The Day I First Saw Football On a Color TV

---

---

This is a significant date for Kansas City Chiefs fans. It was 45 years ago today that the Chiefs won their only Super Bowl.

So far.

I have a friend who is a Chiefs fan, and he would remind me that the entire history of pro football has not been written — and, like Chicago Cubs fans who insist that one day their beloved Cubbies will return to and win the World Series, he has faith that the Chiefs will return to the Super Bowl and win it.

I am not a Chiefs fan — I'm a Packers fan — but I remember vividly the day the Chiefs beat the Minnesota Vikings in Super Bowl IV. Why? Because it was the first time I ever saw a football game on color TV.

We had a black–and–white TV in our home. It was the TV on which I had watched every football game that I had seen to that point in my young life. No one in my neighborhood (and I use the word neighborhood very loosely here because I grew up in the country, and my neighborhood was hardly a conventional one) had a color TV — until a few days before Super Bowl IV.

Our neighbors (and, again, the word neighbors is used very loosely here; they lived close enough to us that we could walk from our house to theirs instead of driving) bought a Zenith color TV and invited us to watch the game with them. My father is an avid football fan so he accepted the invitation, and we walked over there. It may have snowed. Sometimes we got snow in central Arkansas in January; if it did snow, we trudged through it. No obstacle would keep us from watching a football game in color.

I'm pretty sure the game was played in the afternoon, too. The NFL didn't move Super Bowl kickoffs to the very late afternoon/early evening until several years later. Besides, my mother would never have allowed my brother and me to stay up as late as we would have if the game had been played at night — as it is today.

I remember being astonished by the color of a football game. OK, Super Bowl IV may have been more colorful than most. The Chiefs were dressed in their bright red home jerseys.

---

---

The Vikings wore their road whites, but the uniform still incorporated splashes of the trademark Viking purple — and gold trim.

And the game was played in New Orleans, one of the most colorful cities I have ever visited.

I sat transfixed by the color. I remember looking at my father at one point. The look in his eyes told me we would have a color TV in our house soon, too.

And we did.

That was a time when ownership of a color TV was a real status symbol. It was also a time when networks would announce whether a program was being presented in color. Many in the audience — like my family — still watched black–and–white TVs, and sometimes in those days when a program was being broadcast in color, it had kind of an odd effect on the appearance of the program on black–and–white sets. Believe it or not, people really did call channels to inquire about oddities in picture reception.

Mind you, this was at a time when picture reception was about as imperfect as it could be. It was years before cable took hold, and most customers probably received transmissions via antenna, either of the outdoor variety or the rabbit ears that were on the back of each set.

Consequently, if a customer called because image reception was bad, there must be something to it.

Of course, my parents told my brother and me that the color TV would enhance our enjoyment of educational and cultural programming. I accepted that — not because I particularly believed it but because I knew what had put the hook in my father — the afternoon we spent watching the Super Bowl at the neighbors' house.

It's funny when I think back on the Chiefs' 23–7 victory over the Vikings, who came into the game as 12–point favorites. The Chiefs had been in two of the four Super Bowls and were expected to be in Super Bowl conversations for years to come — but they haven't been back to one since.

The Vikings were making their first Super Bowl appearance and were expected to be contenders in the future, which they were. They went to three more Super Bowls in the next seven years but lost them all and haven't been back to the Super Bowl in 38 years.

In the meantime, ownership of a color TV is no longer a status symbol. Ownership of more exotic variants — high definition, perhaps — are the status symbols now. But virtually all modern TVs are equipped to provide color pictures.

I'm not sure they even make black–and–white TVs anymore.

Joe Frazier's First Title Defense

---

---

It is somewhat ironic that Joe Frazier died less than two weeks ago because today is the 41st anniversary of his first defense of the title he won in February 1970 — against light heavyweight champion Bob Foster in Detroit.

It was the 26th professional fight for Frazier, who won a gold medal at the 1964 Olympics, and it ended like the first 25 did — with a victory. It was his quickest triumph in a year and a half.

It was also his last fight before the first of Frazier's legendary trilogy of bouts with Muhammad Ali.

In hindsight, perhaps the Foster fight should have been something of a cautionary tale for Ali.

"Joe was a vicious wrecking machine against Foster," boxing trainer Emanuel Steward told the Detroit Free Press. "He was like an animal (in the ring)."

Frazier's performance against Foster certainly contributed to his reputation.

"Even for those born long after Frazier hung up the gloves, Smokin' Joe is a boxing legend," wrote Jake Emen for Yahoo! Sports when Frazier died earlier this month.

Emen wrote, as everyone does, that two of Frazier's fights with Ali — the "Fight of the Century" and the "Thrilla in Manila" — were the greatest two moments of his career, but he also mentioned Smokin' Joe's two–round triumph over Foster as being one of his "solid victories" between the fight in which he won the title and his first fight with Ali.

Frazier's fight with Foster, a Hall of Fame light heavyweight, was, indeed, a solid, workmanlike effort, finishing off his challenger in two rounds. The decisive punch was one of Frazier's trademark left hooks, and Foster couldn't beat the count.

For Smokin' Joe, the prelude to the chapter of his life's story that will always be remembered was over.

Next for Frazier would be the first of his bouts with Ali — the only one of the three that he won and the one that would secure his spot in boxing history as one of the great heavyweight champions of all time.

Longest Field Goal Still on Record Books

---

---

If you follow football, you know that field goals can be very important.

But, unless somebody kicks a game–winner in the last seconds, field goals don't get the same attention as touchdown runs and passes. That's understandable. They aren't worth as much — although there have been proposals that would add to the value for especially long field goals in recognition of their increased difficulty.

That's something I can support — kind of like the three–point shot in basketball. Reward kickers for doing something special. I guess I have a little recent personal motivation to say that. The kicker for my alma mater, the University of Arkansas, nailed a 51–yard field goal on Saturday.

That's the longest field goal that has been kicked at Arkansas in nearly 20 years. But it wasn't the game–winner. It came in the middle of a game that turned into something of a rout for the Razorbacks so it didn't get a lot of attention.

That, in turn, reminded me of when I worked on the sports desk at the Arkansas Gazette.

The Gazette is no longer in business, but, when I was there, we took a lot of high school football game accounts over the phone from stringers and such on Friday nights.

The newspaper served the whole state, and we didn't have enough reporters on the entire staff — let alone the sports side — to physically attend every high school game.

And we sure didn't have enough space for extensive articles on every game. Most of the time, we had to settle for a couple of paragraphs that mentioned the score, a couple of the outstanding players or the game–winning play and the teams' records.

That was about it.

I guess it goes without saying that the phone calls we took on those very busy Friday nights didn't last too long.

Anyway, one of the fellows on the staff used to love to come up with nicknames for players in game accounts he took over the phone — and sometimes he would try to sneak one into print. Typically, the nicknames he thought of were ones that were given, originally, to the gridiron legends of the 1940s and 1950s.

Those of us on the copy desk learned to be particularly alert for these nicknames, and we caught a lot of them. We didn't catch them all, but we tried. It helped if you were familiar with football history.

You know the kind of stuff I mean. If a kid kicked a game–winning field goal on the last play of the game, this guy wanted to nickname him "The Toe." If a guy ran for a lot of yards, he wanted to nickname him "Crazy Legs."

If I think about it, I can see him in my mind's eye, chuckling as he read the first paragraph in such a blurb he had written when he saw it on a page proof: "Joe (The Toe) Smith kicked a 31–yard field goal as time ran out to lift Little Rock Catholic to a victory over Little Rock Central ..."

The nickname was his inside joke. If it was a somewhat obscure nickname, he knew he had a good chance of getting away with it because the copy desk might not know that the nickname wasn't legitimate, that a coach or a teacher or whoever called in the score hadn't said it was the player's real nickname, that it was actually an homage.

Kim, you rascal.

He particularly loved that nickname "The Toe." I worked on the Gazette sports staff for four football seasons, and I think that is the nickname he mentioned more often than any other.

If you're a fan of football, you may know that the original "The Toe" was Lou Groza, an NFL kicker in the 1950s and 1960s who also played offensive tackle. He spent his whole professional career with the Cleveland Browns, and a writer for the Cleveland Press gave him that nickname.

Groza was a prolific kicker. He kicked game–winning field goals in pressure situations. He led the NFL in field goals five times. But today is the anniversary of something that even he, as successful as he was, never achieved.

---

---

Forty years ago today, Tom Dempsey kicked a 63–yard field goal for the New Orleans Saints against the Detroit Lions, setting an NFL record that has not been exceeded, only matched.

There were a few things about this field goal that made it unique.

For one thing, the right–footed Dempsey was born without any toes on his right foot. He wore a special shoe that was believed by some to give him an unfair advantage.

(Some might argue that going through life with half the toes one is supposed to have qualifies as a disadvantage.)

The shoe Dempsey wore on that day, incidentally, can be seen at the New Orleans Sports Hall of Fame.

For another, the Saints and the Lions were nothing like their modern incarnations. The Saints of 1970 were a young, struggling expansion squad while the Lions were on their way to the playoffs as the NFC's first wild–card team.

It was to be — at least, when compared to the next four decades — a rare postseason appearance for Detroit. At the time, though, the Lions were considered a competitive franchise that was usually included in any conversation about Super Bowl contenders.

Nevertheless, Dempsey's kick handed the win to New Orleans.

Ironically, Dempsey's record–setting field goal came eight days before the first anniversary of another team field goal record he set. On Nov. 16, 1969, against the New York Giants, Dempsey kicked six field goals in a single game, more than any other kicker in New Orleans history, as the Saints won by a single point.

In these days of political correctness, some people seem to believe that the way to handle an unpleasant truth is to change the language used to describe that truth — or ignore it completely.

I won't dispute the importance of language, but I think what is really needed is more role models who have overcome the barriers they faced — physical disabilities, prejudices of any kind, etc. — and achieved great things.

We need more people who will inspire us with their accomplishments.

More Tom (The Toe) Dempseys.

Running to Daylight

---

---

Friday will be the 40th anniversary of the death of Vince Lombardi.

Lombardi died of colon cancer. While there have been many improvements in the fight against cancer in the last four decades, colon cancer remains one of the most common causes of cancer–related deaths.

A relentless perfectionist, Lombardi probably would be disappointed that, in 40 years, medical science hasn't conquered the thing that killed him. Medical science has made great strides against other forms of cancer, including the variety that killed Bears fullback Brian Piccolo less than three months earlier, but colon cancer remains a formidable adversary.

I guess that's fitting. During his life, Lombardi also was a formidable adversary.

In the 1960s, Lombardi may have been the most respected coach in the NFL. He became the first coach to lead his team to three straight NFL titles, and he was the winning coach in the first two Super Bowls.

Today, his memory is not so vivid in most minds. He is remembered by some for saying things that are generally considered cliches now — things like "Winning is the only thing" and urging his players to "run to daylight."

My personal memories of Lombardi are still vivid, though, and they are in black and white. That's because our TV was a black and white in those days — and the screen wasn't very big so Lombardi, who was not a tall man to begin with, looked even smaller to my elementary school eyes.

Actually, my family got its very first color TV in 1970, a few months before football season was scheduled to begin. Then as now, I loved football, and I was looking forward to seeing football games in color.

And one of the things I was looking forward to the most was finally seeing Lombardi, who was coaching the Washington Redskins by that time, in color.

In hindsight, I probably didn't miss much. Even in the color film I have seen of the Lombardi Packers, Lombardi was a black–and–white figure, almost always wearing dark pants and a white shirt, occasionally wearing a tan overcoat. He always appeared somewhat colorless, with his salt–and–pepper hair and his dark–rimmed glasses.

But appearances can be deceiving. Lombardi was far from colorless.

I was — and still am — a Packers fan. Lombardi was the reason for that, but, as much as he did for the Packers, he seems to have done even more for the Redskins in 1969, laying a foundation for the franchise's future success in the 1970s and 1980s.

But even though he took a team that was unaccustomed to winning and molded it into a contender, Lombardi worried that he hadn't been as tough as he should have been. Sonny Jurgensen said that, before he was stricken with cancer, Lombardi told him he had been "too easy" on the players after taking a year off from coaching and pledged to be tougher.

In the spring of 1970, it seemed all but certain that, with Lombardi at the helm for the second year, the Redskins would be televised beyond their local viewing area. That was good news for a young Lombardi fan living in Arkansas.

And, in that spring of 1970, there was no ESPN where football fans could get offseason news, but the sports writers I read in the Arkansas Gazette in those days all seemed to feel the Redskins were poised to make a real run for the playoffs.

That was an unfamiliar feeling, even though Washington could have been in the playoffs in 1969 if the Redskins had defeated the Dallas Cowboys in their two meetings (in fact, they didn't really come close to winning either game).

The old NFL and its upstart rival, the American Football League, merged earlier in 1970, then divided into the NFC and AFC, and folks expected big things from the Redskins (who actually would have been in the running for a wild–card playoff spot in 1969 if such a thing had existed at that time).

But it was not to be. Lombardi was stricken with cancer that summer. The oncologist who treated him called it the most aggressive he had ever seen, and Lombardi died about 10 weeks after his diagnosis.

His memory is honored, of course, in the name of the trophy that is awarded annually to the team that wins the Super Bowl — a fitting tribute to the man who coached the winning team in the first two Super Bowls, even though those victories had none of the drama of the legendary "Ice Bowl."

I still remember when I heard that Lombardi was dying. It was a week night in early September 1970. My father, a college professor, had been spending the previous eight weeks taking continuing education courses in Chicago, and he was returning that night.

My mother took my brother and me, along with some family friends, to the Little Rock airport to meet his plane — only to be told at the airport that Dad had called. He had missed his flight — I think he got stuck in Chicago traffic — and was booked on another flight. He would be arriving late that evening, we were told.

So we turned around and drove back to our small hometown about 30 miles away to have some dinner and kill a few hours. I clearly remember, on that drive home, hearing reports on the radio that Lombardi was near death. And, by that time the next day, he was gone.

The year after he died, Lombardi was inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame.

After Lombardi died, one of his former players from his glory days in Green Bay, Jerry Kramer, put together a book about Lombardi that was primarily transcriptions of interviews he did with people who were influenced by the legendary coach.

He had had some experience with this kind of thing. In 1967, he kept a diary of the football season, which, as it happened, was the last season Lombardi coached the Packers. The diary was published as a book called "Instant Replay" and became a best seller.

Kramer played one more season, then retired, publishing another book titled, "Farewell to Football."

Most of the people he interviewed for his book on Lombardi were men who played for Lombardi. One was his brother. Another was a college teammate who became, along with Lombardi, one of Fordham's "Seven Blocks of Granite." Kramer also interviewed legendary Army coach Red Blaik, who hired Lombardi as an assistant coach in the late 1940s.

And the final entry came from Kramer's conversation with Sonny Jurgensen, a talented quarterback who was trying to come back from rib and elbow injuries at the age of 35 when Lombardi arrived in Washington. They had one season together.

When Jurgensen met with Kramer, he told him, "I envy you ... all you guys from Green Bay. You had him for nine years. We only had him for one — just long enough for him to educate us as to what it takes to win."

When the transcription was finished, Kramer wrote, "I think I felt sorrier for Sonny than I did for any other man affected by Vince's death. He'd waited so long to be a winner. He'd waited so long to find a Vince Lombardi."

Some people never find a Vince Lombardi, and others, like Jurgensen, don't have their Lombardi long enough.

On the surface, his lessons were about football, but they were really about life.

"If you believe in yourself and have the courage, the determination, the dedication, the competitive drive," he said, "and if you are willing to sacrifice the little things in life and pay the price for the things that are worthwhile, it can be done."

And, while there was no way he could have known it at the time, he had good advice for those people in the 21st century who find themselves in a poor economy and working at a job for which they have no passion.

"If you aren't fired with enthusiasm," Lombardi said, "you will be fired with enthusiasm."

Lombardi. His wisdom still rings true 40 years after his death.

A Short Season

---

---

When I was a boy, I did many of the things boys of my generation did.

For awhile, I was an avid collector of football and baseball cards — many of which would be quite valuable today if my well–meaning mother had not thrown them out when she was cleaning and sorting once.

As a result of my hobby, I became familiar with the names of most of the men who played professional baseball and football in those days. Even today, when one of those men dies, it triggers memories of my childhood, and I am reminded that, no matter how healthy and strong people are when they're young, eventually bodies give out with the passage of time.

A few of those men taught me the lesson of mortality when I was still a boy and they were at an age that most of us would regard as too young to die.

One such man was Brian Piccolo of the Chicago Bears.

Piccolo never became an NFL superstar. I knew his name because I had his football card. But I didn't know until well after the fact that he had been diagnosed with cancer.

What I knew of Piccolo prior to that time was what most football fans probably knew — that he was an undersized fullback and a good friend of the Bears' star halfback, Gale Sayers.

But I really knew nothing of his disease until I read a book that was written about him after he died at the age of 26 on June 16, 1970.

My grandmother knew of my fondness for reading, and she gave me a copy of the book, "A Short Season," which was written by the wife of one of his former teammates. And I remember devouring that book, reading it from cover to cover, even though I was too young to pronounce many of the medical terms — much less know what they meant.

But I knew enough about cancer to know that just about everyone who was diagnosed with cancer did not survive. Well, that was the impression I had at the time. And I guess that was understandable. Up to that point in my young life, everyone I knew who had been diagnosed with cancer had died.

And, although I knew before I read the book that Piccolo also had died, I still grieved when I got to the part of the book that described his final days.

And I grieved again when I saw the TV movie that was based on his life, "Brian's Song," starring, among others, James Caan and Billy Dee Williams. Neither Caan nor Williams were unknowns when that film was made, and I have seen both in other movies in the years since. But I always think of Piccolo whenever I see either of them.

Oh, remember what I said about a cancer diagnosis being a death sentence when I was a child? Well, I've lost some other friends to cancer since Piccolo died — but I also have some friends who fought it and won. Thankfully, the times, they are a–changing.

When Piccolo was diagnosed with embryonal cell carcinoma, the fatality rate was 100%. But, thanks in part to the work of the Brian Piccolo Cancer Research Fund, about 95% of those who are diagnosed with it can be cured.

It was a tragedy that Brian Piccolo's season was so short, but perhaps his life has served — and continues to serve — a long–lasting purpose

The Greatest Horse of All

---

---

1970 is remembered in the history books for all sorts of noteworthy events that are not remembered with any fondness — the My Lai massacre, the aborted space mission of Apollo 13, the Kent State shootings.

But 40 years ago today, a thoroughbred racehorse that is remembered by many as the greatest of all time was born.

He was Secretariat, the first horse to win racing's Triple Crown (the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness, the Belmont Stakes) in a quarter of a century. In fact, his times in the Kentucky Derby and the Belmont set records that still stand today.

I will always remember watching the Belmont in 1973 in anticipation of the first Triple Crown winner in my life. So often in the years since, a horse has entered the Belmont (also known as the "Test of the Champion" because it is the longest and final race of the Triple Crown) with wins in the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness only to go down in defeat in the Belmont.

But Secretariat did not disappoint observers on that Saturday in June. He seized control of the race early and romped to a 31–length victory, covering the 1½–mile distance in 2:24. He left no doubt in anyone's mind that he deserved to be the Triple Crown winner.

His achievement is commemorated by a statue at Belmont Park.

Because of a deal his owner made, Secretariat didn't race past the age of 3 and was retired to stud, but he never produced any offspring that came close to duplicating his accomplishments. Nevertheless, his reputation led to the sale of one of his early progeny for more than $1 million, something that had never happened before.

Secretariat's life ended in October 1989 when he was euthanized.