by Mark Bowden
But Norman and Reggie never really got acquainted. Face-to-face, on the relatively few occasions they met, both men observed a fitting mutual show of respect. But word got back to Reggie about Norman’s real opinion of him, which fed his distrust. By the summer of ’89 (Reggie had led the NFL again in sacks and started in his third Pro Bowl), they were headed for an ugly showdown in court. The Pack was salivating at the prospect. Norman and Harry and Patrick Forté would all have had to testify under oath; the inner workings of the organization would be laid bare; there would have been weeks of juicy revelations and discord. But Norman spoiled the fun. He backed down. Rather than enter the ’89 season locked in legal battle with his star defensive performer, coming off a year when the Eagles had won their division and made it to the play-offs for the first time in seven seasons, when fan interest was going through the roof, Norman settled. He and Reggie agreed on a new contract in the chambers of U.S. District Court Judge Charles Weiner the morning the matter was scheduled to be heard. Reggie became the highest-paid defensive player in NFL history, with a fully guaranteed, three-year $6.1 million contract.
Norman promptly forfeited any opportunity to build some goodwill on this solid ground by fining Reggie $29,000 for missing training camp.
Reggie’s teammates were all watching and taking notes through his contract ordeal. They figured, if it took Reggie White a year and a half of ill will and a trip to the federal courthouse to get paid what he was worth, what could they expect?
The millions in that contract enabled Reggie to get started in earnest on his ministry to the black urban underclass. On weekends, he and Sara and some of his teammates would set up loudspeakers on the asphalt parking lots outside Philadelphia or Camden housing projects, and he would preach:
I’m tired of drugs infiltrating the community! I’m tired of seeing young people die! … Especially in the inner-city communities. How Satan is destroying the inner-city communities! The reason we’re here today is, we’re tired of sitting back watching! … It’s time for some men to stand up and start being accountable! We’re going to run the devil out of here! … And we’re going to impact people’s lives!
His efforts were universally praised, but there was more than an inoffensive call to prayer and goodness in Reggie’s message. His beliefs and ambitions were politically charged, and they had a dark side. They were rooted as much on racial anger and suspicion as “turn the other cheek.” He believed, for instance, that birth control and abortion were white supremacist plots, based on “Nazi racist ideas,” designed to gradually eliminate “the unfit” from the earth. If you sat Reggie down and probed, it was clear these were not just passing notions. He’d done some research. Birth-control pioneer and feminist Margaret Sanger, founder of Planned Parenthood, was, in Reggie’s view, motivated not by the deaths and mutilations of young women forced to seek out illegal abortionists, but by eugenics—”If you read some of the strong statements she made, she was concerned with promoting ‘strong genes,’ which to her meant white Northern European genes, and weeding out ‘weak genes,’ by which she meant blacks, Catholics, Hispanics, Asians, and the disabled and retarded.” Reggie believed that there was little benevolent in the motivations of those who established the social welfare programs in America during the New Deal; instead he saw a racist conspiracy to destroy black families, undermine black manhood. And these weren’t just the doings of evil men, they were the handiwork of Satan himself, who for Reggie was not just a metaphor, but a living, lurking, lying demon, busily harvesting unwary souls. Reggie was intrigued by the “repressed memory” trials going on all over America, in which otherwise ordinary folk were testifying to bizarre sexual practices, Satanic rituals involving the slaughter of babies and animals, blood drinking. What many suspected was a form of mass hysteria, a modern outbreak of the emotions and superstitions that produced the Salem witch trials, Reggie saw as proof positive that Satan walks among us. Living as a Christian wasn’t just a matter of leading a virtuous, loving life. Reggie had an agenda for combating Satan. He talked of turning the United States into a fundamentalist Christian theocracy, of using the power of government to “return this country to a godly path.” He believed the U.S. government ought to pay reparations to black Americans. Reggie knew that many of his beliefs and goals outside football would force him into politics, either as a candidate or kingmaker. There’s no doubt he would be a formidable contender, with his fame, his charisma, and his growing bounty.
Reggie was also untroubled by Christ’s caution: It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. His announced ambition in life was to become “a billionaire.”
“Why?” he asks. “Because I’ll probably give most of it away to good causes.” Then he adds, with a meaty chuckle, “I can live off five hundred million dollars.”
Indeed, Reggie’s Baptist faith was a thoroughly Americanized Christianity, one that had absorbed the license of Calvinism without its stern face—one’s wealth and public stature were reflections of God’s grace, not worldly temptations leading away from the path of righteousness. Get Rich Quick was an earthly parallel to Get Saved Quick— Just raise your hands, brothers and sisters, and step up front if you hear the call! Reggie pursued with equal fervor his causes and his appetite for living well. He drove a Mercedes to his preaching engagements. Alongside the house he and Sara built outside Knoxsville to house unwed pregnant women, offering them an alternative to abortion, they had built a palatial home for themselves in the shadow of the Great Smoky Mountains. He was working with a coalition of businessmen to set up organizations in Philadelphia and Knoxsville that would provide low-income mortgage loans and job counseling for the inner-city poor, but at the same time he was using his football fame to earn millions more endorsing products. Reggie drew the line at some things. He would not endorse beer or tobacco products and withdrew himself annually from competition for NFL Defensive Lineman of the Year because the award is sponsored by a brewery. He had his face taken off the Eagles’ annual calendar because of sponsorship from a beer manufacturer. He refused to participate in any promotion that played on the theme of Halloween, because Reggie felt the tradition was grounded in Satanism. There was never a moment when Reggie’s face appeared on screen, or when a microphone was thrust in his face, when he did not praise Jesus and publicly thank God.
His life was, in a sense, a heartfelt performance, and it was an act that all his teammates admired and respected, but that few could actually follow. Norman’s feelings about Reggie’s agenda ranged between uncomfortable and appalled. Norman had a lifelong distaste for displays of public piety, and, as a Jewish man, he was understandably uncomfortable with the whole Christian fundamentalist agenda of promoting a more “godly” life—whose God? He felt sure that Reggie was driven not by religious fervor but by good old-fashioned pre-Christian greed. To Reggie’s face, Norman was always polite and friendly, and the owner had the same respect any football fan had for Reggie’s accomplishments on the field, but as for the rest, he believed that no matter what Reggie preached, the Big Dawg’s bottom line was money, and nothing else. When, after the season, the Reverend talked about wanting to sign with a team that would best enable him to further his ministry, and told the Pack he was “waiting for a sign from God” to tell him where next to play, Norman said, “He’ll sign with whoever offers him the most money. Watch.”
This dynamic had set the tone for the relationship of owner to Team every bit as much as the feud between Norman and Buddy. Reggie had his own reasons for playing his heart out, and for feeling affection for the silver-winged green uniforms, but he did and felt those things despite the organization that paid him millions. At the press conference where his new contract was announced in ’89, seated alongside Harry, Reggie was asked if he thought the protracted contract haggle and legal maneuvering he had been through would have happened with any other NFL team.
“No” was his crisp response.
No. Reg
gie knew his days with the Eagles were done when this ’92 season was over. The lawsuit on which he was lead plaintiff had opened the door to free agency for himself and 298 other NFL veterans. He knew Norman wouldn’t bid for him. And he knew that even if he landed next year on some Super Bowl contender, and finally got his ring wearing some other team’s colors, it would never feel the same as it would winning with these guys he had come to love, winning for Buddy, and for Jerome. Reggie had felt a part of this team like no other in his long career. His primary motivations—Christian empire, family dynasty, personal pride—would demand he go elsewhere when this season was done, but the last of them, the Team, that would be gone forever.
So this is it. Now or never, do or die. They beat the Washington Redskins, and they make the play-offs. Reggie is going to play this game like a man, quite literally, on a mission from God.
OUTWARDLY, at least, all is calm in the Eagles’ locker room in advance of the big Redskins game. Richie hasn’t breathed a public word of his fury over Seth’s insulting and divisive remarks, and after Seth’s public nonapology the issue subsides. Randall has had a new collection of snazzy $1,500 suits delivered to the locker room and amuses himself between practices and team meetings by trying them on.
This same week, Richie stops Randall to tell him that the thousand-dollar check he wrote to pay his fine for skipping out of the hotel is insufficient.
“It’s two thousand dollars,” the coach says.
“Sure,” says Randall, with a shrug, as if to say All the same to me.
“It’ll be double if you do it again,” Richie says.
“Don’t fine me next time,” Randall suggests conspiratorially. “If you catch me again, just tell me, and I’ll give you the two thousand dollars.”
Richie is insulted. “I don’t want your money,” the coach says.
Jolly Mike Golic has a smile back on his face; he’s been penciled in once more as a starter. Sad-eyed Antone Davis is quietly marking the days till his rematch with Charles Mann, the Redskins’ all-pro defensive end who had so humiliated him on national TV the year before. Keith Jackson, down in his new Miami locker room, notes to reporters that both the Dolphins and the Eagles have 9-5 records and says he’s looking forward to meeting his old teammates in the Super Bowl.
Wes Hopkins wants to play—badly. He’s been sitting out since midway through the Niners game, and the left knee feels better. He’s parked before his locker at midweek, pulling on socks and absently rubbing the crooked, scarred joint.
“Are you going to heal in time to play Sunday?” a hound asks him.
“I don’t know,” he says, looking up from underneath his thick black eyebrows. “I have no idea.”
“Will you need an operation when the season is over?”
“Yeah, he’s [Dr. Vince] gonna scope me.”
“So, the reason you wouldn’t get the scope now is it will definitely sit you down for the rest of the year, and you’re still waiting to see if it’ll get better enough for you to play?”
“Yeah, that’s it,” says Wes. “Only it’s a little more complicated than that.”
“Really? What am I missing?”
“Naw, I can’t talk about it,” says the veteran free safety.
What Wes can’t discuss is a little negotiation taking place this week between his agent, Harry, and (of course) Norman. Whether or not Wes plays on Sunday has less to do with how his knee will feel after today’s jog—Wes knows by now exactly how it will feel—than with what kind of answer he gets from the club.
Wes is in the final year of his contract, and his future, with the Eagles or anywhere in football, is far from certain. Life after Football is staring Wes in the eyes. He’ll make $815,000 this season, and it’s safe to say that without his college degree or any working experience outside football, his days of big earnings are numbered.
The knee joint just won’t heal. It hurts when he runs and pivots on it, and it swells up painfully after any exertion. The joint is basically stable. He has reasonably good flexion and extension. Dr. Vince says he can play on it without aggravating the injury. But back in ’86, when the joint felt like this, Wes had pressed on and played, with disastrous consequences. Mindful of how skeptical coaches had been after his earlier surgery and rehab, he knows now, at thirty-one, a setback like that would end his career. This isn’t just Wes’s hunch either. He’s been to see another knee specialist, who disagrees with Dr. Vince. Wes’s independent doctor tells him the knee is far more likely to blow now than if it were scoped and fully healed. Still, with the season coming down to this one big game, Wes feels the tug of his teammates and hears the unspoken urging of his coaches and trainers— You can play. The team has been hurting badly up the middle since both he and Andre stopped playing this season. They’ve got John Booty, a cornerback, trying to play Wes’s spot, and Rich Miano, a backup free safety, playing Andre’s spot at strong safety. Both are probably better in pass coverage than Wes and Andre, but neither carries the same weight or wallop, which is why opponents have been running the ball on the Eagles with more ease. Facing a well-rounded running and passing attack like the Redskins’, the club strongly feels the need of Wes on the field.
But the risk is just too great. Wes feels he can play another two or even three seasons if the knee gets scoped before any more serious damage is done. But he’s already made up his mind that if the Eagles make it to the Super Bowl, he’s going to have Dr. Vince shoot it up with painkillers and play. “That’s the last big goal in my career,” he says. “Even if I never get to play another football game.”
For any of these games on the road to the Super Bowl, however, Wes isn’t going to take the risk. Instead, he comes up with a plan. He tells his agent, Harry Himes, to make the Eagles an offer: Wes will shoot up his knee and play on it if they’ll offer him, right now, a guaranteed contract for the ’93 season. The way Wes sees it, it’s a fair trade. If he plays on the knee with no contract, he’s risking the rest of his career; the Eagles risk nothing.
Himes thinks it’s a bad idea and tells Wes.
“You shouldn’t be playing on that knee, period,” he says. But Wes is adamant, and Himes reluctantly approaches Harry Gamble with the proposal.
Norman doesn’t see it the way Wes does. The club politely refuses to renegotiate, and that’s that as far as Harry Himes and Wes are concerned—he won’t be playing. What they don’t know is that Norman is furious. Here’s how the owner sizes up the situation: (1) the Eagles’ season is on the line, it’s now or never; (2) the single biggest setbacks to his team this year, apart from Jerome’s death, have been the injuries to Andre and Wes; (3) Dr. Vince and the trainers say Wes could be playing, the knee is not that bad; (4) he’s paying Wes $815,000 to play; (5) Wes says he’ll only play if Norman gives him a guaranteed contract for next season? Wait just an all-pro minute!
Norman tells Harry, “If the doctor says he can play on the knee, he should be playing; that’s what we’re paying him for. If the doctors say he can’t play, then he shouldn’t be playing on the knee no matter what we’re paying him!”
Wes’s proposal, coming at this critical hour, smacks to Norman of an ultimatum. Wes and his agent don’t know it yet, but Norman has resolved that Wes Hopkins, previously one of his favorites, will never play another down in an Eagles’ uniform after this season.
Ref:M100 202 X
SIXTY-SIX TIMES Reggie hurls himself into the Redskins’ backfield on Sunday afternoon, a wet, cold, gray winter outing on the unforgiving plastic turf. Sixty-six times he crouches low in his three-point stance and charges into two, sometimes three, enormous Washington blockers. Again and again and again he comes up short, gets knocked down, held, chop-blocked, spun in circles, hit high and low and from both sides. On the stat sheet when the game is over, it will record Reggie’s contribution as just one tackle, one sack. Some football pundit five states away will look at those tallies and conclude that Reverend Reggie is slipping, that he hadn’t had that good a game.
Right.
Never mind that both Seth and Clyde also sack Redskins’ quarterback Mark Rypien, in large part because of all the manpower the Skins are using to stave off Reggie. Or that Rypien throws two interceptions because all hell is breaking loose around him and he has to hurry his throw. Or that when it’s over, even though Reggie hasn’t figured obviously in any of the major plays of the game, the three words that keep coming up in both locker rooms are that Reggie White.
Like when the Skins finally get down into scoring range early in the second quarter. The game is scoreless, and Washington is stuck at third down on the Eagles’ sixteen-yard line. Clearly Rypien is going to pass, so to help hold back the Eagles’ charge, Washington has two tight ends in the game and a running back to stay in and help block. Fighting off two blockers, Reggie chases Rypien out of the pocket and then crushes into him at the same time defensive end Mike Flores arrives from the other direction. The weak throw Rypien manages to flip away before getting nailed goes for just five yards, and the Skins have to settle for a twenty-nine-yard field goal.
Washington threatens another touchdown late in the first half, up 10—3, but has to settle for a field goal—again in large part because of Reggie. All through the first half the Reverend has been doubleteamed by tackle Ed Simmons and tight end Ron Middleton. So Bud Carson decides to toy with the Skins’ blocking scheme. He sends Seth on a blitz inside, and with both big men preoccupied with Reggie, the linebacker sacks Rypien for an eleven-yard loss. Six plays later, Seth lines up in the same spot, and this time Simmons squares off to block the linebacker’s charge, thereby violating one of the basic rules of playing the Eagles—never block Reggie White with one man, but if you must, absolutely never try to do it with a tight end.
