I mean everyone!
Paul Brown had pioneered the use of film in the NFL a decade earlier. Now every team used it to review player performances and study opponents. Lombardi found it invaluable. Blaik had been a huge proponent, even filming Army practices to see who was hustling—or not hustling. Lombardi had watched film for a decade, and while there obviously was no substitute for seeing a player in person, he could learn a lot about the Packers while just sitting in a dark room. How hard did they hit? What kind of shape were they in? Had they mastered the fundamentals of their positions?
Throughout his first month on the job—a cold, snowy February—he and his assistants watched the Packers' entire 1958 season on film, from the opening kickoff in September to the final gun in California. They watched the Packers give up fifty-six points to the Colts and forty-eight to the 49ers. They watched Scooter's complex offense continually misfire. They watched the Packers score twenty-two touchdowns while their opponents scored forty-eight.
It was, for Lombardi, an up-and-down time emotionally. As he watched the losing players he had cast his lot with after waiting so long for the chance to run a team, he sometimes wondered what he had gotten himself into; he called Blaik, incredulous at the ineptitude. After one especially depressing day, he emerged from his office and asked Ruth McCloskey to pray for him. I knew they were bad, but they're even worse than I thought. But then there were days when he saw surprising potential in the crevices of the Packers' worst season. Near the end of one embarrassing defeat, he noticed Paul Hornung playing halfback, a position the Golden Boy had seldom manned because of his lack of speed. Running an end sweep, Hornung ran parallel to the line, made a sharp cut behind a blocker, and darted through the line for an eight-yard gain. Lombardi bolted upright. What a cut! Frank Gifford couldn't have done it better.
Lombardi wondered if Hornung, who had bombed at quarterback and fullback, might fare better as a halfback. Paying close attention as he watched the rest of the season on film, Lombardi noticed Hornung's soft hands, lower-body strength (for blocking), and knack for cutting. Hornung wasn't unlike the versatile Gifford, whom Lombardi had turned into a star. Hornung wasn't as fast, but he was a strong-legged runner, potentially dangerous receiver, and could throw, making him ideal for the option pass. He certainly wasn't a lost cause, Lombardi felt. An offense could be built around him, just as the Giants' attack had been built around Gifford.
Lombardi called Hornung, who was spending the off-season in Louisville wondering if he was going to have an NFL career.
"I've been looking at the films. You're not going to play quarterback anymore," Lombardi said. "You're my left halfback. You're either going to play left halfback, or you're not going to play at all."
Hornung said that was fine with him. "I'm tired of being moved around and tired of sitting on the bench. Put me on the field and give me a role and I will play good football for you, Coach," he said.
Liking what he heard, Lombardi brought up the rumors about Hornung's penchant for staying out late, chasing women, and drinking—rumors that routinely circulated in Green Bay. When Lombardi and Marie went out with friends at night, the conversation inevitably turned to Hornung, every Packer fan's number one target.
Listening to the stories and talking to others around town, Lombardi, fresh from the big city, didn't think Hornung sounded as outlandish as advertised.
"I know your reputation here. I've investigated you," Lombardi told him. "You've done some things you shouldn't have done, but I don't think you've done as many things as people say. I trust you.
"But don't let me down or it'll be your ass."
Hornung smiled on the other end of the line. "Coach, I will be ready to go on Sundays. You won't have to worry about me," he said. He hung up with renewed enthusiasm for football. Maybe he wouldn't go to Hollywood after all.
Lombardi also noticed another player on film, a fullback who could be an important part of the power offense he planned to install. Jim Taylor had rushed for almost 250 yards in the last two games of the 1958 season, often knocking over defenders and dragging them. Howie Ferguson had been the Packers' fullback since 1954, but Taylor might be ready to take over, Lombardi thought.
What about the quarterbacks? Many fans believed that position was the Packers' biggest problem, and it was hard to suggest otherwise after the 1958 season, in which Parilli, Starr, and Francis combined to throw twenty-seven interceptions and just fifteen touchdowns. But Lombardi developed a different perspective while viewing the films. It was unfair to judge the quarterbacks, he felt, because they were hounded all season by opposing rushers. The Packers' offensive line had offered little protection. Ringo was a first-rate center, but the guards and tackles had barely blocked anyone at times.
Defensively, just about everything was a problem, Lombardi felt. The unit was susceptible to both the run and pass, and only got worse as the season progressed. There were a few saving graces, the ball-hawking Dillon, the relentless Bettis and Forester, but overall, the defense was short on talent, late to recognize keys, forever a step slow. By the end of his film marathon, Lombardi knew he had to upgrade his defensive personnel or the Packers would never improve.
As he learned about his new team throughout February, Lombardi slowly got around town and met players. They would always remember their first encounters with him, just as they would remember their weddings or the births of their children.
One night Lombardi, Marie, and Lewellen went to a Green Bay Bobcats ice hockey game at the Brown County Veterans Memorial Arena. Gary Knafelc, the Packers' veteran wide receiver, was sitting nearby; a year-round Green Bay resident, he sold insurance during the off-season. Lewellen motioned for Knafelc to come over and meet the new coach. Lombardi and Knafelc shook hands. "Doesn't he remind you of Frank?" Marie said, comparing Knafelc to Gifford, a handsome magazine cover boy. Knafelc said he hoped he could play as well as Gifford for Lombardi.
The conversation turned to the Packers. Lombardi outlined his plans. There would be tougher practices and new rules; no more running amok on Scooter's loose ship. The offense would be built around a power running game. Knafelc nodded, saying little. This guy scared him.
"Gary, I'd like to see you in my office at nine o'clock tomorrow morning," Lombardi finally said.
Knafelc barely slept that night. He had been with the Packers since 1954 and owned a house in town. He had put down roots. What did this Lombardi guy want to say to him? It couldn't be good, he figured.
He was waiting outside Lombardi's office a half-hour early the next morning. Ushered in, he found himself across a desk from a coach no longer interested in pleasantries.
"How much do you weigh?" Lombardi barked.
"Two twenty-five," Knafelc croaked.
"Well, you're going to play tight end for me," Lombardi said.
Knafelc was stunned. He had always been a wide receiver, catching passes downfield. A tight end had to block.
"Coach, I haven't blocked anyone in five years in this league," he sputtered.
"You want to play for another team?" Lombardi snapped.
Knafelc shook his head. No, he was a Packer. And now, it seemed, he was a Packer tight end.
Bob Skoronski, a young offensive tackle, also met Lombardi shortly after the coach arrived. He had signed with the Packers as a fifth-round draft pick in 1956, turning down a better offer from a Canadian team when Vainisi sold him on Green Bay as a place where a bottle of milk cost a nickel—not true, it turned out. After his rookie season, Skoronski went into the Air Force and had spent the past two years there. Now, he was out, back in Green Bay, and hopeful of resuming his career. He also was short on cash until the season started. The Packers were helping, paying him to make public appearances. That brought him into the team's offices now and then, and one day, he met Lombardi. "Oh, yeah, nice to meet you," the coach said matter-of-factly as they shook hands. Before another word was spoken, Lombardi snapped, "You look like you're putting on weight. Are you working out?"
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br /> One by one, the players discovered a new era had dawned. Bart Starr, living in Alabama that off-season, realized it from a distance when he saw the photo that ran alongside the newspaper article about Lombardi being hired. He studied Lombardi's face, wondering, Where have I seen this guy? Then he remembered: In an exhibition game against the Giants a few years earlier, Starr had been trotting off the field after leading the Packers to a touchdown when he heard a commotion on the New York bench. Glancing over, he saw Lombardi ferociously berating the defense, almost like a dog that couldn't stop barking. And the defense wasn't even his responsibility! Wow, Starr thought, this would be interesting.
Forrest Gregg, another young lineman, had a similar epiphany shortly after Lombardi's hiring. He had been out shopping in Dallas, Texas, his off-season home, and ran into Tiny Goss, a fellow former Southern Methodist University star who had played for the Cleveland Browns and later spent time with the Giants, and Lombardi, during a training camp.
"Hey Forrest, ya'll got a new coach," Goss said.
"Yeah, Vince Lombardi," Gregg replied.
"Ya'll know anything about him?" Goss asked.
"Nope. Do you?" Gregg replied.
"Yeah," Goss said, grinning. "He's a real bastard."
6
LOMBARDI'S OFFICE SHADES were pulled, blocking his view of the relentless white winter. He was watching film again with his assistants, the room mostly dark and silent except for the whir of the projector. Outside the door, Lombardi heard Ruth McCloskey grinding through another workday.
Sometimes Lombardi could barely believe what he saw. In the last games of the 1958 season the Packers almost seemed to quit, especially when they fell behind.
Lombardi fingered buttons on the projector, stopping and rewinding to show a dismal play from the San Francisco game, in which the Packers gave up forty-eight points in the first thirty-five minutes.
Look at that, Phil. It's almost as if the right side of the line isn't there.
You're right. There's no fight at all.
Then he stopped to take another look at an offensive play. Parilli threw over the middle for Howton, but the ball sailed well ahead of the receiver and hit the ground.
No blocking, half-assed pass, terrible route.
You're right, Vince.
They look completely beaten down.
They do.
Lombardi grimaced and twisted in his chair; seeing the team give in so easily almost made him physically ill. He was used to coaching players who were in shape, worked hard, knew their stuff, gave their all, played with aggressiveness and discipline, and expected to win. The Packers, conversely, didn't seem to work hard and clearly had a debilitating case of what Lombardi called defeatism. Beaten down by failure, they expected the worst and palpably sagged when things didn't go their way.
They had, Lombardi felt, accepted their lot as a losing team.
We have to change their attitude before we change anything, Phil. This is terrible.
No doubt about it.
He had told the Packer board of directors he'd never been associated with a loser and had no intention of starting now. Having seen the game films, he believed he might have the physical material to make good on that pledge—the team had more talent than people thought. But he needed to start from scratch mentally. He had to teach the players not to think like losers.
His old team, the Giants, had exuded confidence, partly because they were a winning team and had faith in their talent, and also, he believed, because they behaved like winners. Wellington Mara believed if they were going to compete with baseball's preeminent Yankees for the hearts and minds of New York sports fans, they had to be as classy as the Yankees. They wore ties and jackets on road trips and traveled in a winning style, staying at first-class hotels. That didn't help them block or tackle, but it helped them feel like champions.
Lombardi's new players had stayed at cheap motels, eaten pasty sandwiches on bumpy flights, and dressed sloppily on the road. They felt like a junior college team, not the Yankees. Their opponents almost felt sorry for them, being stuck in Siberia as they were.
Lombardi vowed to change the culture. If the Packers were ever going to rise above their second-class status, they had to start acting like major leaguers who expected to win. He asked team president Olejniczak for the financial backing, and Ole said yes. Closely following the Giants' model, the Packers would start flying on better planes, staying in better hotels, eating better food. They would adhere to a dress code on road trips, wearing ties and shiny new green Packer blazers that Lombardi pledged to buy with his own money to show his commitment. Their home and road uniforms, which Lombardi found drab, would be updated. Back home, the team's depressing offices would be redecorated more brightly.
If we're going to become winners, Ole, we have to start looking, acting, and feeling like winners.
Of course, new drapes and sports jackets alone wouldn't erase the losing attitude that hung in the Packer locker room like the smell of dirty socks. Lombardi would have to do a lot more to get the players thinking positively, especially after such a horrid season. He would start by enforcing curfews and conducting harder practices with far more conditioning work, holding the players to a higher standard of professionalism. Although they would be pushed, they would hopefully start to develop some self-respect. That and a few victories would help matters.
Some guys would balk, naturally. The league was full of players who felt they weren't being paid enough to go all out. The Packers had their share.
That vestige of the losing culture had to be purged, Lombardi said.
As he started getting to know players, he gauged which would likely continue to wear the Packer uniform. Who had the right mentality? Who was amenable to a new order? Who had to go? He knew Hornung was with him, and he had confidence in hardened veterans such as Bettis and Don McIlhenny. He wasn't as sure about players who, at least on film, seemed to be going through the motions.
He sent 1959 contract offers to veterans, prompting a handful of visits and phone calls. Max McGee, the carefree receiver, stopped by the team's offices while in Green Bay on business and asked Lombardi for an advance on his salary. McGee had a high forehead, dancing blue eyes, and a crinkly smile that suggested he knew jokes about you but wasn't going to tell them. A free spirit with a sardonic wit, he would rather laugh than work hard, which had tested the patience of his coaches. Yet they couldn't help liking him.
A native of East Texas, McGee had been an elusive, high-stepping running back at Tulane. He led the nation in kick returns and Vainisi took him in the fifth round of the 1954 draft. Blackbourn made him a receiver and, at six feet two and 200 pounds, McGee had proved to be a handful for smaller defensive backs, catching thirty-six passes as a rookie. After spending two years in the Air Force, he returned to Green Bay in 1957, got back in shape, and was one of the few Packers who had played well for Scooter McLean in 1958, catching a team-high thirty-seven passes.
Twenty-six years old now, he needed cash to make it through the off-season; he liked to stay out late, play cards, and eat well. Before the 1958 season he had asked Lewellen for an advance, and Lewellen had helped him out. Lombardi wasn't such an easy mark. He knew McGee and Hornung had never been to a party they couldn't take over. Lombardi conducted his life differently, yet he appreciated the players' high spirits. Maybe, some would suggest later, he was even slightly jealous.
Lombardi was amused by McGee's request, but he wanted players who gave their all and Max quite possibly didn't.
"Max," Lombardi said, "I'd love to help you but how do I know you're going to make the team this year?"
McGee stared at him, the light in his eyes suddenly dulled.
"If I give you money now, I could end up on the hook for it if I have to cut you," he said.
Shocked, McGee left the offices realizing that, at the very least, he couldn't take his roster spot for granted.
Lombardi smiled to himself. The chances of McGee not making the team
were slim. Lombardi couldn't juggle his personnel much. Player movement was severely restricted in the years before free agency—once a player signed with a team, he was its property until it let him go. As much as Lombardi wanted to overhaul the roster, he knew it would be comprised mostly of the players who had lost under Scooter.
Still, he hoped to add a trickle of new blood, players who could help on the field and also contribute to creating a new, positive environment. He would have to draft such players, trade for them, or sign them off the scrapheap, and initially, he had figured to start the process with the team's top draft pick, Randy Duncan, a quarterback who had led Forest Evashevski's Iowa Hawkeyes to the Big Ten title and a Rose Bowl victory in 1958. Vainisi had made him the top overall pick in the 1959 draft, envisioning a solution to the Packers' quarterback dilemma.
But was Duncan, in fact, an NFL star in waiting? He was an above-average passer at best, and not especially nimble. Lombardi tried to sign him but also told Duncan not to expect to play much as a rookie. When a Canadian team, the British Columbia Lions, offered a similar contract and the chance to start, Duncan signed with them. "Randy wants to play immediately," Duncan's father told reporters. "In the NFL he would have had to wait a few years before he played regularly."
It was never a positive step when a team lost its number one draft pick, but Lombardi wasn't devastated. "Evidently, he didn't have the confidence to play in our league," he said. (Duncan played two seasons in Canada, one in the AFL, retired, and later ran a successful law practice.) Lombardi was more upset about losing Hank Bullough, an offensive guard who abruptly retired in February to become an assistant coach at Michigan State, his alma mater. Bullough, whose hulking frame cast shadows in the interior, had played as well as any Packer lineman other than Ringo in 1958. "Losing him is a blow," Lombardi said.
Vainisi had drafted more than two dozen other players, including Alex Hawkins, a South Carolina running back, in the second round, and Boyd Dowler, a tall back/receiver from Colorado, in the third round. Between the draft horde and slew of fringe players Lombardi had signed off the scrapheap, "they're going to be coming and going like trains at a station," Lombardi told newsman Art Daley with a grin, referring to training camp in July. Maybe a couple would make the team as new blood, he hoped.
That First Season: How Vince Lombardi Took the Worst Team in the NFL and Set It on the Path to Glory Page 7