That First Season: How Vince Lombardi Took the Worst Team in the NFL and Set It on the Path to Glory

by John Eisenberg

  Lombardi said he would be happy to come to Green Bay, and Ole arranged for a private plane to bring him to town on January 26. Before he went, Lombardi asked Mara for advice. What should he do if they offered him the job? Mara told him to use the good judgment he had developed during his Jesuit college days at Fordham.

  Canadeo and Dick Bourguignon met the plane at the Green Bay airport and drove Lombardi downtown to meet the rest of the committee. Incredibly, Lombardi's name still hadn't appeared in the Press-Gazette or the Milwaukee papers.

  During the ride, Bourguignon asked Lombardi if he could envision leaving the Giants. Lombardi repeated what Mara had told him about using the good judgment he developed at Fordham. Canadeo and Bourguignon responded that they were Jesuit-educated also, Dick having gone to Marquette and Tony to Gonzaga.

  Lombardi smiled and said, "You know, between us three Jesuits here, we could kick the shit out of these non-Catholics."

  Meeting the rest of the committee, Lombardi repeated that he would only take the job at Green Bay as a head coach/GM with full authority over the team. During the past decade, when the committee had exerted suffocating control, it never would have ceded so much power. But now it was willing to let a football man take charge.

  Ole offered Lombardi a five-year contract, an extraordinarily long deal. Lombardi asked for an annual salary of thirty-six thousand dollars, much more than he had ever made, and Ole quickly gave it to him. Lombardi had no doubts now. He agreed to take the job.

  The deal wasn't immediately announced because the forty-five-member Packer board of directors still had to approve it, and Lombardi wanted to be the one to break the news back home. Mara endorsed his decision, saying the offer was too good to turn down. Marie swallowed hard but knew he had to take the job. Her husband had waited so long for this. And the money was good.

  On January 28, the Packer board convened in the Northland Hotel's Italian Room, a fitting setting. The response wasn't entirely positive when Ole said the executive committee wanted to hire Lombardi. Some directors wondered why the choice wasn't Evashevski, a bigger name. Some wanted Lambeau. One board member, John Torinus, spoke for many in the room when he asked, "Who in the hell is Vince Lombardi?"

  Down the hall, newspaper and radio reporters filled a pressroom with cigarette smoke and wisecracks. At 2:15 P.M., three board members walked in and said Ole would have an announcement in forty-five minutes. Some directors had been unable to attend the hastily arranged meeting and were being polled by phone. In the end, twenty-six of forty-five members gave Lombardi the thumbs-up. One said no. Eighteen didn't vote.

  As the vote dragged on behind closed doors, the phones at the Press-Gazette offices rang almost nonstop, as did those at Green Bay's radio and TV stations, which had broadcast bulletins about the board's going into a meeting. Who is the new coach? When will we know? Finally, Ole entered the pressroom at 3 P.M., cleared his throat, and announced Lombardi as the new coach and GM.

  As he began to take questions, the room phone rang. Ole picked it up. "We're in the middle of a meeting. Listen to the radio," he said. The caller persisted. Ole continued haltingly: "A half hour. I know. I can't. I'm sorry. Just listen to the radio."

  He hung up, read a brief biography of Lombardi, and apologized for leaving reporters in the dark during the search. But he said he thought he had done the job right. The reporters scattered to find phones, and word of the hiring spread across town. The public's reaction varied from shrugs to bafflement to anger.

  The Packers hired ... who?

  What happened to Evashevski?

  Did Curly turn them down?

  To the fans, Lombardi seemed an odd choice. Since Lambeau's departure, the Packers had been coached by taciturn, Midwestern football guys (Scooter was from New England but had been around so long he seemed like a local), so in background and manner alone, Lombardi represented a change. Plus, he seemed awfully old to be getting his first chance to run a team. Oliver Kuechle would point that out in a column the next day, wondering what it said about Lombardi.

  Most of the Packer players had never heard of him. Their reaction was the same as the public's—who? The young players who had shared a dinner with Lambeau in Los Angeles near the end of the 1958 season were angry. They had thought it was obvious the team should bring Lambeau back. The board had really blown it, they felt. They could have hired a legend, a guy who knew how to win in Green Bay, but instead they were bringing in some no-name, a guy who had never been a head coach!

  Most of the players literally knew nothing about Lombardi. Jerry Kramer expressed outrage when he spoke by phone to several teammates shortly after the hiring. What a bunch of jerks. How can they do this when Curly wanted to come back? That board of directors has to be the dumbest bunch of idiots ever. This is so disappointing!

  Art Daley knew about Lombardi because Daley's father was a longtime New York Times sports columnist who had written about the Giants. Lombardi was a smart guy with a strong personality, Daley's father said. Daley arranged to speak to Lombardi, who had taken a suite at the Manhattan Hotel in New York to wait out the vote. Several reporters were with him, and an Associated Press photographer snapped a shot of him smiling as he looked in a mirror and adjusted his tie.

  When Daley got Lombardi on the phone, he heard a rumbling Brooklyn accent and knew pro football's small-town team had been handed over to a big-city guy.

  "Good aftah-noon," the Packers' new head coach thundered.

  5

  STEPPING OUT of a North Central Airlines plane into slanting midday sunshine, Lombardi was grateful for every fiber of his camelhair overcoat. The early February weather was brutal, the temperature near zero, a west wind whipping snow that had dropped the night before.

  Lombardi had come back to Green Bay to sign his contract, speak to reporters, meet the board of directors, and get started on the enormous job of rebuilding the Packers. Marie was with him, anxious to find a place to live. Olejniczak and several directors waited on the tarmac, shivering and smiling. Few had seen Lombardi in person. They showed no sign of nervous anticipation as he walked down the portable stairway. Lombardi wasn't a legend. Grown men didn't gape when he walked by. He was just a football coach, a career assistant until now.

  He stepped off the stairway and introduced Marie to Ole and the others. They shook hands and hustled inside to escape the cold. Stealing curious glances at the newcomer as they walked, the directors thought Lombardi was awfully small for a former offensive guard and that, despite his thick chest and square shoulders, he looked almost bookish with his glasses and Wall Street clothes. He was a rarity in vanilla Green Bay, a swarthy son of Old Europe. When he spoke, teeth gleaming and voice thundering, he seemed as formidable and self-assured as his hometown.

  Reporters were waiting inside the terminal, hoping to speak to him. A newsman from a small radio station asked for a one-on-one interview. Ole tried to usher Lombardi away, saying this wasn't the time, wait for the press conference tomorrow. "This way," Ole said, gripping Lombardi by the shoulders to maneuver him. Scooter would have shrugged and gone along with the team president, but Lombardi put his foot down.

  "No, no, this way," he replied, tugging free of Ole. "This man called me when I was in New York, and I promised him an interview as soon as I got here. He's going to get it."

  Mara had warned Lombardi to beware of meddlers, know-it-alls who hovered around, hoarding power and intimidating coaches. Lombardi wasn't about to put up with them. He wouldn't tolerate meddling any more than he would tolerate a softhearted player who didn't care about doing a job well.

  Wanting it known, immediately and indisputably, that this lousy team was his now, he turned and spoke to the radio man for several minutes while Ole and the directors waited silently.

  It was, indeed, a new day in Packerland.

  The delegation proceeded in an informal motorcade to the Northland, where Lombardi and Marie checked in. (A state trooper stopped all the cars at one point and warned the drivers to
come to a full stop at stop signs.) Then it was on to the Packers' Washington Street offices. Lombardi had already met Jack Vainisi, Tom Miller, and Verne Lewellen during the team's search for a coach, but he was introduced to the rest of the staff, including Ruth McCloskey, his secretary. They went to work immediately, spending the rest of the day making final changes to his contract before he signed it.

  The next day, he met the entire board at a luncheon. Introduced by Ole, he stood up and outlined his no-nonsense philosophy for the players—be in shape, be on time, don't screw up. He emphasized that, unlike the Packer coaches before him, he wouldn't tolerate interference.

  "I want it understood: I'm in complete command here," he stated, pausing to let his words sink in. "I expect full cooperation from you. You will get full cooperation from me in return. I've never been associated with a loser and I don't expect to be now. You have my confidence. I want yours. I'm not against anything that will help the Packers."

  Trying not to sound too confrontational, he said Ronzani had written him a note wishing him luck and calling Green Bay "a wonderful place with wonderful people." The directors smiled; they liked Gene even though he had flopped miserably.

  "The Packers are steeped in tradition, and I expect, with plenty of hard work, to bring them back to the position they once held," Lombardi concluded.

  As applause sounded, Ole, standing against a wall in the back, couldn't suppress a smile.

  Later, Lombardi held his introductory press conference. More than a dozen newspaper and radio reporters from around the state (but only one of Milwaukee's two major papers) asked questions for an hour. Would he be a hands-off coach like Jim Lee Howell, or more involved? What did he think of the players on the team? What kind of offense would he run? How different would it be coaching in little Green Bay after having coached in New York?

  Lombardi had answers. As the executive committee had learned, he was resolute in his football beliefs, knew what plays he wanted to run, how to prepare players, what would be emphasized.

  On his involvement as a head coach: "I expect to take a more active part in coaching than Jim [Lee Howell]. I'll have a coach in charge of the offense and a coach in charge of the defense, but I'll work with them more than Jim did."

  On the offense: "We won't be using the [Clark Shaughnessy] slot system as you have been using here. Our emphasis will be on power plays."

  On the talent: "There's a good nucleus of veterans with the likes of Jim Ringo and Tom Bettis, but I'm going to refrain from making judgments until I have looked at the [game] movies of last season. I'm going to spend time doing that first, and then I'll have a better understanding of what we have."

  On practices: "I hope to hold workouts down to an hour and a half, an hour and fifteen minutes if possible. The players will know exactly what they're supposed to do at every minute."

  On coaching in a smaller city: "I have given considerable thought to my adjustment on this matter. I know it will be different here where most everybody knows the players personally. The coaches and players have a different set of problems here than in a big city where they can get lost."

  After the press conference, Lombardi retreated to his room at the Northland; he was tired, having gone nonstop since he landed the day before. But Bud Lea, the beat reporter for the Milwaukee Sentinel, phoned the room and asked to come up and ask more questions. Lombardi said that was fine.

  When Lea, a Green Bay native, knocked on the door and entered, he found Lombardi and Marie relaxing in chairs. They smiled, introduced themselves, and peppered Lea with questions when they found out he had grown up in Green Bay. Where should we live? What are the good schools? Where are the best places to eat? They spoke for a half hour, and then Lea got his quotes and left. As he walked away he thought, Seems like a nice guy. Years later, Lea would recall that as one of the last pleasant conversations he had with Lombardi.

  Lombardi and Marie decided to build a one-story brick house on Sunset Drive in Allouez, a Green Bay suburb. They would rent a house a few blocks away in the meantime.

  Having made that decision, they went back to New Jersey, collected the kids, and moved. Vince Jr., known as Vincent, was a high school junior. Susan was five years younger. Lombardi piled them into the family station wagon and drove to Green Bay. The 1,050-mile trip took several days, and the back seat got quiet when Lombardi reached Chicago and turned north toward Wisconsin. Snow was piled so high by the side of the highway that Vincent and Susan couldn't see the countryside beyond it.

  What kind of a place is this?

  Susan shed tears, and Vincent, a reflective and athletic teenager, was apprehensive. But they felt better after finding that Allouez was a pleasant neighborhood. Vincent started at Premontre High School, a Catholic institution. He missed his friends, but the negatives were outweighed by the positive of his father becoming an NFL head coach, especially in a town so small. Vincent was a bigger deal in Green Bay than he had ever been in New Jersey, not that he wanted or needed attention. He spent many evenings at home, watching pro basketball on television. His parents were busy. The rental house was cold.

  Lombardi and Marie jumped right into a busy social life, accepting numerous invitations to meet people and dine out. They discovered they could get a good steak at Wally's Spot, a downtown supper club, and first-rate Italian food at Jimmy Manci's. The busy nights made Marie's first Wisconsin winter easier to take, as did the fact that the Packer coach received a membership to the Oneida Golf and Riding Club, an exclusive country club on the west side of town. In the mornings Lombardi ate breakfast with the kids before school and stopped for mass at St. Willebrords Church on his way to the office. He was instantly at ease in a city with so many Catholics.

  At work, his first task was to hire assistant coaches and organize the front office. Vainisi, he decided, would be his second in command, with the title of business manager, while continuing to scout and run the draft. "Everyone knows what a great job Jack does," Lombardi said. Although he promoted Vainisi over Verne Lewellen, he kept Lewellen as a special assistant in charge of paperwork and fi nances.

  For his on-field staff Lombardi wanted four assistants, one of whom would run the defense, allowing him to focus on the offense. He quickly made that hire: Phil Bengston, the 49ers' chief defensive assistant for the past eight years. A soft-spoken, analytical Minnesota native, Bengston had just been passed over by the 49ers, who had hired another assistant, Red Hickey, to replace fired coach Frankie Albert. Disappointed, Bengston had called the Packers about their head-coaching vacancy, and also called several other teams. When the Packers hired Lombardi, Bengston called him about a job. They related well. Both were forty-five, Catholic, and longtime assistants. Bengston liked the 4–3 defense that Lombardi wanted to use. Plus, despite his low-key personality, Bengston coached an attacking defense featuring unpredictable red-dog blitzes by linebackers, and Lombardi always wanted to play aggressively.

  Lombardi then announced that John "Red" Cochran would coach the offensive backs, as he had for the Detroit Lions for the past three seasons. A fiery southerner who had played halfback for the Chicago Cardinals under Lambeau a decade earlier, Cochran, ironically, needed a job because the Lions had just hired Scooter McLean to take his place. (Scooter and Lions head coach George Wilson were close friends who had pledged to always take care of each other.) Cochran heard on the radio that he had lost his job, contacted Lombardi, interviewed at the Detroit airport one day when Lombardi was laying over between flights, and was thrilled to get the job, which paid eighty-five hundred dollars a year. He had two young children and his wife was pregnant.

  Cochran and Bengston came to town to start working and rented rooms at the downtown YMCA while they waited for their families to join them in Green Bay. Walking to work one day as a howling wind blew snow in their faces, Cochran, a native of Alabama, looked at Bengston and said, "Phil, what in the hell are we doing in this place?"

  Cochran's pregnant wife, Pat, soon arrived with their two childr
en, but the truck bringing their furniture was delayed by a snowstorm. The house they had rented was empty when Lombardi and Marie dropped by to welcome them. Worried about Pat, the Lombardis invited the couple over that evening, fed them ribs and sauerkraut for dinner, and welcomed them to town.

  In the next few weeks Lombardi filled out his staff with first-time NFL assistants. Bill Austin, recently retired from the Giants, would coach the offensive line. Just twenty-nine, Austin had made the Pro Bowl under Lombardi, and Lombardi thought he would be an effective mentor. Norb Hecker, thirty-two, would coach the defensive backs; he was a six-year NFL veteran who had played in Canada in 1958. Combined with Bengston and Cochran, the young assistants gave the staff a mix of generations and personalities.

  "I'm a perfectionist," Lombardi warned his new staff. "I'm going to demand your best. There's absolutely no excuse for anything other than that."

  The coaches found it intimidating to hear him mention perfection—this was a game of broken tackles, fumbles, incompletions, and penalties. Hard-boiled college coaches such as Bear Bryant could get away with demanding that impressionable youngsters not make mistakes, but pro players were older, wilder, and harder to manage—frankly, not paid enough to put up with such high-minded bull from their coaches. Lombardi might have a fight on his hands, the assistants feared.

  But Lombardi had watched Earl Blaik demand perfection and receive it at Army because athlete-soldiers were trained not to tolerate making mistakes. They had the requisite discipline—and so did pro football players, Lombardi figured. Just because they weren't in the military didn't mean they couldn't learn to eliminate mistakes. It was all in their minds, Lombardi said, and he simply wouldn't accept anything less.

  We are going to do things right until everyone is doing them right.

  We are going to run plays over and over and over until everyone is running them right.