Closing the Deal

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"They can quit playing now. They have played the perfect game."

Dave Kindred
Louisville Courier–Journal

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It's different with every Heisman Trophy winner.

Sometimes, guys go into seasons as the clear favorites to win it — and they don't get hurt and they don't have more than one or two really bad games and, when they receive the Heisman in December, it seems to have been preordained.

Other times, Heismans are won primarily on the basis of one or two explosive performances — whether those performances came in the Heisman–winning season or not, whether they were representative of the player's skills or not.

Sometimes you're not so sure.

Nebraska's Johnny Rodgers, it always seemed to me, may have secured the next season's Heisman on this day 40 years ago.

The 1971 Heisman was given to Auburn senior Pat Sullivan, an Academic All–American who graduated with a degree in business administration — in addition to setting all kinds of records at the quarterback position.

That decision had already been made by this time in 1971 — even though Rodgers, with an electrifying performance, had not yet sparked the #1 Cornhuskers to a victory of legendary proportions over #2 Oklahoma and Sullivan's Tigers had not yet lost to Alabama by the convincing score of 31–7 after the announcement had been made.

Sullivan's senior status — and academic credentials — were just enough to edge out Cornell's Ed Marinaro, the Ivy League's first legitimate Heisman contender in years.

And if anyone even mentioned giving Rodgers the trophy in 1971, he was probably talked out of it rather quickly — perhaps because Sullivan would have no other opportunities to win the Heisman and Rodgers would, perhaps because Rodgers was a convicted felon (and no convicted felon had won the Heisman before).

It wasn't because no one knew who Rodgers was.

He had been making contributions to the team's success all season — but Nebraska's Heisman contender in 1971 was quarterback Jerry Tagge (and he finished seventh). There were also a couple of OU players who had support in the Heisman balloting — halfback Greg Pruitt, who finished a distant third, and quarterback Jack Mildren, who finished sixth.

Anyway, what happened 40 years ago today had no influence on the Heisman balloting. In a procedure that differs dramatically from the one with which modern football fans are familiar, the winner was announced the day before Nebraska and Oklahoma played each other, and the trophy was presented to Sullivan nine days later.

And history tells us that Rodgers' Cornhuskers beat the second–ranked Sooners that day in a game that, 40 years later, folks who are old enough to remember it — and even folks who hadn't been born yet when the game was played — speak of it in hushed tones.

But Rodgers' early punt return was widely seen as the decisive play on that Thanksgiving afternoon, and it is hard for me to believe that Rodgers did not think, when he left the field that day, that he had just closed the deal on the next season's Heisman Trophy.

Lighting Up the Night

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If you've been watching the baseball playoffs, you have undoubtedly seen several games played at night — even some that weren't intended to be at night but slipped into prime time thanks to rain delays.

Night games are routine — in both regular season and postseason play — now.

But it was done for the first time in the World Series 40 years ago today.

Night games weren't new in 1971. Major league baseball had been playing night games since 1935, and the first night All–Star game was played in 1943, but postseason games continued to be played during daylight hours.

Then, on this night in 1971, everything changed. The lights came on in Pittsburgh, and baseball fans across the nation watched the World Series in prime time.

Baseball continued to play some World Series games during the day — primarily the games that were played on Saturdays and Sundays — but, by 1987, every World Series game was played under the lights.

Thus, a modern baseball fan under the age of 30 probably would have no memory of a time when some World Series games were played during the day — as they were when Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth and Mickey Mantle played the game.

While it has meant greater access to the games for more people, I always felt something was lost when they stopped playing World Series games during the day.

I remember when I was in elementary school, and my friends and I were very interested in the World Series that was being played. The Series was between two baseball powerhouses of that time, the Baltimore Orioles and the Cincinnati Reds, and my friends and I were following it as closely as we could, but the weekday games were all in the afternoons — when we were in school.

Our principal must have been a baseball fan because he sympathized with us and told us we could watch the games on the TV that was in the cafeteria as long as we remained silent and did not chatter among ourselves. We were on our best behavior, and we got to watch the games — while our classmates spent those afternoons in the dull pursuits we baseball followers had escaped. It was a delicious feeling — like being allowed to play hookey with the principal's blessing.

Perhaps he was the one who monitored us during the games. I don't recall. I only remember that I was totally engrossed in watching future Hall of Famers Brooks Robinson (a local hero, having come from nearby Little Rock) and Frank Robinson lead the Orioles against Pete Rose, Johnny Bench and the Big Red Machine.

As long as I can remember, there has been something special about the sight of a baseball field bathed in sunshine — even if your lungs couldn't relish the smell of the dirt and the freshly cut grass.

The picture in my mind from that World Series is of sun–drenched fields, even though the games were being played in northern cities, and crisp baseball uniforms. Well, it seemed that way on a black–and–white TV.

It is a cherished memory and experience for me — the kind of pleasure 21st century boys will never know. Too bad.

Oh, and just for the record.

Pittsburgh beat Baltimore in that first World Series night game.

A Starry Night

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If you have ever watched a major league baseball all–star game (including the one that was played last night), you are sure to have seen the clip of Pete Rose ripping into Ray Fosse like a chainsaw to score the winning run in the 12th inning of the 1970 All–Star Game.

I remember watching that game. I was heavily into baseball card collecting in those days, but, with the exception of Saturday afternoon baseball broadcasts and the playoffs, I seldom saw a major league game.

I remember listening to St. Louis Cardinals games on the radio when I was a child (and picturing in my mind the faraway stadiums in faraway cities), but nearly all of the pro ball games I saw in person before my teenage years were played by the minor league team that was based in Little Rock.

Cable began to change all that a decade or so later, but the All–Star Game was always a big deal to me when I was growing up. No matter how infrequently I saw major league games, I always knew that the guys playing in the All–Star Game were all but certain to wind up in the Hall of Fame.

The teams that met in Detroit's Tiger Stadium 40 years ago tonight were loaded with guys who were destined for Cooperstown. Eleven of the guys on the National League roster, and nine players on the American League roster have made it so far.

One of those players was Reggie Jackson, who was playing for the Oakland Athletics in those days. He didn't start that All–Star Game, but he came in after a few innings and, in the third inning, he hit a home run that propelled the American League to its only All–Star victory between 1962 and 1982.

Every run in the American League's 6–4 triumph scored on home runs that came from the bat of a future Hall of Famer. Other than that, there was nothing especially noteworthy about them — except for Jackson's. It was a towering shot that covered more than 500 feet — and might well have gone farther had it not hit some lights.

I was reminded of that home run several years later when I saw nearly the same thing (albeit with quite a bit more of a pyrotechnic effect) dramatized in the film "The Natural."

(The other future Hall of Famers who drilled homers in that game — setting an All–Star Game record for home runs by both teams that still stands, I believe — were Johnny Bench, Hank Aaron, Frank Robinson, Harmon Killebrew and Roberto Clemente.)

There were other things that made the '71 Midsummer Classic memorable.

For one thing, it was the last All–Star Game ever played at historic Tiger Stadium. When the All–Star Game returned to Detroit in 2005, the Tigers were playing in a different facility.

It was also the last time Clemente appeared in an All–Star Game. An All–Star selection 15 times in his magnificent career, Clemente actually was chosen again in 1972 but was injured at the time of the game and unable to play.

He died a few months later in a plane crash while taking relief supplies to earthquake victims in Nicaragua.

Clemente's solo home run in the top of the eighth was the last run scored in the 1971 All–Star Game — and Clemente's final All–Star at–bat.

I suppose it foreshadowed, in a way, the conclusion of his regular–season career a year later. On the last day of the 1972 season, in his last at–bat, Clemente got his 3,000th hit.

When the Bucks Didn't Stop

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With the exception of the folks who live there, most people don't seem to be paying much attention to the 40th anniversary of Milwaukee's only NBA championship.

But it's worth thinking about as the NBA careens toward what would have been thought to be an unlikely championship series when the season began — no matter what the pairing may eventually turn out to be.

Later today, the Dallas Mavericks, who have had all week to savor a four–game sweep of the two–time defending champion Lakers in the second round, will learn whether they will face Oklahoma City (formerly the Seattle SuperSonics) or Memphis (originally a 1995 expansion team) in the Western finals.

Those three franchises have precisely one title between them — and, if Memphis defeats Oklahoma City today, it will be certain that the representative of the Lakers' conference will be seeking its first league championship.

The same can't be said of the championship series in the East that is slated to begin tonight after the Oklahoma City–Memphis game concludes. Both of the teams in that series — Miami and Chicago — have won NBA titles. Miami beat Dallas five years ago, and, as for Chicago, well, surely you remember the Bulls' dominance of the 1990s.

(I don't really have to recite the story of Michael Jordan for you, do I?)

I'm not a devoted follower of the NBA. In fact, I seldom get interested in professional basketball until things get to this stage. So I could be all wrong about this. But my guess is that the winner of the East is going to be the favorite heading into the championship series, no matter who wins the West.

To mildly misquote a phrase from Bob Dylan, though, I would not feel so overwhelmed. There might be some good karma for the winner of the West — especially if it turns out to be Dallas.

Forty years ago this spring, the Milwaukee Bucks (who had only been in existence for three years) won their first and only NBA title.

Many things were different then. The NBA, like all professional sports leagues, was much smaller; so, too, was its playoff field.

Kareem Abdul–Jabbar was on that Milwaukee team. But, although practically no one ever mentions it anymore, that wasn't his name at the time.

In the 1970–1971 season, he had not yet converted to Islam — and he was still known by the name he played under at UCLA — Lew Alcindor. He was definitely a dominant player, just as he had been in college, and he won Rookie of the Year the season before when he led the Bucks to a 29–win turnaround (the most impressive in league history to that point) and nearly took them to the NBA Finals.

The Bucks won it all the following season, but I always felt they did so not because of Alcindor but because they acquired Oscar Robertson — and took some of the pressure off Alcindor.

I was in elementary school that spring. There were few hockey or basketball teams in my part of the country in those days. Baseball (particularly the St. Louis Cardinals) usually grabbed everyone's attention until the football teams began their conditioning drills for the fall.

That spring, though, all eyes in my little town were on the NBA and Lew Alcindor. My memory of that time is that he drew most of the attention — and that was as it should be, I suppose. He did win the MVP award for the championship series.

But what so many people forget is how Robertson — long before the three–point shot — piled up more than 20 points in the first half of Game 4 and staked Milwaukee to a lead over Baltimore that it never relinquished.

Afterward, the Milwaukee coach said Robertson had been "unbelievable" on that day, and he had been.

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No one could have matched Willis Reed's gutsy performance in Game 7 of the previous year's final series — but Robertson came close, clearly finishing off the Bullets that day.

The game, as I remember, was all but over by halftime. The second half was a mere formality.

Remember what I said about that karma stuff and the Dallas Mavericks? Well, I was thinking about the fact that, 40 years ago, the Bucks had to beat the Lakers to get to the NBA Finals.

Dallas has already topped the '71 Bucks with its victory over L.A. The Mavericks swept the Lakers in four games; the Bucks went 4–1 against the Lakers (but they did have to face Wilt Chamberlain).

In those days, the Lakers hadn't won an NBA title since long before they left Minneapolis in the early 1960s. They were considered competitive but hardly formidable, always a bridesmaid but never a bride.

They certainly didn't carry the aura of a two–time defending champion.

Perhaps their victory over the Lakers will propel the Mavs to their first NBA title — just as it did for the Bucks 40 years ago.

The Fight of the Century

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Forty years ago tonight, Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali met in the much–anticipated "Fight of the Century."

Technically, I guess you could call it the first "Fight of the Century" — at least in my lifetime.

There have been other fights that have been known as the "Fight of the Century" — the 1910 bout between Jack Johnson and James Jefferies was known by that name, and so was the 1938 fight between Joe Louis and Max Schmeling — but most modern fight fans would tell you it can only apply to a showdown between Ali and Frazier.

Ali and Frazier met three times in the 1970s, and their first bout was on March 8, 1971. I guess some folks would say it was the best of the three — but, to reach that conclusion (when the third fight was the famous "Thrilla in Manila"), one was required (practically) to be pro–Frazier and/or anti–Ali.

It was, after all, the only one of the three fights that Frazier won.

It was an epic showdown. Both men were undefeated as professional fighters. Frazier was the defending champion. Ali was a former champion.

In 1971, though, if one was pulling for Frazier, it said more about that person's politics — specifically, one's position on Vietnam — than anything else. It was as telling as the length of one's hair or the style of one's clothes.

Ali had served a suspension from pro boxing in the very prime of his career for refusing to serve in the military during the war. He had been stripped of his title in April 1967 and then allowed to return to pro boxing in October 1970.

Frazier, on the other hand, was a darling of the pro–war elements in American politics in those days. He said that he didn't serve in the military because he was a father, but he would have no problem serving if called upon to do so.

Before he retired from boxing, Ali became the first man to win the heavyweight championship three separate times. He is considered by most boxing observers to be one of the greatest heavyweights — if not the greatest — of all time.

But, in 1971, he was really no more significant than any other man who had held the heavyweight title at one time — just more flamboyant than most, certainly more controversial than most. He had fought twice since 1967, and he was being thrust into the ring to face the defending heavyweight champion, a fighter who was known to be a punishing puncher.

It was often suggested that he hadn't had enough time to get into peak condition for a shot at the title. That was a fair assessment, I suppose.

It certainly was better than many of the things I heard people say about Ali at the time, that's for sure.

Perhaps no challenger up to that time had been as reviled as Ali. I've heard that Johnson, the first black heavyweight champion, took a lot of abuse while he held the title (but not, I believe, before that time) whereas Ali was always a lightning rod, whether he was the champion or the challenger.

Whether his surname was the one he chose (Ali) or the one to which he was born (Clay).

In 1971, there was a lot of residual anger directed at him from those who supported the war in Vietnam — and resented it when Ali refused to be drafted into service.

In hindsight, I guess the irony is that even those who opposed the war weren't necessarily supporting Ali. My mother, for example, was strongly opposed to the war, but she didn't particularly care for Ali, either.

She was a supporter of civil rights, though, so I'm sure she sympathized when Ali said, "I ain't got no quarrel with the Viet Cong. No Viet Cong ever called me nigger."

As I recall, Frazier said nothing that was in the least bit incendiary — which was a big part of his appeal to conservative Americans.

I guess the Vietnam angle spilled over into other areas. Although both men were black, Ali was something of a champion in the black community — whereas Frazier was often seen as the "white man's champion."

Tickets to the fight sold for $150 — a figure that, as Tim Dahlberg of the Associated Press remembers, was an "astonishing sum" at a time when the minimum hourly wage in America was $1.60.

There was no pay–per–view in those days. For those who were willing to part with the cash, one could see what was called "closed–circuit" coverage of a big fight at selected movie theaters. And there was no bigger event in the boxing world than Ali–Frazier I.

I don't know what tickets to closed–circuit venues went for in those days, but it was simply out of the question for me. I wanted to see the fight, but I just couldn't.

Years later, I finally saw a tape of it, a tape that included the pre–fight stuff that the people who bought the closed–circuit tickets saw that evening. Fight Night brought all the celebrities and publicity hounds to Madison Square Garden, the folks who cared more about being seen than what they were seeing — even if what they were seeing was historic — and the paparazzi of the day were only too happy to oblige.

I remember that night vividly. There was radio coverage — but each round description was broadcast after a delay, and the fact that it was delayed was announced before each round began (I always assumed that was to discourage gambling) — and I remember reclining on my parents' bed and listening on the radio in their bedroom to the announcers' descriptions of Ali and Frazier trading blows.

It was a chilly night, and, at one point, my mother, who had been listening to the fight with my brother and me, suggested that she fix mugs of hot chocolate for us. The image of the three of us sitting around that radio and the memory of that warm, chocolatey liquid insulating me against that early March evening while I listened to the fight will always be with me.

That's one of the things about my memory of that evening that is so special for me now. Mom enjoyed some sports, but she had no real interest in boxing — and, as I said, she wasn't too keen on Ali, either. On that evening, though, she listened to the radio broadcast with my brother and me — and she talked about it with us. Not because it mattered to her, but because it mattered to us.

When we started listening to the fight, I just knew we were in it for the long haul. Maybe boxing fans who were brought up during the Mike Tyson era can't understand, but Ali and Frazier always gave fans their money's worth. No first– or second–round knockouts whenever these guys were in the ring together.

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I guess the trend was established 40 years ago tonight. Ali and Frazier went the distance, 15 rounds, before Frazier was declared the winner by unanimous decision.

The speculation by the radio announcers was that Ali was trailing on the judges' scorecards as the men began that 15th round, and he probably needed a knockout — or at least a couple of knockdowns — to prevail. The men had been about even through the first 11 rounds, they said, but Frazier seemed to seize control with a shot late in the 11th round that might have knocked Ali down if not for the ropes that caught him and kept him on his feet.

As I listened to the final round, it occurred to me that it was already over and both Ali and Frazier, as well as all the folks who were in Madison Square Garden that night, knew the outcome. But I didn't. Not yet.

About 30 seconds into that 15th round, Ali was knocked down for what may have been the first time in his boxing career, pro or amateur. Already viewed by many as arrogant, he had come into the fight with red tassles dangling from each ankle, almost defying Frazier to knock him off his feet. The sight of those tassles briefly occupying the area where Ali's face had been must have seemed like justification to his detractors.

I can't describe the sound of the announcers as they reported the blow Frazier had delivered and how it knocked a startled Ali on his back. There was an excitement in their voices that I had never heard before.

It was many years before I saw a tape of the fight, but when I saw Ali knocked on his back and those tassles flying wildly in the air, it looked exactly as I had always pictured it. Frazier, who sometimes seemed to be dragging in the late stages of the fight, appeared to be revived by that and hammered away at Ali following a mandatory eight–count, landing a punch midway through the round that should have dropped Ali to the canvas again.

Ali didn't go down again, but the damage had been done — in more ways than one. Both men went to the hospital after the fight — there were even rumors, for a time, that Frazier had died. Ali swore that he would retire from boxing if those rumors turned out to be true.

Fortunately, they were not.

As a child, I always felt that Frazier and Ali really didn't like each other. Ali was constantly calling Frazier names and suggesting that Frazier wasn't very smart, and "Smokin' Joe" really seemed to smolder whenever Ali spoke to him in public.

A couple of decades later, when NBC brought the two of them together to watch a tape of the fight and reflect on that event, the two men seemed to patch things up. Ali, who had been diagnosed with Parkinson's disease several years earlier, said it had all been in fun, and Frazier said there were no hard feelings.

Neither was there any doubt who won the fight.

George Willis writes in the New York Post that Ali eventually admitted that Frazier had been the better fighter that night.

"I watched the fight over and over trying to find excuses, saying they robbed me or didn't like me because of this or that," Ali said, "but I watched the fight, and the first fight he did win."

The Stupor Bowl

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In the early years of the Super Bowl, the winner tended to be known pretty early in the game.

Sometimes the score alone told you how lopsided the game had been. Sometimes the score appeared to be competitive, but if you had watched the game, you knew how deceptive that kind of appearance could be.

Super Bowl V, which was played between the Baltimore Colts and the Dallas Cowboys on this day in Miami 40 years ago, went right down to the wire.

I don't remember if I knew the Super Bowl would be played that day. I probably did. I was collecting football cards in those days, and I may have known.

But if I did know it was Super Bowl Sunday, I probably expected to watch the game with my father and maybe a few of the neighborhood kids, with whom I recall playing a game of touch football on our country road upon my family's return from church.

In those days, Super Bowls, like more than 90% of pro football games at that time, were played during the daylight hours. I don't remember what time the game began, but you can tell, in the attached clip, that the sun was shining brightly when Jim O'Brien's last–second field goal won the game for Baltimore so my best guess is that the game must have kicked off around 1 or 2 p.m. Central time.

My father was a college professor, and on that day, some of his students came over. In hindsight, I can only presume that my parents invited them over. My father had recently purchased a color television, and I guess he wanted to show it off a little.

At the time, though, I'm not sure what I thought. My brother and I were acquainted with many of my father's students. They had been to our home before to help my father landscape our property.

My father taught religion which required him to be ordained; as such, he sometimes performed the marriage ceremonies for his students, and it seems to me that perhaps one or two of the couples he married were there that day.

Perhaps my mother served snacks to the visitors, but I have no memory of that. I certainly don't remember anything like a party, just a group of people gathered in our living room to watch the football game. It wasn't a terribly large living room, either.

The neighborhood kids and I joined my parents and the guests to watch the game, which was sloppy but close. How sloppy was it? The two teams combined for nearly a dozen turnovers, setting a Super Bowl record. Seven of those turnovers were made by the winning team, setting a record for a winning squad. The Cowboys committed 10 penalties, yet another record.

Most of the time, the Super Bowl MVP award goes to an offensive player — often a quarterback although it has sometimes gone to a running back or a wide receiver. In fact, the first four Super Bowl MVPs were all quarterbacks.

But Super Bowl V was an exception. It was the first of only seven times that a defensive player won the award.

And it is the only time that a member of the losing team won the award.

Maybe that's the real penalty you pay for committing seven turnovers and still winning the game. You must forfeit the MVP. But the truth was that no one on the Colts, not even the great Johnny Unitas, played well enough to be recognized as the most valuable player.

Not surprisingly, some folks dubbed the game the "Stupor Bowl."

Mom might well have served something that afternoon. She often entertained guests in our home and frequently served things she had prepared herself. I was particularly fond of mini–meatballs she made and served in a kind of barbecue sauce.

Cooking was just one of her many talents — but that's another story.

I can't say that I remember if there were any such snacks in the house that afternoon. If there were, I probably gave them no more thought than I did on any other occasion when there were people in the house.

And, in four decades, I can't really say I've given much more thought than that to Super Bowl V. Today, I remember only two things clearly about that game — Jim O'Brien's last–second, game–winning field goal from a rather pedestrian distance of 32 yards, and the Cowboys and Colts swarming after a loose football that kept squirting away from everyone in a play that looked more like a slapstick routine than a clip from a champioinship game.

As I understand it, the Colts' Bubba Smith still refuses to wear the ring he won that day because he was so embarrassed by the team's performance. It's the only Super Bowl ring he won during his playing days, but he won't wear it. I doubt that anyone has argued with him about it. He's a big man. Maybe they'll slip the ring on his finger when they're about to bury him.

And Chuck Howley, the only man from a losing team (so far) to win a Super Bowl MVP award, turned it down. I don't know what they'll do with that after Howley passes.

The Longest Day

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Christmas is one of those holidays — like Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July — that inspires memories, both great and awful, that seem to follow you as long as you live.

When you get right down to it, Christmas is just another day on the calendar. It's great for some, not so great for others.

But whatever happens on that day seems to take on more significance, simply because it is Christmas Day. Whatever happens on this day definitely does not stay on this day. It lives on in memory, and its details become, if anything, sharper with age.

Depending upon who you are, I guess, Christmas 1971 was just such a day.

It was, as I recall, the first of three consecutive Christmases my family spent at South Padre Island, Texas.

Ordinarily, we spent Christmas with my grandparents in Dallas, but, by Christmas 1971, my parents were in the mood to hit the road. They had purchased a popup camper (much like the one you can see at the right) a few years earlier, and we had taken it on family trips in the spring and summer.

(Actually, that picture is a pretty fair representation of the camper we had, except that the bottom part wasn't white, it was green. Frankly, I never thought it was a very attractive shade of green, either, but my mother really liked it. She dubbed the camper the "Big, Bright Green Pleasure Machine" after a Simon & Garfunkel tune.)

In December 1971, we took it about as far south as you can go in Texas and set up our campsite at a campground not far from the beach. It was, as I remember, a couple of days before Christmas when we arrived.

The weather was gorgeous for late December, which wasn't unusual in Port Isabel, Texas. That certainly hasn't changed. Even after it cooled off here in north Texas late this week, it stayed in the 70s in Port Isabel. Temperatures there might dip into the mid–60s today, but I'm sure that still sounds pretty good to many Americans right now.

It was probably like that 39 years ago. I don't remember if I even knew what the temperature was that Christmas. All I remember is that it was warm and sunny.

Just another Bethlehem–like day slightly north of the border.

The campground actually had a putt–putt golf course that campers could play for free. All you had to do was go by the office and get a putter and a ball. It didn't take me long to make a friend and spend hours playing miniature golf with him in the warm south Texas sun.

Anyway, when Christmas arrived, we did our family Christmas in that camper. It was kind of cramped in there for much Christmas festivity for a family of four with a dog so when the gifts had been exchanged and all the rituals had been observed, I exited the camper and hooked up with my new friend to play some miniature golf.

I don't know how long we played. We never kept score, we just putted until we both got our balls in the hole, then we proceeded to the next hole, and we could do that for hours. (It really is amazing how much energy you have when you're a child — and how oblivious you are to extremes in temperature.)

Anyway, at some point, we returned to the campground office, perhaps to turn in our putters and balls for the day.

And I recall that most of the men from the campground — workers and campers alike — had gathered there to watch the AFC playoff game between the Miami Dolphins and the Kansas City Chiefs.

I'm sure no one realized it at the time, but a new order was emerging in professional football.

People seldom seem to recognize such transitions for what they are at the time. It is only with the benefit of hindsight — and a certain amount of distance — that most can see things clearly.

Up to that time, the dominant teams in the AFC were probably the Chiefs, Raiders and Jets, all charter members of the old American Football League. The Colts (still in Baltimore at that time) had just won the first Super Bowl to be played following the NFL–AFL merger, and they had done so as members of the AFC, but the Colts were NFL refugees. They had no history against the AFL — other than their upset loss to the New York Jets in Super Bowl III in January 1969.

By 1971, the Chiefs had been to as many Super Bowls as the Packers and the Colts — and they had won as many, too. The Dolphins, meanwhile, had never been to one before. In fact, they were making only their second–ever playoff appearance that Christmas Day — but they were doing so with the Colts' former coach, Don Shula, and he knew something about getting to the Super Bowl, as he demonstrated that year.

I don't remember what the point spread was, but I'm sure the Chiefs must have been heavy favorites.

And they got off to a fast start. Jan Stenerud nailed a field goal and Ed Podolak scored a touchdown, and Kansas City had a 10–0 lead when the first quarter ended. But Miami rallied with a Larry Csonka touchdown and a Garo Yepremian field goal in the second period, and the score was tied, 10–10, at intermission.

My friend and I, being normal boys who couldn't understand why anyone would stay indoors when it was warm and sunny outside, didn't spend much time in the office until after the sun went down that day. We popped in for a drink of water — and a score update — from time to time, and we heard that the teams traded touchdowns in the third and fourth quarters, and the game went to overtime with the score tied, 24–24.

By that time, if my memory serves me, the sun had gone down, and we remained in the office with our fathers, who were engrossed in the game — so engrossed, in fact, that many of the men remained in the office even after their children came to tell them that dinner was ready back at their campsites.

I recall that my own father was among those who resisted the calls from their wives.

It really seemed the Chiefs were going to put an end to things early in overtime, but the Dolphins blocked what would have been the game–winning field goal, and the defenses, who must have been wearing down, dominated things through the first overtime period ...

... and into the second.

All anyone had to do to win was to score — any kind of score would do, even a safety, and, finally, someone did score. After more than 82 minutes, Yepremian kicked a field goal with 7:40 showing on the clock in the second overtime period, and the Dolphins advanced to the AFC Championship game.

It remains the longest professional football game ever played.

No one knew it at the time, but that was the last time anyone would see Kansas City in the playoffs for more than a decade, and it would be two decades before the Chiefs would win in the postseason. Miami, on the other hand, was about to go to the first of three consecutive Super Bowls. In all, the Dolphins have been in five Super Bowls since that Christmas Day 39 years ago. The Chiefs haven't been to any.

No one knew that on this day 39 years ago, but everyone did know it was the last time the Chiefs would play in Municipal Stadium. The Chiefs were scheduled to begin playing in Arrowhead Stadium the next year so when their 1971 season ended, so, too, did Municipal's existence.

In addition to serving as the home to the Chiefs' two Super Bowl teams, Municipal hosted Kansas City's baseball teams — the American League's Athletics (before they moved to California) and the Royals in their early years, the Negro Leagues' Monarchs, the minor leagues' Blues — for half a century.

The times they were indeed a–changin'. But no one seemed to know it.

Not yet.