Last Team Standing

by Matthew Algeo

  “Greasy said, ‘I want you here. We have our meetings here. You gotta be here.’”

  Not that the players had many other options. Housing in Philadelphia was scarce. The booming war industries attracted tens of thousands of workers to the city, but wartime restrictions on raw materials like lumber made it impossible to build new homes. The newcomers were herded into hastily subdivided row houses or makeshift trailer parks, and often charged exorbitant rents, despite a ban on gouging. Life at the Hotel Philadelphian was practically idyllic by comparison. The rates were subsidized by the team. The players paid about a dollar a day, a considerable break from the hotel’s daily rate of three dollars.

  Greasy Neale’s motives weren’t purely altruistic, of course. The residency requirement facilitated nightly “skull sessions” in the hotel ballroom after practice, at which the players were forced to watch game film for an hour or more while Neale fumbled clumsily with the projector. Ever since he’d learned the T formation by studying the raw newsreel footage of the 1940 championship game, Neale was a firm believer in the benefits of game film. He’d make his players watch the same play over and over, carefully pointing out what everybody had done wrong and only rarely acknowledging what anybody had done right.

  The Eagles hired a lone cameraman to film their home games from the Shibe Park press box. The film had to be developed, of course, and it usually wasn’t ready until Tuesday or Wednesday. The films of opposing teams were obtained through an underground network of football coaches who traded films like Grateful Dead fans would later trade bootleg recordings of the group’s concerts. The league discouraged the practice but it grew so pervasive that it was codified after the war: Teams were required to submit films of their previous three games to their next opponent.

  After eight hours in the factory, three hours on the practice field, and another hour or more of skull sessions, there wasn’t much time left for the players to carouse. Mostly they just hung out in the hotel’s Penguin Lounge or at Smokey Joe’s, a popular tavern near the Penn campus. They also played cards, usually bridge, often in Neale’s suite. They frequently ate together at a nearby Horn & Hardart Automat, a practice that Neale encouraged vigorously because the food was cheap.

  The close quarters practically compelled friendship, recalled Eagles center Ray Graves.

  “We made some real close friends with them [the Steelers],” Graves said. “I tell ya—ya had to, riding up and down the elevator with ’em—ya had to get pretty well acquainted.”

  Graves said the living arrangements had the added benefit of keeping the players on a short leash.

  “The team and the wives and the children lived there. My daughter helped run the elevator! It was a family and it kept the husbands in line…. Johnny Butler went out one night and came back late, and I’ll tell ya, one of the wives saw him comin’ in and got on him. I’ll tell ya, they kept the husbands pretty straight. I think it was a good thing. We were a family.”

  On Friday nights, Neale would host a cocktail party for the team in the Penguin Lounge.

  Though he never had any of his own, Neale was quite fond of children. He enjoyed bouncing the players’ babies on his knee, babbling to them in baby talk. The older children regarded him as an uncle, and he showered them with treats.

  “He was something,” said Ray Graves. “He had a lot of different personalities. He liked the kids … and they loved him. And he could be the toughest, meanest guy you ever played under, too.”

  The primary reason for the improving relations among the players—even more than the collegial atmosphere of the Hotel Philadelphian—was the Steagles’ record: 2-0. The team was undefeated and in first place. When they played the Bears on October 17, the two teams would meet as equals in the standings. The Steagles were in first place in the Eastern Division, the Bears were tied for first in the West.

  “When you’re winnin’,” said Ray Graves, “everything’s a little better.”

  But even winning was not enough to thaw the frosty relationship between the teams’ two co-head coaches. Walt Kiesling was feeling marginalized. Greasy Neale seemed incapable of ceding any authority to Kiesling, which naturally upset the big man. “Greasy ran the show,” said Vic Sears. “He just took over.”

  Kiesling felt slighted. He also felt Neale was slighting the Steelers on the team. At one practice Kiesling got so upset with Neale for calling one of the Steelers a “statue of shit” that he pulled them off the field.

  “I think Greasy tried to be as fair [to the Steeler players] as he could,” Sears said. “I don’t think anybody could have been happy about the situation. It wasn’t a good situation for anybody.” Halfback Jack Hinkle agreed: “The conflict was understandable. Kiesling was just sticking up for his own kids.”

  Halfback Ernie Steele remembered a time late in the season when Neale was ill in bed and Kiesling went to visit him. Steele said Kiesling sat in a chair and began reading a newspaper in silence.

  “Greasy said, ‘I’m layin’ here dyin’ and you’re reading the goddamn newspaper!?’ Kiesling said, ‘If you’re gonna die, you’re gonna die. I can’t do anything about it.’ They were something, those two.”

  The Steagles starting lineup, photographed September 15, 1943. The front line (left to right): Larry Cabrelli, Frank “Bucko” Kilroy, Eddie Michaels, Ray Graves, Elbie Schultz, Vic Sears, and Bill Hewitt. The backfield (left to right): Jack Hinkle, Roy Zimmerman, Ben Kish, and Ernie Steele. (Hewitt and Hinkle would later switch to different uniform numbers.) Photo courtesy Temple University Libraries, Urban Archives, Philadelphia, PA

  The Steagles play leapfrog during a break in training camp near St. Joseph’s College in Philadelphia, September 10, 1943. At the upper right is backup quarterback Allie Sherman. Photo courtesy Temple University Libraries, Urban Archives, Philadelphia, PA

  The Steagles practice a running play during training camp as co-head coach Greasy Neale watches intently, September 10, 1943. Neale spent much of training camp teaching the team the intricacies of the T formation. Photo courtesy Temple University Libraries, Urban Archives, Philadelphia, PA

  When the Steelers and Eagles merged, the Eagles’ owner, Lex Thompson, was in the Army. Here Thompson is shown practicing on the antiaircraft-artillery range at Camp Davis in North Carolina. Photo courtesy Temple University Libraries, Urban Archives, Philadelphia, PA

  Harriet and Ted Doyle, around the time of their marriage in 1938, the same year Ted Doyle signed with the Steelers (then known as the Pirates). Photo courtesy Jo Hanshaw

  Servicemen share a program in the stands at the Steagles-Bears exhibition game at Shibe Park, Philadelphia, September 16, 1943. Throughout the war, many members of the armed forces spoke out in favor of the continuation of professional sports. Photo courtesy Temple University Libraries, Urban Archives, Philadelphia, PA

  The Steagles vs. the Chicago Bears, Shibe Park, Philadelphia, September 16, 1943. Except for the Green Bay Packers, every team in the NFL played its home games in a major league baseball park at the time. Photo courtesy Temple University Libraries, Urban Archives, Philadelphia, PA

  The Steagles’ Roy Zimmerman tackles New York Giants end Will Walls during the Steagles’ 28-14 victory over the Giants at Shibe Park, Philadelphia, October 9, 1943. Rushing to assist Zimmerman is his teammate, Ben Kish (44). Note the white football, which the NFL used in night games at the time. Photo courtesy Temple University Libraries, Urban Archives, Philadelphia, PA

  Al Wistert in 1940, his sophomore season at the University of Michigan. He was drafted by the Eagles in 1943. Photo courtesy Temple University Libraries, Urban Archives, Philadelphia, PA

  Bill Hewitt in the 1930s, when he played for the Chicago Bears. In 1943, Hewitt was coaxed out of retirement to play for the Steagles. A new rule required him to wear a helmet for the first time in his career. Photo courtesy Pro Football Hall of Fame/WireImage.com

  Earle “Greasy” Neale shortly before he became the head coach of the Philadelphia Eagles in 1941. Neale shar
ed head coaching duties with Pittsburgh’s Walt Kiesling when the two teams merged in 1943. Photo courtesy Pro Football Hall of Fame/WireImage.com

  Demonstrating their defensive prowess, the Steagles encircle Green Bay Packer Tony Canadeo at Shibe Park, Philadelphia, December 5, 1943. Among the Steagles are Tom Miller (89), Ed Conti (67), Tony Bova (85), and Ray Graves (52). Photo courtesy Temple University Libraries, Urban Archives, Philadelphia, PA

  Steagles halfback Jack Hinkle (43) runs for a touchdown against the Green Bay Packers at Shibe Park, Philadelphia, December 5, 1943. Blocking for Hinkle are Ben Kish (44) and Tony Bova (85). Photo courtesy Temple University Libraries, Urban Archives, Philadelphia, PA

  9

  Chicago

  ON THURSDAY, APRIL 8, 1943, the federal Office of Price Administration decreed that, effective the following Tuesday, the length of matchsticks would be decreased by roughly ten percent to conserve wood. The OPA also ordered match manufacturers to begin packing matches “half with the heads one way and half in the opposite direction,” thereby reducing the amount of paper required for packaging.

  Four months later, six statuesque young women picketed the OPA offices in San Francisco to draw attention to the plight of “tall gals who cannot get long stockings.” “The new OPA ceiling on stockings is about 29 inches and they end slightly above the knees,” said one protester. “So we have to go barelegged and it ain’t dignified.”

  From the length of matchsticks to the length of stockings, the Office of Price Administration controlled virtually every facet of daily life in the United States during the war. The most obvious manifestation of this control was rationing. The massive amount of material needed to supply the armed forces led to shortages of everything from steel to soap.

  At various times, the list of rationed goods included rubber, automobiles, typewriters, sugar, bicycles, gasoline, farm machinery, boots, oil, farm fences, coffee, oil and coal stoves, shoes, processed foods (including juices and canned, frozen, and dried fruits and vegetables), firewood, liquor, canned milk, cigarettes, butter, meats, fats, and cheese.

  Rationing was administered by the OPA through 5,500 local boards, similar to the draft boards. Each household was periodically issued a ration book, which contained rows of different colored stamps, each of which was assigned a point value and a letter. The OPA also assigned each rationed item a point value based on its scarcity—the scarcer the item, the higher the point value. A consumer wishing to buy, say, pork chops, might be required to surrender 15 red “B” points in addition to the purchase price.

  But no amount of rationing could prevent periodic shortages of certain goods. Newspapers were filled with stories of “famines”: butter famines, whiskey famines, beef famines, gasoline famines. A shortage of sheet steel led to a license plate famine in Pennsylvania. So, instead of issuing new plates during the war, the state distributed small metal tags that were attached to the old plates, a system that would be adopted permanently (with stickers replacing the metal tags) in the late 1950s. There was even a penny famine, owing to the military’s demand for copper. The government responded by minting pennies out of steel in 1943, a development that drove consumers and shopkeepers crazy, since the shiny coins closely resembled dimes.

  The booming wartime economy obliterated the remnants of the Great Depression. Inflation was the new concern. With many goods in short supply, prices would naturally rise. With workers in great demand, wages, too, would increase. Inflation would not only raise the cost of fighting the war; FDR feared it would also have a corrosive effect on morale. To keep a lid on it, the OPA froze the prices of many goods and services. The wages of many workers were likewise frozen.

  No detail was too mundane to escape the scrutiny of the OPA. It imposed price controls on “the cutting and maintenance of lawns,” thus freezing the wages of kids who mowed yards for pocket change. In restaurants, the OPA ruled, diners were permitted a cocktail, soup, or dessert—but not all three. On New Year’s Eve 1943, nightclubs were instructed to charge no more for drinks and meals than they had one year earlier. Minor violations of the rationing regulations usually resulted in a 30-day suspension of ration privileges—not an insignificant penalty, given that many basic necessities were not legally obtainable without ration stamps. More serious violations, such as trafficking in black market goods or counterfeit ration stamps, were punishable by up to ten years’ imprisonment and a $10,000 fine. It wasn’t only patriotism that contributed to the program’s high compliance rate.

  The burden of coping with the inconveniences, sacrifices, and privations of wartime America fell most heavily upon women. With their husbands at war or at work, women assumed total management of the household. Propaganda campaigns specifically targeted women, urging them to “Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without.” In Don’t You Know There’s a War On?, his seminal book about life on the home front, Richard Lingeman writes of the wartime woman: “She was a soldier and her kitchen a combination frontline bunker and rear-echelon miniature war plant.”

  While Steagles tackle Ted Doyle labored in the Westinghouse factory and on the football field, his wife was left to manage the household while raising two children, a three-year-old boy and a two-year-old girl.

  “I was busy,” Harriet Doyle remembered. Like countless millions of other patriotic American homemakers, she saved kitchen fats and turned them in to her butcher, so they could be converted into glycerin to make gunpowder. She assiduously recycled tin cans, observed “meatless Fridays,” and cultivated a small “Victory Garden” to supplement the family’s diet. Finding shoes for her children was one of the greatest difficulties Doyle encountered.

  “Their feet were growin’ all the time! And with two of ’em, why, it was interesting. But when we ran out of ration coupons, our neighbors would help us out.”

  Technically that was a violation of OPA regulations: ration stamps were to be used only by the household to which they’d been assigned. In fact, they were to be removed from the booklet only in the presence of the shopkeeper to whom they were being redeemed. The reality, said Harriet Doyle, was very different.

  “We exchanged ration coupons with the neighbors all the time. There was an elderly couple next door that didn’t have any children, so they gave us extra coupons. And a bachelor who lived across the street shared coupons, too.”

  Like every other American institution, the National Football League was forced to adapt to wartime conditions.

  “Equipment was very scarce,” recalled Dan Rooney, the son of the Steelers’ founder. “We kept it in the basement of our house so we didn’t lose it. Cleats were really hard to get because they were a rubber product.” Footballs were hard to get too, because their bladders were made of rubber. What little equipment that was available was often appropriated by the military for recreational use. What’s more, travel restrictions made it difficult for “non-priority” travelers like football players to get seats on trains. When Ted Doyle commuted to games, he shared a berth with Bill Cullen, one of the Steelers’ radio announcers (and later a popular TV game show host), an arrangement that probably garnered Doyle more airtime than the average lineman. Ballpark concessions were difficult to procure as well. A bottle shortage rendered soft drinks (“soda” in Philadelphia, “pop” in Pittsburgh) a precious commodity. Paper for game programs was also in short supply. And it was almost impossible to get the uniforms cleaned, since laundry services were inundated with military business. After his first day at training camp, tackle Al Wistert handed his sweat-soaked jersey and pants to the Eagles’ trainer, Fred Schubach.

  “We can’t get laundry service,” Schubach barked. “Wear that stuff a while!” Wistert took his uniform back home to his wife Ellie, who cleaned it in the tub.

  In some ways the wartime conditions actually benefited the National Football League. Games were played on Sundays, many workers’ only day off. The ballparks were close to trolley lines or other public transportation, so fans could get there without expending pr
ecious gas rations. And, by the fall of 1943, nearly 300 colleges had dropped their football programs for want of players, thereby eliminating the pro game’s primary competition.

  Although football had not yet acquired much of the martial vernacular that has since come to characterize it—“blitz” and “bomb” meant very different things in 1943—the game’s obvious parallels with war also may have contributed to its popularity on the home front. The objectives of penetrating enemy territory while defending your own, the recurring and often violent physical confrontations: football was a benign substitute for the real thing. Nor did the NFL discourage the perception. On the cover of game programs, images of soldiers and football players were frequently juxtaposed. While one threw a hand grenade, for example, the other threw a touchdown pass.

  The league presented football not merely as diversionary, but as necessary.

  “Democracy makes us a pacific people,” said Chicago Cardinals head coach Jimmy Conzelman in a 1942 radio broadcast. “The young man must be toughened not only physically but mentally. He must become accustomed to violence. Football is the No. 1 medium for attuning a man to body contact and violent physical shock. It teaches that after all there isn’t anything so terrifying about a punch in the puss.”

  Football also gave Americans a respite from fear, especially in the gray autumn of 1943, when the United States had already been at war for two long years and no end was in sight. The threat of invasion had subsided: In October, the government even lifted a ban on the publication and broadcasting of weather reports. Americans were confident, but victory in Europe and especially Asia was still far from certain.