The Games That Changed the Game

by Ron Jaworski

  San Diego eventually advanced to the Patriots’ 25 where it faced a fourth-and-2. Sid could have kicked a field goal or tried to run for the first down. He did neither. The Chargers came out in a two-tight-end look (granted, Alworth was aligned as one of those tight ends; not the ideal blocking choice if the call were a short-yardage run), and Norton again lined up well outside the numbers. So the defense was fairly certain that Sid would be passing. The Patriots went to a six-man front, with outside linebackers Addison and Rudolph lined up as defensive ends. Hadl ran a play-fake to Lowe, causing Buoniconti to hesitate briefly—a costly decision because Keith Lincoln was his man-to-man responsibility in pass coverage. Lincoln used his amazing burst to blow past Nick on a circle pattern. Hadl ducked away from the blitzing Rudolph and lobbed the ball to a wide-open Lincoln for another touchdown.

  To everyone’s surprise, Sid then had holder Tobin Rote try to throw for a 2-point conversion from point-after kick formation, but Rote’s high pass sailed out of the end zone. Sid was asked in the locker room why he made that decision with a 34-point lead. He claimed it wasn’t a designed play; that Rote had merely mishandled the snap and was trying to salvage the attempt by throwing. Maybe that’s true, but judging by San Diego’s cold-blooded demeanor throughout the game, I have to wonder.

  Chargers Series No. 5

  4th Quarter: San Diego 44, Boston 10

  The Chargers’ defense was still playing hard in the final minutes, stopping Boston’s next possession near midfield. San Diego began its final drive of the day on its own 20 and called again on Lincoln, who responded with an 8-yard pickup on a sweep. Sid was just about ready to take out Keith for good, but not before allowing his star performer one last encore play. Hadl called the toss play to Lincoln, who swept right. Both Norton and Alworth appeared to position themselves for run blocking. Mix pulled out in front to make it look like a sweep. On a day when he’d virtually done it all, Lincoln added to his accomplishments by lofting an option pass 20 yards downfield to reserve tight end Jacque Mackinnon. After Mackinnon’s catch, Sid sent in backup fullback Gerry McDougall so that the man of the hour could receive a well-deserved curtain call. A moment later, the Balboa Stadium public address announcer informed the crowd that Lincoln, to absolutely no one’s surprise, had been voted game MVP.

  Okay, I’m thinking that with his usual flair for the dramatic, Sid has made this grand gesture to give Lincoln the royal sendoff. Now he’ll just run out the clock. Nope. Guns blazing to the end, Hadl threw deep to Alworth near the goal line, but Dick Felt batted it away. After Felt knocked down a shorter pass headed for Lance, the Chargers faced third-and-10 at midfield. Run a halfback dive into the line and kick it away? Not a chance. Sid flexed Mackinnon a few yards away from Mix, which kept the big tight end clear from being jammed by a linebacker once the play began. After the snap, Jacque initially ran a vertical route, then broke left to run a deep crossing pattern. The deep cross was not common for tight ends of the early sixties, who generally lacked the speed to beat defensive backs. Mackinnon didn’t have that problem. Hadl fired to his left, and Mackinnon took off for a 33-yard completion. Hadl then threw on four consecutive plays, moving the ball just outside the goal line, where he dived in for the touchdown. Following the extra point (a conventional kick this time), the carnage ended, with the Chargers winning, 51–10—the widest margin of victory of any title game in the AFL’s ten-year existence.

  The final statistics were even more one-sided. Boston gained 263 yards in total offense, while San Diego exploded for an astonishing 610 yards. Of those, 318 yards had come on the ground—a staggering total for a team renowned for throwing the deep pass. But Sid knew that for this game his running attack would best counter Boston’s blitzes, and the numbers bear him out. The Chargers ran sixty plays, and the Patriots blitzed on twenty-eight of them, or 47 percent of the time. San Diego gained 352 of its yards when Boston was blitzing, and scored four of its seven touchdowns off red dogs. These inflated numbers had a profound effect on the way Marion Campbell coached defenses the rest of his career. “I realized that this much blitzing can’t be your whole system,” he reflected. “It totally changed my philosophy. It’s easy to just let ‘er rip with the blitz, but we got hurt badly with that. If it fails, like it did against the Chargers, you’ve got nothing to fall back on. From then on, I only coached a controlled system where the other team was going to have to earn every score on its own.”

  Individually, the best numbers belonged to Lincoln. The same guy who’d told his wife on their drive to the stadium that he didn’t think his flu-like symptoms would keep him in action very long amassed one of the finest single-game performances in pro football history: 206 rushing yards and 103 receiving yards, plus the 20 extra yards from his option pass completion. His 329 yards in total offense remained a postseason record until 1971, when Kansas City’s Ed Podolak surpassed it with 350 against the Dolphins on Christmas Day in a divisional playoff between the two former AFL teams. But Podolak needed two additional overtime periods to break Keith’s record! “San Diego didn’t put up those kind of numbers simply because we blitzed so much,” claimed Campbell. “A lot of it had to do with their speed and personnel. In the end, good players are going to win for you. But here’s where you really have to give Sid credit. Some coaches have good material but don’t know what to do with it. Sid really knew how to get the best out of all those great players.”

  The mood in the Chargers’ locker room was nothing less than total elation. It was a sensation Ron Mix hadn’t enjoyed before that game and hasn’t enjoyed since. “I don’t know if I ever felt younger, stronger, or faster than that day. If you do your job right, you should feel tired after the game. I don’t remember ever feeling fatigue. The whole experience was invigorating—as if a shot of adrenaline came into your body every time one of our players did something spectacular. It was thrilling to be a part of it. Anybody who plays in any sport, no matter the level, will at some point do something perfect. In our case, it happened to us as a team. Everybody had the game of their lives.”

  The team’s championship ring would eventually bear the engraving “1963 AFL and World Champions.” “If anyone wants to dispute that claim, just let them play us,” Gillman roared.

  “Sid wanted to play the NFL champion Chicago Bears right then and there,” recalled Bass. “If that game had taken place, I think the Chargers would have held their own. I don’t know if they would have won, but it would have been competitive. The rout over the Patriots gave the AFL a lot of publicity they never would have had otherwise. It really got people’s attention.”

  Coincidentally, the idea of an AFL-NFL showdown was mentioned in a Sports Illustrated story just a couple of weeks before the Patriots-Chargers game, in an issue that featured Rote and Lowe on the cover. The day after crushing Boston, Sid attempted to set up a “World Series of pro football” by writing NFL commissioner Pete Rozelle. Rozelle had been Sid’s general manager when Gillman coached the Rams in the 1950s. Sid’s letter referenced the Vatican’s recent Second Ecumenical Council, in which Pope John XXIII sought to reverse years of bitterness between Catholicism and Judaism by stating, “The Jews should not be presented as rejected or accursed by God.” Sid noted pointedly, “Pope John was a great man because he recognized the ‘other league.’ “ Rozelle sent Sid a telegram the next day with his reply: “Yes. But it took a thousand years.” Clearly, the NFL owners had no interest. To them, the AFL upstarts were poaching on their turf. Why give them any credibility by acknowledging them as equals? And why risk playing them, where the veteran league could be handed an embarrassing defeat?

  The two leagues wouldn’t meet head-to-head for another three years. But more than any game prior to the New York Jets’ upset win in Super Bowl III, in January 1969, the Chargers’ rout of Boston forced the established NFL to begin taking this “other league” seriously. And it opened the eyes of even the most conservative critics, who grudgingly admitted there just might be something to Sid Gillman’s in
novative schemes.

  After completing my film study of the Patriots and Chargers, I still marveled at the fact that a Sid Gillman team amassed 610 yards by relying more on the run than the pass. It was the most yardage ever gained by any of Sid’s teams in any professional game where he was the head coach. In Wayne Lockwood’s magazine feature about the ‘63 championship, Sid confessed, “No game plan works that well. I think it was just one of those days more than anything else.” In his wildest dreams, Sid never believed that three of his first ten plays would go for 56, 67, and 58 yards. Every one of those calls was designed with the idea that, executed correctly, the play would pick up anywhere from 10 to 20 yards. Had the Chargers not jumped out to such a commanding lead so early, I’m sure Sid would have put the ball up much more.

  But he didn’t have to. His tosses and traps were killing Boston’s blitz, so San Diego kept running. This brings me back to the brilliance of Gillman’s game plan. Against the rest of the AFL in 1963, the Chargers’ bombs-away approach piled up points and lopsided wins. But in two narrowly won regular-season games against Marion Campbell’s red-dogging defense, San Diego scored only 7 and 17 points. If Sid continued to run this same offense, he was likely to end up with another nail-biter—and no guarantee they’d come out on top a third time. Gillman simply could not take that risk. He desperately wanted to win a championship, so he altered his team’s approach. The Chargers changed their look, putting men in motion and calling runs that initially resembled familiar pass plays. Boston came into the game dead certain that it knew exactly what the Chargers would use against it, but Sid turned that defense on its head. For Gillman, it was a melding of ideology and pragmatism, being secure enough to know he would have to set aside the passing plays he loved for the benefit of team success. The result was a coaching triumph any way you want to define it: numerically, artistically, historically.

  ineteen sixty-three was only John Hadl’s second year in pro football. Even though he ran for one score and passed for another in the championship game, it was strictly in mop-up duty as Tobin Rote’s backup. By the time I met John in 1973, he was a battle-tested old pro. In my rookie season with the Rams, he was a fantastic role model, winning the NFL MVP Award while leading the Rams to their best record in team history. John took me under his wing and taught me plenty about the quarterback position. He also shared more than a few “Sid stories,” many of them about what a hard-ass and taskmaster he could be.

  “I never had a day off during football season after I became the starter,” John remembered. “I’d get to the Charger offices at 8:00 AM and still be there late in the evening. Sid could be pretty tough on me in film sessions—he’d rip my ass and tear it apart. For a while I didn’t say much, but it finally got to the point where we’d really go at it. The great thing about Sid was that you could have tremendous arguments with him—screaming and yelling where both of us would get upset. But when those meetings were over, he was already onto the next thing, we’d go to practice, and he was fine. He could really turn it on and off. Deep down, I think Sid enjoyed that give-and-take. I loved Sid, and have tremendous respect for what he did and what he stood for. When I got into coaching myself, I used the Gillman offense for my own teams. It’s always been good, and it’s always current. After I stopped playing for him, we saw each other all the time and became great friends.”

  I also enjoyed a warm relationship with Sid at the end of his coaching career. After the 1986 season, I became a free agent and went out to San Diego to meet with the Chargers about playing another season or two. Sid and his lovely wife, Esther, insisted that I stay with them at their home up in La Jolla, and it was truly a memorable experience. Sid showed me his collection of jazz records, the biggest and most comprehensive music library I’d ever seen. It was all meticulously catalogued and alphabetized, from Cannonball Adderley to Lester Young. But that was nothing compared to what I saw after Esther served us dinner. When he was with the Eagles, Sid had told me about his game film archives, amassed over fifty-plus years in coaching, but I had never seen them. He had all these reels of footage, broken down by play selection, personnel, formations—you name it. Once we finished eating, Sid took me into his office, where all his treasures were stored: his personal “wine cellar.” More than six hours later, we were still up there, poring over his celluloid history of pro football. It was an evening I will never forget.

  As I stood over his shoulder, it struck me that I was actually this close to him years earlier when my Bills team finally won their first championship by beating Sid’s Chargers in the 1964 AFL title game. After the final gun sounded, I slipped through the crevasses of War Memorial’s rickety snow fence and ran onto the field with thousands of other fans. I remember seeing Jack Kemp being carried off on the shoulders of his teammates. I shook hands with a few of the players, and center Al Bemiller gave me his chin strap. I felt like I was almost part of that Bills team; it was one of the happiest moments of my life. But I was also just a few feet away from a disconsolate Sid Gillman, miserable from the cold and obviously despondent over his team’s 20–7 defeat. He brushed past me for a fleeting moment, and then he was gone. I was only thirteen at the time and certainly didn’t feel sorry for him—I was exhilarated about my team winning a title. But I will never forget the heartsick expression on Sid’s face.

  Years later, when he coached me with the Eagles, I never missed an opportunity to gently remind Sid about that ‘64 game—or the one the following year in which Buffalo beat the Chargers again, this time in a shutout, to win its second straight AFL championship. I’d keep those memories tucked in my hip pocket, and sometimes when Sid would bug me over some boneheaded thing I’d done in practice, I’d get my revenge by teasing him about those back-to-back losses. He’d wince, but I also believe he appreciated how much of a fan I was of the AFL era. I think Sid respected me because I understood where he came from and what he’d accomplished to make his team and that league a success.

  I was deeply saddened when I heard that Sid had passed away right after New Year’s Day 2003. He was buried at Hillside Memorial Park in Los Angeles, a cemetery that’s also the final resting place for numerous Hollywood legends. Comedians Jack Benny and Milton Berle, dancer Cyd Charisse, singers Al Jolson and Dinah Shore—even Moe Howard of the Three Stooges—all have their graves at Hillside. I can’t think of a more appropriate place for him to spend eternity. Sid Gillman was a football genius, but he was also a master showman, someone who loved making bold statements with his words, his wardrobe, and his actions on a football field. In a way, Sid, you’re kind of back where you started—almost like being in one of your dad’s Minneapolis movie houses. Only this time, you’re not up in the projection booth swiping football newsreel film clips. No, you’re right in your element, alongside some of the greatest entertainers in show business history. And if those spirits could talk, they’d probably agree that you were their football counterpart, as skilled as anyone at giving the crowd every reason to stand up and cheer.

  Sunday No. 2

  1974 AFC CHAMPIONSHIP

  PITTSBURGH STEELERS VS. OAKLAND RAIDERS

  Oakland Coliseum, Oakland, California —December 29, 1974

  n December 20, 1975, nearly seventy thousand fans filed into the Los Angeles Coliseum for a rare Saturday night game that millions more would watch on national television. The opponents were the defending Super Bowl champion Steelers and the hometown Rams. First-string quarterback James Harris was still nursing a bruised shoulder, so L.A. coach Chuck Knox turned to a second-year passer local sportswriters had dubbed “the Polish Rifle” but everyone else called Ronald Vincent Jaworski. Nearly two years since my college days at Youngstown State, I was, at long last, finally getting my first starting assignment in the National Football League.

  Both teams had already wrapped up playoff spots, but it was still a game each of us wanted to win. I know I did. This was my best chance to prove that I could play in the NFL, even though I’d be facing one of the greatest defe
nses in league history. All week, I’d felt that knot in the pit of my stomach as I studied game film of Pittsburgh’s Steel Curtain defense. I thought points would be very tough to come by—and boy, was I right.

  We squeaked out a 10–3 win that wasn’t decided until the fourth quarter. With six minutes to play, I spotted wide receiver Harold Jackson for a 38-yard completion, then finished the drive myself with a quarterback draw for the game’s only touchdown. It snapped a Steelers eleven-game winning streak, although they started a new one a week later: three straight postseason wins that earned them their second straight Lombardi Trophy in Super Bowl X.

  The Steelers won those championships primarily because of their defense, a unit with talent to burn that utilized a number of revolutionary concepts, including one that many current teams still rely on: Cover-Two. The acknowledged master of this concept was Pittsburgh’s defensive coordinator, Bud Carson. His unorthodox approach not only won Super Bowls but also forced the eventual adoption of new rules—rules that morphed the NFL from caveman football to the sky show we watch today. Carson first installed Cover-Two as a college coach during the late 1960s, initially viewing it as a rushing defense against the option because it placed both cornerbacks on the line, creating a run-stuffing nine-man front. Bud took it with him to Pittsburgh when Chuck Noll hired him in 1972, and it helped produce one of the finest defenses in league history: the Steel Curtain.

  The Steel Curtain was anchored by a front four that could pressure the passer all by themselves and that was a critical component of the Cover-Two concept. Confident that they’d force enemy quarterbacks to throw in a hurry, Carson was able to add other innovative wrinkles. His first change involved redefining the secondary’s responsibilities. There were two predominant coverages in the NFL back then, the first being the “three-deep zone.” The other was “man-free,” which is man-to-man coverage on all eligible receivers, with a roving safety available to help out wherever needed. In both of those traditional coverages, the cornerbacks were responsible for defending any vertical routes, but not in Cover-Two. Carson called for both corners to move up to the line of scrimmage, across from their targeted receivers. Meanwhile, the two safeties dropped deeper than normal to patrol their designated halves of the field. With the corners lined up directly across from their opponents, they could jam, then reroute, a receiver, potentially ruining his designated pattern. The two safeties were, in essence, the “safety net” if the receivers got by those jams.