That First Season: How Vince Lombardi Took the Worst Team in the NFL and Set It on the Path to Glory

by John Eisenberg

  He was the straightest guy on the Packers, didn't go to clubs, barely swore or touched alcohol, but the players had several hours to themselves before their charter flight back to Green Bay departed Sunday evening, and Starr ended up in a Manhattan bar. Ron Kramer, the tight end, whose season also wasn't going well, wanted to drown his sorrows with a few beers. Starr went along. He was in that kind of mood.

  Kramer, the former number one draft pick, was playing only on special teams. His knee was sore and he hadn't caught a pass all season. Lombardi and the assistants didn't know what to make of him, having expected a major contributor.

  But Kramer wasn't so fond of them, either.

  I don't know, Bart. This season is totally for shit.

  Starr was just as glum as he quickly downed three beers.

  Jeez, I was ready to go in, Ron.

  His teammates laughed out loud when they heard he had gone to a bar.

  Bart! What's gotten into you?!

  But they were just trying to cheer him up. They knew things must be pretty bad if Bart Starr needed a drink.

  16

  LOMBARDI ENUNCIATED each word clearly, his rumbling Brooklyn voice suddenly resembling that of a snippy college professor.

  Twenty-six pass attempts. Seven completions.

  He paused to let the players reflect on those numbers. Then he repeated them for emphasis, speaking even more slowly.

  Twenty-six attempted. Seven completed.

  Another pause.

  Can we win a ball game when we pass like that?

  The room was filled with offensive players who had known their Tuesday morning film session wouldn't go well. None answered Lombardi's question, so he answered it himself.

  No. We cannot win a ball game when we attempt twenty-six passes and complete seven. That's what we did in New York. And we got our asses kicked all over the field!

  He paused again for emphasis, then continued.

  They beat us upfront. They manhandled us. We looked like we'd never learned how to block. Kramer, what were you doing out there? When you figure that out, please let me know.

  And our passing attack was just miserable, awful, you name the description. McHan, Francis, we have to make better throws; a lot better. Max, we have to run better routes.

  We have to give the defense more of a challenge.

  He paused before making his final point.

  If the people here now can't challenge a defense any better than we did in New York, I will find people who can.

  Lombardi was irritated about his offense, his baby. It hadn't scored a touchdown in two of the past three games. Yes, Taylor had been out and McHan was banged up, but the air game was as lame as an old racehorse. McGee had caught just eleven passes all season, and of the backs, only Hornung seemed to pose a receiving threat.

  As much as Lombardi favored the running game, he knew he had to have a better passing game. After listening to Wally Cruice and studying film of the Bears, whom the Packers would play next, on Sunday in Chicago, he decided to shake things up. He would switch from his beloved three-back formation to a more spread-out alignment featuring two backs and a second wide receiver. Hopefully, the passing game would be more formidable with a second receiver replacing the second halfback. Taylor and Hornung could still carry the ground game.

  Who would start as the second receiver? Boyd Dowler was the only choice, Lombardi felt. Towering over the huddle at six feet five, with legs as long and taut as stretched rubber bands, the rookie ran crisp routes with a graceful stride, eating up ground. Lombardi had lost some faith in him after he dropped a touchdown in the opener against the Bears, but he had a knack for getting open. A. D. Williams, the other rookie receiver, was faster, but A. D., struggling with the playbook, became lost whenever the quarterback changed plays at the line.

  Starting a rookie was risky, but Dowler was a genuine long-ball threat and would just go back to the bench if he flubbed, Lombardi figured.

  Lombardi called in Dowler and gave him the news. Dowler was shocked but ecstatic. He had barely played on Sunday against the Giants. He knew Lombardi was having trouble forgetting his drop against the Bears. He had replayed the moment in his head countless times, the pass slipping through his hands, the crowd groaning, Lombardi grimacing. Since then, he had just tried to play well enough in practice to change Lombardi's opinion of him. He didn't think he had succeeded.

  Dowler had never sat on the bench in his career. He had grown up in a little Wyoming town where his father was the high school coach, and he had barely come off the field in three years at Colorado, where he played quarterback, receiver, cornerback, and punter. He was as straight as a twenty-two-year-old comes, didn't drink, smoke, or even curse. His veteran roommates, Lamar McHan and Jesse Whittenton, were taking care of him, driving him to and from practice. (Dowler didn't own a car and didn't need one.) A calm, analytical coach's son, he rationalized that, as a rookie, he should be happy just to be on the team. Lombardi never singled him out for a scorching, as he did so many others.

  Maybe he hasn't given up on me.

  Now, starting Sunday, he would have the chance to establish himself.

  Starr was back to his old self when the quarterbacks met with Lombardi on Wednesday to "game plan" for the Bears. The previous few days had been rough. On Monday, while some of his teammates slept in and then headed for Appleton, Starr stayed home and tried to straighten out his attitude, voicing his frustrations to his wife, Cherry. He couldn't believe he had fallen below Joe Francis on the depth chart.

  But he eventually calmed down. It wasn't as if he had played himself down a notch; he had barely gotten off the bench all season. Lombardi had just given Francis the shot, for whatever reason. All Starr could do was continue to practice hard and prepare to play, soldier on as usual. He would take stock of his floundering career after the season if necessary. In the meantime, he was being paid to do a job.

  Not that he would forget being passed over in New York. The experience had rattled him, but now that he was beyond it, he was determined to make the most of any chance he got. Enough with being perpetually disappointed, and with being viewed as the nice, unthreatening guy who didn't stir up things on or off the field. If Lombardi ever gave him a chance, Starr would grab it.

  A winter-like storm blew through Green Bay, leaving eight inches of snow on the ground on November 3. Lombardi arranged for the team to practice indoors, at the Brown County Veterans Arena, where the floor was being cooled for an ice show later in the week. The players pushed banks of portable bleachers out of the way to clear the floor, and then ran through plays wearing tennis shoes.

  Around town, as the fans dug out from the snowstorm, they discussed the Packers, their secular church. It was hard to know what to think. They could see Lombardi had made improvements and were hopeful about the second half of the season, but the losses to the Rams, Colts, and Giants had reminded them of prior collapses. Maybe Lombardi hadn't turned them around after all.

  We've seen this before. I don't know. If we go down to Chicago and beat the Bears Sunday, maybe things have changed.

  The Packers hadn't beaten the Bears in Chicago since 1952, and hadn't swept the teams' yearly home-and-home series since Don Hutson's rookie season in 1935. George Halas was loath to let it happen now. The Bears coach wanted revenge. His team had spiraled in the wrong direction after the opening loss in Green Bay; expected to contend for a division title, the Bears had lost four of their first five games to fall into last place. But they seemed to be righting themselves, having beaten the Rams on Sunday, and Halas was talking publicly about salvaging a winning season. Privately, no doubt, he was demanding that his players punish the Packers on Sunday. The Bears would be up for the game. Every ticket was long sold.

  The Packers practiced outside on Thursday, and Lombardi was in an optimistic mood. McHan was throwing better, his shoulder apparently healed. Taylor was finally—finally!—ready to return to the starting lineup. The Packers had already beaten the Bears
once, and Lombardi felt they should do it again. A Chicago Tribune sportswriter quoted him as saying his team "can ... and will" win.

  The Packers took a train to Chicago on Saturday and awoke Sunday to bright sunshine. When their bus pulled up to Soldier Field, they were greeted by the Lumberjack Band, the flannel-clad City Stadium music group, which always attended the Bears game in Chicago. Several hundred Packer fans also made the trip. Cheering, they formed a line the players walked through from the bus to the locker room.

  As the game began, Lombardi watched Dowler and Taylor join the starting offense on the field. He hoped things would improve, but his hopes were quickly dashed. On first down, a gain by Hornung was negated by an offside penalty on Kramer. On second down, Hornung dropped a pitchout that hit him right in the hands. The Bears recovered and scored a touchdown in two plays. The game was eighty-seven seconds old.

  The Packers started another series but kept making mistakes. They didn't appear prepared to play. McGee dropped one pass and caught another for a gain that was erased by a holding penalty. Hornung fumbled again as he charged up the middle, and the Bears re-covered and rolled to another touchdown, Rick Casares scoring on a five-yard run.

  Trailing 14–0, Lombardi roamed the sideline in a fury.

  "You're in for Paul," he shouted at McIlhenny.

  Hornung had earned a place on the bench. The Golden Boy shook his head disgustedly as the offense took the field without him. He quietly cursed Lombardi but part of him understood the move. Lombardi hated mistakes, and two fumbles in the first five minutes was more than the coach could tolerate.

  On the field, the offense gathered around McHan in the huddle. This was his seventh start for the Packers, and his teammates were still trying to figure him out. They liked him well enough, and he obviously had talent, but he wasn't a commanding leader like, say, Tobin Rote. He pretty much called the plays and ran them, and while no one doubted his desire to win, he sometimes seemed preoccupied with his own situation, complaining when receivers dropped his passes, as though they did so out of spite.

  His leadership would be tested now. The Packers had lost three straight games and now trailed by two touchdowns on the road. Their season was starting to slip away from them. McHan tried to sound encouraging in the huddle.

  We can do better than this. Come on. We've beaten the Bears. Let's move the ball.

  Taylor gained seven behind a Bob Skoronski block. McIlhenny went for four around right end. Taylor picked up five up the middle. With the ball on the 50, McHan flipped a pass to McIlhenny in the left flat. Kramer flattened a linebacker and McIlhenny raced down the sideline to the 20 before being shoved out of bounds. Two plays later, Taylor took a handoff at the 10 and charged through a hole cleared by Gregg. Two Bears hit him at the 5, but he dragged them into the end zone. Hornung came off the bench to kick the extra point, and the Packers were back in the game, 14–7.

  "That's the way to go! We're back in it!" Lombardi shouted, thinking McHan had performed well in a difficult situation.

  After the defense made a stop, Carpenter returned the punt fifty-two yards. Catching the line drive kick at his 24, he burst past the first wave of coverage, which had expected a longer boot, and broke into the open field, angling from left to right as he ran. Three Bears finally tackled him at the Chicago 24.

  The big crowd was quiet now, but Taylor and McIlhenny gained little on a pair of runs, and Hornung kicked a field goal that cut Chicago's lead to 14–10.

  On the next Packer possession, McHan, looking for the lead, threw downfield for McGee, who was running with the Bears' J. C. Caroline. The pass was high, both men leapt for the ball, and Caroline fell to the ground with it at his 22. The Bears had the ball back. And then their offense began to roll. Casares and halfback Johnny Morris ran through big holes. At the Green Bay 36, quarterback Ed Brown lobbed a long pass toward receiver Harlon Hill on the left sideline. The ball sailed short and Whittenton was in position to grab it, but Hill wrested it away as they fell together in the end zone. The fans stood and shouted. Touchdown, Bears.

  McHan tried to rally the Packers just before halftime. He threw to Dowler for a first down, then dropped back, failed to find an open receiver, and sprinted for the sideline with the ball, trying to stop the clock. Just before he reached the sideline, he jumped to elude a tackler, felt his right hamstring pop, and toppled over with a shout, clutching his leg. Bud Jorgensen, the trainer, ran to him.

  A few minutes later, in the halftime locker room, Lombardi approached Starr.

  Lamar can't go. You're in.

  Starr nodded, pleased not to be passed over again. Having prepared for the Bears, he vowed to make the most of his chance.

  We can come back and win this game, Coach.

  Lombardi's rationale was simple. Francis had looked overmatched against the Giants. Starr had played fairly well against the Bears in the exhibition opener in August. Starr certainly could step in; he studied more film than anyone.

  By the time the offense took the field in the third quarter, the Bears had scored again, driving eighty yards for a touchdown that gave them a 28–10 lead. Quarterback Zeke Bratkowski scrambled for forty-one yards after escaping a red-dog and otherwise picked on Bobby Freeman, who was struggling. Hands on hips, Lombardi stared at the defensive players as they came off the field. What in the hell is going on out there?

  Starr took over in a tough spot, down eighteen points on the road. He and Dowler, who as backups had spent hours together at practice, hooked up for an eighteen-yard gain. Taylor hurled himself into the line for three on a fourth-and-one play, and then went for six around right end. After Starr completed a short pass to Taylor, the Bears' Bill George slammed the quarterback to the turf, bloodying Starr's lip.

  That should take care of you, Bart Starr, you little pussy.

  Jerry Kramer couldn't believe what he heard next.

  Fuck you, Bill George, we're coming after you.

  Kramer had never heard Starr curse. (And never did again.) They had been teammates for a year and a half, but Kramer thought of Starr as methane gas—odorless, colorless, tasteless, having little impact on his surroundings.

  Kramer's eyes bulged when Starr cursed at George.

  You should go over and get your lip checked, Bart.

  The heck with that, let's go.

  Kramer smiled to himself. Maybe we have ourselves a quarterback here, he thought.

  The Packers rolled to a first-and-goal at the 7 and picked up six yards in two plays, putting the ball on the 1. Taylor ran behind Skoronski on third down, but massive Doug Atkins plugged the hole, and Taylor smacked into him and fell back. On fourth down, two feet from the end zone, Starr sent Taylor back into the line behind Ringo. The Bears plugged the hole, and Taylor was tackled for a loss.

  Cheers echoed across the field as the Bear defense rose and trotted to the sideline. Lombardi, whose ire had been up all day, looked down with disgust. For crying out loud, can't we score from the 1?

  A few minutes later Starr led the offense back downfield. McIlhenny swept left for twenty-three behind Kramer and Thurston. Taylor went the other way for twelve behind Gregg. On a first down at the 8, McIlhenny ran past Atkins, cut back, and was about to score but slipped and went down at the 1. Then McIlhenny tried right tackle and was knocked down. Lombardi sent in Hornung on third down to take advantage of the Golden Boy's nose for the end zone, but Hornung dropped the pitchout. Taylor fell on the fumble at the 4, but now it was fourth down. Starr rolled right and threw for McIlhenny in the end zone, but the pass skipped off McIlhenny's hands. Lombardi couldn't believe it. His offense had twice reached the 1-yard line and failed to score. That was just not acceptable.

  "The best team didn't win today, I'll tell you that," he rasped to Lee Remmel of the Press-Gazette, who was on the sideline as the game ended.

  The final gun sounded, and Lombardi walked across the field to congratulate Halas on the 28–17 win. When all the players were in the locker room, the doors were closed an
d Lombardi started to shout.

  "You need to decide whether you want to be here with us when we start to win. I need better concentration. I need more consistency. I need fewer mistakes."

  Speaking to reporters, he continued, "The defense played an adequate game, just gave up a couple of drives. And we moved the ball on offense. We played better today than we did when we beat the Bears in Green Bay. We should have had thirty-five points. But we make so many mistakes on offense. That's what is beating us."

  The players showered and dressed quickly. McIlhenny, who had filled in for Hornung with almost one hundred rushing and receiving yards, was under the nozzle when he saw Lombardi standing at the entryway to the shower. The coach's shoes were getting sprayed.

  "Yes, Coach?" McIlhenny asked.

  "You played a hell of a football game today," Lombardi growled.

  "Thank you, Coach," McIlhenny said.

  Lombardi turned and departed, and McIlhenny exhaled. He had never had a coach come into the shower to compliment him.

  For the first time in Packer history, the team was flying from Chicago back to Green Bay instead of taking a train. As Lombardi boarded the charter, Remmel approached him, wanting to confirm the "best team didn't win" quote before it went into print. Lombardi didn't back off. "I do think we were the better team," he said. "We should have won the ball game."

  The doors closed, the plane taxied and took off, and Lombardi sat back and reflected. His revamped offense had performed adequately. Dowler had caught just two balls, but few had come his way. McGee had been shut out again. What was wrong with Max? And Hornung, good gracious, Lombardi loved him, but he had been awful today—three touches, three fumbles. And he was the cornerstone of the offense?

  Lombardi wondered how long it would take for him to correct these problems and put a winning team on the field. Five years, he had originally thought, and then, after the 3–0 start, maybe three. But now he thought maybe five was right after all. Frankly, he had no idea. He sighed, feeling frustrated and tired, took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his forefingers.