by Mike Siani
“That got me upset and I started cussing. I told him, ‘Try me again and see what happens, Chump!’
“Fred came at me again with about five different fakes and just as I went left, he went right and scored again. Biletnikoff started running patterns that quickly deflated my ego and taught me humiliation. He burned me time and time again so bad that I went back to the locker room feeling very uncertain as to whether or not I had what it took to make it in professional football. Deep down inside my pride was scorched.
“Later that evening I bumped into Fred and we began talking about practice. He turned out to be a pretty good guy and after a few minutes we were talking like old friends. After that I listened to everything Fred told me because he had the experience and wanted to help my career.”
Pat Toomay knew Tatum as a quiet and soft-spoken guy (surprisingly).”
“Believe it or not, Jack Tatum was quiet and soft-spoken. He looked like Genghis Khan—he had an Asian feel to him, and he had a big afro, and he looked fearsome—but he was really a gentle presence.”
Mark van Eeghen saw a different side of Tatum on the gridiron.
“He was quick to smile and so relaxed. Quick to giggle and laugh. Then he’d put his helmet on and, Jesus, the switch would turn. It was hard to think it was the same guy. Jack used to count how many knockouts he’d get on the field. Anyone who didn’t get up in eight counts was a KO.
“You can’t be off the field what people see on the field. That’s a whole different world. It was a different person when you take the field.”
Dolphins running back Jim Kiick never forgot how hard Jack would hit his target. “Tatum would hit you with all he had and do it every time. But everybody respected him.”
“That’s the way I learned to play from Woody Hayes at Ohio State,” said Tatum. “He told me, ‘You never make a tackle with a smile on your face.’”
“Pound for pound, Jack was the toughest football player I’ve ever seen. The only guy I could ever compare him to was Dick Butkus—as far as being ferocious. He would rather have a receiver catch the ball and drill him than try and knock the ball down. John had to tell him in practice, ‘Don’t hit your own players. Don’t hurt your teammates!’”
While it’s said that he was soft spoken off the field, Jack Tatum once got into an altercation during practice with John Vella, and just wouldn’t let it go.
“We were at practice and I was hit. The hit knocked me into Jack. Now, I definitely wasn’t going after a safety in practice. That was something none of us ever did. So we collided. I again told him that it was just an accident, but on the next play he said, ‘I’m gonna get your ass, man.’ I told him to forget about it.
“We get back to the showers and Tatum is standing six inches from me. He kept repeating the same thing, ‘I’m gonna get your ass, man!’ Again, I said, ‘Will you just forget it?’ I turned my back and let it go. “But Jack still hadn’t let it go.
“We were having lunch when Jack, once again, told me that he was ‘gonna get my ass.’ By this time I had had it, and told John [Madden] that there might be a fight between Jack an me.
“Madden got all fired up. ‘Don’t do anything! Don’t get into it with him! I’ll take care of it!’
“I don’t know what Madden did and I never asked him, but Tatum didn’t confront me anymore. But we didn’t talk again the rest of the year. Not a word. I saw him one time in the off-season and we ignored each other. And then the next year, in training camp, I thought, ‘You know what? I’m going to see if he’s ready to move on.’ I asked him how his off-season was, extended my hand; he shook it, and we moved on.
“Put it this way: you were glad Jack Tatum was on your team, and that’s the highest compliment I can give any player.”
“Yeah, John was a little concerned about what had happened between Tatum and Vella because Jack is quiet, but you didn’t know what’s underneath it all,” said Bob Moore. “I know from personal experience. When I was at Stanford in 1970, we were scheduled to play Ohio State in the Rose Bowl.
“The week before the Rose Bowl, both Stanford and Ohio State took their players to Disneyland. Both buses pulled up next to each other in the parking lot. We had a receiver [from Stanford] by the name of Randy Vataha (who would later play for New England)—a little guy at 5’ 10”, 176 pounds who looked like he was fifteen years old. Now, Jack gets off the Ohio State bus; he’s about 215, big head, huge shoulders, and he’s pretty gnarly looking. Randy gets off our bus, takes one look at Tatum, gets back on our bus and says, ‘I’m not going to that fucking place with this guy.’”
“Compared to Jack, I was Little League!” said Villapiano.
“He was a Jersey guy like me and the whole state had heard about Jack. I thought, ‘What the fuck is he?’ I’m jealous. Then he goes to Ohio State and I go to Bowling Green, and I’m still Little League compared to him. I get drafted, and I’m still behind him. Then once I got to play with him, I immediately understood why I’d been behind him.”
“When you’re a pro, you look for guys you can learn something from—guys you can say, ‘Wow. That’s what I want to be like.’ I had my own way of hitting, and he had his. I liked his better.
“When Jack hit someone, it was a different sound. It was like a blow. I knew it was him just from the sound of his tackles. There was a different sound between everyone else’s hits and Jack Tatum’s hits. It was much more solid. Put it this way, it was like a pro golfer hitting the ball and comparing it to a guy like me hitting a golf ball.”
Linebacker Ted Hendricks remembers the power and force of Jack’s hits.
“I remember one specific game when Tatum had Earl Campbell on a fourth and one at the goal line. To this day Earl doesn’t remember scoring. I thought for sure that somebody was really hurt.
“Another time Atkinson was getting beat by Denver tight end Riley Odoms. Odoms was running slants, and Atkinson couldn’t get there in time. While talking about it in the huddle, Tatum said to Atkinson, ‘Let’s just switch. Take my guy and I’ll take care of Odoms.’ Tatum knocked him out of the game.”
August 12, 1978—Exhibition Game—Patriots @ Raiders
“Tatum’s most infamous collision occurred when he hit and paralyzed the Patriots 6’, 194-pound wide receiver Darryl Stingley in a 1978 preseason game at the Coliseum.
“On that fateful night, Pats quarterback Steve Grogan threw to Stingley on a crossing route. The ball sailed incomplete. Tatum blasted Stingley head on anyway. Darryl never got up.
“The hit was considered legal at the time—the kind of vicious shot Tatum delivered on a regular basis. No flag was thrown. The NFL didn’t discipline Tatum. That Darryl Stingley suffered two broken vertebrae and was paralyzed from the chest down was considered a risk of the game.
“In a 2003 Boston Globe story, Darryl Stingley said he still would welcome a visit or a call from Tatum.”
“If he called me today, I’d answer,” Stingley said. “If he came to my house, I’d open my door to him. All I ever wanted was for him to acknowledge me as a human being. I just wanted to hear from him if he felt sorry or not. It’s not like I’m unreachable. But it’s not a phone call I’ll be waiting for anymore.”
Stingley also claimed he harbored no hatred for Tatum.
“It’s hard to articulate,” Stingley said. “It was a test of my faith—the entire story. In who, and how much, do you believe, Darryl? In my heart and in my mind I forgave Jack Tatum a long time ago.”
Tatum tells his side of the story on how this tragic mishap affected his life.
“On August 12, 1978, I was involved in a terrible accident with Darryl Stingley, a wide receiver who played for New England.
“On a typical passing play, Darryl ran a rather dangerous pattern across the middle of our zone defense. It was one of those pass plays where I could not possibly have intercepted, so because of what the owners expected of me when they give me my paycheck, I automatically reacted to the situation by going for an intimidat
ing hit.
“It was a fairly good hit, but nothing exceptional, and I got up and started back toward our huddle. But Darryl didn’t get up and walk away from the collision. That particular play was the end of Darryl Stingley’s career in the NFL. His neck was broken in two places and there was serious damage to his spinal cord. “
“For weeks Darryl lay paralyzed in a hospital and there were times when, because of complications after surgery, he nearly lost his life.
“When the reality of Stingley’s injury hit me with its full impact, I was shattered. To think that my tackle broke another man’s neck and killed his future, well, I know it hurts Darryl, but it hurts me, too.”
In one game Tatum didn’t knock out his own teammate George Atkinson once, he did so twice.
Author’s Note: Darryl Stingley died on April 5, 2007, from bronchial pneumonia, quadriplegia, spinal cord injury, and coronary atherosclerosis. Sadly, neither Tatum nor Stingley ever once spoke to each other since the tragic event had occurred.
“We were holding a 21–14 lead over the New Orleans Saints. Late in the fourth quarter, the Saints quarterback Archie Manning threw over the middle for his wide receiver, Danny Abramowicz, who was well covered by our strong safety, George Atkinson. In my eagerness to assist, I blasted in from the weak side and creamed everyone. It was a double knockout. I got Abramowicz, but I got George too.
“After that my play became sloppy. I’d go after the ball and slam into anyone that got in the way. It was early in the season and I had already knocked out seven men. That would have been a good start, except that four of those knockouts were Raiders. I knocked out Willie Brown, got Nemiah Wilson and cut his eye pretty bad too, and then there was George Atkinson. I knocked out George twice. It got to the point where our defensive people were starting to worry more about me than the real enemy.
“After George recovered from his second knockout, he took me aside and said, ‘Dammit, Tate, are you colorblind or something? I wear the same color jersey as you do. I’m on your side and the deal is getting the other team.’”
Even though Jack knocked out George twice, Atkinson still took the time to teach Tatum the tricks of the trade.
“George started teaching me a few of his tricks. He said, ‘I was going to teach you the hook when you first came into the league, but you were having identification problems. Now that you seem to know who’s who, let me show you the best intimidator in the business, the hook. Of course, the rules governing the hook have changed, but back then it wasn’t just legal but an important weapon in a good hitter’s arsenal.
“The hook is simply flexing your biceps and trying to catch the receiver’s head in the joint between the forearm and upper arm. It’s like hitting with the biceps by using a headlock type of action. The purpose of the hook was to strip the receiver of the ball, his helmet, his head, and his courage.
“Another trick that George taught me was the groundhog.” The groundhog is a perfectly-timed hit to the ankles just as the receiver is leaping high to catch a pass. The groundhog isn’t as devastating as it looks on TV, but it does have a tendency to keep the receiver closer to the ground on high passes.”
Following Atkinson’s advice, Jack tried out one of his new maneuvers on Denver’s Riley Odoms with a devastating hit to the head.
“If ever a man did have a reason to complain about my style of play, it had to be Riley Odoms, the 6’ 4”, 230-pound tight end with the Denver Broncos. During a game at Mile High Stadium, I leveled the best shot of my career against Riley. It was a clean hit, not a cheap shot, but I was upset because I really thought I had killed the man.
“When the play started to develop, I dropped back a few steps to give Riley the impression I was in deep coverage. Riley saw me dropping off and made a quick move over the middle and broke open. Denver’s quarterback Charley Johnson wasted little time releasing the ball toward Riley. I zeroed in on Riley’s head just as the ball arrived in his hands. It was a perfectly timed hit and I used my hook on his head. Because the momentum built up by the angles and speed of both Riley and me, the hit was extremely hard. I heard Riley scream on impact and felt his body go limp. He landed flat on his back and the ball came to rest on his chest for a completion, but Riley’s eyes rolled back in his head and he wasn’t breathing.
“Riley was scraped off the field and carried to the sidelines. He was shaken and hurt, but thank God he was still alive. After the game I went over to the Denver locker room and talked with Riley. He said, ‘Damn, Tate, don’t ever hit me like that again. You nearly killed me!’ Then he laughed and I slapped him on the back and smiled with relief. Very few people understand the camaraderie and mutual respect professional athletes feel for one another.
“People called that hit everything from vicious to brutal but I never heard anyone say it was a cheap shot.”
Tatum used his hook on Floyd Little, another Denver running back.
“I remember one game, again it was against Denver, when the Broncos’ best running back, Floyd Little, took a hand off and swept around the left end with a herd of blockers leading the way. As he turned the corner, the red and blue jerseys of Denver had gone south and I was coming up fast. Floyd didn’t see me coming and there was a collision at mid-field near the sidelines, right in front of the Denver bench. I whipped my hook up under Floyd’s facemask and landed a solid shot flush on his jaw. Floyd looked like a magician practicing levitation just before the lights went out. His head snapped back, his feet straightened out, and the ball and one of his shoes shot into the stands. I was coming so hard that my momentum carried both of us into the Denver bench.”
In Tatum’s second year George Atkinson suggested that they start a contest for who would get the most knockouts over the course of the season. And you thought that Bountygate began with the 2009 New Orleans Saints.
“It sounded like a good idea, and we agreed on a set of rules,” said Tatum “First of all, neither of us wanted to get penalties called against us so we agreed that our hits must be clean shots and legal. Next, the man you hit would have to be down for an official injury time out and he had to be helped off the field. That would be considered a knock out, and was worth two points. Sometimes, one of us would hit a man and he’d take the injury time out but would limp off the field under his own power. We called that a limp-off, and it was worth one point. When the season started, so did we. Actually, it was all part of our job, but we made a game out of it. Guess who won?”
Tatum pleaded guilty . . . but only to aggressive play.
“I came into the NFL wanting to be the most intimidating hitter in the history of the game. But some people considered me a dirty player and a cheap shot artist.
“After a few questionable incidents, everything began to mushroom into a serious problem—enough for Howard Cosell to dedicate one of his halftime shows on Monday Night Football to George Atkinson and me and our ‘cheap shots.’
“It started in 1976 in a game against the Steelers, a few good hits, a knockout, and a certain coach’s criminal element speech. From there it was picked up by the press and traveled into the office of the Commissioner, Pete Rozelle. From there some fines were issued, which I refused to pay. After that, every official in the NFL threw a quick flag in my general direction. I’ll tell you like I told the Commissioner, ‘I plead guilty, but only to aggressive play.’”
JACK TATUM, GEORGE ATKINSON, AND LYNN SWANN—1975 CHAMPIONSHIP GAME
“On the ice of Three Rivers Stadium, I caught Lynn Swan running a pattern across the middle. I hit him! I hit him hard and he went down. Then several plays later George just leveled Swann. He was knocked unconscious and suffered a severe concussion. Swann spent two days in the hospital.
“My collision with Lynn Swann was premeditated. I saw him coming across the middle for a pass, and even though Terry Bradshaw had thrown the ball in a different direction, Swann was still a fair and legal target.
“Later in the game, George and I smashed into Rocky Bleier and caused him to
fumble. Everyone was scrambling for the ball except Steelers’ center Ray Mansfield. He set his sights on me and speared me in my knees with a cheap shot in retaliation for my hit on Swann. No flag was ever thrown.
“The Steelers tried that same play again but Bleier wasn’t in my area. This time I spotted Lynn Swann nonchalantly roaming over the middle, and I drew a bead on his rib cage. But then I saw George Atkinson homing in on Lynn, and with one quick swipe of a forearm, George sort of pulled Lynn down using a club-like action across the head and side of his neck. Lynn went down and George moved in toward the ball carrier. The shot to Swann was by no means an overpowering one. In fact, I thought that it had simply caught Lynn off guard and he had lost his balance. But Lynn needed some assistance getting off the field. The incident was so insignificant that George didn’t even get credited with a knockout or limp-off. As the game resumed, I could see Lynn running back and forth behind the Steelers’ bench.
“On the next series the Steelers’ offense came on to the field, but without Swann. He stayed on the sidelines running lazy patterns behind the bench. He seemed perfectly healthy and I wondered why he wasn’t in the game.
“On the next play I got John Stallworth. Stallworth caught the ball over the middle and a split second later, I hit him hard. As a result of the contact, John twisted his knee and had to be helped off the field. George gave me credit for a limp-off.
“When Swann was called up and told to go back into the game, he collapsed on the sidelines. One second he was perfectly normal and the next second he was supposedly out cold. It could be that it took George’s shot a long time to register, but then again, I really wonder.
“The next day, I received a call from my attorney. He told me that Lynn Swann was in the hospital with a serious concussion and Chuck Noll was blaming the hell out of me and George. Noll had taken his complaint to Commissioner Rozelle. That same day, Rocky Bleier wrote a letter to Rozelle regarding our tactics. This is the same guy who tried to take my knees out. In that letter, Bleier stated that I was ‘deliberately trying to hurt receivers and running backs.’ In addition, I was accused of being a cheap shot artist and of employing tactics designed to seriously injure my opponents. The letter also implied that many players feared for their lives when playing against me. They demanded that some type of disciplinary action should be taken immediately.
