Instant Replay: The Green Bay Diary of Jerry Kramer

by Jerry Kramer

  Our workouts, obviously, can get violent. There's never any tackling, not even on Wednesdays and Thursdays, when we wear pads, but there's a lot of contact in the line, a lot of forearms flying and elbows swinging. Generally, when we're working on running plays we concentrate mostly on getting position, coming off the ball fast and moving to the right spot, and we just shield the defensive man; we don't cut him down or really clobber him. But in blitz drills, with the linebackers charging through to get to the quarterback, the contact is fiercer and more dangerous. It's not at all uncommon to have someone bleeding during a blitz drill.

  The violence of the sessions varies, often, with Lombardi's mood. If he's angry, if he's been chewing the offense, telling us that we're big cows, we're going to take it out on the defense. The reverse is true, too. If he's been hollering at the defense, calling them lazy and stupid, they're going to hit us a lot harder. The tone of Vince's voice in the prepractice meeting lets us know how badly we're going to get beat up.

  Most of the scrimmages are controlled, or semicontrolled—we don't want to injure teammates—but a couple of guys don't know what control means. Nitschke, as I've mentioned, can be a wild man any day. Bob Brown is just as exuberant. With Brown, it's a little more understandable; he's a reserve, and the best chance he has to prove himself is in practice. When he gets too excited, when he's hitting us with too much enthusiasm, we'll say, “OK, Bob, you win the game watch. You get the game watch today.” Our sarcasm works. He lets up for a while, then slips back into his violent habits.

  Don Chandler and I held our regular Friday kicking contest today. I haven't been needed as a place-kicker since 1963, but just in case Donny should get hurt, Vince likes me to keep practicing. I kick three days a week—Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday—and I enjoy it. I especially enjoy it Wednesdays and Thursdays, because if I weren't kicking, I'd have to be running plays for the defense. On Fridays, Chandler and I compete, and the loser has to buy the winner a chili lunch. We started kicking from the 20-yard line today and worked back to the 50, kicking three times from each five-yard stripe. He made sixteen out of twenty-one, and I made seventeen and beat him, which doesn't happen too often. He wins four times out of five, but every time he does, I needle him about the 1962 championship game, when I kicked three field goals for the Packers and he kicked none for the Giants, and we won the game 16-7.

  As I was walking off the field today, grinning after beating Chandler, Lombardi yelled to me, “I can see you when you're forty-five. You'll still be out here kicking. You'll be trying to make the team as a kicker.”

  Not me. I don't want to be a football player much longer.

  OCTOBER 14

  On the bus going down to Milwaukee this morning we started talking about a player on another team, and one of our men said, “Boy, that guy's got a lot of guts. He has no fear.”

  And I had a sudden thought: He's either got a lot of guts or he's just plain stupid. Sometimes I wonder if they're not the same thing, which scares me a little, because I don't have any fear either, except maybe of Lombardi.

  We loosened up at County Stadium this afternoon, then played a little poker back at the hotel. I went out to dinner with Nitschke and Zeke and Bart and Chandler and Davis and Jordan and Adderley, and on the way back to the hotel, a few of us started talking about the money we'd won playing poker. I said that I had a little money stuck away for a rainy day, just a few dollars that I hadn't bothered putting in the bank. We got into a discussion of how the guys hide money from their wives, and somebody said that whenever he needed money of his own he just wrote out a check and told his wife he'd lost the money playing poker. And another guy said that he and his wife maintained separate checking accounts. “Hell, I can't do anything like that,” said Nitschke. “I can't fool my wife at all. I just get red in the face. Jackie reads me better than I can read those linemen.”

  OCTOBER 15

  Everything was pretty calm this morning. Nobody was excited about the game or about anything else. There seemed no reason to get excited. A few of my friends came in from Idaho, and we started talking about the possibility of an upset, and I told them that this would be a perfect day for it. But I couldn't really believe it myself, and no one else could, either. We were all feeling cocky, and I felt like I was going to have a real good game.

  In the locker room, just before the game started, we decided that our opening play would be a draw-left. On a draw-left, I had to block my man to the outside. But I'd been watching the Minnesota tackle, Alan Page, in the movies, and I'd noticed that he likes to rush to the inside, which makes it almost impossible to take him to the outside. I told Ray Wietecha that on the opening play, I'd like to make a switch in the blocking. I suggested that the center block Page and I'd pull out and get the middle linebacker. Wietecha said no, so I was a little leery about the first play

  On the first play, I got off the ball fast, the kid took a beautiful block to the outside and we gained about three yards. It looked like it wasn't going to be too tough. After a sweep, which lost a few yards, we tried a pass play, and I stopped the kid cold without too much of a problem. Three plays later, on another pass play, the kid caught me and drove me about five yards backwards. It was raining and the turf was a little sloppy, and my cleats wouldn't hold. Still, I wasn't worried; I was just feeling the kid out, to see how strong he was. We ran a few plays, and I handled him pretty well, and then Zeke called another pass play. I popped the kid, and he moved to the outside, and I popped him again, and then he slipped away from me. I was thinking to myself, “Hurry up and throw the ball, Zeke, hurry up, dammit, throw the ball,” and I fell to my knees. Just then, Kenny Bowman and Zeke and another guy all fell on my right ankle.

  I felt a sharp, cutting pain. I've been told that I've got a high threshold of pain, but this really stung. My first thought was, “Maybe it's broken. Here we go again.” I hopped off the field, afraid that I might be seriously injured. I wasn't. The trainer put an ice pack on the ankle immediately and froze it, numbed it, and I began limping round on it, getting the circulation back. In the dressing room at half-time the doctor examined the ankle, told me it was just a slight sprain, and gave me a shot of novocaine. I gulped a few codeine pills, too.

  I spent the entire second half standing on the sidelines, feeling frustrated. At least when I got my head kicked against the Bears, I felt like I'd accomplished something. I didn't do a thing today. I kept bouncing around the bench, trying to look spry. Two or three times, I told the coach that I was ready, that I could do the job, but he turned down my offers. I got a little paranoid. Gilly had shifted to my spot, and Fuzzy had moved in at left guard, and Fuzzy had played a good game against the Bears, and I started thinking that maybe they weren't interested in my services. Maybe they didn't need me.

  A few times, I tried to offer some advice to Gilly—we do a lot of talking among the offensive linemen on the sidelines, more than most teams do, discussing which plays will work, which men we can move, offering our suggestions to Bart—but all of a sudden I felt like an outsider. The uniforms on the field were a horrible mess, covered with mud, water, and sweat, and the guys were wearing them like a red badge of courage. I was jealous; I wished I could get back in there.

  The game itself didn't cheer me up any. We looked miserable. We had no running game at all, and even though Zeke played pretty well, filling in for Bart again, we could never really get moving. We went into the last quarter, holding a 7-0 lead, but then the Vikings scored ten points and beat us, 10-7. They hadn't won a game all year, and we hadn't lost one, and they beat us. They beat us at our own game, too, solid, conservative, unspectacular football.

  We had one last chance for victory when we got the ball, deep in our own territory, with only ten or fifteen seconds left in the game. Zeke completed two passes, which carried us just about to midfield when the clock ran out. I came walking off the field next to Forrest Gregg, and Trees was sort of talking to himself, mumbling. “Damn, damn, ten more seconds, if we just had te
n more seconds, we could've beat 'em.”

  He meant it. He really believed it. That's how brainwashed we are. We can't believe defeat.

  OCTOBER 16

  My ankle's sore, but it didn't stop me from going hunting today with Barbara and the Chandlers. Don had two or three shots at deer, but none of us had any hits. I guess we just can't score this week.

  OCTOBER 17

  Coach Lombardi really seemed strange this morning, confused and frustrated and almost powerless. There was no tongue-lashing, no whiplashing, no screaming and hollering, none of the things which are so characteristic of him. He said that he had looked at the films of the game and that things weren't all that bad, that there were nine good blocks and one bad block out of each ten, that it wasn't a breakdown of the whole team.

  Then he held a meeting of the older guys, the fourteen men who had been on the team at least seven years, at least since our first NFL championship in 1961. He called us all in a room and gave us a private little talk. “Frankly, I'm worried,” he said. “I just don't know what the hell to do.” He said that it was going to be up to us, the veterans, to bring the new boys along, to get something out of them and help him. He kind of put the horse on our shoulders and told us to carry it. It was a whole new approach for Lombardi, and we really didn't know quite what to think. He's always known exactly what to do with a season, when to get us up and when to drive us down.

  I'm beginning to suspect that he wants to keep us down till we get close to playoff time, till the games really count. We're certainly low. We're certainly not mentally or physically ready. I'm wondering whether this isn't by design, and I think everybody's wondering the same thing, trying to figure Vince out. Maybe he's trying to double-psych us or something.

  Bart was one of the guests on my TV show tonight and he said that he's starting to feel fine. “Most of the things that have been bothering me have cleared up,” Bart said, “and if this shoulder just comes around, I'll be in great shape.”

  We watched the highlights of the Minnesota game—I suggested they be called the lowlights this week—and then Bart and I chatted, and he told me a nice story on himself, a story that he loves to tell. He said that he came home one afternoon and barged into the house and yelled at one of his children and spanked another one and then snapped at his wife, Cherry, for not getting some letters out in the mail.

  Finally, Cherry said to him, “What's wrong with you? I've never seen you so edgy.”

  “I've got a jillion things to do,” Bart shouted at her. “A jillion things. And I've got to go to a banquet over in Appleton tonight.”

  “What kind of a banquet?” Cherry said.

  And Bart, still in a foul mood, said, “I'm receiving a nice-guy award.”

  “You're putting me on,” said Cherry.

  OCTOBER 18

  Vince was not confused this morning. He was fuming. He came into the locker room with his bulldog look on his face, the look we call “Gameface,” and other things less printable. First, he called Fuzzy into his office and gave Fuzzy a talking-to. Fuzzy filled in for me against the Vikings, and he didn't have a good game. He had lots of trouble with his man, Paul Dickson. It's difficult to sit on the bench week after week and then finally get in there to play and be expected to do a great job.

  “What is it, Fuzzy?” Coach said. “What's the matter? What's wrong with your attitude? Aren't you happy? You think you ought to be playing?”

  And Fuzzy, who told me about the conversation later, said, “You know, Coach, I've played ten years and I'd like to be playing all the time, I'd very definitely like to play. But if I can't play, I'm going to do my best to help, to be ready when you need me.”

  There wasn't too much Fuzzy could say. I think Vince was being too hard on him. Fuzzy's got more determination than anybody in the world; he always wants to win, even when he isn't playing. He sits next to Gilly in the movies and talks to him on the sidelines, offering him advice, giving the kid all the benefit of his experience.

  After he talked to Fuzzy, Vince came out of his office and faced the whole team and started screaming and cussing and carrying on. “I want to tell you this,” he said. “I had another look at those movies, and they stink.” He kept pointing at guys and saying, “You didn't run,” and, “You didn't block,” and, “You didn't do a damn thing,” and, “You stink,” and it was the Lombardi of old. He told the offense that we were going to stay late and watch the end-zone movies so that we could see exactly how bad we were. And he let us know in no uncertain terms that he would run guys out of the league, trade them, get rid of them, put them all on waivers, do anything he had to do, but he wasn't going to be part of a losing team.

  He picked up a chair and waved it at Marv Fleming's head and said, “I get so damned mad at Marvin Fleming I'd like to beat him on the head.” For a moment, I thought he was going to drop the chair on Marvin. The day before, in the veterans' meeting, he had asked us to try to help Marvin, to encourage him, and now he was holding a chair over Marvin's head. Marvin had a severed Achilles tendon during the off-season and he's lucky to be walking and playing football at all. He's slowed down. He really has.

  Coach shook everyone up, and I believe this is what we need, this is what it takes to get us going. We're so damned complacent, we're so damned used to winning, we figure we can win without really trying. We've got to be whipped. We've got to be cussed. I think that's the only way Lombardi'll have any success with us.

  We had a helluva practice today, the best we've had in weeks.

  OCTOBER 19

  I've been getting a lot of phone calls from sportswriters this week, asking what's wrong with the Green Bay Packers, what's wrong with the offensive line, is the team getting old, questions like that. The writers remind me of a bunch of vultures circling around, hoping the carcass won't turn over and get back up on its feet. I've been trying to evade the questions as much as possible. I've been talking about how hard it is for us to get up for games in our division. But the questions are getting to me, especially after the loss to Minnesota, and now I'm beginning to have my own questions, my own doubts.

  I'm pretty certain that we don't have any real problems, but I'm not absolutely certain. A little doubt's creeping into my mind. I'm starting to question my own ability, my teammates' ability. I'm wondering, most of all, how good a team we've really got. I think a lot of the other guys are asking themselves the same questions. No one's saying anything out loud, but I can feel it, I can sense it.

  On the practice field this morning, I heard Bart yelling to Bud Jorgensen, the trainer, asking him for a No. 3 pill, an Emperin-codeine compound. I asked Bart if it was for his head or his shoulder, and he said he was taking it for his shoulder. He told me he's been getting quite a bit of pain in his shoulder, and he has to take one or two pills a day to get through practice. But he's coming along. He's not throwing real hard or real sharp yet, but at least he's throwing and he's throwing long. There's a good chance that he'll play Sunday in New York against the Giants.

  We had another excellent practice today. I think the carcass is going to get up this week.

  OCTOBER 20

  Right after calisthenics this morning, I watched the defense going through its starting drill. About fifteen linemen and linebackers were down in three-point stances, in a long line, and Hawg Hanner was standing about ten yards in front of them. When he moved the football he was holding, they all moved. I kept looking at Ray Nitschke. He's got a very bad leg, still nursing the pull he suffered against the Lions, and he can't get down in the three-point stance. He kind of bent over at the waist and leaned forward and hobbled down the field a few yards.

  I had a good glimpse of Ray's leg in the locker room. He's got a torn muscle and internal hemorrhaging, and the back of the leg, from the middle of the calf to the middle of the thigh, is a bright purple, with an olive border and splatches of yellow and blue. It is one of the most Godawful things I've seen in a long time, and I can't imagine him playing a game. But by the end of
practice today, he was moving pretty well, putting more and more pressure on the leg, and I know he's going to try to play Sunday.

  During the workout, when the offensive line was running a few plays, Coach Lombardi came over to us and said, “Look, I'm thinking about starting Bart. Do you think you can protect him? You think you can keep those people away from him? We can't let anybody get close to him.”

  Naturally we all said yes. What else could we say?

  OCTOBER 21

  I got up at 7:30 this morning and rushed over to the dentist to have him replace a porcelain cap on one of my teeth. I chewed it off, I guess. I'm always chewing and grinding my teeth, especially when I'm in a nervous situation, and we've had a lot of them lately.

  We had a pretty spirited little workout this morning, and then Coach Lombardi delivered a short speech. He told us we were going to the biggest city in the world, his home town, and he warned us about all the evils of the big city. Everybody was high as a kite, jumping around and kicking up their heels. Everybody was wearing their new alligator shoes. They wanted to impress the city slickers.