Montana's Second Super Bowl Victory

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I remember this day in 1985. I was working on the sports desk of the Arkansas Gazette on what is always the biggest day in sports every year — Super Bowl Sunday.

Everything else that would ordinarily demand our attention always took the night off on Super Bowl Sunday. They used to play the Super Bowl in the afternoon — until they discovered they could get a bigger TV audience by playing the game at night. So they moved it to nighttime, and since that time there have been some basketball games played in the afternoons of Super Bowl Sunday. Never very many, just a few, usually featuring big–name programs. Occasionally, sports fans have had the option of watching a hockey game or perhaps Olympic qualifying competition for skiers or skaters.

All that other stuff was usually over by the kickoff of the Super Bowl, though. We didn't have a TV in the newsroom in those days, but someone usually brought a portable TV to the office so we could watch the game. And it promised to be a good one.

It seems to me that maybe the worst thing that can happen to a professional athlete is to achieve great success very early in his career.

Because that tends to make the athlete believe that climbing that mountain is much easier than advertised, and the athlete expects to return to the championship level every year. Few athletes have made it to that level multiple times in their careers, let alone every year.

In truth, that is probably easier for athletes who participate in individual sports to accomplish than it is for those who compete in team sports.

That may have been what happened to Dan Marino, who came into the NFL as a first–round draft choice after the 1982 season. The Dolphins made it to the Super Bowl in 1982 and went 12–4 in Marino's rookie season but lost to Seattle in the divisional round of the playoffs.

In 1983, the Dolphins were 14–2 and crushed their opponents in the AFC playoffs. Waiting for them in Super Bowl XIX at Stanford Stadium in Palo Alto, California, 30 years ago today were the Joe Montana–led San Francisco 49ers.

It is important to remember that Montana was not a sure bet to be in the Hall of Fame yet. The 49ers had won the Super Bowl three years earlier, but that had been their only appearance. They were not the juggernaut that they would become, and their performance 30 years ago had a lot to do with that transformation.

Going into the game that was played three decades ago today, the 49ers were favored — but only by 3½ points.

It was billed as a showdown between Marino and Montana. Marino was everyone's MVP, having completed more than 64% of his passes (he averaged almost three dozen attempts per game) for more than 5,000 yards and four dozen touchdowns.

Marino may have thought it was all incredibly easy when the gun sounded ending the first quarter. Miami led, 10–7, thanks to Uwe von Schamann's 37–yard field goal and Marino's two–yard touchdown pass to tight end Dan Johnson. But Marino, who averaged three touchdown passes per game during the regular season, would have no more touchdown passes on this day.

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Montana and the 49ers seized the lead in the second quarter. Montana threw a touchdown pass to running back Roger Craig, then Montana ran in from six yards out, then Craig scored again.

Von Schamann kicked two field goals to cut the deficit to 28–16 at the intermission, but the Dolphins were done scoring for the day.

The 49ers got a field goal from Ray Wersching and Montana threw another touchdown pass to Craig, and it was over. The 49ers had won in convincing fashion, 38–16.

And Montana, who had not been named the MVP of the season, was named the MVP of the Super Bowl. As a two–time Super Bowl–winning quarterback, he joined an exclusive club. In a few years, he would win back–to–back Super Bowls and join an extremely exclusive club of four–time winners. So far, the only other member is Terry Bradshaw, who won his fourth Super Bowl 35 years ago today. New England's Tom Brady will be seeking to join that club a week from Sunday.

No doubt, many people believed on this day 30 years ago that Marino would soon win a Super Bowl. He might even win multiple Super Bowls in his career. He was, after all, only 23 years old, and, if he stayed healthy, he clearly had the skill.

But he never made it back to the Super Bowl. The closest he got was conference championship games following the 1985 and 1992 seasons. The Dolphins lost both.

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For the second time, the 49ers gave coach Bill Walsh a victory ride. He would get another four years later.

My Memory of Jack Buck

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"Go crazy, folks! Go crazy!"

Jack Buck
Oct. 14, 1985

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When I think of Jack Buck, the legendary St. Louis Cardinals radio announcer who died 10 years ago today, I think of an October day in 1985.

It was a Monday, and the Cardinals were playing my favorite baseball team, the Los Angeles Dodgers, in the National League Championship Series. It was an afternoon game, but that wasn't a problem for me in those days. I was working nights for a metro newspaper, and my regular days off were Monday and Tuesday.

The series was tied, two games to two, and I was looking forward to settling in to watch the game. I was anticipating it all the more because my best friend, Randy, had promised to drive to my apartment after his workday ended and watch the end of the game with me.

Randy was a Cardinals fan — still is, for that matter — and, although I wanted the Dodgers to win, I wanted the score to be close when Randy arrived. If the outcome was already decided when he got there, it would spoil the experience.

It could hardly have worked out any better. The score was 2–2 when he arrived, and the Cardinals were coming to bat in the bottom of the ninth. With one out and no one on base, St. Louis' switch–hitting shortstop Ozzie Smith came to the plate to face Los Angeles' right–handed ace reliever, Tom Niedenfuer.

Mind you, Smith was never a power hitter. He hit a few home runs in his career, but he had never hit a home run when batting on the left side of the plate, and I recall hearing Buck say something about that (whenever I have a choice between the TV and the radio for play by play of a game, I choose the radio) only seconds before Smith connected with Niedenfuer's pitch and drove it over the right–field wall.

I had listened to Buck on the radio many times in my life before that afternoon. Heck, I grew up in Conway, Ark., which was smack dab in the middle of Cardinals territory in those days (it may be different now, with other regional and broadcast options for baseball fans).

When I was a kid, if I wanted to listen to a baseball game on the radio, I could listen to the Cardinals — or no one. And the only televised games in those pre–cable days were NBC's games of the week on Saturday afternoons.

Also, the minor league club that was based in Little Rock — the Travelers — was part of the Cardinals farm organization. The Cardinal influence was all around me.

So I listened to the Cardinals games, and I associated Buck's voice with baseball on the radio on warm summer evenings. No other voice has ever sounded quite right to me for describing the action on a baseball field.

Buck's signature sentence when a Cardinals victory was assured was "That's a winner!" But he sounded emotionally drained after Smith's unexpected blast, and I could imagine him slumping in his seat and urging his listeners to "Go crazy, folks! Go crazy!"

I've heard old–time Dodger fans say that the baseball moment that broke their hearts was in 1951 when the Giants, after overcoming a seemingly insurmountable Dodger advantage in the standings to force a rare playoff, beat the Dodgers to claim a spot in the World Series.

That was before my time. My most painful baseball moment may have been that day in 1985 when Ozzie Smith drilled a walkoff home run to beat the Dodgers. Ultimately, the Cardinals won the league championship and went on to face the Kansas City Royals in the World Series.

But I was happy for Randy. And I was glad that we had shared that experience together. Other than the outcome, it was everything I could have wanted.

In the years ahead, we attended many Dodger–Cardinal games at Busch Stadium. And I always liked knowing that Jack Buck and I had watched the same game in the same place.

It's been many years since I went to a game in St. Louis, but the last one was when Buck was still alive and still calling games for the Cardinals.

Randy and I never took a radio with us when we went to a game so I never had the experience of listening to his play by play of a game I attended.

But I think the knowledge that Buck is no longer in the press box would make it difficult for me to feel the same about being at a game.

Ditka's Disgrace

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Yesterday, I wrote about the 30th anniversary of the first wild card to win a Super Bowl — and I suggested that it might have been appropriate if the Jets had won the AFC title on Sunday because that would have put two wild–card teams in this year's Super Bowl.

But it might have been more appropriate if the Chicago Bears had beaten the Green Bay Packers for the NFC title.

(That isn't an easy thing for me to say, being a lifelong Green Bay fan. But hear me out on this one.)

It was a quarter of a century ago today that the Chicago Bears played in their first Super Bowl. Their opponents were the New England Patriots — and, while it is probably hard for the current generation to believe, that was the Patriots' first Super Bowl, too.

Football fans had rarely seen two teams playing in their first Super Bowl at the same time. Granted, the most recent such game had been only a few years earlier, when the San Francisco 49ers faced the Cincinnati Bengals. But it had only happened twice before that — when Broadway Joe followed through on his famous "guarantee" in Super Bowl III and in the very first Super Bowl (when it was a sure thing that both teams were making their first appearance).

There was never a chance of a team appearing in its first Super Bowl this time. But, until Sunday, there was a chance that the Bears might be able to celebrate the 25th anniversary of their first trip to the big game with a return trip.

It wouldn't have been the Bears' first trip back to the Super Bowl since that day in January 1986. They made it back to the Super Bowl a few years ago — and lost to the Colts.

Even so, it would have made an interesting story line — not that the Super Bowl ever lacks for interesting story lines. In fact, sometimes the story lines have been better than the games themselves.

For awhile, it was even possible that the Bears and the Patriots could mark the anniversary with a rematch. But that possibility ended when the Jets defeated the Patriots in the divisional round.

It remained possible — for a week — that the Bears could observe their silver anniversary with an appearance in Dallas. The odds of that happening dwindled rapidly after Jay Cutler went down with an injury.

But, really, how could you commemorate that anniversary? It was Walter Payton's only Super Bowl after a career of toiling for mostly bad Bears teams — but he really did nothing special when he got there. He didn't even score a touchdown.

That would be understandable, I suppose, if the game had been a defensive struggle. But the only defense that struggled that day was New England's.

I felt it was disgraceful that Payton didn't score on a day when the Chicago Bears set a Super Bowl scoring record with 46 points.

I guess you could call Payton the consummate professional. While no one could have known that Super Bowl XX would be his only Super Bowl, he had been in the NFL for a decade, and that is a long time for a running back.

Seems to me that any reasonable football fan would have to at least suspect that it would be his only one. And, in fact, Payton only played two more seasons after he went to the Super Bowl. The Bears made the playoffs both years, but they were one and done both times and Payton never scored a touchdown in either of his last two playoff games.

He should have scored a touchdown in Super Bowl XX.

The Bears were deep in New England territory late in the third quarter. Realistically, the game had been over for a long time. Chicago led New England, 37–3.

With the ball at New England's 1–yard line and what amounted to a five–touchdown lead, the Bears were imposing their will. But instead of calling for quarterback Jim McMahon to give it to Payton, coach Mike Ditka chose to go with the novelty act he had unveiled earlier in the season in a Monday night game — in which 300–pound defensive lineman William "The Refrigerator" Perry came in, took the handoff and made his roly–poly way into the end zone.

For a time there in the mid–1980s, the "Fridge," as he was known, became something of a cult hero.

But not to me.

I felt it was shameful that someone like Payton was denied the satisfaction of finally scoring in a Super Bowl. His team was about to do something no team had done before — exceed 40 points in a Super Bowl — and Payton's touchdown would have been the one that made that a reality.

Ditka told a Payton biographer that Payton was the greatest football player he ever saw but an even better human being.

It was too bad he didn't give him the ball from a yard out and let him get his name in the Super Bowl history books for doing more than averaging 2.8 yards per carry that day.

Payton achieved many things in his life, which ended far too soon. He was inducted into the Hall of Fame several years before his death. He ran for more than 100 touchdowns in his professional career, but he refused to celebrate when he scored; he just handed the ball to an official or a teammate and went back to the sideline in his quiet, low–key way.

He was over 30 when he got to the Super Bowl. He had given everything he could to help the Bears get there. He ran for more than 1,500 yards that season but stood back and allowed the others to take the credit.

There were many stars on that team, to be sure. And most of them were given their moment in the spotlight.

But not Payton.

The Notorious Blown Call

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I will always remember the night of Saturday, Oct. 26, 1985.

I was working on the sports copy desk of the Arkansas Gazette in Little Rock. Football season was two months old, and I had been working there long enough to know that Fridays and Saturdays in the fall meant everyone on the sports staff had to be in the office to handle the workload.

Football season was — and is — serious business in Arkansas. High school. College. The pros. All of it.

The University of Arkansas' Razorbacks, of course, were — as they are today — at the center of attention, but every high school in the state had its rabid followers for whom every Friday night in the fall was a life–and–death situation. And the pros — mostly the Cowboys when I was growing up — had plenty of devotees.

The Gazette's longtime sports editor, Orville Henry, was widely credited with saving the paper in the late 1950s when readers were leaving it over its series of Pulitzer Prize–winning editorials supporting the integration of Little Rock Central High School.

How did he do that? By promising that, during football season, the Gazette would have, in the Saturday morning papers, the scores from every football game involving every high school in the state that fielded a football team.

The Gazette, you see, served the entire state, and most of its sports readers, whether they lived in Little Rock or its neighboring counties or any of the 75 counties within Arkansas' borders, cared about high school football. But the paper had multiple deadlines each night, and the edition that went out to the far corners of the state went to press long before any night games had ended. Those readers — in places like Fayetteville and Blytheville and Texarkana and points in between — didn't expect to get the football scores in their Saturday morning papers.

But the edition that went out to the neighboring counties in central Arkansas went to press around 11 at night, and the city edition went to press around 12:30, so there were plenty of readers who did expect to see those scores in the paper that was delivered to their doorsteps on Saturday mornings.

And everyone on the sports staff had to stay in the office until we had scores for every game. As the hours went by, staffers were calling anyone they could think of from areas where we hadn't heard a score — a principal, a teacher, the county sheriff.

Many times, we published scores based on something as iffy as "Well, I think the score was ..." I'm sure we got it wrong sometimes. But, in all the years I worked there, we always had a score, whether it was right or wrong, for every game when the city edition went to bed on Friday nights.

There were — and, I presume, still are, although there was considerable consternation over the possibility of school consolidation at the time I left — many tiny, rural high schools all across the state. And it could be quite challenging at times to get their scores.

I was there for four football seasons, and I remember nights when we were in the office until nearly 3 in the morning trying to track down the score from a single football game.

I guess it goes without saying that, on many Saturdays, the sports staff was dragging.

I don't remember if Friday, Oct. 25, 1985, was such a night. It may well have been one of those (comparably rare) football Friday nights when everything went smoothly and we managed to put the paper to bed at what was a normal time for us. But, for those of us in the sports department, it was a time of year when things were complicated by the World Series.

And the sixth game of the World Series was to be played that Saturday night. The teams that were playing were the Kansas City Royals and the St. Louis Cardinals in what was known as the "I–70 Series" — in honor of the highway that directly connects the two cities.

With both of the teams coming from cities in the state the bordered Arkansas to the north, it should be obvious that there was a distinctly regional flavor to that year's World Series.

When I was growing up, central Arkansas was Cardinal country, and that tradition was alive and well in the Gazette newsroom in 1985. Lots of people, whether they worked on the sports side or not, were openly pulling for the Cardinals.

But there was no TV in the newsroom in those days — so many folks who had to work at night (usually that was almost exclusively the copy desk, but there were some reporters who wrote at night) had to listen to the radio at their desks if they wanted to know the score in that pre–internet world.

The Cardinals led the Royals, three games to two, when the Series returned to Kansas City, and St. Louis was on the brink of winning its second world title in four years. One of the guys on the sports copy desk brought a TV to the newsroom that night so we could watch the game while we worked.

And it was about the most dramatic World Series game I have ever seen.

It started as a pitchers' duel. Neither team scored until the Cardinals managed to score a run in the top of the eighth, and it looked like they were on their way. But, in the bottom of the ninth, trailing by a run, the Royals scored two runs, thanks to a blown call at first base by umpire Don Denkinger.

I guess it is possible that the Royals might have scored two runs in their half of the ninth even if Denkinger had made the right call. But it would have been a lot more difficult to achieve.

Replays from every angle clearly confirmed that Denkinger had made the wrong call, but he stubbornly refused to reverse himself and there was no mechanism in place for overturning an umpire's call through the use of instant replay. The call stood; the Royals rallied for an improbable victory and forced the decisive Game 7 the next night.

Except for football, major team sports championships are decided in a best–of–seven playoff series. When they happen, Game 7s are often dramatic events, reflecting the even split of the previous six games.

But there was nothing terribly dramatic about Game 7 of the 1985 World Series.

Maybe the Cardinals were shell–shocked, having come so tantalizingly close to winning the World Series only to have it snatched away from them by something that was beyond their control.

Whatever it was, the Cardinals, who had looked unbeatable on the eve of their series with their meek sister from western Missouri, couldn't scratch out a single run in the finale. Their manager, Whitey Herzog, and their pitcher, Joaquin Andujar, were ejected from the game, and Kansas City won a blowout, 11–0.

Compared to the previous night, it was anticlimactic.