Play by Play

by Verne Lundquist

  “And you’ll also do a Sunday night sports show. We’ll pay you another fifteen bucks per show for that.”

  I desperately wanted that job. But a pay cut? I thought that going from San Antonio to what was then the tenth-largest market in the country was going to mean hitting pay dirt. For the first time, I really thought about just what that expression meant and wondered why we said that some people were dirt poor.

  Instinctively, I knew not to take on the larger subject of the weekly pay stub—that expression made sense in this case since I felt like I was being shorted. Instead, I tried to be logical, “Mr. Shapiro, typically when someone does extra work they receive time-and-a-half pay, not half time.”

  He eased back in his chair and smiled affably. “It’s fifteen minutes. No big deal.”

  He had to know that fifteen minutes of airtime didn’t translate into fifteen minutes of work. I’d have to be there all day doing preparation work.

  Third time was the charm, all right, but I was under the spell of ambition. Dallas was better than San Antonio. Sports reporting was better than anchoring the news. I accepted the terms. I was pretty much in a take-it-or-leave-it position. Uncomfortable as that was, I’d finally gotten what I’d been striving for. Count your blessings, I told myself.

  I walked out of the lobby and into the bright daylight. Both of the luxury cars were gone. I climbed into my Ford and drove home.

  Rather quickly, the third time did turn out to be charming, thanks to a kind of fairy-tale godfather of a team who granted me a wish that I didn’t even realize I had.

  The very first week I was there, I got a call from Al Ward. He was then the number two guy behind Tex Schramm, the Cowboys’ first general manager and president. (Ironically, Tex wasn’t a Texan originally; he was born in California.) Having covered the Cowboys while working in Austin and in San Antonio, I was familiar with names of the major figures in the organization’s management. In 1967, the team had been in existence for only eight years. They’d had some great success the previous year, advancing all the way to the NFL championship game. It was also nearly impossible to live in Texas and not be aware of the presence of the team’s owner, Clint Murchison, Jr. He and his brother John had inherited an enormous oil-based fortune from their father, Clint Murchison, Sr.

  The NFL approved of the franchise in Dallas to offset the influence of the American Football League’s team in that city. Another oil baron, Lamar Hunt, the son of the oil tycoon H. L. Hunt, had established that league and was the owner of the AFL’s Dallas Texans. Lamar Hunt founded the rival league because the NFL had rejected Hunt’s overtures to put a team in Dallas. Clearly, we’re talking about some big boys with big egos and even bigger stockpiles of cash that allowed them to play with big toys. To his credit though, I must say, Clint Murchison was the kind of owner every management team dreams of having. He did his homework, hired the right people, and then let them do their job with an absolute minimum of interference. Also, Lamar Hunt deservedly made the Pro Football Hall of Fame and I got to know him and work for him later on, when he helped professional soccer get a toehold on American soil. The man was a pioneer.

  Al told me that the Cowboys normally didn’t do this, but I was new to town and would be covering the team as part of my duties at WFAA. Would I like to join the team on its charter flight to Washington, D.C., for the game at what was then District of Columbia Stadium? (It was more famous in later years as RFK Stadium.)

  Charter flight?

  Me?

  I eagerly accepted. I thought that nothing else in my life would ever top this experience. I sat up front on a Braniff jet with the rest of the team’s management and guests while the players kept to the back of the plane. I’d been around athletes most of my life, so I can’t say that I was in awe of them. But I sure appreciated the chance to see the game from the press box. As I would later come to know, my inclusion was part of Tex Schramm’s handling of the media. I know that “handling” might have some negative connotations, but I don’t intend any. Tex treated the media well, one way he and the rest of the organization grew a well-deserved reputation for being first-class. In these more cynical times, it’s easy to think that if the Cowboys treated journalists and broadcasters well, those individuals would be less likely to be critical of the team.

  I know it’s hard to believe, and I don’t think I’m being too Uncle Verne–ish here, but that wasn’t the case at all. I never felt coerced or even influenced in any way to report on stories in a way that was favorable to the Cowboys. I also don’t think that any one of my colleagues would sacrifice their journalistic integrity at the altar of pre- or postgame spread. I’ll grant this: At first I was covering them as sportscaster on the afternoon and evening news. I eventually became a part of their radio team. I even covered them later on during my NFL play-by-play days. I wasn’t an analyst or a critic or a call-in host who wanted to stir things up to get ratings. But, as far as I saw, no one ever came down on a reporter or broadcaster for speaking his mind. Maybe I’m naïve, but it seemed like the Cowboys were just doing what they could as best business practices, a kind of hospitality and respect reflective of the values of the ownership and management. Simple as that.

  Simpler times.

  I did face a dilemma on that first trip. Halfway through the outbound flight, Al came up to me with a proposition. Cowboy games were on KLIF radio, the main rock-and-roll station in Dallas at that time. They were able to bring their play-by-play guy, Bill Mercer, and their analyst, Blackie Sherrod. They didn’t “travel” a pregame or a postgame host. Would I be interested in doing that for the upcoming Redskins game?

  I was on the horns of a dilemma. I was being treated to this trip. I was an employee of WFAA television. In the back of my mind I saw this as an opportunity but also as a way to thank my hosts and do them a favor. Contractually, I wasn’t in a good spot. Working for a competitor without permission was a clear no-no. No gray area there at all. But what about a possible future with the Cowboys in some capacity? Besides, what was the likelihood that anyone from WFAA would hear me on the radio?

  I did the show, enjoyed it, and then relaxed on the flight while sipping a few adult beverages. When I arrived at work the next day, I got called in to speak with the assistant general manager, a guy named Jack Houser. He said, “Could I possibly have been mistaken or did I hear you doing the after-game show on KLIF yesterday while I was driving home?”

  My knees buckled a bit and my mouth went dry. Since my knees were already bent, I decided to assume the full kneeling position (metaphorically speaking) to apologize for not having gotten permission in advance. Apology grudgingly accepted. It turned out that my instincts to take the gig to possibly develop a relationship with the Cowboys was a good one. The team’s management, who were responsible for hiring the radio people, wanted me to be the permanent guy for pregame, halftime, and postgame. It took a lot of wrangling with my TV employer, but we worked it out. All that time on my knees took its toll on me, but at least I was there in Green Bay on the last day of 1967 for the legendary Ice Bowl to keep the swelling down.

  We flew up on the Cowboy charter to Green Bay on a Thursday for a Sunday game and got there late Thursday afternoon. I had arranged with the Green Bay public relations director, a guy named Chuck Lane, to do an interview with Coach Vince Lombardi on film on Friday afternoon. That same day, the Packers held a press conference, which Lombardi attended. It was only for the members of the Dallas traveling press. About six print guys—columnists and beat writers—were there. I was the only television guy and I had a cameraman with me. I was allowed to bring him because I was going to do the radio program—one of the concessions to WFAA in our deal. Before Lombardi’s press conference, we set up to film the one-on-one interview down on the field after the writers met with him.

  I sat in on that first go-round with the print journalists. Lombardi wore his familiar brow-line glasses. Because we were indoors, he was bareheaded, his familiar felt fedora likely stowed away some
where in his office. (His signature look is still available for purchase online—glasses, tie, hat.) Coach was warm and downright jovial with the press that morning. He smiled frequently and laughed, revealing his tobacco-stained gapped teeth. His voice revealed his Brooklyn roots. I can still imagine him saying one of his classic lines, “Winners never quit and quitters never win.”

  At the end of the press conference I went up to Chuck Lane to remind him of what we’d agreed to. He walked over to the coach and whispered in his ear. Lombardi’s jowly face darkened, his knitted brow closing like a gate. He shook his great leonine head vigorously. This was part of his legendary temperament; a switch was thrown and glib turned to glum. I could hear him above the murmuring of the print guys.

  “No. I’m not going to do it.”

  He walked out of the room. My heart fell.

  It was a small conference room. He had been very jovial.

  I went to Chuck Lane and said, “Listen, I promised my bosses at the TV station that if they let me go for the weekend I’d have Lombardi on film.”

  He said, “Give me ten minutes.” He went into Lombardi’s office and came back out and said he was to tell me that Lombardi didn’t do television without a coat and tie. He didn’t have a coat and tie with him that day. This was a different, pre-Belichek era, and coaches’ sartorial splendor was a real thing. Tom Landry had his coat, tie, and hat look. Alabama’s legendary Paul “Bear” Bryant had his take on that same combination with a houndstooth hat to top it off. I wasn’t sure if Lombardi’s reason was legitimate and he was worried about his image or not. At the time, he was just becoming a bright star in the coaching universe. If he was that keenly aware of his public persona, I wanted to make him more comfortable and not show him up. I offered to take off my coat and tie. Chuck Lane laughed and asked me to wait five more minutes.

  Sure enough, Lombardi came out and apologized for the inconvenience. We got in the elevator and went down to the field. It was below freezing but the temperature was expected to plunge by game time. We chatted for a bit about the team. His face lit up when we talked about the weather forecast. He explained about the new electric grid system the Packers had installed beneath the field’s turf. The system had cost twenty-five thousand dollars, a princely sum at the time. It will never freeze, he told me, sounding like a proud owner of the first color TV set boasting about the vivid blues and greens and reds. I thanked him and shook his hand and off he went.

  Off I went to the airport with our large canister of film. With no FedEx or UPS, it had to travel on a commercial flight back to Dallas to arrive the next morning, Saturday. The guys would “put it in the soup,” as we called the processing and editing of it. They aired the interview on the ten o’clock news Saturday night, Lombardi telling me that the field would never freeze. The next morning, my wake-up call was “Good morning. It’s seven thirty and thirteen below zero.” That’s when we knew what we were going to be in for. Well, not completely. I got out of the hotel and walked to the third of the coach buses the Cowboys provided. I sat next to Frank Luksa, a writer for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. We were near to the front and every time that door hissed open a blast of arctic air chilled us. When we got to Lambeau Field and disembarked, Frank was ahead of me, clutching his portable typewriter to his chest. Next thing I knew, that case was flying in the air and Frank was on his back sliding down into a steep ditch. Fortunately, he wasn’t hurt, but it took a kind of fireman’s brigade to haul him back up the steep slope.

  I’d done all of my pregame work at the hotel in the days preceding kickoff—player interviews at the hotel that sort of thing. As a result, I was able to watch the start of the game from the Cowboys’ radio press box. Anyone who has seen old footage of the game will be familiar with the images I recall—puffs of cloud coming out of all the spectators’ mouths like smoke signals. I had on an overcoat and gloves but the chill crept in through the slight opening in the glass—to allow in ambient sound to help color the broadcast. To keep warm, I walked around a bit. I wandered down to the CBS television booth. The industry was small at the time. Everyone knew everyone. I slipped into the booth and no one got upset at my being there. The great Jack Buck was the Cowboys’ announcer and he worked with Frank Gifford as the color man. Ray Scott split calling the game as the play-by-play man—a common practice then—with Pat Summerall joining him as analyst. Gifford was still playing for the Giants at the time. (It is very rare today for a network to have active players in the booth, but in 2017 Fox had Carolina Panthers tight end Greg Olsen do it.)

  I listened in. I was at the back of the booth, so I couldn’t see much of what was going on. I looked to one side and saw the writers sitting beneath the TV guys, closest to the slightly opened window. Their papers flapped in the breeze and the clacking of their typewriters was like the sound of chattering teeth. Buck and Gifford did the first half, and I had to stifle a laugh as Frank reached for his Styrofoam coffee cup and found his beverage frozen. I was standing closest to the space heaters as they sent out line after line of warmish molecules to battle the frigid onslaught.

  On the field, the action wasn’t as limited as I had thought it might be. Lombardi’s prediction hadn’t come true, though. The warming grid hadn’t been able to keep the field thawed. It had malfunctioned sometime overnight. The field was covered with a tarp, trapping some of the heat and the moisture it produced on the grass. Once the tarp was pulled off, the moisture froze. A lot of—pardon the Paul Simon reference—slip-sliding away went on. I learned later the game time temperature was minus fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. The wind chill made it feel like minus forty-eight. I felt bad for the players. Years later, I would work with former NFL quarterback Dan Fouts. He played in the 1981 AFC Championship Game in Cincinnati in what became known as the Freezer Bowl. His warm-weather San Diego Chargers team lost—both the game and the claim for the coldest air temperature for an NFL game. It was only minus seven, but a steady wind put the windchill in the minus fifties throughout the game. That was back at Riverfront Stadium on artificial turf and Dan said it was like playing in the parking lot.

  It was a good thing I couldn’t see much of the first few minutes of the game. Green Bay scored a pair of touchdowns on Bart Starr touchdown passes. Dallas’s offense didn’t make a first down in the entire second quarter but thanks to two Green Bay fumbles—one recovered and taken into the end zone and the other resulting in a chip-shot field goal—at halftime the score was 14–10. Longtime Cowboys fans will no doubt remember quarterback Don Meredith’s third-quarter fumble inside the red zone that thwarted the only sustained drive to that point. Finally, Dan Reeves completed a 50-yard touchdown pass on a halfback option to Lance Rentzel. It was a thing of beauty, a great call from Tom Landry’s sideline, and it had to warm the cockles of the hearts of those back in Dallas. If only they could have shipped some of that warmth via airline to Wisconsin.

  I watched the end of the game back in the Cowboys’ radio booth. Dallas was ahead 17–14, setting up what has gone down in NFL lore as the Drive and the Block. Never in my mind has an offensive lineman’s role in a game garnered so much attention. Before that, though, the Packers had to move from their own 32-yard line. With the sun sinking lower and the wind picking up, the ice had also turned brutish and dangerous. The Drive began with Bart Starr completing what we called then a safety-valve pass to running back Donny Anderson. Then Vince Lombardi, sensing something maybe that none of us knew, inserted Chuck Mercein into the game. Mercein was out of Yale, and he was used sparingly during the regular season. Due to injuries to regulars, he was in the starting lineup that day. Somehow, maybe it was his fresh legs, maybe he was a hockey player in his youth, but he managed to do pretty well on that frozen field. Of the 68 yards that the Packers would travel to score the game-winning touchdown, Mercein accounted for 34 of them. That was nearly the total he had for the season to that point.

  We always say that games are frequently won or lost due to some X factor—a little-known player stepping u
p, some other unforeseen or impossible-to-predict event or circumstance. We all liked to be surprised. Funny thing was, when the Packers got down inside the one-yard line with only sixteen seconds remaining and it being third down, Lombardi rolled the dice. Instead of kicking a field goal there, he decided to go for it. An incomplete pass would have stopped the clock, of course, and that’s what Tom Landry later said he believed the Packers would do. He expected a rollout pass—get out of bounds, throw it away, or complete it.

  As it turned out, Lombardi had another idea. Even though on the previous two attempts from the goal line his running back had gained neither traction nor yards, during a time-out he instructed Starr to call “Brown right, 31 Wedge.” A handoff to Mercein with wedge blocking, a double team with Jerry Kramer and Ken Bowman taking on the great Cowboys defensive tackle Jethro Pugh. Well, Starr had a surprise for his teammates. Instead of handing off as the play called for, he ran a quarterback sneak and scored. Starr seldom, if ever, ran the ball. Later, in a postgame interview he’d say that he had told Lombardi he could make the run. Mercein claimed that he had no clue that Starr was going to keep it. The play called in the huddle was “Brown right, 31 wedge.” He was the 3 in that 31—the fullback.

  Much has been made of the block that Kramer put on Pugh. In my mind, it was the double team that really made the difference. In any case, Starr was in. Thirteen seconds remained. The Cowboys’ Don Meredith threw two incompletions and the game was over. Later, in the locker room, I had the sense that I was in a small billeting area behind the trenches after a winter encounter at the Somme in World War I. I know the football-as-war analogy is tiresome, but in this case the glassy-eyed faces of the Cowboys—attributable to the loss, their tears, the extreme cold—the comparison seems apt. The blood had retreated from the surface of their skin and they all looked sallow at best—except for places where red splotches broke out like bruises. Three Cowboys—George Andrie, Willie Townes, and Dick Daniels—were frostbitten. Unfortunately for Andrie, that injury troubled him for the rest of his career.