The '63 Steelers

by Rudy Dicks

  Art Rooney Jr. remembered being in the Steeler offices Friday afternoon. “Joe Carr was our ticket man. He came running in and he said, ‘Some nut just shot President Kennedy. It looks like he’s dying.’”25

  Late in the day, Dan Rooney, who had been listed in the ’62 press guide as the team’s program director but was running the day-to-day operations, got a phone call from commissioner Pete Rozelle, asking what Rooney thought about playing the Sunday schedule. Dan Rooney told the commissioner it would be a mistake to play the games.26

  Employees in the Steeler headquarters listened to the news on the radio. Before heading home, Art Rooney Jr. said, “I went down to Saint Mary’s Church … and you couldn’t get in the church. It overflowed. Next day I came in, I tried to go to mass and it was the same thing—just packed.”27

  Kennedy had visited western Pennsylvania at least six times in eight years, dating back to his time as a senator. In mid-October of ’62, while campaigning for a gubernatorial candidate, he made stops in Monessen, where he shook hands with steelworkers and railroad workers; in Aliquippa, hometown of the Bears’ Mike Ditka; in Emsworth, where he accepted a bouquet of roses for the First Lady from Holy Family Orphanage; and at the George Washington Hotel in Little Washington, as it was known locally, an hour south of downtown Pittsburgh, where he watched Army play Penn State on TV. Estimates of the turnout in western Pennsylvania ranged from 300,000 to half a million, all of them eager to get a handshake or just a glimpse of the president.28

  News was slow to spread in downtown Pittsburgh. For nearly an hour after the first bulletin of the assassination in Dallas, it looked like a normal Friday. Then, gradually, shoppers and workers began to gather by radios in cigar stores, restaurants, and newsstands. Steeler defensive lineman Lou Cordileone learned of the shooting when he looked in the show window of a store selling TV sets. A table of diners at the Hilton heard the news from a waiter. Mayor Joseph A. Barr was having lunch in the Pittsburgher Hotel when he was informed of the assassination, and then he returned to his office and listened to the news on his radio. Later, as delivery trucks dropped off newspapers on street corners, people eagerly snatched them up. The news spread swiftly. “The word traveled on those invisible lines of communication that make individuals listening posts and transmitters,” the Pittsburgh Press reported.29

  The newspaper offices and the courthouse received a deluge of phone calls seeking more information after “the first flash”—the news bulletin with top priority transmitted on paper scrolls to the newspaper offices—reported that the president had been shot. For people along Smithfield Street in mid-afternoon, the dread of a nation was confirmed by one simple act: the lowering of the post office flag to half-staff by two office workers.30

  When NFL players got news of Kennedy’s assassination, they knew that whatever followed over the next two days was out of their control. All they could do was wait for directions on where to go, and when.

  The Packers, trying to recover from their loss in Chicago, had wrapped up a meeting on Friday, and most players were leaving for the day when they began picking up news reports on car radios. Five of the Packers were from Dallas. “I suppose we’ll be infamous now,” said Bill Forester, a tenth-year linebacker from SMU.31

  Bill McPeak huddled the Redskins in a silent prayer on the practice field before heading to the locker room. After Sunday’s game, the team would send the game ball back to the White House.32

  Sam Huff was driving across the Triboro Bridge, with teammate Don Chandler in the car, heading home from practice at Yankee Stadium, when he got the news. “Terrible. It was absolutely terrible,” he said.33

  Bob St. Clair, a six-foot-nine, 265-pound offensive tackle for the San Francisco 49ers and a pro for eleven seasons, said: “I cried when I heard Mr. Kennedy had been killed.”34 The biggest and baddest in the sports world wept, and that included Sonny Liston and his wife. “I feel very bad for myself and my race for he was a friend of ours and of the people,” Liston said in a statement.35 It’s safe to figure that Big Daddy Lipscomb, too, would have wept unashamedly.

  Rozelle conferred with Pierre Salinger, and repeatedly with Dan Rooney, and finally the commissioner and Salinger reached the conclusion that playing the NFL schedule would be beneficial to the country. Rozelle issued a brief statement: “It has been traditional in sports for athletes to perform in times of great personal tragedy. Football was Mr. Kennedy’s game. He thrived on competition.”36

  Years later, Rozelle conceded that he made a mistake, but under the circumstances it was understandable and forgivable. “When you look back on it, you can question different things, but your life had to go on, even though some things are totally unreal in how they happen,” Dick Haley said. “It was hard for everybody to focus, no question about that. Probably everybody was distracted a little bit in circumstances like that.”37

  The University of Pittsburgh, 7–1 and in the hunt for a major bowl bid, postponed its game with Penn State, a sellout at Pitt Stadium, after several hours of discussions and phone calls Friday afternoon. The Penn State players had already checked in at their Pittsburgh hotel.

  Other cancellations and postponements came swiftly. Eastern racetracks shut down. The NBA postponed its Friday night schedule. A fight at Madison Square Garden was called off. Dozens of college football games were postponed, but the NCAA left the decision about whether or not to play up to the individual schools. Less than a fourth of about fifty “major” college football games went on as scheduled.38

  But life did go on. Detroit Lions stockholders approved the sale of the team to William Clay Ford for $6 million. Montana State fired its football coach. North Carolina State College went ahead with its Friday night game against Wake Forest. The Pittsburgh Hornets of the American Hockey League gave up four goals in the final period and lost to the Hershey Bears, 5–3, Saturday night before a crowd of 6,781 in Hershey, Pennsylvania. The Hornets also had a Sunday night game scheduled against the Springfield Indians. In Boston, the forty-eighth dog show of the Eastern Dog Club began Saturday despite criticism of what had become “a trifling event in the face of a national tragedy. There was a pall over all and the realization that what was happening in the rings was of small moment.”39

  The slaying presented the modern sports world with a dilemma it couldn’t have imagined. Up to then, the slayings, tragedies, mayhem, and unspeakable acts that routinely made the front page of the newspaper were reported solemnly, and readers gasped and lamented the random cruelties that intruded on their lives … and the games went on. But the assassination of a president at a time when the nation was swirling with civil rights, Cuba, Vietnam, and the notion of putting a man on the moon was enough to petrify the soul of any American. Formulating an appropriate response was a challenge.

  Post-Gazette sports editor Al Abrams wrote in his Saturday “Notes” column: “President Kennedy’s assassination in Dallas yesterday was horrible, shocking and beyond belief. But things like this will continue to happen so long as there are human beings who act like mad dogs because they hate.”40 Abrams’s commentary appeared in the first section of his column, but it was the eighth item he addressed, preceded by snippets about the nice fall weather, a mention that Pirate pitcher Bob Friend was visiting Hong Kong, and a get-well wish to a Post-Gazette truck driver who was hospitalized. Most likely, the column had been written and filed early, before the assassination, and the commentary added later. After his brief remarks on Kennedy, Abrams returned to news and notes from around the world of sports. The Press offered no sports commentary on Kennedy the day after his death.

  Many columnists expressed their outrage that sports—the NFL, in particular, because the AFL postponed its games—did not come to a complete standstill at a time of national grieving. For some sportswriters, struggling to provide a voice and perspective for the fan put them in an awkward, uncomfortable position. Gordon Cobbledick of the Cleveland Plain Dealer, in his Sunday column about the unchecked rough play in the NFL, wrote in hi
s lead that it was “appropriate” to address the issue “because it’s a time of shocking violence.”41 His remarks were, no doubt, well intentioned, but in retrospect there was really nothing in sports to equate with the assault that had been inflicted on an entire nation.

  The NFL would carry on, but it would make one concession. The week before, a Chicago Sun-Times story stated that sales of color TVs were “booming.” The report said that, by conservative estimates, 700,000 color sets would be sold in ’63—twice the previous year’s total—and that some estimates were as high as one million sales for the year. Sales were so good that, with Christmas approaching, there could be a shortage of sets available for consumers. “The public is buying everything that is offered,” Sears, Roebuck and Co. said. But on Sunday, November 24, no fans were going to tune in their Motorola, Zenith, or RCA color TVs to an NFL game. The games were not going to be televised. Yet interest in the Bears game in the Chicago area did not fade. The Chicago Tribune reported that it received 9,729 telephone calls from fans seeking scores and information during an eight-hour period during and after the game in Pittsburgh. Calls were coming in at a rate of twenty per minute.42

  Blocking, tackling, and catching passes might have been the last things some players wanted to do, but they had no choice. They would await instructions and perform their duties just as they carried out their assignments when a play was called in the huddle. And most of the players assumed that the games would go on as scheduled.

  “We figured, unless there’s a drastic change, we’re going to play,” Lou Michaels said.43

  Once the decision had been made, players tried to focus on their opponent and somehow block out distracting thoughts. “They said you’re gonna play, you’re gonna play,” Red Mack said. “You just concentrate on the Bears. Once you make the kickoff, you’re into the game. It don’t make any difference what happened. After the game, you’re back like you were before. You’re wondering, ‘What’s going to happen to the country?’ It overwhelmed you before the game but during that game it just didn’t have anything to do with our play. Not really.”44

  “When game day came around, it was tunnel vision as to how do we beat these Bears,” Andy Russell said. “You were thinking of your individual responsibilities.”45

  Fans did not accept the decision with equanimity. Some reacted with outrage. Steeler offices were “bombarded” by fans angered by Rozelle’s thinking. One caller threatened to picket the game. Approximately 150 tickets were turned in for refunds Saturday, but as of mid-afternoon, more than 300 tickets had been sold over the counter, bringing the game closer to a sellout.46

  Dozens of callers phoned the New York Times, but most simply wanted to know if the Giants-Cards game was going to be played. “A highly vocal minority” said they were “shocked,” “aghast,” “ashamed,” or “horrified” that the game would be played. One caller said, “Tell Rozelle and [Giants president John] Mara, we couldn’t care less about tomorrow’s game. It’s deplorable that it’s being played.”47 The Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel reported that it received more than 200 calls of protest. Los Angeles newspaper offices took a “considerable number” of similar calls.48

  It was a struggle for players to generate enthusiasm for playing, but they had no choice, no say in the matter. “A lot of our players wanted to cancel the game,” Y. A. Tittle said. “It was a big letdown. It just seemed like something we shouldn’t be doing.”49

  Thirty-eight years later, one Steeler in particular regretted the decision to play the games.

  Joe Krupa was a six-foot-one, 240-pound defensive tackle who looked a bit like Popeye and had the same fighting spirit, to boot. The Steeler media guide called him both “a player’s player and a coach’s player,” an unsung grunt whose approach to football made him a perfect fit with guys like Ernie Stautner and Myron Pottios. After his playing career came to an end, he envisioned a career in education, an extension of his off-season job. “I want to teach kids,” he said, “young, impressionable kids who can be taught the values of life.”50 As the 1963 season headed into the stretch, Krupa, in his eighth year in the league, was on the way to earning his first Pro Bowl appearance.

  Years later, in the hours after 9/11, Krupa thought back to the Bears game, held only forty-eight hours after Kennedy was slain. “Boy, that game should never have been played,” he said. Krupa was in good company nearly forty years earlier. The morning of the Bears game, he saw Art Rooney Sr. in church. “He told us, ‘There’s no way there should be a game today,’” Krupa recalled.51

  But others thought it was the right call. Twenty-four hours after the assassination, and the day after his twenty-fifth birthday, Charley Johnson of the Cardinals sat in his room in the Hotel Manhattan in New York and declared that it was a positive move to play the next day. “I think people want something to get their minds off the situation,” he said. “President Kennedy was too dynamic a person to want us to be stagnant at a time like this.”52 After the Cards won the next day, Johnson admitted, “It was hard to think about football before the game.”53

  Chicago center Mike Pyle, three years out of Yale, wanted to play. “I didn’t feel the world had come to a stop. For a period of time on Friday, yes,” he said. “But sitting home all weekend, I wouldn’t have been as happy as doing what I felt my job was.”54

  But even those who were grief stricken could understand—if not accept—the rationale for going through with the games. Huff, a West Virginia native, had met Kennedy and campaigned for him. “I feel depressed,” Huff would say after the game.

  I feel as bad about it as anybody. But staying home and moping around wouldn’t do any good. Last year, Jimmy Patton’s father died the day before the Dallas game. Nobody can say he didn’t grieve, but he played the game.

  That is our life. The people who don’t like it, that’s their right. Maybe that’s what the President died for.55

  The NFL schedule provided one meager bit of fortune in the schedule, and it figured in Rozelle’s decision to go on with the games. The Cowboys were scheduled to play in Cleveland, not at home in Dallas. “That,” Rozelle conceded, “would have presented a different set of problems.”56

  Browns owner Art Modell said he pleaded with the commissioner to cancel the full schedule. “Trust me, don’t play those damn games,” he recalled telling Rozelle.57

  People felt the irrational sting of a wound that no one knew how to soothe, and they struck out and flailed in misguided attempts to vent their anguish. As the Cowboys’ team bus pulled up to the hotel in Cleveland, bellhops refused to help with the players’ bags. Before the game, the public address announcer was instructed to use the word “Cowboys,” and not “Dallas,” in any references to the visiting team.58

  Cowboy running back Don Perkins was in his third pro season, out of the University of New Mexico. His college coach, Marv Levy, future coach of the Buffalo Bills, called Perkins “the greatest natural ball carrier I’ve ever seen.”59 He was coming off a 945-yard season and was en route to his third straight Pro Bowl appearance, but there was no place for anyone associated with Dallas to escape the stigma of a murder. “I just wanted to go hide somewhere,” Perkins said.60

  Modell prepared for the most extreme reactions. He stationed police sharpshooters throughout the 83,000-seat Municipal Stadium and on the roof. “I felt like George Patton,” Modell said. “It looked like an armed camp when I got through with it.”61

  And the fans turned out. Whether they were distraught, anxious to find an escape, or desperate to find consolation among 40,000 or 50,000 strangers with a common bond, pro football fans showed up on Sunday. As the headline for a Dick Young story in the New York Daily News read, “They Came with Mixed Emotions—but They Came.” Yankee Stadium was jammed with 62,992 fans, including Dianne Ebert, a student at Martin Van Buren High School in Little Neck, Long Island. “I think it should have been called off, but I have been looking forward to this game for so long,” she said. “It’s my only time this year, and I just cou
ldn’t stay away.”62

  Others could, like Kenny Byrnes and Jim Fargardo of Manhattan, who had seats in the lower stands. “We’ve been looking forward to going to this game,” Fargardo said. “Anyone can tell you how hard it is to get these tickets. But out of respect for the president, we’re not going in. I’ll show you,” he added, and then he tore up his ticket, and Byrnes did the same.63

  Red Smith was an angry opponent of the decision to play the games and an unforgiving critic of Rozelle thereafter. His Monday column in the New York Herald Tribune opened, “In the civilized world it was a day of mourning. In the National Football League it was the 11th Sunday of the business year. …”64

  Another columnist, the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin’s Sandy Grady, who had written with the awe of a fan about the battle between the Steelers and Lions in the Runner-Up Bowl, savaged not only the league but the fans in a commentary oozing with sarcasm and venom. Philadelphia mayor James H. J. Tate had protested the playing of the game against Washington, and Eagles president Frank McNamee refused to attend the event, the first time he had missed a home game in fifteen years.

  The total number of fans who attended the seven games was 334,892, according to the Associated Press. Grady called it

  a great tribute to the sports fan. The insularity of his dreamland is complete. Even the slow drums of national tragedy cannot be heard in his beautiful cocoon.

  In Franklin Field [in Philadelphia] they held a football game that adults would have canceled, in a stadium that should have been empty, before a mob that should have been invisibly mute.

  For the first time in his sportswriting career, he said, “I am ashamed of this fatuous dreamland.” He concluded, “Even the burlesque house in town had the dignity to shut the doors.”65

  But there was room to empathize with fans who sought a refuge from the unrelenting sense of despair that came through the news nonstop. “There weren’t very many channels, no cable,” Frank Atkinson recalled. “So all you heard was funeral music and sadness. People needed a break from it, so they went out and bought a ticket to a football game.”66