This time, our defense had something to do with the third turnover in four series. On third and five, Johnny faded back, with plenty of protection, looked downfield to his left for Berry on a simple turn-in, cocked his arm, and threw the ball right into Carl Karilivacz's hands. They'd obviously seen on film from our earlier game in November that Carl was going to play way off Raymond-which, unfortunately, for the rest of the day, he did. But on this one, Carl was all over it.
Carl had come over in that year from the Lions, where he'd played for two championship teams and had played the Colts twice each season. And he was well aware of what they liked to do with Berry working one-on-one with an isolated cornerback.
"We'd gone head to head against each other for three years," Berry told me. "So this time, on that first throw, he gambled and came in front of me to intercept the hook. But he didn't do it again.
In our game against you guys earlier that year, he was crowding me, and we ran right by him on one play, picked up sixty or seventy.
Maybe that's why he stayed off the rest of the day. After that one gamble, he didn't do it again."
Landry hated gambling on defense anyway. Tom didn't want any heroes. I wouldn't be surprised if he chewed out Carl after that pick. Landry didn't care how many interceptions you got, if you got them breaking the coverage. I should know. For my first two years, I played defense more than offense, which meant I was playing with Landry, who was even then a player-coach. So I knew how rigid, strict, and unyielding he was as a coach.
Actually, in one game against the Redskins, I made an interception and lateraled the ball to Tom, who ran it in for a touchdown. On the following Tuesday, we watched the film. "Gifford, was that the coverage?"
"I know, Tom, but they were in a Brown right, L-split," I started to explain, "and-"
"There are no 'buts.' "
"But what if-"
"There are no 'what-ifs.'" If you didn't play the defense Tom's way, end of conversation.
"He had a computer mind," is how Huff remembers Landry.
"He studied the opposition's offensive frequencies in various situations, and he taught them, and you studied them. He'd always say, 'You have to believe. You gotta believe. I'll put you in position to make the play, trust me.' If you weren't in the position, and making the moves he'd given you, he'd give you 'The Look.' He didn't have to say anything; you could read his mind, and what he was saying was 'You dumb-ass.' "
Again, we had the ball back, for our third series, starting at our own 45. Sooner or later, you had to figure, something would give. We still hadn't gotten a first down. And even though I was our leading receiver and rusher, I still hadn't touched the ball. That wasn't too surprising; Vince knew they'd be keying on me early on.
Unfortunately, we still had Heinrich behind the center. When I finally got the ball, on our patented 48 sweep, a quick toss around left end, Mel missed a block, and no one accounted for linebacker Don Shinnick, who nailed me for a loss. On second down, Big Daddy shed Al Barry's block and nailed Mel at the line. Daddy was just getting started.
About then the Colts started using an overbalanced 4-3, putting Artie right on Ray Wietecha, our center, which put the Colts, unexpectedly, into an odd-man line. They'd also made a personnel change: their outside right linebacker, Leo Sanford, had injured a knee, and Steve Myhra, their kicker, came in to play linebacker. I figured we could exploit that, and eventually, we would.
On third down and long, with Marchetti pursuing on every play, Don's checkoff to Mel got six, and the punting team had to come back. At that point, they were getting more work than we were. But the most important thing that happened in that series didn't happen on the field. It happened behind the bench, as Joe Boland was quick to point out to his radio audience: "The veteran Charlie Conerly starts to loosen up in back of the Giant bench, right down in front of our broadcasting booth."
It was about time. The totals for Heinrich's day? Three three-and-outs. Two short completions. One or two fumbles, depending on who gets the fault for the botched handoff.
"With the two best defenses in the NFL," Raymond Berry says now, "you wouldn't expect an offensive juggernaut." Raymond is being generous. Their defensive line was beating up on our guys, big-time. And they seem to have scouted us very well.
What we didn't know was that during the previous week, Colts owner Carroll Rosenbloom had dispatched one of his scouts, Bob Shaw, to sneak into the Stadium and spy on a practice. As the story goes, Rosenbloom told Shaw that if he wasn't caught on his spying mission, he'd have a job for life. Apparently, Rosenbloom wanted to win that game badly-for a lot of reasons.
Supposedly Shaw reported that we didn't appear to be working on anything new. But it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure that out. We hardly ever did anything different on offense, and never on defense. In fact, we hadn't changed anything since the regular-season game in November when we'd beaten them. They didn't need Shaw. They just needed some film from our first game.
Spying has always been part of the game of pro football. When Bill Belichick and the Patriots were heavily fined for videotaping the Jets' coaches during a game to try and decipher their signals, Belichick's desire to gain an advantage represented nothing new just the latest version of a practice that's gone on since the game began. It was certainly part of the Colts' history. According to Ernie Accorsi, a bottomless source of Colt lore, Weeb was as paranoid as they come. Memorial Stadium's field offered a view of several of the homes that surrounded it, beyond the open end: middle-class houses, a true neighborhood. To Ewbank, apparently, every one of those innocent, happy homes was the site of a potential telescopic espionage episode.
"When Weeb left [the legendary Cleveland head coach] Paul Brown's staff, and the Colts were going to play the Browns the first time in Baltimore, Weeb sent Fred Shubach, the equipment guy, to check out all those white houses with a view of the stadium to see if they were spying," Ernie recalled over a lunch in midtown Manhattan, several months after he'd departed his position as the Giants' general manager. He had plenty of time for stories, and I had plenty of time to listen; and as a veteran of both teams' front offices, Ernie has some pretty good tales to tell. "Shubach starts knocking on doors in this working-class neighborhood, asking, 'Excuse me, do you mind if I look upstairs?' "
As Weeb had come to the Colts from Paul's staff, he did everything the Paul Brown way-and Brown's way invariably involved trying to find any extra advantage. Paul's innovations went beyond the playing field; he was a pioneer in watching film-and a pioneer in football technology. Sam reminded me that the Giants were well acquainted with the technology part of Brown's playbook firsthand: "Remember Gene Filipski?"
How could I forget Gene? He'd been released a few weeks before we were going to play the Browns one year, and we claimed him, to see what we could learn about the Browns. And Gene told us that Paul Brown was using a radio to get signals into his quarterback Otto Graham (decades before that technology became mainstream). He also told us that Paul, being so meticulous and proper, had registered the frequency with the FCC. So in a simple stroke of counterespionage, we got our own radio and hooked it up to their frequency, and gave Filipski some earphones, standing next to Landry. He would interpret the plays, and we would flash the call into Sam. By the end of the first half, the Browns had zero yards on offense.
Unfortunately for us, something in the radio system broke. They went back to their unique system of calling plays by messenger, shuttling players in and out.
So Weeb was pretty well trained in the art of football espionage. Or, as Artie puts it now, "If they'd made Weeb and Paul Brown into spies, the United States would have ruled the world."
Come to think of it, before they renovated Yankee Stadium, a lot of our own field was in full view of all sorts of folks: subway riders, where the platform gave a good view of part of the field; denizens of the courthouse; residents in the apartment buildings. But I don't remember Jim Lee worrying about any spies. Maybe it was too many apartm
ents to worry about.
So nothing has changed in the spying department. The Patriots were just following in a grand tradition. Something else hasn't changed, either, as far as football players' priorities are concerned.
Those Patriot videotapes in Spygate didn't just film opposing coaches, I've been told; in the time-outs, they had their cameras on the cheerleaders.
Our high-school-scrimmage level of play couldn't last for long.
And it didn't. The Colts and Unitas took over on the 15. And Johnny U began to look like Johnny U.
I don't know if the next play was Johnny's call. I do know that Lenny Moore told me that he thought he could handle our corner-back, Lindon Crow, that day. And I know that, on this play, Moore was lined up split so far to the right he was practically standing on our bench. With that split in our defense, it meant man-to-man coverage by Crow.
Johnny faded back on first and, with lots of time, looked around, and looked around again. We had absolutely no pressure particularly from Grier, who was hurting far more than any of us knew. On that play, he took a block from Alex Sandusky-and couldn't even get off the line of scrimmage. That season, the Giants had as good a front four as anyone in the league, but because of Big Ro's knee injury that day, it turned out we were playing with a front three.
Johnny fired a bomb to Lenny streaking down the right sideline, Crow right on his shoulder, step for step. Johnny underthrew Moore just a little, but Lenny, as only Lenny could do, slowed, waited, and, with Crow's hands in his face, pulled the ball in over his shoulder at our 40, leaving Lindon sprawled on the turf. Moore broke it back in and took off. Jimmy Patton saved the touchdown, but Lenny made it to the 25. The play had covered sixty yards.
Incredibly, it was the initial first down of the game-seven minutes into the first quarter.
"He was one of the fastest guys I ever had to cover," Lindon told me. "I didn't want to play too tight, because he might outrun me. I was right on him on that play, but that golden arm swung that thing over the top, down on the outside. It was pretty hard to stop."
There was nothing else Lindon could have done. Crow was all over Moore, all day. History hasn't been kind to Lindon. I don't think I've ever seen a cornerback play a better game. Covering Lenny without a good pass rush, man-to-man, was impossible.
When Moore first arrived on the team, Johnny wouldn't throw much to Lenny-and wouldn't tell him why. "At the beginning of my Colt career, I was always just, 'Finish practice, and hit the locker room,' " Lenny told me. "Then one day Raymond came to me and said, 'Lenny, we need to get you a little bit more involved in the offense.' I thought, What's he talking about? Johnny calls the plays. But Raymond says, 'Listen to me now: You don't stay out after practice and work enough with Johnny on timing. Johnny's not going to throw to you because he doesn't have the confidence in you yet. You have to work with him.'
"So I did. And after that, Johnny started asking me, 'What do you have? What do you think you can do?' That day, I'd told him I could do whatever I wanted to do to with Crow. I could go deep, go in, go out, whatever."
On the next series, from our 25, after two running plays gained just four yards, Johnny took too much time changing the play at the line, then received the snap and was scrambling to his left when Ron Gibbs called a late whistle, stopping the play: too much time.
As Unitas slowed down, Kat was still in hot pursuit of him, and the Colt center, Nutter, always looking for someone to hit, pursued, and laid a hit on Kat from behind. Kat wheeled around, and the two had to be separated. As I watched their skirmish, I was glad to see some emotion. It was easy to understand why tempers were fraying: both sides were getting frustrated.
And it was all legit, from where I stood. Nutter had done the right thing; you've got to protect your quarterback, especially with Kat chasing him. Today they'd say that Jim Katcavage "has a good motor." Back then, we just knew him as a guy who played football like a man possessed. "Kat did not know what 'slow up' meant" is the way Sam puts it. He had one speed, all the time. He was always in a hurry-to catch a train, to get on the field, to get off the field, to hit the quarterback.
"I remember one practice when we were getting ready to play the Bears in the championship a few years after that," Sam told me.
"Katcavage blew through and hit Y. A. Tittle, our own quarterback.
Drilled him. I said, 'Why the hell did you hit Y. A?' Kat said, 'I've been fighting that tackle on every play. What did you expect me to do when I finally got there?' "
They didn't call Nutter for a late hit, of course. They didn't call much of anything compared to the way the quarterback is protected today. Things have changed dramatically; if someone lays a late or dirty hit on you today, the zebras are all over it. Most of the time they get it right. The rules may have even swung too far the other way. But back then, some guys got away with playing way over the edge. You got used to it. You didn't like it-especially when Pellington nailed you late, then pushed you into the dirt and uttered something about your mother-but you lived with it.
On third down, Unitas threw a quick pass in the flat to Moore.
Moore liked that: a quick little flare, and let Lenny do the rest. But Livingston was there and collared Lenny after a 2-yard gain. That was Cliff: he wasn't big, but with Harland on the other side, we had two of the fastest outside linebackers in the game.
That series had represented the first tough test of our defense, and they'd come through. The Colts had a chance to finally break the ice, with a field goal from 31 yards: a chip shot today, but definitely a reach for Steve Myhra, who had limited range. Actually, Steve had no range; he'd missed three extra points that year, as well as six of his ten field-goal attempts. Not surprisingly, Steve missed to the left. Also not surprisingly, considering how sloppily we were playing, we jumped offsides. We seemed determined to hand it to them Myhra got another shot from the 26. But this time, his kick never passed the line of scrimmage. Sam blew in, untouched, and blocked it-just swatted it out of the air. The stadium erupted in a roar.
As Modzelewski remembers it, Donovan was in there, blocking on the Colts' "big-butt" team, but Mo handled him, allowing Huff to blow right through.
Nutter, the snapper, who was still pissed about it when I asked about that play, remembers that the Colt line missed an assignment. Guard Alex Sandusky blocked out, instead of in: "Christ, man," Buzz fumed, as if it had happened yesterday. "The guard was responsible for protecting to the center. He turned out, and, shit, nobody touched Sam."
The real question, as far as I'm concerned, was why Myhra was kicking at all. Bert Rechichar, their other kicker, was better, at least as I remembered it, and I should have: When we both played in the College All-Star game after our senior years, I'd done all the kicking for USC, and I figured I'd do it again. Bert, from Tennessee, did it instead.
So what was Myhra doing kicking? Because Weeb didn't like Bert. Actually, according to most of the Colts, Weeb didn't like either of them; he just disliked Myhra less-even though Rechichar had been one of Weeb's stars, going to the Pro Bowl the previous three years as a safety. Bert wasn't starting in this game, though. All Bert was doing was kicking off, and muttering under his breath on the sideline.
"Weeb used to say to him, 'Bert, you can't possibly do all the things that people call me up and tell me you're doing, because there's only twenty-four hours in a day," Nutter told me. "Shit, Bert was in them bars all night long. He was a good football player, but Weeb wouldn't even use him as a defensive back. Weeb was like that."
Today, Bert reluctantly confirms his reputation: "Weeb . . . accused me of associating with undesirables, like I was riding around with a guy in a Caddie who was a numbers taker or something. He also figured that Myhra had a higher elevation at the start of the ball. That was bullshit. That was a real joke. But what the hell can you do with Weeb? He was the head man."
It's funny how, in any sport, but especially football, one play can shift the momentum so drastically. There's no way to quantify it You c
an never reduce sports to its numbers.
If Myhra had made the second field goal, after we'd committed the penalty, maybe everything would have been different. We were a tired football team, from our stretch drive and play-off game, and we might have just folded and finished out the season. Instead, as we trotted back onto the field, we were a different team-and more important, we had Charlie with us. Even hearing his familiar, slow drawl in the huddle, on third and one from our own 31, seemed to make a difference: "Brown right, L-split, 48 pitchout, on three break."
As we broke the huddle, I looked at our big left tackle, Rosey Brown, and said, "Okay, Ro"-that was it. Rosey knew, as I did, that we had to make something happen. Up to this point, our running game had gone nowhere: four runs for zero yards. But Rosey and I made a living sweeping left, with either the 48 sweep or the 48 option, where, if I pulled up to throw the option, he'd pass-block for me. On the option, I had the choice of passing it or pulling it down to run, and Rosey could read the coverage as well as I could. He always knew whether I was going to pass or run, usually before I did.
Rosey Brown was the best all-around football player on our team. I think Rosey could beat me in a 40. We had a couple of goes at it in practices. I pretended I wasn't even trying. I would beat him off the mark-a physics thing, I guess; mass, weight, acceleration, or something like that-but Rosey was closing in on me at 40.
Truth is, had we gone 50, it would have been Rosey by a head, and if we'd gone 100, Rosey would have pulled away. (But how many times in your career do you run 100? Or 50? At least, that's how I could justify the embarrassment of losing a sprint to a lineman.)
This time, thanks to Rosey, the sweep went as planned-and then some. Jack Stroud pulled from the right side, cutting down on his guy. Rote made a terrific block on Shinnick, the outside linebacker; Kyle was known for spectacular catches, but people underestimated his blocking ability.
The Glory Game: How the 1958 NFL Championship Changed Football Forever Page 11
