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

by John Eisenberg

  It had taken Lombardi a couple of years to build an effective line in New York, and he figured he would need at least that long now in the wake of Hank Bullough's retirement and his jettisoning of veteran starters Oliver Spencer and Jim Salsbury. He was basically starting from scratch, rebuilding with youngsters around Ringo. Lombardi marveled at his All-Pro center, so smart and agile his small size didn't matter.

  Norm Masters, who had been the left tackle under Scooter, was playing well enough to keep his job; protecting the passer was critical for any blocker on the quarterback's blind side, and Masters had the strength to keep red-doggers away. But Bob Skoronksi, big and strong and back after two years in the Air Force, was also performing well at that position—so well that Lombardi wondered if they could split duties.

  At right tackle, Forrest Gregg had surprised Lombardi more than any player. A tall, strong Texan, he had done little to distinguish himself in his first two seasons, bouncing between the offensive and defensive lines as he struggled to find a position. But suddenly he was playing up to his potential if not above it, relentlessly clearing holes and beating back pass rushers. There was no doubt he would start.

  Stationed just inside Gregg, Kramer was also an obvious starter, easily the best right guard on the roster. Even though Lombardi pushed and berated him more than any player, the coach knew he had potential. Lombardi's system demanded a lot from the guards; they had to be strong enough to pass protect and quick enough to get in front of the end sweeps Lombardi loved to run. Kramer had the speed to get out there and knock people over, as well as the strength to pass protect.

  The only line position Lombardi was unsure about was left guard. He had tried out a handful of players, and Thurston was the most effective so far. His pass protection was solid, but he was more chunky than chiseled, and Lombardi wasn't sure he was quick enough to get in front of sweeps.

  Thurston was determined to make the most of the chance. He had already passed through the hands of three NFL teams (the Eagles, Bears, and Colts) in his one year in the league. If he didn't make it in Green Bay, he might be done. He radiated a devil-may-care approach to life, flashing a broad, white smile and making jokes under his breath, but in fact, had experienced his share of hardship. Growing up in Altoona, Wisconsin, he lived in a small house without an indoor toilet until he was a teenager. None of his seven older siblings finished high school because they had to work after their father died. Fred played basketball well enough to be recruited by Valparaiso University in Indiana, and didn't even start with football until his junior year in college, when the Valparaiso coach saw him battling for rebounds and thought he would make an effective lineman. Now he was a pro, but his future was in doubt.

  In Lombardi's offense the guards had to know each other and play well together, and Kramer and Thurston were starting to become friends. They sat together as Lombardi showered criticism on them in the film session after the Chicago game, and they came away realizing they might be in this together and need each other's support. Before the game in San Francisco, they grimly nodded at each other in the locker room before kickoff.

  Let's try to keep from getting our asses reamed this week.

  Yeah. But I don't know if we can.

  Lombardi liked what he saw from them early in the game as they led sweeps and kept rushers away from Parilli. Then, when the 49ers stacked more defenders up front to stop the run, Parilli threw over them, completing ten of eleven passes and thinking this offense worked pretty darn well. The Packers led at halftime, 10–3, and increased the margin to 17–3 midway through the third quarter when Hornung swept nine yards around right end for a touchdown behind Thurston and Kramer.

  As the fourth quarter started, the 49ers suddenly awoke when veteran quarterback Y. A. Tittle replaced young John Brodie. With Tittle heaving long passes, the 49ers marched to a touchdown, cutting the Packer lead to 17–10 with ten minutes to play. But George Dixon, a Packer rookie, caught the ensuing kickoff two yards into his end zone, ran right, found a seam in the coverage, and broke into the clear. He sprinted ninety-six yards before being dragged down at the 6, and the Packer offense quickly pushed the ball into the end zone, with Don McIlhenny getting the score from the 2.

  That should have settled the outcome, but Tittle was undeterred. He quickly passed his way to another touchdown, and his defense got him the ball again with four minutes left. With the sparse crowd cheering, aroused by the comeback, Tittle led his offense toward a game-tying touchdown until the Packers' Bobby Freeman read a sideline route, stepped in front of the pass, and grabbed an interception at the Green Bay 20.

  By the time Tittle got his hands on the ball again, there was time for just one more play. He hurled an arching sixty-yard prayer toward receiver R. C. Owens, who somehow beat three Packer defenders to the ball and made a leaping catch at the Green Bay 1. But time expired before the 49ers could run another play. The Packers walked off the field as 24–17 winners.

  Despite the shaky ending, Lombardi was pleased after his first victory as an NFL head coach. "We obviously still have a lot of work to do, especially with our pass defense," he said, "but the offensive line and Hornung and Taylor showed that we can move the ball."

  Hornung sat at his locker with a satisfied smile, smoking a cigarette. What a pleasure to play for a coach who knew how to use him! The Golden Boy had rushed for thirty-five yards, scored a touchdown, and kicked a field goal and three extra points. And that was just an inkling of the load he figured to carry under Lombardi.

  "We have a good, hungry ball club," Hornung said. "Our offense is 80 percent better this year. It's a pleasure to run behind a line that opens holes like that."

  The next morning the Packers flew up to Oregon and set up a camp at the University of Portland. They would stay in dorms, hold a week of open-to-the-public practices, and play the Philadelphia Eagles on Saturday night. It was a typical "spread the word" NFL exhibition, but Lombardi declined to speak to a Portland reporter on Monday, saying he had to watch film of the San Francisco game. The reporter derided him in print, calling him "film fan," but Lombardi shrugged off the criticism; he was more concerned about his pass defense, which, if the San Francisco game was an indication, needed help.

  He had thought it was a capable unit. Emlen Tunnell could survive on his wiles. Jesse Whittenton, an agile athlete, could cover top receivers (and beat anyone on the golf course). Hank Gremminger, a converted receiver, had started for three years. John Symank, a fearless tough, had intercepted nine passes as a rookie in 1957. Bobby Freeman seemed to have a knack for making plays.

  But without Bobby Dillon or Tunnell, who was out with a broken hand, the secondary had been humbled by Y. A. Tittle in San Francisco. After watching films of Tittle hitting a slew of open receivers, Lombardi feared he had given the unit too much credit; the Packers might be in trouble even when Tunnell returned.

  Lombardi asked Jack Vainisi to see if Dillon would consider coming out of retirement. Dillon, busy at work in Texas, said no.

  But Lombardi, increasingly desperate, made Vainisi try again, stressing how much Dillon was needed.

  "Oh, all right. I still love the game," Dillon said.

  He was surely one of the NFL's unlikeliest stars, lacking vision in his left eye after a childhood accident. His parents wouldn't let him play football until he was a high school senior, but he showed such potential as a speedy pass defender that the University of Texas recruited him. (He had to sign a waiver freeing the school of responsibility for further eye damage.) He made up for his lack of depth perception with an intuitive knack for knowing where quarterbacks would throw, and after joining the Packers in 1952 had recorded fifty-one interceptions in seven seasons.

  Lombardi was thrilled to have Dillon back but told Vainisi to make sure the returning player understood he would be fined for having missed training camp and the early part of the exhibition season. Lombardi fined anyone holding out one hundred dollars a day.

  When he heard he would be fined several t
housand dollars, Dillon blew up. "You can tell Lombardi to shove that fine up his ass, Jack," Dillon shouted over the phone. "This is totally ridiculous. You call begging me to come back, and then you fine me? Forget it. I'm not coming back."

  Lombardi called Dillon himself and calmly explained he couldn't make exceptions to his policy.

  "The fine money funds a team party at the end of the season. That's how I do things," Lombardi said.

  "That's wonderful," Dillon replied, "but I never held out, I'm not paying the fine, and I'm not coming back."

  Dillon started to hang up, but Lombardi shouted into the receiver: "Wait, wait! OK, if you come in, the team will pay the fine. We won't tell anyone. This will be a secret between you and me. But the money has to go into the holdout fund. I fined some other guys for coming in late. I have to fine you, too."

  Lombardi asked Dillon to play that weekend in Portland, but Dillon said he would meet the team when it returned to Green Bay after the game. Lombardi would later tease Dillon throughout the season for having helped fund an extravagant end-of-year party, and Dillon would just smile and go along with the ruse, impressed by—but not quite sure what to make of—this feisty coach so intent on maintaining standards yet willing to bend them to get what he wanted.

  One evening during the week in Portland, Lombardi summoned his four quarterbacks to a meeting room, turned off the lights, and turned on a film projector. They knew what was coming: their weekly planning session.

  We're going to run the ball. I want to run the ball. And let me show you how we're going to run the ball.

  As they talked about how to attack the Eagles' defense on Saturday, Joe Francis marveled at what his older teammates knew about football, and how they used their experiences to think their way through different situations. He was still learning how much went into being a pro quarterback. He had done his share of studying in his rookie season under Scooter McLean, but the team wasn't really serious and he mostly just enjoyed himself off the field with Hornung and McGee; he couldn't believe there was so much partying in the pros. But now, with Lombardi in command, the atmosphere was more businesslike and he spent so much time in front of a blackboard that he felt like he was in college again.

  Known as Pineapple Joe, Francis had olive skin and dark features; he had grown up in Hawaii speaking Pidgin, an island language rooted in English but influenced by other tongues. A splendid athlete, he could outrun most of his Packer teammates and effortlessly hurl a ball sixty yards. But despite his athletic gifts, he sometimes wondered why he had been drafted; running the single wing at Oregon State hadn't prepared him to read NFL defenses or change plays at the line. Why, he was so raw that he was still getting used to speaking English all the time! (He had lived with other Hawaiians in college and continued to speak Pidgin.)

  He marveled at how adroitly Starr, in particular, snapped authoritative answers to Lombardi's questions. McHan and Parilli had obviously experienced a lot, too. Francis felt like a beginner in their company.

  But it was Francis whom Lombardi stopped as the film session ended and the quarterbacks left.

  Come here for a minute, Joe.

  Yes, Coach?

  You're going to start Saturday night against the Eagles, Joe.

  Really, Coach? That's fantastic!

  Make the most of the chance, son.

  Francis could barely contain his excitement. He was a hero in Portland, having worn an Oregon State uniform just two years ear lier. His fans would flock to little Multnomah Stadium Saturday night to watch him oppose another local icon, Eagles quarterback Norm Van Brocklin, who had starred at the University of Oregon in the late 1940s.

  The crowds at the Packers' daily practices increased in size after Lombardi announced Francis would be starting. Fans swarmed him after the workouts, asking for autographs.

  Good luck on Saturday, Joe.

  We knew all along that you could make it.

  Francis studied his playbook in preparation for the game but also went out every night with friends, family members, and teammates, scrambling back to the dorm just ahead of curfew.

  Lombardi was curious to see Francis perform. The young man was raw, but Lombardi wished some of the Packers' veteran stalwarts had his natural playmaking instincts. Francis wasn't afraid to hum a pass into a crowd of defenders or just take off running with the ball, hoping to create magic. It was difficult to thrive for long playing that way against disciplined NFL defenses, but Francis had made enough good things happen in camp that Lombardi wondered if he might have value during the season as a reserve who came in to provide a spark.

  On Saturday, as the sun dropped on a cool late-summer evening, the crowd swelled under Multnomah Stadium's dim lights until every seat was taken. Not wanting to turn any customers away, event organi zers allowed late-arriving fans to stand right on the sidelines, on either side of the benches. By the time the Packers kicked off, more than twenty-five thousand fans were crammed into the little stadium.

  The Packers drove seventy-four yards to a touchdown on their first possession as Francis mostly handed to Hornung and Taylor, remembering what Lombardi had said about establishing the running game. The line opened plenty of holes and Francis didn't have to audible at the line. Hey, this is easy.

  Van Brocklin, a seven-time Pro Bowl selection, lived up to his reputation in the next few minutes, zipping line-drive passes to open receivers as the Eagles struck for two touchdowns and took the lead. Lombardi grimaced, relieved that Dillon would soon be on hand to rescue the pass defense.

  Trailing 14–7 early in the second quarter, Francis got the offense moving again. Taylor and Lew Carpenter ran for first downs. Francis faded to pass but saw no one open, tucked the ball in, and scrambled for fifteen yards, breaking two tackles and lunging for more as his fans roared. Then he dropped back and hit Boyd Dowler for thirteen over the middle. The eighty-yard drive culminated with a short touchdown run by Carpenter. Francis was excited as he came off the field to cheers. This isn't so hard. I can do this.

  At halftime Lombardi complimented him and told him the rest of the game was his. I like your play-calling, your run-pass mix. Good job, Joe. Now keep it up.

  The Eagles fumbled on their first possession after halftime, leading to a short Hornung field goal that gave the Packers the lead, 17–14. Then Bobby Freeman, inserted into the secondary at halftime, picked off a Van Brocklin pass over the middle. The offense rolled to a touchdown in six plays, mostly rushes, and then Freeman intercepted another Van Brocklin pass, this time on the right sideline, and sprinted thirty yards to the end zone without being touched. Suddenly, the Packers had a 31–14 lead.

  A few minutes later the Packer offense started a possession at its 3 after a long Philadelphia punt. Francis waited for Lombardi to tell another quarterback to take over, but the coach turned to him and said, "OK, keep going, Joe, just keep going." Francis nodded and trotted onto the field, adrenaline pumping, confidence soaring; how could he not move the ball with his line opening holes so easily? He commanded the huddle with a forceful voice. Let's move it, guys. Let's keep hammering. Taylor gained six up the middle. Hornung went for eleven around left end. McIlhenny gained five around right end. The offense crossed midfield and rolled deep into Philadelphia territory, Francis picking up a key third down on a twelve-yard toss to McGee. Just before the third quarter ended, Taylor took a handoff and bulled into the end zone behind Bob Skoronski. Hornung's extra point completed a quarter in which the Packers scored twenty-four unanswered points.

  As Francis came off the field, Lombardi grabbed him by the shoulder.

  Hell of a job, just a great job. That's it for the night.

  Francis exhaled, took off his helmet, and moved down the sideline. Starr, summoned to replace him, gave him a pat on the back as their paths crossed.

  Good job, Joe. Real good job.

  Hey, thanks.

  Van Brocklin filled the air with passes in the final fifteen minutes, leading two touchdown drives that made the score r
espectable; he ended the night with almost four hundred passing yards against the beleaguered Green Bay secondary. Starr, meanwhile, moved the Packer offense to a late touchdown, again mostly handing off. The final score was 45–28. The fans left having been enormously entertained.

  Lombardi praised Francis after the game. "He surprised me. He really had a good game," the coach told reporters. "He hasn't done that well in practice, but maybe he's one of those 'gamer' players."

  Francis had produced more than two hundred yards of rushing and passing. Reporters surrounded him in the locker room, and then he showered, dressed, and went out with friends and family. They bought him drinks and slapped him on the back. It looked like you were back at Oregon State. Great game.

  Smiling, Francis admitted he had thoroughly enjoyed himself. The other Packer quarterbacks might be more polished, but Pineapple Joe could play this game.

  11

  GROWING UP IN Lake Village, Arkansas, a farming community of three thousand people, Lamar McHan learned to shoulder a heavy load of responsibility. His father drove a rural mail route but had lost the use of one leg after a bout with tuberculosis. McHan, the oldest child of four, took on part of the fatherly role, awakening before dawn to start the fire that heated the house, and helping farm cattle on the family's small acreage.

  Ordinarily, a youngster with so many family commitments wouldn't have time for sports, but McHan was big, fast, and competitive, a star for all seasons, the eternal quarterback and shortstop. Widely recruited out of high school, he commanded the offense for three seasons at the University of Arkansas and then became an immediate starter in the NFL—still shouldering that heavy load of responsibility.