Lombardi continued: "I've been up here all year, and I've learned a lot. I know how the townspeople are and what they think of you men. I know that in a small town you need definite rules and regulations. Anybody who breaks the rules will be taken care of in my way. You may not be a tackle. You may not be a guard. You may not be a back. But you will be a professional."
The players looked at each other. Well. So much for the easy life.
Lombardi laid out his rules, which, he said, would be vigorously enforced. The training camp curfew was 11 P.M., midnight on Saturdays, and that meant in bed with lights off. Players would be fined at least twenty-five dollars for missing curfew, and ten dollars for every minute they were late to meals, meetings, and practices.
"A man who is late for a meeting or the bus will be sloppy. He won't run pass routes right," Lombardi declared, adding that all fine money would be used to pay for a party at the end of the season.
On the subject of drinking, Lombardi acknowledged that players were adults who needed to relax; Lombardi himself liked going to supper clubs and having a cocktail or two. But players on the Packers had to be extra careful about where and how they drank, he said, because they lived in a small town where everyone gossiped and knew what they did.
Since coming to Green Bay, he said, he had met hundreds of fans claiming to have seen Packers having a good time—a little too good on occasion, he added, glancing at Hornung and McGee. That wasn't good for the team's reputation, he said. Some fans thought the players cared less about winning than having a good time.
As a result, several bars would now be off-limits, Lombardi said, including the Picadilly, Hornung's and McGee's favorite spot. And wherever they were, they had to sit at tables or booths. No standing at the bar and drinking.
"I won't stand for that," Lombardi said. "I don't care if the player is drinking ginger ale and talking to a friend, it just doesn't look good."
The fine for getting caught standing at a bar was $150, he said.
The players listened silently to these new rules, a fine for this, a fine for that. Some were annoyed, others terrified. When Lombardi finished and asked for questions, no hands went up. Lombardi dismissed them and, watching them leave the room, wondered if some might decide to quit the team.
As the players walked to their rooms, Jerry Kramer spoke to Jim Taylor.
"This guy is nuts," Kramer said softly.
Taylor smiled and shrugged.
Yeah, maybe a little. But you better get used to it.
Maybe he's just scaring us, just seeing who can take him being a hard-ass.
Maybe.
Maybe he'll ease up once he weeds out the guys he doesn't like.
Maybe.
But what if he doesn't ease up? What are we going to do then?
Before practice the next morning, Lombardi pulled McGee aside and asked how the speech had gone over. McGee was surprised to see him so nervous.
"It went great, Coach, just great," McGee said with a smile.
No player took a train or plane out of town. They practiced together for the first time under Lombardi that morning. In front of several hundred fans, they started with three laps around the goalposts and a set of calisthenics culminating with the grass drill, and then worked in groups for an hour before ending the workout with sprints.
What is this shit? Where did Scooter go?
Sharp-eyed and sarcastic, Lombardi pulled two lethargic rookies out of their groups and made them run more. If you don't want to give me a hundred percent, go on up to the locker room and turn in your equipment! When McGee trotted back to the huddle a little too casually after missing a pass, Lombardi ordered him to take two more laps. If you don't feel like running hard today, just let me know!
Watching McGee, the team's top receiver, run extra laps, the players knew Lombardi was serious about having everyone follow his rules.
Then the same point was driven home off the field when the first player to be fined for breaking curfew was Tunnell, one of Lombardi's favorites.
"That'll be fifty bucks, Em," the coach barked as Tunnell tried to sneak past his room one night shortly after 11 P.M.
A few days later, Lombardi went on a room check at 11 P.M. and found Jim Taylor sitting on the edge of his bed with his socks and shorts on.
"What time you got, Jimmy?" Lombardi asked.
"Eleven, sir," Taylor replied.
"You're supposed to be in bed at eleven, right, Jimmy?" Lombardi asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Jimmy, that'll cost you twenty-five dollars."
After a week of practices, Lombardi ratcheted up the intensity. "We may not have the best team in the league, but we're going to have the best legs," he told reporters with a smile.
The players put on pads and helmets and were introduced to the nutcracker drill, another of Lombardi's favorites. A quarterback lined up behind a blocker, in front of a running back and opposite a single defender, took a snap, and handed the ball to the back. The blocker's job was to keep the defender off the runner. The defender's job was to get to the runner.
Lombardi loved the bare setting, players going one-on-one, nowhere to hide. He ran the drill in front of the whole squad, criticizing and complimenting as he saw who relished contact and who just endured it. "Fire out!" he yelled at the linemen. "Bark those signals!" he shouted at the quarterbacks. When he liked a block, he clapped his hands and shouted "Hot dog!" When he saw a mistake, he jabbed a finger at the player's chin. What the hell are you doing? You call yourself a pro football player?
Some players quickly learned to dread the drill, preferring not to hit anyone. As they waited in opposing lines until it was their turn, they counted to see who they would be matched up against. McGee shuffled back and forth in line to avoid having to face Tom Bettis, the hard-hitting linebacker.
Always pushing harder, Lombardi added a punishing twist to a basic drill in which the offensive and defensive units lined up, ran through plays without opposition, and sprinted forty yards downfield to complete the assignment. If they didn't come off the ball in perfect unison, they had to repeat the play and sprint the forty yards again.
"I don't want to see a typewriter, different keys going up and down at different times!" he shouted. "I want to see perfection!"
There was that word again. Perfection. The players realized that was Lombardi's ultimate goal, not only in this drill but also for the Packers in general. They grew accustomed to coming off the ball and running forty yards downfield until they heard him shout angrily that one of them had flinched before the snap.
No! Do it again! No mistakes this time!
Over and over, they ran the play, hoping for the best.
No! Again!
Again!
Again! Again! Again!
Red-faced and exhausted, the players exhorted each other to avoid mistakes and end the misery.
Come on! Get it right! Everyone!
Hearing their desperation, Lombardi smiled inwardly. They're starting to understand what they have to do, he thought.
The practices were the toughest the players had experienced as pros, but many came from college programs in which tough coaches ran boot-camp-style workouts, so they had been through this before. Parilli had played for the brutal Bear Bryant; he could handle Lombardi.
It was, as the days passed, the mental challenge that became daunting, the fact that Lombardi refused to tolerate mistakes, demanding a standard they had never been asked to reach.
Perfection.
Jerry Kramer had mixed emotions about it. He enjoyed getting in shape and thought the team would probably win a few more games, but honestly, he wasn't sure he wanted to work this hard. Pro football had been, for him, kind of a lark until now. An affable, blond hulk with a quick wit and dazzling white smile, he had grown up in Idaho, far from the bright lights, and played for a school (the University of Idaho) that had never produced a drafted pro. But scouts noticed him—quick-footed 250-pound linemen tend to get discovered wher
ever they play—and he was drafted by the Packers and invited to play on the college all-star team in August. A coach at that camp, John Sandusky, a retired NFL lineman, told him he wasn't good enough to make the Packers, but Kramer ended up starting every game as a rookie, enjoying himself immensely in spite of the team's miseries. Scooter's practices were easy, the paychecks cashed, and the beer flowed all season. Hornung and McGee were a riot. It wasn't a bad life for a twenty-three-year-old country boy who had never expected to play pro football.
But now, Lombardi was rocking his pleasant little boat ride. The coach seemed to have it in for him in particular, calling him "a cow" and "the worst guard I've ever seen" after he jumped offside in a drill one afternoon. Kramer sat disconsolately at his locker after that workout until Lombardi approached, put his arm around Kramer's shoulders, and said, "Son, one of these days you're going to be a great guard in this league."
Some players couldn't take it. Alex Hawkins, the rookie back from South Carolina, loathed Lombardi's nonstop cursing and name-calling. A renowned college star with a cocky edge, he was unaccustomed to any criticism, much less hard-edged sarcasm. What a jerk, Hawkins thought as Lombardi lambasted him one day.
But most players realized Lombardi was just trying to make them better. Bettis lost twenty-five pounds in two weeks. Hanner dropped twenty. Forester dropped ten. Lombardi might be a madman, they thought, but if you didn't buy what he was selling, look out. Jerry Helluin, a Packer since 1954, had come to camp overweight and struggled through the grass drills and sprints. He was a popular veteran but failed to shed pounds quickly, and Lombardi called him into the office one morning.
Sorry, Jerry, we're letting you go.
One morning McGee and Hornung stood to the side during a blocking drill, breathing hard after a set of sprints. Watching Lombardi chastise the linemen, they shook their heads.
What an asshole. I can't believe him.
Yeah.
It's like he's never satisfied.
Then they noticed Lombardi's son, Vincent, standing close enough to hear their conversation.
Shit!
Did he hear?
Vincent smiled to himself. He was around the players every day, picking up towels, carrying buckets, doing whatever anyone asked on the field and in the locker room. Quiet and diligent, he had been a training camp fixture in New York when Lombardi was on Jim Lee Howell's staff, and he was excited to have the same job in Green Bay now that his father was a head coach.
The Packer players didn't trust him, fearing he would relay their private complaints to his father and the other coaches.
Nice kid. Nicer than his dad. But who knows what he's saying?
In New York the players had similar concerns until they discovered Vincent admired them, was on their side if any, and would never rat on them. From then on, they expressed themselves honestly in front of him.
But it was one thing to be an assistant coach's son and another to be the head coach's son, especially this head coach's son. The Packers shied away from Vincent until Emlen Tunnell stepped in after hearing several players complain about the youngster's continuing presence in their midst. Tunnell explained that the Giants also worried until they discovered Vincent would never betray them.
He's fine. He's good. He's a great kid.
The players began to speak freely in front of Vincent, complaining about his father's brutal practices and (in their mind) futile search for perfection.
Fucking guy jabbed his finger right at my chin. I'd like to slug him.
I don't know who he thinks he is.
One day, after leaning over to pick up a towel in the locker room as he listened to more complaints, Vincent stood up and eyed the players.
"You think you have it tough?" he said. "I have to live with him!"
Tim Brown, the rookie back, was opening eyes—in more ways than one. He was the quickest player in camp and consistently finished ahead of his teammates in the sprints at the end of practices. He gained good yardage on sweeps and could catch passes out of the backfield. He might be good enough to play in the NFL, it seemed.
But Lombardi was constantly on him, having decided he was a little too cocky and spirited for his own good.
Brown barked right back at him, startling the veterans who were terrified of their new coach.
"Don't they run through the hole at Ball State?" Lombardi shouted after Brown improvised on a carry during a drill.
"At Ball State we had holes, sir," Brown said.
Lombardi snorted. The linemen stared at Brown in the huddle.
No holes, huh? Fuck you!
Brown was one of four black players in camp, along with Borden, Tunnell, and A. D. Williams, a speedy young receiver just out of the Army. The two veterans were assured of making the team, and Brown had a shot. But Brown was different from the others. Borden and Tunnell were from a generation that was just happy to be playing and didn't want to cause trouble. Williams was too scared even to speak. Brown didn't mind speaking out and standing up for himself—and his rights. He had lived with segregation for as long as he could remember, and had a diminishing tolerance for it. Some of his new teammates didn't like that about him.
Brown had become acquainted with a young white girl from De Pere early in camp, nothing major, just a friendship, and she invited him over to her parents' house for dinner one evening. He went, and several veterans reported him to Lombardi.
Brown is dating a white girl.
The next day, wanting his position on such issues clearly known, Lombardi blew his whistle during practice and asked the players to gather around him.
"If I ever hear 'nigger' or 'dago' or anything like that, regardless of who you are, you're through here," he said. "You can't play for me if you have any kind of prejudice."
Everyone was adjusting to life with Lombardi. Executive committee members had attended the evening player meetings during camp when Scooter and Blackbourn were in charge, but Lombardi didn't want them around.
"What are you doing here?" he asked one night after spotting Dominic Olejniczak in the back of the room during a meeting.
Later, he told Ole that meetings were just for players and coaches now.
Nothing about the Packers was the same as before, it seemed. Lombardi even set new rules for the reporters covering the team. Previously, they could come and go as they wanted during camp; the Milwaukee Sentinel's Bud Lea, a Green Bay native, had stayed with his parents when he covered the Packers the year before. Lombardi didn't want him doing that. "If you're covering camp, you stay with us here at St. Norbert," he told Lea.
"Why in the world do I have to do that?" Lea asked.
Lombardi explained that the reporters covering the New York Giants stayed with the team during camp.
"This is the rule here now," the new coach said with a shrug.
Lombardi was worried about controlling the press. Coming from New York, with its array of newspapers, he was used to aggressive reporters asking tough questions and competing for scoops. Although he respected their way with words, he saw them primarily as an annoyance and was gruff and intentionally bland around them.
It couldn't hurt to show them who was boss and corral them at Sensenbrenner Hall, he thought.
Lea, furious, considered leaving camp, but knew his editor wouldn't go for that. He was on assignment, had a job to do. And Lombardi wasn't the kind of coach you challenged. Most of the reporters acquiesced and moved into Sensenbrenner Hall, sharing double rooms just like the players. Lea gave in and moved into a room with a wire service reporter who snored.
Grumbling, he went about his business for a couple of days but then noticed that Lombardi, distracted by what was happening on the field, was paying no attention to the reporters. He moved out of the dorm, back in with his parents, and continued to cover camp, and Lombardi never said a word.
Lea initially felt he had won a power struggle, but soon realized that while Lombardi had yielded on this issue, the new coach was going to be much tough
er on the press than Blackbourn or Scooter ever were.
Coach, are any players surprising you with their play?
A couple, I suppose.
Any names you care to give us?
No.
Are you pleased with the team's overall attitude?
What kind of a question is that?
Before practice one afternoon, Lombardi stopped in the doorway of the small room used by Bud Jorgensen, the Packers' trainer. A few players were sitting on the table in the middle of the room, having minor injuries checked out.
"Anyone in a bad way in here?" he asked loudly.
"No, sir," came a meek response.
"Good. See you on the field," Lombardi said.
He was as understanding as any coach about serious injuries, but had no tolerance for players who submitted to routine aches and pains. Football was a tough game; he wanted tough players. The Packers quickly learned to avoid Jorgensen's table and get on the field if all they had was a bruise or sprain. Lombardi wanted them to endure pain, and as he said, if you didn't like it, you could play elsewhere.
Living with pain and in fear of upsetting their coach, the players sought ways to relieve the stress. After the afternoon practices they raced to get on the first bus back to St. Norbert. Players on that bus had enough time to run across the street to a bar in De Pere and down a couple of beers before dinner, while those on the second bus arrived too late.
Sometimes after dinner, the veteran leaders ordered the rookies to stand up and sing—a pro football hazing tradition. Lombardi sat back with a bemused smile as the rookies croaked through off-key versions of their college fight songs and the veterans laughed and hooted them down.
When Tim Brown was called on, he stood up with a smile and asked what everyone wanted to hear. They didn't know he was a professional-caliber singer.
"Anything!" the veterans shouted.
Brown broke into a doo-wop classic, bouncing between high and low notes as he soulfully shook his shoulders.
That First Season: How Vince Lombardi Took the Worst Team in the NFL and Set It on the Path to Glory Page 11
