ditka was not the actual brains behind the Bears played well. As Buddy’s star shone brighter in Ditka’s shadow, the two men grew testy with each other, which watered the notion. By the end of ’85, Buddy had his own nationwide cult.
The Times revisited its “genius” on December 1, with the Bears now boasting a 12—0 record. This time he got a long and glorious salute, front and center in the Sunday sports section. The article portrayed Buddy as a humble pipe-smoking perfectionist, a grand master of pro defenses with a stern patriarchal hand.
“My rookies have been pampered all their lives and think they’re great football players,” Buddy said, explaining why he publicly insulted his players (currently the cream of the league), calling various individuals “dumb” (Otis Wilson), “fat and slow” (Singletary), and “a waste” (William “Refrigerator” Perry). “Some of them are [good players],” Buddy said, “… but they have to learn how to play our game before they can compete at this level.” Buddy said goosing players in the papers helped cut them down to size before he taught them how to play.
Talk like that was music to the ears of BramanMan, who was growing impatient with his Eagles. The team would lose its seventh game that day under head coach Marion Campbell, making its season record just 6—7 and assuring it would not qualify for postseason play. Norman had decided to can Campbell, a onetime Eagles lineman and a sweet guy who was popular with his team. The new owner favored anointing an offensive specialist, but for the shakeup Norm envisioned, any undefeated coach who held players in such bald contempt was worth considering. He had the story clipped, copied, and sent to Harry Gamble and other top men in the Eagles’ front office.
Still, Norman had another coach in mind. For years he had admired Dolphins coach Don Shula, an NFL legend on the verge of sainthood himself. Beyond his friendship with Dolphins owner Joe Robbie and with Shula himself, Norman coveted the steady excellence (and profitability) of the Miami franchise. He saw it as a model for his own. He knew St. Don himself was anchored permanently, but who better to hatch the next generation of football dynasty than the master’s own son?
This, of course, was a flawlessly dilettante notion. Never mind that David Shula, a baby-faced twenty-six-year-old assistant on his father’s Dolphins staff, would be younger and less experienced than most of the players he would be asked to coach. Never mind that David’s pro experience consisted of one year as a lead-foot punt returner for the Baltimore Colts (for whom, as the son of St. Don, he was more a novelty than a weapon). Never mind that his apprenticeship in the temple consisted of just three years as an assistant on his daddy’s staff. This idea of Norman’s showed either contempt or frightful ignorance of the Pigskin Priesthood, the only true and righteous path to the twenty-eight high holy headsets. To pluck little Davy Shula from the lowest rung of the ladder (which was arguably higher than he deserved to be already) and anoint him with the headset confirmed the worst—the car dealer intended to mess with the Game. Where was the man’s reverence? Who did he think he was?
Norman was oblivious to this. He would tap into this thoroughbred strain, hire the youngest head coach in NFL history, and commit himself and young Shula to a decade-long experiment in dynasty building. They would learn together. They would have the mutually respectful partnership Joe Robbie shared with St. Don, only Davy, being so young and all, would be eager for Norman’s guidance.
It was perfect … until Davy blew it. The pup had the audacity to negotiate. On the December night he hopped into his Braman Toyota (Norm supplied the Dolphins’ staff with cars) and drove over to the mansion for a chicken dinner with Norman and Harry (like a punctilious suitor, Norm had called St. Don and asked permission to court his son), Davy and the Eagles reached an understanding. There were smiles and handshakes all
around as Norman loosely outlined the deal, a five-year contract with a five-year Bramanesque option on the back end. Davy left the meeting trembling with excitement. He was going to be the youngest head coach in NFL history.
Impulsive Norman wanted the thing sewn up in a week. He scheduled a news conference in Philly for December 16. Campbell didn’t know it yet, but he was to be fired, and Norman was going to shock the world by naming little Davy Shula head coach. Fans would wonder at Norm’s audacity and the awesome chance being given the boy. It was going to be, at the very least, terrific theater.
But Davy, like Lot’s wife, hesitated. After that chummy dinner and handshake, he looked back. Lawyers were going over the details, he said, and he’d have to talk to his dad about it, and maybe that fiveyear option on the back end wasn’t such a great idea…. Davy obviously failed to appreciate he was being offered a gift, a fabulous, expensive, once-in-a-lifetime proposal from an oh-so-romantic—and impatient—suitor. He didn’t know whom he was dealing with.
When Davy’s lawyers called Norman’s lawyers and, like a pack of suspicious pawnshop appraisers, began holding the truly splendid offering up to the light, it was perceived as an insult.
“You’re talking ten years of my life,” explained Davy, the day before the planned news conference.
Norman scowled. “David, we agreed,” he said. “This is a deal breaker.”
But, hey, that was just an expression! Deals that break can be mended, right? Davy figured Mr. Braman was just playing hardball. He knew he was going to accept the deal eventually—what idiot wouldn’t?—but how would it look if he signed without any posturing? Wasn’t that the way the game was played? He didn’t want Braman to think he had round heels, did he?
The news conference took place with only half an agenda. Campbell resigned, but no new coach was named to replace him. Fred Bruney, a capable Eagles defensive assistant, took over temporarily and finished out the last week of the season. For more than a month, Davy and his lawyers waited for Norman’s lawyers to return their calls and resume tinkering with the contract, to fine-tune Davy’s glorious future. He went to bed at night reading the Eagles’ media guide. His wife made calls to friends in Philly to start scouting out schools and neighborhoods. It was just a matter of time.
Of course, Davy was already just a pillar of salt.
Three days after the youth’s fatal hesitation, the Eagles approached Jim Mora, the Hollywood-handsome coach of the ill-fated Baltimore (formerly Philadelphia) USFL franchise, the Stars. Mora was more like it. He’d served his time in the temple, twenty-three years, first as an assistant and then as head coach at Occidental College in Los Angeles, then Stanford, the University of Colorado, UCLA, the University of Washington, then the Seahawks and the Patriots before accepting a head-coaching job in the upstart league. He’d been college roommates, two decades ago, with Norm’s good buddy, Representative Jack Kemp—who was gung ho for Norman to sign him. After back-to-back championships in the new league, Mora was clearly qualified for the headset. But this time Norman wasn’t the only suitor, and when he started playing games, reaching a tentative agreement (smiles all around, handshakes) and then deciding to let Mora twist for a few days in mid-January, exercising some leverage (Maybe we should talk to a few other people, too, just to make sure), Mora grew antsy.
Unlike Davy, the true monk had options. While Norm dithered, Mora weighed other interests. In New Orleans on Tuesday, January 28, 1986, two days after the Bears won Super Bowl XX, Mora signed a long-term contract to coach the Saints.
Buddy was on Harry’s back porch in Haddonfield, New Jersey, the next day.
“IT’S ABOUT TIME” was the new coach’s response when his elevation was announced.
Norman got in the spirit. Beaming next to his prize at a press conference, he invoked the mantra: “The next Vince Lombardi of the National Football League.” Wow! But Buddy wasn’t daunted. The newest High Priest of the Pigskin forecast that the lowly Eagles, under his tutelage, would be a play-off contender next season.
There had been only one stumbling block. Huddling intently in Harry’s den, Buddy was happy with the opportunity, happy with the money, happy even with the five-year term, but he wasn’t happy at all with the wording that gave Harry (and Norman) final say over any and all personnel decisions. Buddy knew he had more leverage at that moment than he would likely ever have again, and he had always said that if he were head coach, he, and no one else, would call the shots. Everybody in the NFL had heard by now of Norman’s courtship of Davy Shula, and the idea of deferring roster moves to the Baron of Biscayne Boulevard was a stopper.
Not to mention deferring to Harry Gamble.
Buddy liked Harry; he really did.
“You’re a good judge of talent,” he said when Harry first approached him.
But, really. Was a coach of Buddy’s stature supposed to submit his decisions for approval to this … this … amateur?
In some ways, Harry and Buddy were alike. Harry was as much a football monk as anyone coaching. He was a gracious, red-haired, self-effacing gentleman with moist gray eyes, a wide square face with a bent red nose, and the broad frame of a former lineman. Both Harry and Buddy were plainspoken charmers who tended to make snap judgments about people (a coach’s trait). Harry’s story was every bit as authentic, if not as impressive, as Buddy’s—it even had its hidden academic side. After playing ball in the army and then at Rider College, Harry tried out for both the Steelers and the Eagles in ’48 and got cut from both squads. But he knew by then, in his early twenties, that the Game was the love of his life, and he pursued it faithfully, coaching high-school teams in New Jersey (granted, not exactly the Comstock Lode of football talent) and then at Lafayette College in Easton, Pennsylvania, writing articles in scholastic football magazines to attract attention, and—just in case this football thing didn’t work out—earning his master’s degree and doctorate in business management at Temple. Harry had even written a book about football, a scholarly tome on the fundamentals and uses of the wing-T formation. It sold ten thousand copies, earning the budding football strategist $2,500 and the kind of credentials, combined with that doctorate, apt to appeal to an Ivy League outfit like the University of Pennsylvania, where Harry was hired as head coach in ’71.
Here’s where you could start discerning differences between the two men. Buddy wouldn’t have lasted a week at Penn, where success wasn’t just measured by wins and losses (the priesthood’s hard yardstick), but by more esoteric qualities, like effort and character. Presiding over Penn’s sleepy football program took patience and tact, suiting up and trying to prepare America’s future professional class for their weekly scrums. One thing you can say for the Ivy League, it’s kept football in perspective. If you had tossed Penn into the lions’ pit of Division I college ball, the players would have been eaten alive, of course, but their roster alone would have brought the division’s combined grade point average to respectability. The best thing you could say about a Penn football player was usually something like “He plays linebacker extremely well for a Chinese-lit major.” Harry persevered for ten years. When Penn dropped its hockey program, he even picked up a few admits (seats in the freshman class for kids who couldn’t meet the school’s rigid academic standards but at least didn’t look ridiculous in pads). With these recruits, Penn built a team that would dominate the Ivies for the early eighties, but they’d do it without Harry. Years of losses had stirred up even Penn’s tolerant alumni, who demanded a change after a spectacularly bad 0—9 showing in ’79. The school told Harry he could stay, but that he had to can his staff, and with characteristic rectitude, Harry insisted on going down with the ship. No better measure of the difference between Harry Gamble and Buddy Ryan came at the Penn press conference to announce the firing. Harry told reporters that the winless season, far from being a trial, had been “the most satisfying year of my life.”
Imagine!
In ’81, Harry took an unpaid job as an assistant on Dick Vermeil
’s NFC championship Eagles coaching staff. Penn was still paying out the final year of his contract, so he had one year to make himself invaluable, which he did. He got a paying job as tight ends and special teams coach in ’82, and when Vermeil unexpectedly retired at the end of that season, Harry became a liaison between the priesthood and the club managers. The team was being run then by Susan Fletcher, Leonard Tose’s daughter, and Susan was looking for someone who was in the cult but not of it, someone who could carry club concerns to the temple, someone versed in the X’s and O’s but capable of surfacing long enough to talk about a budget. It’s not often that an assistant NFL coach has a Ph.D. in anything, much less business management. The Tose-Fletcher regime was waking up to Harry’s full potential; they had just promoted him from administrative assistant to general manager, when Norman swooped in to save Tose and the team from ruin.
Harry was at a league meeting in Arizona when he got word. He flew home expecting the worst. He had never heard of Norman Braman. He met him that day, a tall, slender figure with silver hair and a long, gray overcoat moving enthusiastically around the Eagles’ management offices shaking hands and making small talk. Instead of firing Harry, Norman left him in place.
“What would you like to do?” he asked.