SLINGIN'

SAM

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 SLINGIN’ THE LIFE AND TIMES

O F T H E G R E AT E S T

Q UA RT E R B AC K E V E R

TO P L AY T H E G A M E

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 SAM BY JOE HOLLEY
FOREWORD BY

Peyton Manning

UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS PRESS AUSTIN

TIN

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 Publication of this book was aided by the
generous support of Cathy and Dwight Thompson.

Copyright © 2012 by the University of Texas Press

All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
First edition, 2012

Requests for permission to reproduce material from this work should be sent to:
Permissions
University of Texas Press
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www.utexas.edu/utpress/about/bpermission.html

∞ The paper used in this book meets the minimum requirements of ANSI/NISO
Z39.48-1992 (R1997) (Permanence of Paper).

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING -IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Holley, Joe.
Slingin’ Sam : the life and times of the greatest quarterback ever to play the game /
by Joe Holley ; foreword by Peyton Manning.
p.cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-292-71985-9 (hardback) — ISBN 978-0-292-74213-0 (e-book)
1. Baugh, Sam, 1914–20082. Football players—United States—Biography.
3. Quarterbacks (Football)—United States—Biography.I. Title.
GV939.B39H652012
796.332092—dc23
[B]
2012013003

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 In memory of my
dad, H. M. Holley,
who introduced my
brothers and me to
Slingin’ Sam

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 CONTENTS

FOREWORD by Peyton Manning ix

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS xiii
PR O LO G U E xv

INTRODUCTION 1
CHAPTER 1. Sam Baugh
The Beginning 10
C H A P T E R 2 . Dutch Meyer

Short, Safe, Sure 24

CHAPTER 3. 1934

The Baugh Era at TCU Begins 37

C H A P T E R 4 . 1935

That Championship Season 44

C H A P T E R 5. George Preston Marshall

Football Impresario 59
C H A P T E R 6. Marshall’s Redskins

Boston Born but D.C. Bound 68

C H A P T E R 7. 1936

Baugh’s Senior Year at TCU 80

C H A P T E R 8. 1937

Slingin’ Sam Chooses a Career 90

C H A P T E R 9. The 1937 Season

Baugh and the Redskins Debut in Washington 109

CHAPTER 10. The 1937 NFL Championship

Slaying the Monsters of the Midway 125

C H A P T E R 1 1 . Cardinal Sam?

Baugh Tries the Major Leagues 137

C H A P T E R 1 2 . The 1938 and 1939 Redskins

Giant Victims 148

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 C HAPTE R 13 . The 1940 NFL Championship
The Monsters’ Revenge 161
C H A P T E R 14 . Go West, Young Sam

Hollywood Calling 173

C H A P T E R 1 5. The Newest Thing under Heaven

The Double Mountain Ranch 179

CHAPTER 16. 1941

A Lackluster Season and a Day of Infamy 184

C H A P T E R 17. The 1942 Season

Avenging 73–0 193

C H A P T E R 1 8. The 1943 Season

A Baugh Trifecta and Another Championship Lost 202

C H A P T E R 1 9. 1944 and 1945

Yet Another Missed Championship and the End of an Era 213

C H A P T E R 2 0. The 1946 and 1947 Seasons

The Dismal Years Begin 222

C H A P T E R 2 1 . 1948–1952

Last Years with the Redskins 229

C H A P T E R 2 2 . A Rancher Coaching Cowboys

Baugh at Hardin-Simmons University 251

C HAPTE R 2 3 . Back to the Pros

Coaching the Titans and the Oilers 260

C H A P T E R 2 4 . Ranching, Rodeoing, and Golfing

Sam in Retirement 273

N OT E S 285
B IB L I O G R A P H Y 307
INDEX 311

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THIS PAGE INTENTIONALLY LEFT BLANK
 FOREWORD

I
n a small workout room in the basement of our Indianapolis home is
what I call my quarterbacks wall. Hanging on it are nearly thirty photos
I’ve collected over the years of me standing beside the game’s best signal-
callers, including several I’ve been privileged to play against.
Scanning the collection, you’ll find many of the great ones: Troy Aikman,
Brett Favre, Dan Marino, Steve Young, John Elway, Phil Simms, Jim Kelly,
Warren Moon, Bart Starr, Roger Staubach, Terry Bradshaw, George Blanda.
I like to glance at those guys while I’m working out.
You’ll also find photos of my two all-time favorite quarterbacks—my dad
Archie Manning and my brother Eli—as well as one of my all-time non-
family favorites: Johnny Unitas of the Baltimore Colts.
I knew about Johnny Unitas from stories my dad told me, and every time
I look at the photo, I think of the opportunity I had a few years back to let
Johnny know in person how much I admired and respected him. In 1997 I
was the recipient of the Johnny Unitas Golden Arm Award, and at the ban-
quet that year I presented the Hall of Famer with a pair of black high-top
football shoes. Anyone who had the privilege of watching number 19 play
will know exactly what those shoes symbolize.
Now, take a closer look at the wall. Focus in on a place of honor near the
center of my quarterback collection. You’ll see a photo of an elderly man in

IX

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 = SLINGIN’ SA M =

a baseball cap and sweatpants sitting on a bench outside on a bright, sunny

day; at his side is a barefoot young man in shorts and a golf shirt. The two
men are laughing, obviously enjoying each other’s company. That picture
holds a special place in my heart.
The young man is me; the older is Slingin’ Sammy Baugh, arguably the
greatest quarterback ever to play the game. Even more important to me, he
was a man I was proud to call a friend. As you’ll come to know in the pages
that follow, Sam Baugh was not only a great athlete but also one of the finest
guys you’d ever want to meet.
Let me tell you how I came to know him. In the late summer of 2000,
shortly before training camp opened for my third NFL season, I got a call
from Sports Illustrated. The magazine was planning to run a story that
would spotlight two NFL players at each position—the player they felt had
defined the position during the twentieth century and the player who would
lead it into the twenty-first. Sam and I were their picks at quarterback.
I was honored to be chosen, of course, but one of the stipulations was
that the new player had to visit the home of the old, which presented a bit of
a challenge. We had to do it quickly because of the magazine’s deadline and
because teams were about to go to training camp. I ended up going to see
Sam in a hearse. (More about that later.)
I had heard of Slingin’ Sammy Baugh. I knew he had played for the Red-
skins, knew he had been a great passer and was in the NFL Hall of Fame,
but I didn’t know much more than that. I called my dad and told him how
excited I was about being chosen and how I was looking forward to meeting
a bona fide football legend.
I asked him what he knew about Sam, and he reminded me that not only
had Sam been an All-American at TCU and a Redskins star for many years,
he also had been a magnificent punter and had played defensive back. Need-
less to say, times have changed.
I was familiar with Horned Frog football from an earlier era, having won
the Davey O’Brien Award as a senior at the University of Tennessee. O’Brien,
of course, was Sam’s Heisman-winning successor at TCU. I’ve been back to
the annual banquet several times since and have gotten to know the O’Brien
family, but I was eager to learn more about Sam.
Dad said we also had almost a family connection to Slingin’ Sam. One
of the great influences on my dad’s life was Johnny Vaught, the legendary
coach at Ole Miss during my dad’s playing days. Coach Vaught had been
Sam’s teammate at TCU in the 1930s.
Dad said that Coach Vaught thought highly of Sammy Baugh and used to
tell stories about his exploits. Dad said he also had heard about how, when

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 = FOR EWOR D =

Sam himself became a coach—at Hardin-Simmons—he would come out

at halftime during games and hold punting and passing clinics. Fans were
almost as eager to see the old Redskins quarterback’s pinpoint passing and
precision punting as they were to see the game itself. Not something you see
every day, right?
Anyway, Sports Illustrated told me I would have to get to Rotan, Texas,
for the photo shoot. I had no idea where Rotan was, but the magazine told
me I could hitch a ride on the private plane that was ferrying the film crew
to West Texas. They would pick me up in New Orleans, and then we would
fly together to Snyder, not far from Sam’s ranch near Rotan.
The plan worked perfectly until we got to Snyder and couldn’t find a
vehicle big enough to transport the six-person film and photo crew, all the
equipment, and myself. That’s how we ended up piling into the biggest car
in town, a long, black hearse, to get to Sam’s Double Mountain Ranch. I
made sure I didn’t sit in the back.
I’ll never forget that day at the ranch. It was just a very, very special day
for me.
Throughout the day, while the film crews were setting up, Sam and I got
to visit with each other, just the two of us. I got to ask him about O’Brien,
about Coach Vaught. I asked what it was like playing in Washington during
the ’40s. I remember I asked him whether he had met any presidents during
his playing days.
He told me he didn’t give much thought to Washington, D.C., or politics,
or presidents. He was there to play football, to do the best he could. Once
the season was over, he would pack his bags and head home to Rotan to ride
horses and rope and be a cowboy. Life on the ranch was his passion, that and
football.
Here’s what else I remember: Sam Baugh was a world champion cusser
and tobacco-chewer. He usually had his spitter right beside him. Fortu-
nately, he could hit that coffee can as accurately as he could hit a receiver
during his playing days.
I also learned that he was a man who knew his own mind and wasn’t
afraid to express it. At one point during the day, one of the photographers
came over to us with an idea. “Sammy,” he said, “I’d like to get the two of y’all
pitching horseshoes together.”
That was fine with me but not with Sam. “I don’t pitch horseshoes,”
Sammy told him.
“Well, you know, Sammy, just kind of for the picture, we thought it would
be kind of neat having two quarterbacks throwing horseshoes,” the photog-
rapher said, all the while getting his camera ready for the shoot.

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 = SLINGIN’ SA M =

Sammy aimed a stream of tobacco at the grass (not at the photographer)

and looked up at the man. “I don’t know if you couldn’t hear me the first
time,” he said. “I don’t pitch horseshoes.”
That was the end of that.
In the photo that ran in the magazine, Sam is chewing tobacco and I’m
sitting beside him drinking iced tea. The “Mail Pouch” chewing tobacco
thermometer on the wall of the shed behind us registers 105 degrees. We’re
just sort of sitting there shooting the bull about football and whatever else
came to mind. It was, to me, a more appropriate picture than us pitching
horseshoes would have been.
A friend of Sam’s, Bob O’Day, told me that the Cotton Bowl people had
been after Sam for years to come back to Dallas for a ceremony. (He and his
fellow Horned Frogs played in the inaugural Cotton Bowl game.) Sam would
always tell them, “Just move that Cotton Bowl to Rotan, and I’ll be there in a
heartbeat.”
Once again, it kind of told you who he was. He was a man who, as long as
it didn’t hurt anybody, was going to do things his way.
Sam told me that day at the ranch that he still enjoyed football and espe-
cially liked watching Troy Aikman, the superb quarterback of the Dallas
Cowboys. He also told me he enjoyed watching me play. From that day on, he
said, he would follow my career even more closely. That made me feel good.
I left the ranch that day—in the hearse—with great respect for Sam
Baugh. I never saw him again, but we stayed in touch.
Sam died eight years later, on December 17, 2008. That next Sunday we
played Jacksonville, and on my wristband I wrote “SB,” in tribute to my
friend. As it turned out, I had a Sammy Baugh–quality day against the Jag-
uars: 17 straight completions to open the game, 29 of 34 completions over-
all for 364 yards, three touchdowns in a game that clinched a playoff spot
for us.
“I was slinging it tonight,” I remember telling reporters. “We were sling-
ing it tonight.”
Who knows, maybe somewhere up above that evening, Sammy Baugh
was smiling—and, I’m guessing, slingin’ a couple of affectionate cuss words
my way as well. Sammy Baugh was quite a guy.

Peyton Manning
Indianapolis, Indiana

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 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

W
hen I think of all the people who have helped me get to know
Sammy Baugh, I think immediately of Jeanne O’Neill. She was
eighty-six when I met her in the parking lot of FedEx Field, where
she and friends enjoyed tailgating at almost every Washington Red-
skins home game. Both elegant and fun-loving, the retired U.S. Postal Ser-
vice executive had seen Sammy play, and when I mentioned his name, she
smiled—as did almost everyone else who talked to me about the old football
player turned Texas cowboy. Like Jeanne O’Neill, they were happy to share
their stories. I thank them.
I am grateful to my friends at the Washington Post who encouraged me to
tell Sammy’s story, including Emilio Garcia-Ruiz, Lynn Medford, Matt Vita,
Matt Schudel, Pat Sullivan, and Adam Bernstein. Although this is not an
authorized biography, the Baugh family was a huge help, particularly David
and Jean Baugh, who sat down over David’s daily ham sandwiches at the
kitchen table and talked candidly about the man who had meant so much
to them. I am grateful to Sam’s old friends Bob O’Day, Sonny Nichols, Pete
Hart, and many others who were willing to share their reminiscences.
Thanks to my brother Ken, who made the long drive with me to Rotan
and the Double Mountain Ranch and who offered suggestions and ideas

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 = SLINGIN’ SA M =

throughout the writing of this book. Thanks also to my children—Heather,

Rachel, Pete, and Kate—for their love and encouragement.
At the University of Texas Press, my old friend David Hamrick was quick
to see the need for a biography of Sammy Baugh, and my editor, Allison
Faust, was a sure and steady guide throughout the long process. Kip Keller,
an old football player himself, copyedited the manuscript with care and pre-
cision. Thanks also to Lynne Chapman.
I owe a debt of gratitude to Bill Miller, who works his magic around the
Capitol in Austin almost daily, and who came through for me in a big way.
And thanks to Peyton Manning, who was willing to share his memories of
Sam, despite a trying time for himself and his Indianapolis Colts.
And finally, Laura. She was good-natured and patient (sort of ) when I
was chained to the computer, ever encouraging when I got bogged down,
and always willing to talk about the book when that was what I needed. She
had so many great ideas, it almost became a joke between us. I am grateful.

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 PROLOGUE

C
hicago. A dreary December afternoon so cold that anyone who dares
to venture out runs the risk of frostbite, or worse. A punishing wind
off frozen Lake Michigan only adds to the misery. The city is shut
down, closed up, as Chicagoans seek warmth behind closed doors and
boarded-up windows.
On the North Side, though, home to Wrigley Field, some 15,000 foot-
ball fans have braved the dangerous conditions to watch a game, a National
Football League championship game between the fearsome Chicago Bears
and the upstart Washington Redskins. Swaddled in layered coats and muf-
flers, wearing gloves, hats pulled down over their ears, these fans are fanat-
ics in every sense of the word. Some caught the elevated train and rode it
through a desolate downtown, the train winding its way through the can-
yon of tall buildings blocking out a pallid sun. Others rode streetcars past
mounds of snow shoved out of roadways. Still others maneuvered Model Ts,
slowly and carefully, through the icy streets.
The locals have come to see their Bears, the “Monsters of the Midway,”
a team of hard-nosed, big-shouldered brawlers who not only defeat their
opponents almost every Sunday but also punish them in the process. Chi-
cagoans like to think that the Bears of George Halas and Bronko Nagurski

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and George Musso truly embody their big, tough, hog-butcher-to-the-world

metropolis.
Several thousand fans are there from out of town. They boarded a spe-
cial train in Washington’s Union Station and headed west. Disembarking
at Chicago’s LaSalle Street Station, fortified against the cold by flasks of
alcohol stashed away in their overcoats, they hailed cabs to take them to the
tidy brick ballpark that baseball’s Chicago Cubs have made famous. Their
Redskins are completing their first season in Washington, but already the
capital city has taken them to its heart.
Years later, the NFL championship game will be called the Super Bowl.
Years later, millions of football fans around the world will gather in front of
their televisions to witness the spectacle. Advertisers will pay millions for
a few minutes of viewing-audience time. On this cold day in Chicago, fewer
than 20,000 football fans, their very sanity in question, are on hand to wit-
ness one of the pivotal games in NFL history.
Shortly after noon, the two teams take the field for the kickoff, the Bears
in their dark blue jerseys trimmed in orange, the Redskins wearing their
trademark burgundy and gold. Both teams wear tennis shoes, hoping to
get whatever purchase they can on the ice-encrusted field. Mist from their
breathing is visible in the frigid air.
The tall, spindly-legged Texan who ambles onto the frozen turf of Wrig-
ley Field on that dreary Sunday afternoon has played in miserable weather
before. The pride of Sweetwater, Texas, he has known northers that barrel
across the plains with little warning, straight from the Canadian Arctic. As
a high school senior four years earlier, he played in a blizzard, with driving
snow and sleet pelting players and fans alike. But he has never played in
temperatures so frigid that it hurts to breathe, so cold that hands and fingers
ache and barely move, so cold that it is actually dangerous to be outdoors.
He has never played on turf so hard and brittle that it rips bare skin like a
cheese grater whenever someone hits the ground.
Backed up against his own goal line the first time the Redskins get the
ball, young Sam Baugh looks around the huddle, ten men snorting steam in
the punishing cold. He glances over the helmeted heads of his teammates,
sees the mob of blue-shirted Bears waiting impatiently at the line of scrim-
mage to tear him apart. Literally. That is their game plan—hurt him any way
they can, send him to the sidelines, knock him out of the game.
The Bears know he is special; so do his Redskin teammates. From the
moment he rifled a bullet pass to a teammate in the team’s first scrim-
mage—“Which eye, Coach?”—the Redskins knew they had something. And
now, four months later, their confidence has been confirmed.

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 = PROLOGUE =

Although he is barely out of college, he has gained his teammates’ respect

during the long season, a season that has culminated in this moment, this
championship game. They wait for his instructions. He glances over at
Riley Smith, the Redskins’ signal caller. (Sam is actually the tailback in the
Redskins’ single-wing formation.) Smith hears him out.
“Let’s trick ’em,” he suggests in his Texas drawl. “I’ll drop into punt for-
mation. But I won’t punt.” He glances at stellar running back Cliff Battles.
“See that chunk of ice right over there?” he says, nodding toward a white
spot on the yellowed grass. “Run straight to it, cut to the sideline and look
for the ball.”
The Redskins break their huddle and line up in punt formation. The
Bears aren’t surprised, since punting on first down is standard strategy
when a team finds itself bottled up in its own end of the field. The Bears
know that Sam is also one of the best punters in the game, possibly the best.
Smith calls the signals and Sam waits for the snap, his face beneath the
leather helmet red and raw. His cold hands received the ball, but instead of
stepping into it with his strong right leg, he wraps his long fingers around
it, feeling for the laces as he rolls to the right behind the goal line and looks
downfield for Battles. The Redskin running back, running as fast as he can
on the frozen field, carefully sets his pivot foot and cuts in front of a Bear
safety, Gene Ronzani. As Ronzani slips on the ice, the Redskin halfback
gathers in the Baugh toss over his right shoulder and motors up the sideline
for a forty-two-yard gain.
Although the Bears hold shortly afterward, the pass from the end zone
delivers a message: the Redskins’ brilliant young passer isn’t going to allow
the elements to dictate strategy. Neither the weather nor the fearsome
Bears can scare him.

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 SLINGIN’
SAM

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 Sammy happens to be just
about the most valuable
football player of all
time, according to most
pro coaches I’ve talked to.
— SPORTSWRITER
G RA N T L AN D RI C E, 1 9 4 2

I still think he was the

greatest quarterback who
ever lived, college or pro.
— SPORTSWRITER
DAN JENKINS, 2006

In two hours, Sammy Baugh

gave me the finishing touches
for Augustus McCrae
[in Lonesome Dove], and
he didn’t even know it.
— ACTO R RO BERT
D U VA L L , 2 0 0 6

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 INTRODUCTION

S
am was his name. Sam Baugh. Not Sammy and certainly not Slingin’
Sammy. It isn’t that he spurned the inspired appellation—coined by
the longtime Fort Worth Star-Telegram sportswriter Amos Melton—
but “Sam Baugh,” a good, simple, common name, reflected how he saw
himself. To his friends, to his family, to himself, he was just plain “Sam.”
(That was also how he signed his autographs; “Slingin’ Sammy Baugh” took
too long.)
He was a man easy to like. Throughout his life—in college, as a big-time
pro football player, as a West Texas rancher—people gravitated to him.
Recalling Sam Baugh years later, a fellow TCU student named Ed Prich-
ard told the sportswriter Whit Canning: “He was our idol—our hero—but
we were never in awe of him, because he was also our good friend. He got
along with people very well—with everybody—and on the field he was a
good leader.”
Joe Tereshinksi, an end on Washington Redskin teams of the late 1940s,
echoed that assessment. “He was our leader,” Tereshinski told me in 2008.
“We all looked up to Sam.”
“I loved Sam Baugh, not because he was a superstar, but because he was
a super person,” Bob O’Day told me one hot July afternoon as we sat in his
living room in Snyder, Texas. O’Day, the retired golf coach at Western Texas

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 = SLINGIN’ SA M =

College in Snyder, was Sam’s regular golfing partner for nearly twenty years.
Tears welled up and his voice grew husky when he recalled his old friend.
O’Day told me one Sam Baugh story after another, including stories
about his friend’s salty language. Sam was one of the most gloriously pro-
fane men who ever lived. He couldn’t utter a sentence—whatever the time,
whatever the circumstance—without punctuating it with a cuss word or
two, or three. He was never obscene, never malicious, his niece Ellen Ste-
venson was quick to remind me. “That’s just Sam,” Stevenson said, a phrase
I heard time after time from friends and family.
He was a masterly storyteller, and when he got wound up, his hands were
in perpetual motion, sometimes slapping his thigh for emphasis, and he
would laugh now and then at the freshness of his memories. He always had
a chaw of tobacco in his cheek (Red Man, not Skoal, even though his old
friend Walt Garrison once sent him a case of Skoal).
Sam’s son David recalled a summer Sunday morning years ago when
Sam accompanied his wife, Edmonia, and the five Baugh kids to services
at the First United Methodist Church in Rotan, Texas, the town nearest the
Baugh family ranch. As the service droned on toward the end, Sam’s mind
began to drift to thoughts of horses and calves and the roping scheduled
for after lunch. He felt a sharp poke in the ribs from Edmonia (Sam called
her “Mona”).
“The preacher just asked you to give the benediction,” she whispered.
Sam stared down the row at the five younger Baughs, all leaning forward,
all staring at him—and all wondering not only whether he was awake but
also whether he could go to the Lord in prayer without uttering a cuss word.
As David recalled, his dad, as usual, came through in the clutch.
“That’s just Sam,” Bob O’Day said, laughing, as he recounted the same
story. O’Day, a deeply religious man and a member of the Gideon Society
(the people who supply Bibles to hotel rooms) was willing to give his friend
a pass when it came to taking the name of the Lord in vain. “His assets cer-
tainly outweighed his liabilities,” O’Day said, his mind drifting to the happy
times they spent together for nearly thirty years.

I saw Sam Baugh twice, the first time when I was a kid. On a Saturday
morning in the mid-1950s, Dad woke my two younger brothers and me
earlier than usual. Mom fixed us breakfast, and we drove to Holt’s Sporting
Goods across Fifth Street from the courthouse in downtown Waco. Holt’s
was where we bought our baseball gloves and bats every spring, our football
equipment in the fall. All three of us were too young to play on school teams,

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 = INTRODUCTION =

but like most Texas youngsters, we played in the backyard every afternoon
and during recess at school, so we had to have equipment. We enjoyed our
trips to Holt’s, enjoyed pawing over the brightly colored jerseys hanging on
racks, enjoyed breathing in the new-leather smell of baseball gloves, foot-
balls, basketballs.
On this morning, though, we weren’t going to Holt’s to buy. We were
going to pay homage, although Kenny and Steve and I didn’t know that was
what we were doing. In the football section, toward the back of the store,
surrounded by brand-new jerseys, helmets, and shoulder pads, we were
ushered into the presence of a tall dark-haired man in a tan sport coat and
slacks who, as I remember, was standing around talking football with some
of the Holt’s salesmen.
“Boys, meet Slingin’ Sammy Baugh,” Dad said, giving us a gentle shove
forward.
What Sammy Baugh was doing in Waco on that Saturday morning, I
don’t know, although I suspect his Hardin-Simmons University Cowboys—
he was head coach—were playing the Baylor Bears at Baylor Stadium that
night, and he had dropped by Holt’s for a personal appearance. Maybe Dad
had read about his being there in the Waco Times-Herald.
His lean face crinkling into a smile, the tall man leaned down and shook
our hands and signed an autograph for us. Unlike the treasured Mickey
Mantle autograph we got in Dallas a few years later, we promptly lost
Sammy Baugh’s.
Although we were big sports fans, we had no idea who he was. We didn’t
know that he had been the quarterback of the Washington Redskins for six-
teen seasons, that he was arguably the greatest passer ever to play the game.
Soon, though, as I got a little older and started going to high school foot-
ball games, I began hearing the name. I began to understand who Sammy
Baugh was and what he stood for.
What Babe Ruth’s home runs did for Major League Baseball in the 1920s,
Sam Baugh’s passing did for the National Football League a decade or so
later. “Ruth was more Bunyanesque,” the sportswriter Tom Boswell once
wrote, “more outside the parameters of previous imagination. But Baugh
wasn’t too far behind.”
Like Ruth, he remained, for decades, the epitome of excellence for his
particular sport. It is 1955, say, and a kid on the playground rears back and
heaves a long pass downfield. Regardless of whether he completes it, his
teammates chide his audacity. “Hey, who do you think you are, Sammy
Baugh?” they’ll say.
Sportswriters every fall assess the latest crop of Texas schoolboy

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 = SLINGIN’ SA M =

passers, and the standard they used for decades was Sammy Baugh—
Slingin’ Sammy Baugh. For years, he remained an icon, to be gradually
superseded in the fans’ imaginations only when a young Johnny Unitas led
the Baltimore Colts to victory over the New York Giants in the 1958 cham-
pionship game in what would come to be called “the greatest game ever
played.” Or maybe when, nearly a decade later, a brash young quarterback
named “Broadway” Joe Namath led his New York Jets to an improbable
Super Bowl victory over the Colts.
The name and the memories began to fade, of course, as the years went
by, as the game evolved, as new faces captured public attention, and as tele-
vision magnified their fame in ways Sammy himself could never have imag-
ined when he was playing. But Sammy’s accomplishments on the football
field didn’t fade. They remain as astounding today as they were three-quar-
ters of a century ago when he was a tall, gangly quarterback with a whiplike
arm and a limber right leg that could kick a ball a mile.
In his sixteen seasons in the NFL—a long career by pro football stan-
dards—Sammy led the Washington Redskins to five title games and two
NFL championships. He led the league in passing six times, in punting four
times, and in interceptions once. (From his defensive safety position, he
was the intercepter, not the interceptee.) His career punting average was
more than 45 yards, but from 1940 through 1942, it was close to 50 yards
(49.5). Before Sam, only one man had passed for 1,000 yards in a season.
In 1947, Sam completed 210 passes for 2,938 yards—both marks that sim-
ply obliterated old records. Like Ruth, who changed the very perception of
the game of baseball and how it was played, Sam transformed the notion of
offense and how much yardage could be gained through the air.
In a game against the Detroit Lions in 1943, he threw four touchdown
passes—and caught four interceptions. (That was the year he led the league
in interceptions, with eleven.) During several seasons early in his career, he
played every minute of every game.
“He really had a rifle for an arm,” the sportswriter Dan Jenkins told me
in 2006. “He could throw sidearm and underhanded along with it. He was
tough and wiry, probably the greatest punter who ever lived as well. Plus, he
liked to jaw around and kid with the zebras [referees], even in college, and
certainly he was a leader.”
Before Sam, professional football was at the periphery of American
sports. With a limited fan base drawn exclusively from the Northeast and
upper Midwest, and with few economically viable franchises, the pros were
overshadowed by the Saturday-afternoon heroics of college teams. Foot-
ball fans wanted to read about Harvard-Yale, Army-Navy, Notre Dame—or,

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 = INTRODUCTION =

in the Southwest, SMU-TCU—not the Boston Redskins or the Portsmouth

Spartans. The former collegians who continued to play the game at the
professional level didn’t make enough money to make football their full-
time job.
Sam was the bridge between the leather-helmet era and the modern. Not
only was he professional football’s most popular player, but he also was a
superb athlete who revolutionized how the game was played.
Before Sam Baugh, football closely resembled rugby, with tightly packed
linemen trying to open holes for ball carriers running primarily between
tackles on a tighter field without hash marks. Confident enough to throw
the ball from any spot on the field, on any down, Sam wrenched football free
from its sclerotic past and made it a hell of a lot more fun to watch.
By the thousands, football fans in the nation’s capital, in New York, in
Chicago, wherever the pros played the game, saw what the tall slender
Texan could do with a football—on offense and on defense, with his arm and
his leg—and they decided they liked what they saw. They liked the way the
rawboned young athlete from the wide-open spaces of West Texas opened
up the playing field and made the forward pass a strategic weapon, not a
desperation heave. They liked his gambler’s instincts. They thrilled in deli-
cious anticipation of multiple possibilities when the ball was in his hands.
The TCU all-American, a product of Sweetwater, Texas, changed the
game almost instantaneously, beginning with his rookie season in 1937,
when the twenty-two-year-old Texan took the Redskins to the NFL title,
beating the Chicago Bears, the Monsters of the Midway, on their home field.
If football fans around the country weren’t aware of Slingin’ Sammy
Baugh before, they were that day. On the first play of the game, he dared to
throw from his own end zone to all-pro halfback Cliff Battles for forty-two
yards. Down 21–14 in the fourth quarter, he looked one way and threw the
other to his end, Wayne Millner, for seventy-seven yards and a score, then
got the winning touchdown on a thirty-five-yarder to Ed Justice. Earlier
in the half, he threw a fifty-five-yard touchdown to Millner. All this on
his one healthy leg; the other had been almost broken in two by ruthless,
rampaging Bears.
In 1937, when Sam Baugh entered the league as a rookie, a 47.4 percent
completion percentage was good for tops in the league. He was that 47.4
percent passer, incidentally. And indeed, for nine of his sixteen seasons, he
was the most accurate passer in the NFL; in two other seasons he was sec-
ond. In 1945, he completed more than 70 percent of his passes, then a first
for the NFL. His feat went unmatched for some thirty-seven years until Ken
Anderson of the Cincinnati Bengals finally broke Sam’s record in 1982.

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He also led the league in punting for four straight years, and in another
championship game against the Bears, he got off a punt that traveled eighty-
five yards. In 1940, he averaged an NFL record 51.4 yards on his punts and
was the master of the third-down quick kick, a tactical tool no longer used.
Sam still holds or is tied for six Redskin records: most touchdown passes
in a career, 187; best punting average in a career, 45.1 yards; most passing
yards in a game, 446; most touchdown passes in a game, 6; best punting
average in a season, 51.4 yards; and most passes intercepted in a game, 4.
In a game against the New York Giants in 1943, he threw two touchdown
passes, ran seventy-one yards with an intercepted pass, batted down two
Giants passes in the end zone, and made seven tackles. A pretty good after-
noon’s work.
Almost from the day he entered the National Football League, the big
number 33 on Sam’s back was the biggest gate attraction in professional
football. He made quarterback the glamour position, which means that Uni-
tas, Namath, Brett Favre, Donovan McNabb, the Manning brothers, and all
the other football field generals since Sam are in his debt (as are the fans, of
course). During the 1940s, he was on a par in the public mind with Joltin’
Joe DiMaggio, Bill Tilden, and Joe Louis.
The longtime political columnist David Broder, my esteemed colleague
at the Washington Post, recalled a midwestern senator of another era who,
some time in his third term, was heard to ask a colleague, “Who is this man
Sammy Baugh that people keep talking about?” The story got around town
and eventually back to the unnamed senator’s home state, and in Broder’s
words, “the fellow was deservedly defeated the next time he was up for
reelection.”
Through it all, Sam Baugh kept a steady head on his shoulders, kept his
accomplishments in perspective. Beyond the gridiron exploits as a Hall of
Fame quarterback, all-pro safety, and record-setting punter, beyond the
glamour that came with being the biggest name in the game, he fashioned
another life, one he found even more satisfying than his football career. Like
a movie cowboy riding off into the sunset, he decided to chuck it all in the
early 1960s. Retiring as a player and coach, he left behind the gridiron glory,
a possible movie career, and the money. He never looked back.
Nearly thirty years after the Redskin impresario George Preston Mar-
shall sold Washington fans on the notion that the tall, lean Texan was a
rootin’-tootin’ cowboy—never mind that he had grown up in town, gone to
college in Fort Worth, and was more preppy than pastoral—he became a
genuine Texas cowboy. For nearly fifty years, until his body wore out, he
lived in far West Texas on his Double Mountain Ranch near Rotan. On a flat

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 = INTRODUCTION =

sea of scrub brush beneath two great rock peaks, where the only hardy veg-
etation is mesquite trees and prickly pear, he raised his cattle and horses,
made himself a champion roper, and reveled in the wide-open spaces.
That was where I found him, a half century or so after that long-ago
Saturday morning when he signed an autograph for my brothers and me
in Waco. As a staff writer for the Post, I was writing “Redskins Journal,” a
weekly column during football season that took me to varied Washington-
area venues during Redskin games—a bar, a restaurant, the Walter Reed
Army Medical Center, a firehouse. I watched the game with fans and wrote
their particular stories.
One cold Sunday morning, I was wandering around the vast parking lot
of FedEx Field, the Redskins’ home stadium, where two hours before game
time, thousands of fans were tailgating, sitting in lawn chairs or on pickup
tailgates, barbecuing ribs or charcoaling burgers and maybe tossing back
a brew or two, or three. Youngsters were flinging footballs back and forth
between lines of parked cars until it was time to troop into the stadium and
cheer for the burgundy and gold.
Notebook and pen at the ready, my “Redskins Journal” question for the
day was what Washington player of yore would fans love to see still with
the team. Many of the answers were predictable—Hall of Fame quarterback
Sonny Jurgensen was still immensely popular, as were Hall of Fame wide
receiver Charley Taylor and defensive back Darrell Green. I was astounded,
though, at how often a fan would answer with the name of a player who
hadn’t taken the field in more than half a century—Slingin’ Sammy Baugh.
The older ones, invariably, had a story to tell about being in the stands
when he intercepted four passes or got off a mind-boggling punt. One tail-
gater, seventy-seven-year-old Ray Augsterfer, wore a throwback leather
helmet in homage to his favorite player. Augsterfer, who lived in nearby
Annapolis, had been a thirteen-year-old in the stands for Baugh’s very first
Redskin game in 1937, and he was there in ’41 for his record-setting eighty-
five-yard punt.
“He was so much fun to watch,” Jeanne McNeill told me that day. The
smartly dressed woman sitting on a lawn chair and nursing a gin and tonic
with friends was eighty-six, a retired U.S. Postal Service executive. She had
been a regular at Redskin home games since 1947, when the team played in
Griffith Stadium, the old Washington Senators baseball park. “He could do
everything—run, pass, kick,” McNeill told me. “And he was a good guy too.”
McNeill and Augsterfer and the other fans who recalled Sam that
morning would have seconded the view of the legendary Washington Post
sportswriter Shirley Povich, who wrote in 1994 in response to an official

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announcement from the NFL that Sammy Baugh was one of four quarter-
backs being acclaimed as the league’s all-time, all-stars at that position:
“No disrespect here to Johnny Unitas, Joe Montana and Otto Graham, who
were bracketed with him in gross oversight of Baugh’s patently superior
credentials. They too were great quarterbacks, deserving of loud cheers.
They evoked memories of Samuel Baugh, but not the reality of him. Simply
put, they lacked his measure in so many skills.”

B ut what had become of him? Was he still alive? None of the fans I talked
to knew, and neither did any of the Post sportswriters. I persuaded my
editors that we ought to find out, so one weekend in January, I flew back to
Texas from my home in Washington, rented a car in Austin, and, with my
brother Ken along for the ride, made the 300-mile drive to Sam’s Double
Mountain Ranch.
We filled up with gas in Abilene and then headed toward Rotan, eighty
miles northwest. Not far from the Double Mountain Fork of the Brazos
River, flat pastureland began to rumple up. The rocky, hard-packed ground
was filigreed by canyons, ravines, and dry washes. Stubbled grass and
mottes of dry mesquite were almost the only vegetation.
Sam’s West Texas wasn’t much to look at—at first glance, anyway—
but like the coyotes, deer, jackrabbits, and wild turkeys that populate the
vast area, the old football star took to it. For more than six decades, it had
been home. The daily routines of the ranch, hard work outdoors, peace and
quiet, even the extremes of West Texas weather—he found all of it deeply
satisfying.
The ranch was still there, but Sam wasn’t. His son David told us he had
been moved to Jayton, thirty miles away. In a nursing home in the dusty
little ranching town, where there seemed to be as many tumbleweeds as
people, Kenny and I wandered into a simple room decorated with a child’s
drawing of a football player in the burgundy and gold uniform of the Wash-
ington Redskins.
Lying on his back, half-asleep on a single bed, was a gaunt gray-haired
man who had been a resident for the past five years, since Alzheimer’s dis-
ease had begun to erase the memories of nearly a century. Sam Baugh had
no idea who we were, of course, but this time Kenny and I were certainly
aware of who he was.
And people still remembered. He still got requests for autographs, still
got cards and letters, including one from a Nebraska businessman, who
dropped Sam a line not long after Kenny and I visited.

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 = INTRODUCTION =

“Dear Sammy,” he wrote.

When Dudley DeGroot was coaching the Redskins more than 60 years ago, I
was sort of an assistant water boy for two Redskins games. This came about
because my older sister was dating Dudley, Jr. and I made such a pest of myself
that they decided to buy me off by letting me sit on the Redskins’ bench. Then
my sister broke up with Dudley and my career ended.
But I still remember the thrills of watching you play, not just for the pass-
ing but also for the punting and defensive interceptions.

Calling himself “a huge fan in Omaha” and wishing Sam the best, the letter
writer signed his name: “Warren E. Buffett.”

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 CHAPTER

SAM BAUGH
thebeginning

O
n a hot summer afternoon in 1933, on a hard-packed baseball field
in West Texas, Dutch Meyer was watching his Texas Christian Uni-
versity Horned Frogs play a couple of practice games against a semi-
pro town team in Abilene. Every summer the TCU coach would pick
twelve Horned Frog players and barnstorm for part of the summer, driving
around the Southwest in two cars the TCU team used for road trips, a Cadil-
lac and a jump-seat Chevrolet. On this particular day, the team they were
playing was the Mose Sims Oilers.
The Abilene team was made up mostly of guys in their twenties and
thirties who had knocked around baseball for some years at various levels.
Meyer, who also was an assistant football coach at TCU, couldn’t take his
eyes off a younger player, a tall, gangly high school kid playing third base for
the Oilers.
“He had two great days against us,” Meyer recalled years later. “He was
quick as a cat, and the way he could throw that baseball—whew! And he
could hit. I wanted him bad, but the trouble was I didn’t have any baseball
scholarships to offer him.”
The kid’s name was Baugh—Sam Baugh—and he had graduated from
high school a few weeks earlier in Sweetwater, a town fifty miles northwest

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of Abilene. Meyer, the future Frog legend, may have wanted him for TCU,
but the youngster wasn’t even sure he was going to college. The Depression
had hit West Texas hard, and jobs were hard to come by. Baugh’s dad, who
worked for the railroad in Sweetwater, thought he might be able to get his
son a railroad job too if he was lucky.
The Baugh family was relatively new to Sweetwater—they had moved
from the Central Texas town of Temple only three years earlier—but
Baughs had been in Texas for three generations. Like many Texans, they
were descended from southerners who had migrated to the Lone Star State.
The Baugh family originally settled in South Carolina in the 1760s. Sam’s
great-great-great-great-grandfather, John Baugh, with his wife Darcus
Mitchell Baugh and nine children, moved to Georgia in the 1790s, where
the couple farmed and were stalwart members of the Grove Level Baptist
Church in Grove County, Georgia. Church records indicate that in 1822, two
years after John Baugh’s death, his wife was excluded from the congrega-
tion “for cursing, swearing and striking Mr. Savelle.” Records don’t say what
caused the disagreement, but she was restored to fellowship five years later.
(Perhaps Sam’s penchant for cussing was genetic.)
William Baugh, the firstborn of John Baugh and Darcus Mitchell,
fathered fifteen children and was married twice. A veteran of the War of
1812, he lived his whole life in Georgia and was known as an upright man
and a successful, hardworking farmer, despite a war wound that left him
with a disabled right hand.
A profile of William Baugh, found in “The History of Gwinnett County,
Georgia,” described him as “stern, solid and courageous even to his oddi-
ties. He was cool, not at all excitable, but calm and determined in all his pur-
poses, and would resent an insult coming from whatever source it might.”
William Baugh’s anonymous profiler recalled that Baugh had a brother
who was a bully “and had whipped every man with whom he had fought.”
Baugh and his brother had some kind of disagreement, and the brother
told him

that if it were not a disgrace for brothers to fight he would give him a whip-
ping. Mr. Baugh replied: “You have got your name by whipping drunk men and
boys. Pull off your coat and try a man.” It was no sooner said than done. At it
they went and the bully got a terrible licking. This occurred before he came to
Gwinnett County, but after he had joined the church.

The author of the county history recalled that William Baugh

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 = SLINGIN’ SA M =

was a deadly enemy to whiskies and to masculine long hair. He used to say:
“I am always uneasy about my gimlets, augers, pocket knife and hen roost
when the whiskered gentry come about my house.”

A minister named Allen Turner, a friend of William Baugh’s, was passing

through the county on his way to a gospel meeting and was accompanied by
Mr. Richard Whittick, “a gentleman of culture, of fine sense, good morals,
a churchman and gentleman.” Unfortunately for the fellow, he wore a long
beard. According to the anonymous archivist:

Upon their arrival and after an introduction to the strange brother and cordial
greetings of old friends, Mr. Baugh brought out his razor with a basin of water
and a towel and invited Brother Whittick to shave. He declined saying: “I do
not wish to shave.” Mr. Baugh insisted and still Mr. Whittick declined.

Finally, William Baugh told the visitor he was not welcome to stay the
night unless he shaved. As a result: “Mr. Whittick, a little huffy, left and went
over to the home of Mr. Flowers, who did not object to his beard, and there
he spent the night.”
More than a century and a half later, long after he had quit coaching,
William’s Baugh’s descendant Sam Baugh told an oral historian that long-
haired football players didn’t bother him a bit; he didn’t believe the length of
their hair had a whole lot to do with how tough they were or how well they
could play the game. “I wouldn’t put in a rule I couldn’t live with,” he said.
“I don’t believe in making trouble for yourself.”
Several of William Baugh’s children moved to Texas. When annexed by
the United States in 1845, Texas retained control of its public lands. The
state used its bountiful natural resource to pay off debts, reward war veter-
ans, finance public education, and build its grand capitol in Austin. It also
used land grants to entice settlers, including the Baughs of Georgia, who
were dividing up 300-acre farms among family members while Texas was
giving away the same amount of land per head of household.
William Lovic Baugh, the firstborn son of William Baugh and his second
wife, Elizabeth Lindsay, settled in Rusk County, in Deep East Texas, with
his wife, Lucille Harris Purcell Baugh, in the 1840s. In 1854, they moved
into Coryell County, in Central Texas, not far from the future town of Tem-
ple, in Bell County.
Establishing himself as a farmer and rancher, William Baugh—who
favored a long beard—built a large rock house in the Leon River valley. A
local historian described the house as a mansion with eight large rooms,

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each with its own fireplace, and thirty-two large windows. Because Indian
raids on area homesteads were still a danger, William Baugh built his
house with an escape tunnel in a downstairs room. It started in the side
of the fireplace and ran 150 yards underground to the west, where it exited
in a brushy area. Rocked on all sides, the tunnel was three feet wide and
three feet high.
William Lovic Baugh died in 1914 at age ninety-three. Most of his chil-
dren and their families settled in Central Texas, including John Pascal
Baugh, the fourth child born to William Lovic and Lucille Harris Baugh.
John Pascal Baugh married Geneva A. Medlin in 1874, and the couple had
fourteen children, five girls and nine boys.

T
 he couple’s ninth was James Valentine Baugh, known as Jim, born on
March 25, 1889. At age twenty-one, he married Katherine Lucinda Ray,
known as Lucy, in 1910, and the couple’s first child, Bobby Blake Baugh, was
born in 1912. Their second son, Sam Adrian Baugh, was born two years later,
on March 14, 1914, in a farmhouse outside Temple. A daughter, Nell Mer-
wyn Baugh, was born in 1916.
A family genealogist noted that Jim Baugh’s World War I draft card listed
him as a farmer working in Falls County, near Temple, between the villages
of Rogers and Heidenheimer.
“We lived out there on that farm when I was little—six miles out of
town—and I really loved that life,” Sam Baugh told a reporter years later.
“We had a few dairy cows, and living out there in the country—just doin’ the
chores and not worrying much about anything else, seemed like the perfect
way to go through life.”
Growing up, young Sam may not have been worried about much, but
farm life in the years before the Depression was hard and unpredictable.
When he was about five, his father got on with the Santa Fe Railroad in
nearby Temple. And in fact there was a bit more to it than that, whether
young Sam realized it at the time. Jim Baugh was a gambling man, and the
family farm was actually a front for a gaming house—complete with a pool
table and card tables, and with cockfights and greyhound races out back.
“Everything you could gamble on . . . they had,” Sam recalled in later years.
“My daddy played poker all the time, too. When he got older, he couldn’t see,
and I’m sure they cheated the living hell out of him.”
The 1930 census shows the family living in Temple at 108 North 23rd
Street; the house was valued at $2,700, and the family did not own a radio,
the census noted. Seventeen-year-old Bob, sixteen-year-old Sam, and

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 = SLINGIN’ SA M =

thirteen-year-old Nell attended school. Jim Baugh is listed as a weigh mas-

ter at Temple’s rail yards.
Temple, sixty-seven miles north of Austin, owed its origins to the rail-
roads. It started out in the 1880s as a construction camp for the Gulf, Colo-
rado and Santa Fe Railway. The railway company called it Temple Junc-
tion, while locals called it Mud Town or Tanglefoot. It remained a railroad
interchange, and after three major hospitals were built in the early years of
the twentieth century, it became one of the largest medical centers in the
Southwest. By the time young Sam was a student at Temple High School in
the late 1920s, the town had a population of about 15,000.
Nell Baugh Kendrick, the youngest child, remembered growing up in
Temple. Both her brothers were good to her, she recalled nearly a century
later. “If he had a dollar,” she said, speaking of Sam, “he’d give me half of it,
and dollars weren’t easy to come by in those days.” She remembered him
being a paperboy for the Temple Daily Telegram.
Sam, known as “Buddy” growing up, remembered trying to pick cotton
on the Blackland Prairie around Temple when the Baughs lived in the coun-
try. “It would take me all day to pick a sack of cotton when I was little,” he
recalled years later.

But I remember dragging that dang sack full and how it hurt my shoulders.
Later on, when I was playing football and practicing football, it was hot and
we were tired, and you’d think, “Dang, this is tough.” And then you’d think
about dragging that sack and then you’d jump up and you’re ready to go again.
So I always promised myself that if I ever had an acre of land I’d never plant a
stalk of cotton.

Sam’s grandparents still lived out in the country, so he had at least a passing
familiarity with farm life—and the drudgery of dragging a heavy sack down
endless cotton rows—but basically he was a town boy. Life on a ranch would
come much later.
One other thing happened in the country, something that would stay
with Sam the rest of his life, although he rarely talked about it. He was
maybe twelve, and a buddy of his had gotten a .410 shotgun for Christmas.
Sam, the kid with the shotgun, and one other boy were ambling through a
pasture looking for rabbits on Christmas Day when they came to a barbed-
wire fence. As they were climbing through the fence, the gun went off, kill-
ing the youngster who had gotten it for Christmas.
Years later, Sam would take his boys out hunting for jackrabbits, but he
would never handle a gun himself.

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Once the Baughs moved into town, Buddy always had a ball of some kind
in his hand. The family lived behind Temple’s Westside Baptist Church,
and the youngster got in the habit of tossing a baseball over the tall roof
and running around to catch it on the other side. And for hours at a time he
tossed a baseball at the church building’s concrete steps. The steps formed
a semicircle, so young Sam had to be ready for the ball to carom off at odd
angles. “I just played just by myself,” he recalled. “My daddy used to play
catch with me.”
He once recalled that it was when he was in the third grade, maybe eight
years old, that he first started tossing a football around, an imitation-leather
ball somebody had bought for him at a drugstore. He first played football
in elementary school, during recess, where his first coach, of sorts, was
his third-grade teacher. She was “really, really interested in football,” he
recalled. “I’ve often tried to think of that woman’s name, but I can’t remem-
ber it. But she was the first football coach I had.”
Like most Texas boys growing up in the 1920s and ’30s, he played what-
ever sport was in season—football in the fall, basketball in winter, baseball
in the spring. He first played organized sports in junior high school, when he
came out for football. Because he was tall, his coach made him an end. The
team won most of its games.
“The coach, after the season was over, was talking to three of us boys,”
Sam recalled years later, “and he said, ‘You know,’ he said, ‘we had a pretty
good year.’ He said, ‘If you three boys were back next year, we’d probably be
the best junior high team in Texas.’”
The coach, wittingly or not, had planted the germ of an idea, and Sam and
his two buddies liked how it sounded. They purposely failed eighth grade.
Years later, Sam remembered how disappointed his mother was when he
had to tell her that he had flunked English, but he didn’t regret his decision.
“We stayed there that extra year in junior high, which really helped me,
because I wasn’t very big anyway,” he recalled.
Sam’s junior high football coach turned out to be prescient. With his
three ringers leading the way, the team beat every other junior high in
Temple as well as every other team they played in Central Texas. They fin-
ished the season undefeated, as did a team from Cisco, an oil-boom town
200 miles to the west. The Cisco coach called his Temple counterpart to see
whether he would be interested in a championship game of sorts to deter-
mine the unofficial state junior high champion. The Temple coach agreed.
Sam and his teammates traveled the 200 miles to Cisco by bus, stayed
with host families, and played the junior high version of the Cisco Big Dam
Lobos (named for a large hollow dam across Sandy Creek, creating Lake

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 = SLINGIN’ SA M =

Cisco). The Big Dam Lobos won the game, but Sam enjoyed the experience.
Over the years, he would run into Cisco boys he had played against, who
were proud to remind the football star that they had once played against
him. “A lot of times,” he recalled, “they’d come see a game and look me up
and tell me about when we played that game in Cisco.”

S am’s winning ways ended abruptly when he arrived—a year late—at

Temple High School. Although the Temple Wildcats basketball team
was one of the best in the state—winning state championships in 1928 and
1932—the football team was, in Sam’s words, “the sorriest team Temple
ever had, I guarantee you.” The team had only two seniors. “And I was play-
ing end, and we played Waco the first ballgame,” Sam recalled. “Waco beat
us 60 to nothing. Just ran over us, you know. Then we played Corsicana, and
they beat us 55 to 0.”
When the dismal season was about half over, Sam, weighing all of 155
pounds, was still playing end, but one day during practice, his coaches
noticed in a passing drill that their string-bean end was throwing the ball
back to the passers better than the passers themselves. They noticed that
he had a natural, easy way of throwing, perfected through years of practic-
ing at home. He had found an old tire, tied a rope around it, and hung it from
a tree limb. He would get the rope to swinging and practice throwing a foot-
ball through the tire at twenty paces and beyond. He had a strong arm, big
hands for a kid, and—thanks to the tire—an understanding of how to lead a
receiver. He was accurate.
He could also be obsessive about striving for perfection. His son David
would recall years later that it didn’t matter whether it was passing, calf
roping, or dominoes, Sam Baugh would work at it incessantly until he was
the best he could be.
Coach Henderson had an idea in the middle of the Wildcats’ woeful sea-
son. “He called me in his office,” Sam recalled, “and told me, he said, ‘What
would you think if I moved you from end to the backfield?’ I said, ‘Well,
I’ve already played end. If you want me to move, I’ll move.’ He said, ‘Well,
I’ve been watching you since practice started,’ and he said, ‘You kick the
ball better than anybody we’ve got. You throw the ball better than anybody
we’ve got, so we haven’t got another player in the backfield who can throw
the ball.’ He said, ‘Maybe you could throw it a little bit and it might help us a
little.’ I said to him, ‘If you want me to, I’ll do it.’ So I spent half a year in the
backfield at Temple.”
In a Hollywood version of the Sammy Baugh story—which Sam’s life

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later resembled—the skinny young quarterback in Temple blue and white

ambles onto the field the next Friday afternoon and starts flinging touch-
down missiles before a surprised and delighted crowd. The Wildcats season
is rescued. A star is born. For sophomore Sam, however, it didn’t happen
that way. “Didn’t make a damn bit of difference that I could tell,” he recalled.
“We just kept on losin’.”
“I don’t recall what happened on the first pass he ever threw in a game,
but he didn’t do too well, I know, because we got beat,” Henderson himself
recalled three decades later. “I think [Austin High School] intercepted two
or three of his passes.”
Henderson lost more than games. He lost his job. He would eventually
become the head basketball coach at Baylor University, thirty miles up the
road in Waco. He took the Bears to the NCAA finals in 1948 and retired in
1961 with more wins than any coach in school history.
“Bill was a hell of a basketball coach when he was coaching at Baylor, but
he wasn’t much of a football coach,” Sam recalled. “I would always tell him,
‘See how lucky you are we had a damn bad team at Temple, which got you
fired, and here you are coaching at Baylor.’ He was a fine man.”
Young Sam Baugh left Temple as well. With the Depression causing
calamity throughout the country, and with the struggling Santa Fe Railroad
laying off men, Jim Baugh suddenly found himself out of work. Union rules
allowed anyone who lost his job to claim the job of the next person below
him in seniority. The elder Baugh got caught in a railroad version of musical
chairs, which meant he would have to leave Temple to find work.
“My daddy got bumped by someone with more seniority and lost his job
in Temple, so he bumped somebody in Somerville and the family moved
over there,” he recalled. (The children stayed with their grandparents.)
“Then he bumped somebody else in Sweetwater, and we moved out there.
Nobody had any money, and if you just had a job you were ahead of a lot of
people. So you went wherever the jobs were.”
Rumors arose over the years, particularly after Sam Baugh became
Slingin’ Sam of nationwide renown, that football boosters in Sweetwater
somehow had lured the elder Baugh because they wanted his son throwing
the football for Sweetwater’s Newman High School Mustangs. Although
recruiting high school football players (or their parents) was forbidden
by the state’s newly established University Interscholastic League rules,
it certainly went on, particularly in football-mad West Texas. No one has
ever offered proof, though, that Sam was recruited, and since he was merely
a promising athlete on a lousy team, not a star, when he left Temple, it is
unlikely that it happened.

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The Temple Wildcats had a sense of what they were losing. As Sam
recalled years later, he was elected captain of the football team, the base-
ball team, and the basketball team. “I could understand the baseball, being
elected the captain of the baseball team, but basketball—I knew damn well
something was wrong, because we had four or five boys there better than I
was at the time, and they ranked me captain of the damn team. And I wasn’t
smart enough to figure out they were trying to get me to where I’d stay at
Temple with my grandmother and graduate from Temple. I never thought
of that until later on.”
Before Sam Baugh, Sweetwater’s most famous resident—or infamous
resident, depending on your point of view—was a young English scholar
named Dorothy Scarborough, who wrote a novel called The Wind (1925).
Set in the Sweetwater area in the late 1880s, the book depicts “a straggling
collection of small houses of the rudest, simplest structure, some not even
painted, some without fences . . . little bare box-like houses, naked and
unbeautiful!—set down in a waste of sand.” Scarborough’s main character, a
young woman from genteel Virginia, is so unnerved by the isolation, numb-
ing emptiness, and incessant wind that she takes her own life.
The real Sweetwater got its start in 1877 when a trader named Bill
Knight, following the buffalo hunters and government surveyors, opened
a store in a dugout on the banks of Sweetwater Creek. The first house con-
structed of lumber was used for a saloon, and later two saloonkeepers acted
as bankers for area stockmen.
A century later, Sweetwater would play on its frontier image by stag-
ing an annual Rattlesnake Roundup, but the Sweetwater the Baugh fam-
ily discovered was a tidy town of about 10,000 people, with paved streets,
multistory downtown buildings, and an economy that was thriving until
the Depression set in. The West Texas wind still blew and sandstorms blan-
keted the town almost every spring, but residents had planted trees to act as
windbreaks. It was still a market town for area sheep and cattle ranches, as
well as cotton and grain farmers. In addition to the railroad shops where the
elder Baugh worked, the local economy relied on the development of gyp-
sum deposits in the area.
Sam attended high school in a distinguished-looking two-story redbrick
building with white columns. It was known as Newman High School in
Sam’s day.
Sweetwater, like every West Texas town, was fanatical about high school
football. The Mustangs were the talk of the barbershop during the week
and the topic of conversation after church on Sundays (once members got
past the preacher at the door and had complimented him on his sermon).

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A Mustang who scored the winning touchdown was a hero for a week; a kid
who dropped a potentially game-winning pass knew folks would remember
for years.
On Friday afternoons, the town shut down to follow the Mustangs to
away games in Big Spring, Roscoe, Colorado City—in auto caravans follow-
ing the school bus if the game was relatively close by, on special trains when
the team made the playoffs and traveled to Amarillo.
In Sweetwater, football gave Sam an opportunity to escape a home life
that was becoming increasingly difficult. His father had added bootlegging
to his repertoire. He was still promoting gambling and chicken fighting.
Sam recalled the time his father took his wife’s yard rooster and attached
gaffs to him and used the bird to train one of his fighting cocks. As the story
goes, the yard rooster inflicted a broken wing on the trained killer.
The elder Baugh eventually left the family and took up with a red-haired
floozy named Ruby. Sam’s mother, Lucy, was left with the three kids, no vis-
ible means of support during hard times, and a flood of resentment that the
children shared. She took in sewing, and the children had part-time jobs to
make ends meet. “I grew up knowing I wouldn’t bet on the sun coming up,”
Sam once said. “You read a lot now about kids not having a shot because of
their family life and things. You learn from your family, good or bad. I got
enough bad to know I never wanted to live that way.”
Years later, Sam’s niece, then Ellen Kendrick, was sitting in the car with
her mother on a downtown street in Sweetwater, where the family lived.
Her mother gestured toward a man and woman walking along the sidewalk.
The woman had flaming-red hair. “Do you know who that is?” Nell Kendrick
asked her daughter. Ellen said she didn’t. “That’s your grandfather,” Nell
said. “And I want nothing to do with him.”
Years after the three children were grown and living on their own, Jim
Baugh tried to reconcile with them. David Baugh, Sam’s son, remembered
a man and woman coming out to the Baugh ranch and sitting on the front
porch. He was a flashy dresser, Sam recalled, and the red-haired woman
was pretty. “He was just as friendly to us boys as he could be,” David Baugh
recalled, “but Mom [Sam’s mother] wouldn’t come out of the house.”
Sam was willing to reconcile, but not Nell. He couldn’t persuade his sister
that they ought to let their father back into their lives. Jim Baugh died in 1968.

D espite his unsettled home life, Sam had a good two years in Sweet-
water. He helped his mother, who cooked and sewed for people in town
and sold butter and eggs. It wasn’t easy being a single mother.

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Sam was a good student and popular at school. He also had two good years
on the football field with the Mustangs, but nothing spectacular. Wearing
number 21 for the red-and-white-clad Ponies, he played safety on defense—
as he would throughout his long career—and blocking back or halfback on
offense. (The school retired his number in 2006.)
In the single- and double-wing formations that most teams used in those
days, the tailback and fullback carried the ball on most plays and did most
of the passing. The halfback was primarily a blocker, although now and then
he got to carry the ball.
“There’s been some stuff written from time to time about how when I
was in high school I led the Sweetwater Mustangs to the state playoffs,” he
recalled. “But it just ain’t true. Hell, I was a long way from being the guy who
led us to the playoffs.” The real star of the team was a running back named
Ney “Red” Sheridan. “”He was a good quarterback, a good baseball player;
he was just a good athlete,” Sam recalled. “He was a running back, could run
like a deer. Weighed about 230 pounds.”
At the end of the season, the Sweetwater newspaper called Sheridan “the
finest running back and the smartest quarterback in the Texas interscho-
lastic league.” The paper also lauded Jack Dodson, “stellar Pony wingman,”
who “stopped everything coming his way through the season just past.”
There was no mention of Sam.
Behind the running of Sheridan, the Mustangs were one of three unde-
feated teams in the state in Sam’s senior year, 1932. (Amarillo High and the
Masonic Home of Fort Worth were the other two.) As district champs, they
qualified for the state playoffs.
“Our big game that year was against Big Spring, which was averag-
ing about 40 points a game and was probably the best high school team I
ever saw,” Baugh recalled. “They were real big and real fast, and nobody
thought we could beat ’em, and I have to admit, it looked pretty darn near
impossible. But Red [Sheridan] had a great game, and we won the district
championship.”
That set up a big bi-district game the next week against the Amarillo
Golden Sandstorm, and all of Sweetwater was excited. A committee of local
businessmen launched a campaign to sign up at least 400 fans to charter a
special train to the Panhandle city. Twenty-five businessmen posted from
$25 to $100, the high school band $90, and the athletic association $390 to
pay the team’s way, along with the 130 girls in the pep squad. Fans paid $3
for a round-trip ticket.
“Twenty-four husky Sweetwater lads mushed off for the northland
Thursday and in the frozen Panhandle country Saturday they will prospect

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for that rich vein of pay dirt which may yield for them the nugget of a state
quarter-final victory,” reported a poetically inclined Sweetwater Reporter
sportswriter. He noted that Sweetwater had never played in Amarillo and
had never advanced so far in Texas high school football competition. He
also noted that the Mustangs had been battling another foe all week. “The
squad, after a hard game against the Flu Midgets—who play dirty football
considering their size—had almost whipped down the germs’ attack and
were in some semblance of regular form as they pulled out at noon for the
Panhandle city.”
Playing in a blizzard that Saturday and perhaps still weakened by the flu,
the Mustangs lost to the bigger, stronger Amarillo team 7–0.
Coach Ed Hennig, speaking to the Sweetwater Club at noon the next
Thursday, declared that he was proud of his team. “The way those boys
fought in the last few minutes of that Amarillo game, the way they stayed
in there and battled when they were almost hopelessly whipped, numb
and freezing, and finally came out with tears in their eyes—well that’s what
makes a season a success in my estimation,” he said.
And so it was over for young Sam Baugh—the end of the season, perhaps
the end of his football career. If he had any athletic future at all, he—and
most everyone else—assumed, it would be on the baseball diamond.

“I had played baseball all my life, and that’s what I wanted to be in the
beginning—a professional baseball player,” he recalled. “A fellow I played
semipro ball with was going to get me a baseball scholarship to Washington
State University, but I hurt my knee about a month before I was supposed to
go. I was sliding into second base and caught a spike and tore up the carti-
lage. Well, if it’d happened today, they’d operate, but back in those days they
didn’t know much about knees. The doctor told me to use a mudpack. I put
a mudpack with vinegar on my knee. But I couldn’t straighten it out, and the
scholarship to Washington State fell through.”
The summer after he graduated, with no firm plans about work or col-
lege, he caught on with Mose Sims’s amateur Oilers in Abilene. For the rest
of his life, he had a cache of stories about Sims, who called his all-star third
baseman “High Schooler.”
When Mose drove the Oilers to diamonds around West Texas, Sam liked
to sprawl out in the equipment trailer hitched to the car. He could stretch
out his long legs back there. On one of their trips, with Mose behind the
wheel, Sam and a teammate were in the trailer as the car sped down the
highway. The trailer came unhitched. As the car slowed on a downhill grade,

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a teammate in the front seat commented, “Hey, Mose, there goes Sam,” and
Mose looked up to see the wayward trailer passing their car. As Sam’s team-
mates watched, the trailer bounded over a ditch, sailed through a barbed-
wife fence, and finally came to a stop, still upright, in a West Texas pasture.
Mose stopped the car on the shoulder and watched Sam and Red climb out
of the trailer, none the worse for wear.
Mose put his players up every summer in an old house he owned in
Abilene. Each player was assigned a chore to do; Sam’s was cooking. One
day Mose barged in the door with a sack over his shoulder. “Boys, I found
y’all something to eat,” he announced. The sack was full of fresh corn.
“I know he stole it,” Sam always said.
“Mose, I need a quarter for a haircut,” Sam told Mose as the coach was
headed out the door. “Hell, High Schooler,” Sims told him, “I don’t have any
money. I paid my last quarter for that corn.”
Sam was holding down third base that summer, the summer Dutch
Meyer saw him play. Saw him and wanted him at TCU. “I told him I didn’t
have any money, that I’d have to have a little help,” Sam recalled.
Without a baseball scholarship to offer and knowing that Sam couldn’t
afford to go to college without financial aid, Meyer, who also coached the
TCU basketball team, tried to work a deal with Francis Schmidt, TCU’s
head football coach. Schmidt controlled the scholarships.
“So I went back and told Coach Schmidt that I had found a kid named
Baugh out in West Texas who was a real fine basketball player, was also
a baseball player and maybe could play a little football, too. Schmidt had
heard of him; Sammy had been blocking back on Sweetwater’s single-wing
football team, but the kid Schmidt really wanted from Sweetwater was Red
Sheridan, the tailback.”
“Baugh is just another blocking back,” Schmidt told Meyer. “I’ve seen
Baugh. No thanks.”
John Knowles was the student manager on the TCU teams of the
midthirties. Whether Schmidt would ever have noticed Sam and his abili-
ties is hard to say, Knowles recalled years later. Schmidt, he said, was set
in his ways. “He was a character, one of a kind,” Knowles said. “He would
be concentrating on football and didn’t know anything else was going on in
the world.”
Regardless, Sheridan got away, opting to become a Texas Longhorn. And
so did his teammate Sam Baugh.
“I was going to TCU right up until the last week,” Sam recalled in 1981.
“In about the last 10 days before we had to go to school old Billy Disch, who
was the baseball coach at Texas, got in touch with me and told me he’d send

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me through Texas on a baseball scholarship if I’d come down there. Well,

I also wanted to play football, but he talked me into coming down there
with this promise—if I didn’t like it he would send me to TCU on the bus.
I thought, ‘Well, I can’t lose anything that way,’ so I went and stayed about
four days.”
Coach Disch—William John Disch officially—already was on his way to
becoming a legend. Nearly sixty years old when Sam met him, he had been
coaching baseball in Austin since 1900—at St. Edward’s University from
1900 to 1910, and then at the University of Texas from 1911 until he retired
in 1940. Known as the “Grand Old Man” of Texas baseball, a strict discipli-
narian who always sought perfection from players, he coached his Long-
horn teams to twenty-one out of a possible twenty-six Southwest Confer-
ence championships. He sent several of his players, including Bibb Falk and
Oscar Eckhardt, to the majors.
The tall young man from Sweetwater was impressed. He was pretty sure
he wanted to be a Longhorn, even more so when white-haired Uncle Billy
reminded him that the University of Texas would be a superb showcase for
a baseball player with major league aspirations. There was only one hitch:
“But when I asked Uncle Billy about playing football, he told me that if I
came to Texas, it would have to be for baseball only.”
He wasn’t cowed by the big-name coach. He told Disch he would have
to think about his offer. He worked out with the Longhorn baseball team
every morning, and in the afternoon strolled around the Forty Acres, as the
campus is known, gawking at the impressive buildings, lingering under the
stately live oaks. And then he would wander over to the stadium where the
Longhorn football team was working out under the watchful eye of Dana
Xenophon Bible, another legendary coach.
Sam made up his mind one afternoon with the sights and sounds of
colliding bodies, shouting coaches, and kicked pigskins echoing through
the empty seats. “I finally decided, hell, I wanted to go to TCU, because I
couldn’t play football at Texas,” he recalled.
Before he left Austin, he called Dutch Meyer and told him he was com-
ing to TCU. Then he walked back to Disch’s office and told him what he had
decided. The Longhorn coach said he understood. As agreed, he gave the
young man money for the 200-mile bus trip to Cowtown.
Sam enrolled in time to go out for freshman football.

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 CHAPTER

DUTCH MEYER
short,safe,sure

M
aybe the best thing that ever happened to Sam Baugh was meeting
Dutch Meyer, the TCU coach who discovered the rangy young third
baseman on a hardscrabble baseball diamond in Abilene and the
first football coach in America to build an offense around the for-
ward pass. Sam himself often said that he learned more about football from
Dutch Meyer than anybody else he ever met. But Dutch was more than just
his coach. He was a mentor, adviser, and perhaps even a surrogate father. “I
think he was one of the greatest men I’ve ever known,” Sam said. “He was
hard, but he was fair. He treated everybody the same.”
That was how John Knowles remembered him too. Knowles, the team’s
student manager during Sam’s playing days, said Meyer was approachable.
“You could relate to him more than you could Schmidt,” Knowles recalled.
He was born Leo Robert Meyer in Waco, Texas, to German parents in a
German neighborhood (thus “Dutch,” a common nickname for immigrants
from Deutschland). He didn’t learn English until he started school.
TCU (known as Add-Ran College until 1902) was then located in Waco,
and as a second grader young Dutch hung around a campus gathering place
called the TCU Drugstore. He loved sports, and by third grade he was water
boy and mascot for the Texas Christian University football team.
Years later he loved to recount the crosstown rivalry between TCU and

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 = DUTCH MEY ER =

Baylor, which often resulted in citywide fights. In 1908, the two schools
played each other three times. The Christians beat the Bears the first two
games, and Baylor could not bear the thought that it might happen a third
time. Trailing 8–6 at halftime, the Bears resorted to a bit of un-Baptist
skullduggery by dressing its talented right end, John Fouts, in TCU purple.
TCU howled, but Babe Grant, the Baylor captain, argued there was no rule
against it. He was right. TCU was so befuddled and upset that Baylor rallied
for a 23–8 win.
As Dutch recalled, windows were smashed in Waco that night, and trol-
ley cars were derailed. It would be years before TCU acknowledged the Bay-
lor “victory” in its record books.
Young Meyer couldn’t wait until he was a Horned Frog himself. In 1911,
fire destroyed the TCU campus, and Fort Worth’s city fathers offered land
and transportation connections if the small Disciples of Christ–affiliated
school would relocate.
Dutch vowed to make the same move just as soon as he was old enough.
At Waco High School, he played football for Paul Tyson, one of the most
innovative coaches in the game. Tyson’s Waco High Tigers won five straight
state championships, lost only twice during that span, and in nine games
scored more than a hundred points. Tyson also concocted an offensive
scheme he called the “spinner series,” and he was so successful with it
that such big-name college coaches as Pop Warner at Stanford and Knute
Rockne at Notre Dame made it their own.
Meyer, short and stocky, was a guard in football, a pitcher on the baseball
team, and a hot-shooting guard on the Waco Tigers’ basketball team. He
graduated from high school in 1917—the class prophecy was that he would
be a missionary in Africa—and enrolled at TCU.
Perhaps—or perhaps not—he recalled his father’s parting dictum: “Don’t
you go out for football!” Once he got to Fort Worth, he immediately went out
for the Horned Frogs’ football team. He also played baseball and basketball.
TCU football was barely two decades old when Dutch donned the purple
and white in the fall of 1917. In 1896, Addison Clark, the son of the univer-
sity president when the school was at Thorp Spring, Texas (in its pre-Waco
days), was just back from the University of Michigan, where, according
to an early history of TCU, he had been “bitten by the Football bug.” On
Thanksgiving Day, “Little Addie” Clark and a professor named A. C. Easley,
“lover of all sports and expert in the military drill,” divided the boys on cam-
pus into two squads—the “black stockings” and the “brown stockings”—and
had them play a game of football.
The Add-Ran boys had no idea what they were doing. They knew rugby,

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 = SLINGIN’ SA M =

so the professors tried to explain to them that football was a variation on the
old British game, although the way the TCU boys played it that afternoon, it
was more a friendly brawl. The final score was 4–4. “It was a delightful shin-
kicking affair with little rules and no skill, but it began an era,” the official
university history notes.
TCU’s young men must have learned fast. They played their first intercol-
legiate contest that same year, against Toby’s Business College. TCU won 8–6.
They became the Horned Frogs in 1898, in honor of the little horned
creatures—they are actually lizards—that were in abundance on the TCU
campus. (Today they are nearly extinct.) TCU had hired its first football
coach, Joe J. Field, in 1897. He laid down four rules: “1. Abstain from all
intoxicants, also coffee and tobacco. 2. Go to bed at ten. 3. Eat no sweets or
pastry. 4. Indulge in no kinds of dissipation.”
Whether Dutch was following similar rules then or later is not known,
but the stocky kid with the lopsided grin was successful at the shin-kick-
ing affair that quickly evolved into college football. He was undersized and
knew it, so he relied on relentless aggression to survive among bigger, faster
players. “I hunted them up and cut them down,” he recalled years later, “and
the bigger they were, the worse it hurt them.”
He left TCU during World War I, serving as an ROTC instructor at Tran-
sylvania College in Kentucky. He also played end on a Transylvania team he
described as the worst college football team of all time.
Back at TCU in 1918, he earned eleven varsity letters in three sports, and
in 1920 played end on the team that won the championship of the Texas
Intercollegiate Athletic Association. (TCU didn’t join the Southwest Con-
ference until 1923.) He didn’t play football his senior year, because of some
kind of dispute with his coach, Billy Driver, but he did play basketball,
also coached by Driver. He and Driver later became good friends, perhaps
because the coach needed Dutch’s set-shooting skills.
He was forced to drop out of school a second time, briefly, because of his
participation in a hazing incident against TCU ministerial students. Once
he got back in school, a milk cow was found in the dean’s office, and suspi-
cion centered on Dutch, but nothing was ever proved.
When his nephew, Lambert D. Meyer, enrolled at TCU some years later,
Dutch took him aside and told him: “I’ve been at TCU many years and have
a spotless reputation here. So I don’t want you to neglect your studies or get
into any mischief, because that would reflect on my perfect reputation.”
That “spotless reputation” must have relied on a lot of willful ignorance
on the part of the TCU administration. A Houston-area coach attending
a coaching school in 1939 recalled being in a Houston hotel room where

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Dutch was staying and where a group of college coaches was shooting craps
inside a larger ring of their colleagues. “Dutch was dressed in some long-
handled drawers,” the coach recalled, and when he got down on his knees to
take a turn “that flap would come wide open and show his bare ass.”
Dutch graduated in 1922 with a degree in geology and immediately
signed with the Cleveland Indians baseball team on the strength of his 30-4
pitching record as a Horned Frog. Baseball was his best sport, but he had
more brains than talent, scouts said. “He had perfect control but no speed,”
one of them recalled. “And when Dutch threw a curve, the third baseman
had to duck to keep Dutch’s thumb from hitting him in the eye.”
As a sophomore at TCU, he had strained a ligament in his pitching arm,
and it still bothered him as he bounced around the minor leagues during
the 1922 season. He decided to give up baseball and return to Fort Worth
to coach at Polytechnic High School. After a year at Poly, he was back at his
beloved alma mater as coach of all freshman sports. He would stay for forty
years, the last eleven as athletic director.
He was a bantam rooster of a man who loved to chest up to the big boys
and beat them. He pulled off so many upsets that he acquired the nickname
“the Saturday Fox.” Dutch would scratch and claw until the last second to
eke out a victory, whatever the sport. “Fight ’em till hell freezes over,” the
coach liked to say, “and then fight ’em on the ice.”
Coaching the freshman football team—the freshman teams were known
as the Polliwogs—in a game against Terrell Prep one year, his team was so
banged up that Meyer had only ten able-bodied men who weren’t limping,
lame, or otherwise incapacitated. When the referee told him he would have
to produce an eleventh or forfeit the game, he laid one of his injured play-
ers on a stretcher and positioned it just inside the out-of-bounds line. The
wounded warrior lay quietly while his fellow Wogs finished the game.
Dutch’s teams down through the years were always fun to watch—
especially with Sam Baugh and his successor, Davey O’Brien, throwing
passes—but Meyer was a sideline show himself. Always on the move, always
talking, he would light one cigarette after another, and sometimes shove the
lighted end into his mouth. He was constantly plucking and nibbling grass
blades and would jam his expensive Stetson down over his ears until, as one
observer put it, “he resembled a cat with its head halfway in a salmon can.”
“He would tumble off the end of the bench like a drunken troll. And all
the time, he’d ad-lib on the ebb and flow: ‘Stop that drop-the-handkerchief
and let’s play some football. . . . What luck! Who put the hat on the bed! . . .
Receivers as open as a butcher with a butcher knife! . . . They’re blowing us
out of the tub! . . . Judas H. Priest! We can’t hit nobody!’”

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By the end of the game he was an emotional basket case and would often
break into tears—win, lose or draw. After one victory over traditional rival
SMU, he wept unashamedly as the team physician wrenched his hat from
around his ears, applied hot and cold towels, and sponged his face.
Gordon Brown, a legendary high school coach, recalled watching Dutch
give a lecture to Texas high school coaches on his famous spread forma-
tion. “There was no air conditioning, so he pulled off his shirt, and here’s
this chubby little guy with his belly hanging over his belt, and he must have
drawn two hundred plays on the chalkboard that morning.” Brown recalled
walking away and “thinking I must be the dumbest coach in Texas,” adding,
“I learned afterward that it is not the system that makes you successful, but
the perfection of the system.”
As Sam would soon learn, Dutch Meyer was nothing if not a perfectionist.

D utch was a keen judge of athletic talent, but he didn’t initially realize
what he had when Sam Baugh showed up at TCU as a 170-pound fresh-
man. He had promised the rangy West Texan a part-time job—it turned out
to be sweeping out a campus music room—if he decided to enroll at TCU,
and he promised him he could play all three sports. Unlike the University of
Texas, TCU was too small to be picky about who played what.
Meyer wasn’t really expecting much from Sam the football player. He
had recruited him as a baseball player, and Sam considered himself primar-
ily a baseball player who happened to play football. The first time the Frogs’
trainer saw Sam in a football uniform, he hurried over to Meyer and told
him he better get the puny kid off the field before somebody hurt him. Meyer
just laughed.
Freshmen weren’t eligible for varsity football, so Sam was tailback for
the Wogs. “Hell, we only played a couple of games,” he recalled years later,
“and I can’t even remember if we won any.”
In fact, they played three at LaGrave Field, Fort Worth’s minor-league
baseball park, which was situated on the Trinity River bottoms between
downtown and the stockyards. The Wogs won all three, including a matchup
against the John Tarleton College Plowboys, a small college in Stephenville,
Texas. “Undoubtedly he can throw a football farther and with more accu-
racy than anyone seen on Tarleton Field in recent times,” a Stephenville
sportswriter noted.
Meyer knew, of course, that Sam had played football in high school,
but if he knew anything at all about his abilities, it was his punting skill.
That was probably what he told Francis Schmidt, the football coach and

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athletic director. Meyer was counting on Baugh to play third base, but
if he came out for football, maybe did a little punting, then that was just
an added bonus for TCU athletics. After all, the Frogs needed everybody
they could get. That was how things stood until about halfway through the
fall semester.
Not unlike what happened at Temple during Sam’s freshman year in
high school, Meyer and his fellow coaches couldn’t help but notice that
the kid who could throw a clothesline strike from third base to first on a
baseball diamond could do similar things with a football. “By that time, all
the coaches realized that the best passing arm in school belonged to some
freshman who had been a blocking back in high school,” Meyer’s nephew
L. D. Meyer recalled.
The Washington Post sportswriter Shirley Povich talked to Dutch Meyer
a few years after the coach’s protégé had become an NFL star. “Anybody
can throw a forward pass, there’s no trick in that,” Dutch told Povich. “The
trick is to turn the pass loose at the right time. That’s how forward passes
are completed, and that’s why Sammy Baugh is the best passer football ever
saw.” Sam had raw talent, of course, but Dutch refined it. “But he’d have
been a fine passer under any coach,” Meyer told Povich, “He has certain
traits that makes a good football player. At any other school he’d have been
just as successful. But when he came to me at TCU he was just a tall skinny
kid who could throw the ball.”
The nickname Slingin’ Sam referred to the way he blazed a baseball from
third to first, but the whiplike right arm made him Slingin’ Sam on the foot-
ball field as well. He often threw sidearm, like a third baseman scooping a
hard grounder off the infield grass and throwing before he got set. He could
throw a football from any position or angle, a skill that would come in handy
years later when he often had to throw on the run behind weak protection
from his Washington Redskin linemen. Unlike technically proficient pass-
ers of the modern era, Sam would throw off his back foot, off his front foot,
or even with both feet off the ground. Today’s coaches would no doubt try to
change him—until they saw what he could do with his unorthodox style.
“He was like hundreds of other Texas kids—forward-pass conscious,”
Dutch said. “He had a nice pair of hands, and he could make that ball travel,
but he was crude as college passers go. No deception, no finesse, and he
didn’t know exactly when to turn the ball loose. But he learned plenty fast.
He didn’t like to quit throwing those long passes, but we forced him to.
When he began having some luck with those short flips, he was satisfied.
But he became a great forward passer because he had kind of a sixth sense.
He was a good passer instinctively.”

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MEYER, BAUGH, AND THE PLAN FOR TCU FOOTBALL

Dutch got his chance to work with Sam when Coach Schmidt parlayed
his success at TCU into the head-coaching job at a midwestern power-
house, Ohio State University. Twenty-five years after carrying water for his
Horned Frog heroes, Dutch took over as head coach. He immediately began
designing an offense that would make the forward pass a tactical weapon,
not a mere desperation heave on third down. He would not only confound
the Horned Frogs’ opponents, but also rely on the skinny West Texan with
a golden arm.
In those days most teams ran the single-wing formation on offense and
the six-man line on defense. In the single wing, all four backs were usually
tightly bunched behind the line (which is how Sam ended up as a blocking
back in high school, his passing prowess unused and unappreciated). Tight
ends, typically, were just that, lined up within a shoe’s width of the tackles.
The compact formation was tailored to the running game.
At TCU, Dutch didn’t have an abundance of big linemen who could bunch
together and blast out holes for powerful backs to trundle through. He had to
be more devious, more daring. Like minutemen in the American Revolution
relying on guerrilla tactics against the tightly bunched redcoats, Dutch had
to fight his football battles unconventionally. That meant throwing the ball.
Nobody threw the ball in the early days of football; in fact, it wasn’t even
legal until 1906. In 1913, a small Catholic school in Indiana named Notre
Dame, playing against a bigger, faster Army team, relied on the forward pass
and upset the highly touted visitors from the East. Playing end for Notre
Dame that day was a young man named Knute Rockne, who later became
Notre Dame’s coach. Rockne, Pop Warner, Jim Thorpe at Carlisle, Alonso
Stagg at the University of Chicago, and John Heisman at Georgia Tech
began to experiment with passing’s possibilities.
The so-called Meyer Spread resembled the modern shotgun formation.
“They said I had my ends sitting in the stands, spread out so wide they would
sell soda water between plays,” Dutch recalled. “The truth of the matter is,
they were hardly spread at all by more than three to five yards, so spaced
that any of them could make the two-way move to block, in or out. The for-
mation wasn’t conceived so much as a spread for the sake of spraying boys
all over the field; it was set up for the purpose of ‘anglization.’ We always had
a blocking angle in mind.”
The man in the backfield who received the direct snap from center
was the tailback, not the quarterback. In the old single wing, there was a

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quarterback, and it was he, not the coach, who called the plays. The rules at
the time prohibited coaching from the sideline, and until 1941, a substitute
was forbidden from communicating with teammates until he had been in
for one play (unless he was substituting for the quarterback).
So the single-wing quarterback was indeed a “field general.” But unlike
today’s quarterbacks, he seldom handled the ball. After calling the play
and calling the signals, his main job was to block, and so he was commonly
known as the “blocking back.”
Dutch didn’t have a blocking back in his spread offense, because his
scheme derived from Pop Warner’s double-wing formation, which didn’t
have a blocking back either. He didn’t have a position named “quarter-
back.” Instead, his tailback called the plays—and handled the ball on nearly
every play.
In addition to his tailback, Dutch had a fullback and two halfbacks,
deployed most of the time in such a way that with both of his ends split, he
had three slot receivers.
Years after Sam’s introduction to the Meyer Spread, he recalled sitting in
a classroom and trying to make sense out of three words written on a black-
board: “Short. Safe. Sure.” Sam recalled, “Dutch comes in and says, ‘We’re
going to be playing teams that can score on us every time they have the ball.
The only way we can match them is to keep the ball away from them. And
we’re going to do it with short passing.’” Dutch told his raw protégé that the
Frogs would be “playing teams that were better than us, teams that would
have us outmanned. And if we tried to play the same game they were play-
ing, they would just run over us.”
On the practice field, the new coach and his young passer worked on pat-
terns—down-and-outs, hooks, curls, crossovers, slants, comebacks. Sam
worked primarily with a receiver named Walter Roach, who had good speed
and good hands and who knew how to run good patterns. He was all–South-
west Conference three straight years.
“Back in those days, nobody knew anything about the passing game,”
Sam recalled.

Most teams—even in the pros—would try to pound at you with the running
game and then, in desperation, throw on third and long. Then they would just
try to throw it as far as they could.
Dutch taught us the short passing game, and it was a revolutionary thing
for that day and time. We would just move the ball right down the field hitting
short passes—with little risk of an interception—and nobody could figure out
how to stop it.

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L. D. Meyer—also known as Little Dutch—became a favorite Baugh

receiver as well. “In those days,” Meyer said,

he was the greatest passer I ever saw. And in all the years since, I don’t remem-
ber ever seeing anyone better. In all my life, I never saw another passer like
Sam Baugh.
Sam could throw any kind of ball—off balance or whatever—and he could
throw long, short or medium. But he threw a very light ball. Most of Sam’s
passes, you could catch ’em with one hand.

As good as he was at throwing the ball, he was just as good kicking it.
Years after he quit playing, teammates and fans told stories about how he
could punt the ball and make it land just about anywhere he wanted it to. In
the days before passes became a potent weapon, teams relied on punters to
keep their opponents backed up in their own end of the field.
Dutch taught his punters to kick away from the deep man in order to
avoid punt returns. During baseball season, Sam would devote a day to punt-
ing practice, maybe with another punter on the team or by himself. If he had
a partner, Sam would station the man at different spots on the field—the
twenty, the ten, the five. He would practice punting the ball out of bounds
within five yards of his man. “I could kick it, and the biggest part of the time
kick it somewhere from the 20-yard line on in,” he recalled many years later,
“and every now and then you’d hit a great one and you’d get them on the one-
yard line. If you’ve got a punter who can do that time and time again, shit,
he can save you a lot of worry. You know that son of a gun will go out some-
where inside that perimeter—around the 10- or five-yard line—and he can
do it consistently, you’ve got a good weapon. Nobody likes to start on their
own five-yard line, I guarantee you.”

FORT WORTH AND TCU IN THE 1930 S

Off the playing field and on, TCU was a good fit for Sam. With its compact
campus of handsome, blond-brick buildings and tree-lined walkways on a
gentle hill south of downtown, the school was small, friendly, and oriented
toward West Texas. On summer days, the prehistoric-looking little lizards
that provided the school its nickname could be spotted taking in the sun.
Many of TCU’s students were just like Sam, small-town youngsters who
had little experience with the big city. Fort Worth, population 163,000 in
1930, was a big town to be sure, the fourth-largest in the state, but it was

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Cowtown, “as thoroughly representative of the Southwest as a longhorned

steer,” the WPA Guide to Texas noted in 1940. Fort Worth became Cow-
town in 1876, when the railroad linked the city’s sprawling stockyards and
its packinghouses to Chicago, a thousand miles to the north. For decades,
cows were herded off the train by the thousands each day—a quarter million
every year—and sold to the highest bidder. Many of the city’s residents, the
Guide noted, were descendants of the wiry pioneers of the plains.
“Boasting itself the Southwest’s No. 1 grain and livestock market,”
Time magazine reported in 1936, “Fort Worth likes the virile stench of its
stockyards, hates cultured Dallas, of late years has found the excitement
of its annual rodeo surpassed by the excitement of watching its fast, rangy
Texas Christian University football team play Dallas’ fast, rangy Southern
Methodists.”
A few years earlier, Cowtown also had taken full advantage of the West
Texas oil boom that overnight had transformed Ranger, Cisco, Desdemona,
and other small, sleepy settlements into roaring, raucous boomtowns. Fort
Worth was where the drillers, financiers, fortune hunters and farmers who
owned the land came to spend their money.
The WPA Guide described Fort Worth as “one of the state’s most hospi-
table cities.

There is still time for a cordial “Howdy, stranger,” and a nice disregard of the
city’s uproar in the easy pause for conversation that is definitely reminiscent
of the top rail of a corral fence, with boot heels hooked for balance and plenty
of time for talk.

By the time Sam got off the bus in downtown Fort Worth and headed out
to the TCU campus in 1933, much of the conversation, no doubt, concerned
the abrupt change of fortune the city had experienced a couple of years ear-
lier. After the stock market crash, after the run on the banks and the col-
lapse of the job market, Fort Worth, like most American cities, was in real
trouble. Cattle prices had plummeted, soup lines lengthened, and city hall
had to lock its doors during the day to keep the homeless from camping out
in the hallways. In January 1932, Texas National Bank, one of the city’s larg-
est financial institutions, went under; First National Bank, with $24 million
in assets, was on the brink.
TCU was not immune. Because of the Depression, most of the school’s
students were lucky to be in college at all. Almost all of them had to work,
even athletes on scholarship. “Nobody had any money except one boy on our

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freshman team,” Sam recalled. “He was a banker’s son named Drew Ellis.
Every time he would go down to the malt shop he would take a bunch of
us with him. He was a good player and became my captain his senior year.
I’ve thought about it a lot of times, how he would load up that old car with
everybody. No one in our group grew up with any money. If you got a job, you
worked for 10 cents an hour, all day for a dollar. Now Drew Ellis, he was such
a sweet guy, a nice guy. He just wouldn’t go anywhere by himself; he always
took some of us with him. You don’t forget things like that.”
The Athletics Department tried to arrange on-campus jobs for the ath-
letes. “What they’d do, they’d let you sign the note [for tuition, books, etc.],
you’d pay them when you got out and got a job,” Sam recalled. “That’s how
most of our kids went through school. They’d sign a note, they’d pay when
they got out of school. And I know that the first year I played in the pros,
when the season was over, I came back through Fort Worth and paid TCU
what I owed them and went on to Sweetwater.”
Enrollment at TCU was dwindling in the early 1930s—from 1,498 in
1929–1930 to a low of 907 in 1933–1934. Two weeks before the opening of
the 1933 fall term, faculty members agreed to a 10 percent reduction in pay.
“It seemed to me that dang near all situations back in those days were
kind of touch and go,” Sam recalled. “We didn’t know whether we were
going to finish school or not. I can remember one night at a bull session and
someone said, ‘What if a guy comes up to you and offers you a job for $150
per month? Would you take it and leave school?”
As John Knowles recalled, the football players were just like everyone
else. They lived in Goode Hall, one of the two men’s dorms, and had to take
the same classes all the other students took.
Knowles, whose duties as student manager included taking care of the
equipment and logging in the number of minutes each player was on the
field for lettering purposes, recalled being in Bible class with running back
Jimmy “Squarehead” Lawrence. “He put up his hand one day,” Knowles
recalled, “and he said, ‘Professor, who is this guy Verily they keep talking
about?’ as in, verily I say unto you.”
Knowles enjoyed TCU, and so did Sam. “Despite those tough times in
college, if I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t change a thing,” he said. “It was
a good place to go to school.”
The hundred-year history of the university, published in 1974, quotes
a 1930s-era recruiting publication that reminded potential students that
Fort Worth was a hub of passenger railways in the Southwest and had
interurban lines to nearby Cleburne and Dallas. Students often chartered

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interurban cars to athletic events as well as for “class entertainments in

which quartets, orators and readers can all be on the program and you will
enjoy an evening of real pleasure—something different from the time-worn
custom of banquets.”
“It was mostly girls and preacher boys,” L. D. Meyer recalled years later.
Chapel attendance was required twice weekly for freshmen and sopho-
mores, once a week for upperclassmen. In September 1934, the school’s
board of trustees approved student dances. “The problem was that our stu-
dents were dancing not on campus but on the outskirts of the city,” a letter
from the president of the student council noted in 1933.
Tall, dark-haired, and handsome, Sam was well known on campus, and
well liked. The 1934 edition of the Horned Frog included the underclass-
man from Sweetwater in a playful list of “Things These People Never Say.”
According to the yearbook, Sam would never be heard to say, “Teacher,
what’s a ladies man?”

T
 hough small and financially struggling, TCU was athletically ambi-
tious. The Frogs’ football team won the Southwest Conference cham-
pionship in 1929—and again in 1932, with a 10-0-1 record—and the school’s
Athletic Committee recommended to the executive committee of the board
of regents that it support a “quiet campaign” headed by the Fort Worth
booster and newspaper publisher Amon G. Carter and members of the Ath-
letic Committee to raise approximately $150,000 for a stadium designed to
seat about 30,000 people. The Frogs had been playing on a field with two
wooden bleachers of about twenty-five tiers, the field enclosed by a wooden
fence. After TCU was admitted to the Southwest Conference in 1922, por-
table stands in the end zones accommodated larger crowds. The suggestion
was opportune, the Athletic Committee noted, because

TCU has won the conference championship this year and the citizens of Fort
Worth are clamoring for the erection of a new stadium and a movement was
started some two weeks ago by the Star-Telegram and the Record-Telegram to
build such a stadium for TCU. Mr. Amon G. Carter was the instigator of the
matter and feels that such a stadium could be built.

The new concrete-and-steel Frog Stadium—seating capacity 19,500;

cost $350,000—opened on October 11, 1930. On that Saturday, 15,000
spectators saw the Horned Frogs pound the Arkansas Razorbacks, 40–0.

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The largest attendance that season was a capacity crowd of 20,000 at the
TCU homecoming game, which turned out to be a bitter loss to the Univer-
sity of Texas, 7–0. Five years later, thanks to Sam Baugh—Slingin’ Sammy
Baugh by then—20,000 seats wouldn’t be nearly enough to accommodate
TCU’s rabid fans.

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 CHAPTER

1934
thebaugheraattcubegins

T
he year 1934 was one of pain, fear, and deep frustration for the United
States. On the Great Plains, families abandoned farms to banks and
dunes of dust as they headed to California in search of not just a bet-
ter future but sheer survival. Businesses closed. Young men, and some
women, rode the rails in search of a job, any job. President Franklin D. Roo-
sevelt’s New Deal programs had not been in effect long enough to put money
in the pockets of the workingman or food on the table of the average family.
In Texas, a couple of outlaw lovers from West Dallas named Bonnie
Parker and Clyde Barrow reached the end of the road. It was the year that
90 percent of voters in Germany approved the ascension to the presidency
of a man named Adolf Hitler, the year that Huey Long became the virtual
dictator of Louisiana.
Texans, like most Americans in 1934, had more immediate concerns:
they were looking for work, trying to put food on the table, trying to get by as
the Depression settled in over the nation. More than thirteen million people
were jobless. Many who still had jobs were working either at lower wages or
for fewer hours, or sometimes both.
They had their distractions, of course. Radio and the movies thrived dur-
ing the Depression, precisely because Americans hungered for distraction,

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comfort, entertainment. Hollywood supplied those distractions, and so

did sports.
It was also the year that Southwest Conference football came of age. It
started on the afternoon of October 6 in an unlikely place—the state of Indi-
ana, in fact. At almost the same moment and within a hundred miles of each
other, the Texas Longhorns and the Rice Owls pulled off stunning upsets
of two traditional football powers, and because big-city sportswriters and
wire-service reporters were in the press boxes that day, the rest of the coun-
try took notice.
It was a great story because Texas teams in the early 1930s rarely played
the big boys—the Ivy League, the Big 10, the two service academies, and,
of course, Notre Dame. When they did, the results were disastrous: Notre
Dame, for example, walloped Texas 36–7 and Rice 55–2 during a three-day
swing through Texas in 1915.
At Lafayette, Indiana, on that October afternoon, the Purdue Boiler-
makers, potential national champions, were expected to have an easy time
with the visiting Owls from the tiny Rice Institute in Houston. The Boiler-
makers had lost only four games in four years, while winning twenty-eight
and tying two.
The game was scoreless until the final quarter, when the Owls’ left-
handed right halfback, Bill Wallace, dropped back from his own forty-three-
yard line to pass and was hit by two Purdue linemen. As he was falling, he
got off a low pass of about fifteen yards toward the sideline. His receiver,
John McCauley, had broken deep and then drifted back when he saw Wal-
lace in trouble. He made a shoestring grab of the ball, straightened up, and
fell in behind his blockers, who convoyed him forty-two yards into the Boil-
ermaker end zone. The extra point made it 7–0.
Late in the game, Purdue’s quarterback, desperately looking for a
receiver as he backpedaled into his own end zone, was hit hard by a Rice
guard named Red Bale and fumbled. Frank Steen, a Rice end, fell on the ball
for the touchdown, and the game ended before a stunned and disbelieving
Boilermaker crowd—Rice 14, Purdue 0.
At South Bend, meanwhile, the contest between the Longhorns and
the Fighting Irish featured opposing head coaches who were Notre Dame
alumni. Elmer Layden, the fullback of the famed Four Horsemen, was in
his first year as head coach of his alma mater, while Jack Chevigny, another
Notre Dame backfield star and Notre Dame’s backfield coach the year
before, was in his first year as the Longhorns’ head coach. It was Chevigny
who reportedly uttered those immortal words in 1928 when he scored a

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 = 1934 =

last-second game-winning touchdown against powerful Army: “Here’s one

for the Gipper.”
Notre Dame was opening its season with Texas. The Irish had not lost
a season opener in forty years. The Longhorns were playing their second
game of the year. In his Texas debut, a 12–6 victory over Texas Tech, Chevi-
gny reportedly told his star running back, Bohn Hilliard, to fake a limp after
scoring on a ninety-four-yard run, the idea being to fool Notre Dame scouts.
In South Bend a week later, Chevigny stoked the Longhorns to a fever
pitch with a pregame speech worthy of his old coach, the legendary Knute
Rockne. He also took advantage of his familiarity with Irish personnel. He
knew that the Irish halfback George Melinkovich was prone to fumble in
the opening minutes, so Chevigny had his kicker aim the ball at the jittery
deep man. Sure enough, Melinkovich bobbled the ball at his own five and
lost it for good to the swarming Longhorns at the eighteen.
On first and goal from the eight, a miraculously recovered Hilliard fol-
lowed guard Joe Smartt through a hole over right tackle for a touchdown
before the game was two minutes old. Hilliard then kicked the extra point,
which turned out to be one of the biggest in Longhorn history.
Notre Dame got its chance for redemption shortly afterward when Texas
fumbled on its own ten-yard line and the Irish recovered. Three plays later,
Melinkovich scored, but somehow Notre Dame kicker Wayne Millner—
a future Washington Redskins star—missed the extra point. Final score:
Texas 7, Notre Dame 6.
On October 14, 1934, the Associated Press, in its roundup of college foot-
ball games for Sunday newspapers, said of the day’s events: “The football
experts had better retire to their bomb-proof shelters. In as great a suc-
cession of early-season upsets as the game ever has known, Notre Dame’s
Ramblers, Purdue, Michigan, Cornell and Pennsylvania all went down to
stunning and unexpected defeats yesterday. Two of these form reversals
were credited to invading outfits from the Southwest Conference, the Texas
Longhorns and Rice Owls.”
Rice would go on to beat the Longhorns in Houston, 20–9, on the way
to its first Southwest Conference championship. The game was so widely
anticipated that Humble Oil and Refining set up a network of clear-channel
radio stations in Dallas, Houston, and San Antonio. Although Southwest
Conference football fans may not have realized it at the time, the golden age
had begun.
“It would be hard to exaggerate the excitement that the first kiss of
autumn generated at all levels of society,” the Texas Monthly writer Gary

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Cartwright recalled years later. “As early as 1934, the air was literally filled
with Southwest Conference football, thanks to the Humble Radio Net-
work, the nation’s first broadcast network. You couldn’t visit a drugstore
or barbershop or even walk along a sidewalk without hearing the roar of
the crowd and the boom of the marching bands at Kyle Field or the Cotton
Bowl—or the voice of Humble’s master of word pictures, Kern Tips.”
The rest of the country also was learning to keep its eye on the South-
west Conference and its growing reputation for wide-open, crowd-pleasing
football. Once the Owls and the Longhorns captured the nation’s attention
with their Indiana derring-do, two other Southwest Conference teams held
it. At SMU, Coach Ray Morrison installed what came to be called the “aer-
ial circus,” with footballs flying all over the field. Thirty miles to the west,
Dutch Meyer unveiled not only his disciplined short-pass offense but also
the best passing quarterback the Southwest Conference had ever seen.

Y oung Sam Baugh began his TCU career on the bench. The Horned
Frogs opened the 1934 season in Brownwood, Texas, against tiny Dan-
iel Baker College. Dutch started Joe Coleman, a Waco product who was his
senior quarterback, field-goal kicker, and co-captain. Sam got into the game
after the Frogs had built a 10–0 lead. In a preview of what Frog fans could
expect during the next three seasons, the Sweetwater sophomore scored
once and threw three touchdown passes in a 33–7 victory over the out-
matched Hillbillies. The banner headline in the Star-Telegram the next day
put the spotlight on the newcomer: “Sam Baugh Lives Up to Expectations
and Leads Frogs to Win Over Billies.”
Dutch alternated his quarterbacks the next Saturday as well, as the
Frogs defeated North Texas State 27–0 before a crowd of 5,000, reported
to be “the largest crowd ever to witness a TCU home opener.” (A year later,
TCU would be desperately adding seats to accommodate a crowd of 40,000
for the SMU game.)
Sam’s debut against a Southwest Conference foe was something less
than auspicious. Playing Arkansas, the Frogs jumped out to a 10–0 lead
behind Coleman. Late in the first half, Meyer sent in the sophomore.
He played like a sophomore. Not long after going in, he tried to catch
a punt on the Frogs’ own one-yard line and fumbled it to the Razorbacks.
Arkansas scored an easy touchdown to make it 10–7. Early in the second
half, Sam tried to throw from his own five and got intercepted. Arkansas ran
it in for a touchdown to make it 14–10.
“I knew what he could do,” Dutch would say in years to come.

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Now, when you’re in your own end of the field, you can fumble and get kicks
blocked, and that’s bad, but if you can pass well from there, you can get your-
self out of trouble. Sure, sometimes a passer has to peel it and eat it, and we got
a reputation for passing in the shadow of our own goal—but Sam could make
it work for us. You have to remember that Sam could also kick that ball—and
that also made him a great passer in the shadow of his own goal line with his
kicking threat.

However much confidence Dutch Meyer had in his young quarterback,

both he and the pass-oriented offense were still works in progress on that
October afternoon against the Razorbacks. After costing the Frogs four-
teen points with his mistakes, Sam got the team backed up deep into its own
territory yet again and threw yet another interception. Arkansas scored to
make it 21–10.
“So here he had cost us 21 points in pretty quick succession—and lost
the game, as it turned out—but there was an interesting reaction,” recalled
Julius “Judy” Truelson, a senior tackle in 1934. “It never shook him at all.
He never lost confidence, and took us on a couple of drives late in the game,
although we didn’t score.”
The loss to Arkansas was costly, and yet Meyer and his fellow coaches
saw something that day that gave them hope. Sam, they realized, possessed
that rare quality of believing in himself and inspiring those around him to
believe as well. It was the mark of a leader.
“He was kind of a quiet guy,” John Knowles recalled. “There was not a lot
of hurraw about him.”
On the field, he never yelled at his teammates, never tried to be the big
dog, even though he would eventually be the biggest of the big dogs. He
hated reprimanding people or showing them up. His style was to lead by
doing, and each week the team’s confidence in their leader grew.
Over the two weekends following the Arkansas loss, the Frogs beat Tulsa
and then Texas A&M, which set up an early-November clash with perhaps
their bitterest rivals, the Baylor Bears. On the day before the game, some
1,200 fans boarded a train in Waco for the ninety-mile ride to Fort Worth.
The Baylor band marched down Fort Worth’s Main Street on the way to the
game, held a pep rally at the Texas Hotel, and showed off its live bear mascot.
There was no marching when the afternoon was over. The Bears were
limping. Sam not only threw three touchdown passes in a 34–12 TCU win,
but also caught two interceptions that resulted in TCU touchdowns.
Playing both offense and defense, Sam was beginning to feel the rhythm
of the game, learning to get to where he could survey the field, almost as

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if everything were happening in slow motion. And he was getting used to

his receivers.
The high-flying Frogs traveled to Austin two weeks later for a crucial
date with the Longhorns. Sam had another superb day, throwing for 206
yards and two touchdowns, but it wasn’t enough. Longhorn running back
Bohn Hilliard, the hero of the Notre Dame game, led Texas to a 20–19 vic-
tory in a game in which the Longhorns rushed for 320 yards and passed for
exactly one. The Frogs lost when fullback Taldon “Tillie” Manton, playing
with an injury, missed two extra-point attempts.
Up next were the Rice Owls, whose only blemish in nine games was an
early-season tie with Louisiana State University. TCU would have been
the clear underdog even if the team wasn’t bruised and battered after the
Texas game, but Dutch Meyer—the “Saturday Fox”—traveled to Houston
with a trick tucked away in his game plan. Forsaking the passing game that
had gotten more potent every week, he kept the Frogs on the ground almost
exclusively. They scored on an eighty-yard opening drive and then relied on
a clawing, snarling defense to keep the high-flying Owls out of the end zone.
Sam’s punting kept the Owls in a hole all day.
Years later, Judy Truelson remembered the touchdown: “When we took
the ball on our first possession, Joe Coleman was at quarterback, and we
just kept running Jimmy Lawrence at ’em until we were down on about
their six-yard-line. Then Joe called 32X—which was a reverse to Lawrence
on which he was supposed to throw to Harold McClure. But he was covered,
and Rice was swarming back there, and it looked like Jimmy was trapped
for a big loss when suddenly he threw back across the field to Coleman, who
ran it in for the touchdown.”
Late in the game, the Frogs gave the Owls a safety so that they could try
to establish good field position with a free kick. Just a few plays later, the
strategy appeared to backfire when Rice pushed to TCU’s nine-yard line,
thanks to a thirty-one-yard pass-interference call. They got to the five on
the next play.
On the next play, the Frogs smothered the Rice ball carrier for an eight-
yard loss. On the play after that, they lost fifteen, and on fourth down, they
lost fifteen more. TCU took over on about the forty, and the clock ran out.
The hero of the day, aside from the Frog defensive unit, was “Little Joe”
Coleman, the senior captain who had lost his job on offense to the preter-
naturally gifted underclassman.
“Joe was a great guy and a very unselfish football player,” Sam recalled.
“We always got along real well, and he tried to help me in any way he could.
It made me feel good that he scored that touchdown against Rice.”

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Grantland Rice was in the stands that day. He didn’t get to see much of
Sam Baugh, although in a postgame column he proclaimed the Southwest
Conference “the roughest and toughest in the country.”
The Frogs were anything but rough and tough the week after the Rice
victory. They lost to SMU 19–0.
Rice would go on to win its first Southwest Conference championship
in 1934, while TCU would end the season on a high note as well. The Uni-
versity of Santa Clara, a college football power in the ’30s, came into Fort
Worth with only one loss on its record. The Broncos had beaten the Cali-
fornia Golden Bears and tied Rose Bowl–bound Stanford. TCU squeaked
by, 9–7, on the strength of a game-winning field goal late in the fourth quar-
ter by Tillie Manton, the Frog turned goat against the Longhorns a few
weeks earlier.
The Frogs finished Dutch Meyer’s inaugural season with an 8-4 record
and with fans vowing, “Wait’ll next year.” “Baugh appears to be the best
passer TCU has had in several years,” the 1934 Horned Frog, the school
yearbook, noted. “He is an elusive runner and excellent punter also.”
Meanwhile, Sam came out for basketball, playing guard, and then base-
ball in the spring. Playing third base in practice one day, he caught the eye of
Amos Melton, a former TCU football player who had become a sportswriter
for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. Searching for a way to describe how the
Frog third baseman rifled the ball across the diamond to first base, Melton
bestowed upon Sam Adrian Baugh one of the most memorable nicknames
in all of American sports—“Slingin’ Sammy Baugh.”

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 CHAPTER

1935
thatchampionshipseason

T
he 1934 season set the stage for the true opening of the golden era of
the Southwest Conference, 1935. Thanks to what had happened the
season before, the rest of the nation was watching.
TCU, cofavorite along with SMU to win the Southwest Conference
championship, sold 2,200 season-ticket packages at a cost of $5.50 for five
home games. The Frogs’ promising young passer sold a lot of those tickets.
Forty-seven players showed up for preseason practice in August, a bit
fewer than the ninety competing for a spot on Jack Chevigny’s Texas Long-
horn team 200 miles to the south.
The Frogs would have to get by the Mustangs of SMU, who relied on full-
back Harry Shuford and 147-pound halfback Bobby Wilson, described by
one overwrought sportswriter as “a lizard-legged little bundle of mobile
murder.” Broadcaster Kern Tips described Wilson as “SMU’s broken-field
kid with the bulbous shoulders, the calves of a guard, the slim hips of a
ballet dancer.”
In Houston, defending champion Rice still had its two fine running
backs, Bill Wallace and John McCauley.
TCU, with Sam starting at tailback, opened the season at home on a Sat-
urday afternoon against Howard Payne, from Brownwood, Texas, which
was coming off an undefeated season. Sam scored the first touchdown on

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a ten-yard run, and the Frogs went on to maul the Yellow Jackets, 41–0.
SMU blanked North Texas State 38–0 that Saturday, and Rice beat St.
Mary’s 38–0.
The next weekend, the “Saturday Fox” almost outfoxed himself when he
decided to start his second-string backfield against lightly regarded North
Texas State. The Eagles put up a stiff fight before falling to the Frogs 28–21.
SMU had an easy time with tiny Austin College, 61–0, while Rice took on
LSU in Baton Rouge and defeated the Southeastern Conference power-
house 10–7.
In mid-October, in the first matchup between the three top contend-
ers, SMU caught Rice with running back Wallace out with an injury and
defeated the Owls 10–0.
Also in mid-October, Flem Hall, a Star-Telegram columnist, reached a
conclusion about the future of college football. “Night football,” he wrote,
“has probably passed its peak as a vehicle for major college competition.
From all quarters, where it has been tried, are coming strong unqualified
condemnations. Neither the players, coaches, officials nor close-observing
spectators like the after-dark conditions. The only stanch friend of night
play is the business manager—early-season games do bring in more money
than those played in the afternoon.”
Almost unnoticed as fall afternoons began to shorten were the Baylor
Bears, who had won six straight games when they hosted TCU in Waco
on November 2. The Frogs also were 6–0. Playing in front of a boisterous
homecoming crowd at Waco’s Carroll Field and boasting a successful pass-
ing attack of their own, the Bears were set to waylay the visiting Frogs.
It was not to be. Sam completed ten of sixteen passes—three for touch-
downs—ran for forty yards on eight carries and intercepted a pass in the
28–0 victory. He also did all the punting. The TCU defense held the Bears to
six first downs and 124 total yards while intercepting three Baylor passes.
TCU gained 324 yards, 204 in the air.
The Baylor game was big for TCU, but Sam and his boys were flat the
next weekend in New Orleans against the Wolves of Loyola University.
Playing in a Gulf Coast fog, Sam had trouble throwing the wet ball. Fortu-
nately, running back Jimmy Lawrence scored twice, the defense shut down
the Wolves, and the Frogs escaped the Crescent City with a 14–0 victory.
SMU was also mowing down opponents. Traveling to Los Angeles on
November 11 for a rare Monday-night game, the Mustangs invaded Memo-
rial Coliseum to take on UCLA. “Fifty thousand spectators marveled at
the forward passing magic of the Texans, who threw the ball with abandon
from first to last,” the Associated Press reported. Halfback Bobby Wilson

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“ran and passed until the California players tired of the sight of him.” He
averaged six yards per carry as his Mustangs crushed the vaunted West
Coast team 21–0.
The next Saturday, the Frogs boarded the train for Austin, where they
expected to avenge their ’34 defeat. TCU’s president granted the students a
holiday; most would make the trip to Austin by either car or train, the Star-
Telegram reported.
Texas was always the team to beat, Sam recalled years later, the team
that everybody else in the Southwest Conference geared up to beat. “Every-
body wanted to beat Texas University, because they’ve already got the best
boys,” he said.
On a rainy afternoon in Memorial Stadium, the temperature 50 degrees,
the lanky tailback the Longhorns had allowed to get away three years ear-
lier passed for three touchdowns, and the Frogs ran in a blocked punt for a
fourth. The Frogs intercepted four Longhorn passes, outgained their oppo-
nent 359 yards to 79, and, with reserves playing the whole fourth quarter,
won going away, 28–0.
Writing in the Star-Telegram, Flem Hall couldn’t get over Sam’s punt-
ing. “Baugh was standing on the rear end of his own end zone the first time
he was called upon to punt,” he reported the Monday after the game. “The
ball came down on the Texas 34-yard line—just 75 yards from where it took
off of Baugh’s foot. His next punt was across the Texas goal line 73 yards
from where he punted.” Hall noted that Sam was averaging better than forty
yards a punt for the season, “and he boots a lot of them out of bounds with
rare accuracy.”
The Frogs beat the Longhorns twice during the years the spurned Tea-
sipper was TCU’s signal caller. Texas beat TCU and Sam once.
That same week, the Star-Telegram columnist reprinted a letter from
Shelly Powers, a reader from Justin, Texas: “I am interested in some South-
west team playing in the ‘Bowl’ game in Dallas Jan. 1. I have always thought
of such a game being called the Cotton (Boll) Bowl. Maybe then the South-
west could step out into the limelight and pick some strong Midwest
team—I mean really ‘pick’ ’em in more than one way for and in our Cotton
(Boll) Bowl.”
A week after the Texas victory, the Rice Institute came to town to engage
the Frogs—“the flaming and furious Frogs of Texas Christian University,”
Flem Hall called them, “as audacious and clever a football battalion as ever
stepped on a gridiron.”
As the Associated Press reported in Sunday’s paper, “There was never a
doubt concerning the outcome today from the time George Kline, Christian

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halfback, thrilled the 22,000 spectators by returning the opening kickoff

69 yards until Coach ‘Dutch’ Meyer removed his first-stringers and sent in
reserves in the fourth period.”
Sam completed eleven of nineteen passes, three for touchdowns, and
gained more than 200 yards in the air in the 27–6 win. He had become a true
believer in Dutch Meyer’s “short, safe, sure” system.
“Sam wasn’t merely a thrower but an artist with the pigskin who could
shoot the leather direct to the mark and have it fall easily in the intended
receiver’s hands,” the Associated Press reported. “There was no stopping
his overhead thrusts. At least, Rice had no concrete defense against them.
If one man was covered, Sammy usually had at least a couple of other mates
waiting to be found and he overlooked few. The Owls intercepted only one
of his throws, batted down two, and the others went aground chiefly because
the intended receivers failed to reach their zones or had swung the opposite
way from which they were expected to be traveling.”
The Frogs’ victory over “the obstreperous Owls of Rice Institute” (Flem
Hall again) set the stage for a battle of the unbeatens.
Two cities only thirty-four miles apart were “in the grip of a football
frenzy unprecedented in this section,” the New York Times reported from
Fort Worth. Both TCU and SMU were undefeated. The Mustangs had out-
scored their opponents 244 to 18, while TCU had scored 244 points while
giving up 45. SMU’s opponents had scored only three touchdowns all sea-
son, TCU’s only five.
The game was the topic of conversation in offices around town, in
church the Sunday before. Both the Morning News and the Star-Telegram
offered a raft of game-related stories every day of the week. On both cam-
puses, professors found it almost impossible to hold their students’ atten-
tion. On Friday night, a bonfire in a field near the TCU stadium drew at least
20,000 people.
For Sam and his teammates, the attention was more focused. The Frogs
had to figure out a way to stop Wilson, the speedy halfback who had run
almost at will against UCLA three weeks earlier. But “the Mustangs have an
even larger problem to solve,” the Times noted. “They must checkmate Sam
Baugh, TCU quarterback, who has completed 71 out of 158 passes thrown,
and at the same time guard against the thrusts by Jimmy Lawrence, jarring
Frog halfback and All-Conference selection last year.”
TCU was a slight favorite, in part because of the Frogs’ convincing vic-
tory over Rice a week earlier and SMU’s less than convincing victory over
Baylor, a team the Frogs had handled easily. SMU also would be play-
ing without its stellar fullback Harry Shuford and guard J. C. “Iron Man”

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Wetzel, both out with injuries. John Knowles recalled many years later that
even the Ponies acknowledged that TCU was the better team.
“Texas, which has for many years clamored for national recognition
for its Southwest Conference, is reveling in the attention centred [sic] on
tomorrow’s game,” the Times noted.
TCU officials anticipated the largest crowd in Southwest Conference
history. Reserve seats had been at a premium for weeks, and end zone seats
were snapped up as soon as they went on sale. Standing room tickets were
expected to push total attendance to at least 40,000.
Billy Sansing grew up in Dallas next door to O. J. Lawrence, whose
brother Jimmy, nicknamed “Squarehead,” was a TCU running back.
Sansing, who was twelve, got invited to the biggest football game in South-
west Conference history. O. J. Lawrence had a ticket. Nearly three-quarters
of a century later, Sansing remembered how desperate fans nudged their
cars up against the wire fence around the stadium, climbed up on the roofs
of their cars, and scrambled over. Halfback Wilson recalled years later that
people threw blankets and overcoats over the cyclone fence. “They looked
like sheep going over the top,” he said. Eventually, the surging crowd broke
the fence down, and officials gave up trying to keep them out. An extra 4,000
spilled into the stadium, and the standing-room-only crowd spilled over
into the end zone during the game. Other fans perched on light poles.
Fans had started lining up outside Frog Stadium before sunrise, and the
streets of Fort Worth were jammed with cars throughout the morning. The
crowd of 40,000 or so who made it into the stadium was said to be the sec-
ond largest ever to see a sporting event in Texas.
Wayne Connor was a kid growing up in Cleburne, thirty miles south of
Fort Worth. He and a buddy rode their bicycles all the way into town, even
though they didn’t have tickets. Young Wayne tore a new pair of pants scal-
ing a fence to get inside. To his chagrin, the cops opened the gates to all com-
ers shortly after he had torn his new pants.
“Big-time scalping, formerly unheard of here, is rife, with 50-yard tickets
commanding as much as $60,” the Times reported. Some fans reported pay-
ing $100, Depression be damned. There were more people outside the sta-
dium than inside, Billy Sansing recalled. (A $100 ticket would be the equiva-
lent of $5,000 today.)
Also on the line was Fort Worth’s civic pride. Cowtown always had felt
a bit inferior to its bigger neighbor to the east, and was certainly disdained
by Big D’s aspiring sophisticates. Fort Worth’s pride had been punctured
yet again when it was announced that Dallas would be the official site for
the upcoming Texas Centennial Celebration of 1936; it had been chosen

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primarily because the city’s business leaders simply outhustled their coun-
terparts from Texas towns with a more compelling historic claim—includ-
ing San Antonio, Houston, maybe even Fort Worth.
In retaliation, Amon Carter, civic booster nonpareil, announced that the
Fort Worth Frontier Centennial would open the same time as the Dallas
centennial exposition and that the legendary showman Billy Rose would
arrange the entertainment. The Washington Post reported that Rose “took
in hand entertainment features of Fort Worth’s frontier fiesta and trans-
ported a bit of Broadway out to where the West begins in a manner that
strongly appealed to natives of the State where men are men and a woman
was once Governor.”
Meanwhile, the spotlight shown brightly on the pride of Cowtown,
TCU’s fabulous football team. The nation’s big-time sportswriters had
made the pilgrimage to Fort Worth for the biggest game since—well, since
football was invented, Grantland Rice proclaimed. On hand in their fedoras
and overcoats, pens and notebooks at the ready were Bill Cunningham of
the Boston Globe, Joe Williams of the New York Herald Tribune, Paul Gallico
of the New York Journal-American, Arch Ward of the Chicago Tribune, and,
of course, Rice of the New York Sun.
Big-time coaches showed up as well, including Bernie Bierman of the
University of Minnesota, Fritz Crisler of Princeton, and Pappy Waldorf
of Northwestern. Bill Stern broadcast the game for Mutual, Kern Tips for
NBC. It was the first coast-to-coast radio network broadcast of a game in
the Southwest.
SMU wore red helmets, pants that were red in back and canvas in front,
and red jerseys with blue numerals. Although a slight underdog, the Ponies
jumped out to a 14–0 lead, on drives of seventy-three and eighty yards, with
Wilson, the Corsicana comet, scoring the second touchdown. Fans in tem-
porary seats—men in dark suits, women in hats and Sunday dresses—sat
within inches of the end-zone line, and the two SMU extra points sailed into
the crowd.
The Frogs were careful to kick the ball away from the little man from
Corsicana, but he ended up with it often enough. “It was Wilson’s day, and
he smiled nearly every time he came up with the ball after a long jaunt,” the
New York Times reported.
The favored Frogs, wearing white jerseys with purple numerals, black
leather helmets, and khaki-colored pants that glowed golden in the sun,
finally got something going in the second quarter. Sam’s punt went out of
bounds on the Mustang four, TCU held, and SMU’s return punt was short.
The Frogs scored on the ground to trail 14–7.

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At halftime, the TCU band played “Taps,” and, in the midst of the Depres-
sion, fans donated $1,400 for a memorial to the humorist Will Rogers, who
had died a few days earlier in an airplane crash with the famed pilot Wiley
Post. In the SMU locker room, the normally low-key Matty Bell offered his
boys something to think about. Quoting his old high school coach, he said,
“You’ve got thirty minutes to play and a lifetime to think about it.”
Sam’s receivers were having trouble holding on to his passes, but he
finally threw a touchdown strike to Jimmy Lawrence in the fourth quarter
with twelve minutes left to play. Lawrence injured his ankle on the play, and
since the rules dictated that an injured player had to sit out a quarter, he was
through for the day. The injury would prove crucial to the outcome.
SMU took the kickoff and relied on Wilson and Bob Finley, Shuford’s
replacement, to move the ball into TCU territory. The Mustangs tried three
running plays but netted only six yards.
Facing fourth and four, the Mustangs lined up in punt formation. TCU
fans couldn’t wait for Sam to get his hands on the ball, and the TCU passer
felt the same way. Surely, with the game on the line, there would be no way
to stop him. Knowles remembered that he had been calm, confident the
whole day.
Pony fullback Finley, who was averaging forty-seven yards a punt that
Saturday, stepped into the kick—only he held the ball at his hip as he fol-
lowed through on what looked like a punt, his right leg thrust high into the
air. Both feet back on the ground, he began backpedaling, the ball now high
above his shoulder in his right hand as he looked downfield for a receiver.
Suddenly, he let the ball go in the general direction of the fleet Bobby Wil-
son, who had slipped behind Harold McClure, subbing for the injured Law-
rence. Finley was hit just as he threw; lying on his back, he couldn’t see what
happened after he had let the ball go in the general direction of the Corsi-
cana comet, who was scurrying down the right sideline.
Kern Tips, the announcer, saw it all from the press box. “Now while that
long ball was in the air,” he recalled three decades later, “some will tell you
that Wilson stopped, turned and came back for it; some that he looked over
his shoulder anywhere from the ten, to the six, to the four-yard line try-
ing to find the ball. . . . I’m going to say that Wilson never swerved from a
straight sideline path, and that on the TCU three-yard line he looked back,
leaped high in the air, tipped down the football into control, and hugged
onto it as he scrambled into the TCU end zone, glad to be alive and part of a
passing miracle.”
Judging from the grainy black-and-white film of the game, Tips’s mem-
ory would seem to be accurate. It was a magnificent pass, settling in over

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Wilson’s shoulder at about the five, with Sam and McClure right with him.
His momentum carried him into the end zone. Many years later, Wilson
recalled that SMU had designed the play to take advantage of Lawrence’s
tendency to close fast on punt coverage, which would allow the speedy Wil-
son to blow by him, but he wasn’t on the field when Finley threw the pass.
“The two guys closest to me when I caught the ball were Baugh and the kid
who replaced Lawrence,” Wilson recalled.
He said he had one regret about the catch: “Whether I’d have gotten
behind Lawrence, I don’t know. But I’ve always felt flat guilty about get-
ting behind the guy who substituted for Lawrence. The poor boy couldn’t
help it.”
In all the excitement following Wilson’s miracle catch, the Mustangs
missed the extra point, leaving the Frogs with a ray of hope. As long as the
ball was in Sam Baugh’s hand, they knew—as did the Mustangs—that they
still had a chance.
As afternoon shadows lengthened across the playing field, with 40,000
spectators on their feet and shouting themselves hoarse, with countless
thousands gathered around radios across the country, Sam drove his des-
perate Frogs down to the SMU thirty. The Mustangs held, but as time ticked
away, Sam brought the surging Frogs back yet again: short, safe, sure. “Baugh
was eating up ground at the SMU 25 when the final whistle blew, and SMU’s
supporters were almost in a panic from Baugh’s deathly machine-gun fire,”
Grantland Rice wrote.
The tall kid from Sweetwater, the picture of calm and confidence, com-
pleted passes of fourteen yards, then eight yards, then ten yards. And then
he found L. D. Meyer open for twenty more yards to the SMU twenty-two,
but with the ball in Meyer’s hands, the goal line just twenty yards away, the
luck of the Frogs ran out. The receiver couldn’t scramble out of bounds in
time to stop the clock and give Slingin’ Sam one last shot. A shell-shocked
SMU hung on for the win, 20–14, and with it, a Southwest Conference
team’s first-ever trip to the Rose Bowl. Reporters called Finley’s winning
touchdown the $85,000 pass, the Rose Bowl payout.
Rice described the contest as “one of the greatest football games ever
played in the 60-year history of the nation’s finest college sport.”
People, including Sam Baugh, were still talking about the game years
later. “What I really remember is that SMU defensed us better than any
damn team we played,” Sam recalled.

They did some things I hadn’t seen before. They’d throw up a six-man line
with two linebackers, so they had eight guys close to the front. If they all came,

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they had a pretty good pass rush, but you had to call your blocking for six men
coming. Sometimes the linebackers would come, but someone else would
drop back. They usually had four men protecting that short, eight- or nine-
yard area. But we never knew which ones.
“But give ’em credit. They made it tough.”

Sam threw an incredible forty-four passes that day, completing seven-

teen for 180 yards. TCU receivers dropped eight passes. He also averaged
forty-eight yards a punt.
Bill Cunningham of the Boston Post calculated that Sam found his receiv-
ers on all but two passes out of the forty-four he threw (an unheard-of num-
ber of passes for that era). “He merely lifted his arm, cracked his wrist like a
whip and there through the sunlight went the shining, spinning spheroid,”
Cunningham rhapsodized.
“Mr. Slingin’ Sammy Baugh can chunk that cabbage,” Rice wrote. “He
could murder a fly on a fence with the snout of that missile at any distance
from a yard to at least 50.”
The football writer Wilton Hazzard wrote that Sam’s uncanny accuracy
“smacked of witchcraft,” while George White of the Dallas Morning News
wrote, “Visitors sat back and marveled at his accurate throws, but his over-
anxious receivers could not hold his bullet throws.”
Although Sam blamed himself for tossing bullet throws that were
uncatchable, L. D. Meyer never believed Baugh was at fault. “He was throw-
ing those balls right in there on the money,” he told Canning, “and if you’re
a receiver, it’s your job to catch those balls, no matter how hard they’re
thrown.” The younger Meyer pointed an accusatory finger at his uncle. “I
think the real problem was the pep talk Dutch gave us before the game,” he
said. “He normally didn’t do a lot of that, but this time he was really trying
to get us fired up, and he told us the winner would go to the Rose Bowl. We
were mostly just a bunch of country boys, and this was the biggest thing
that had ever happened in our lives. By the time we were out there, we are
all tied up in knots, and Dutch always admitted that he thought he made a
big mistake.”
“I learned a good coaching lesson,” Dutch said afterward. “You don’t have
to tell your kids it’s a big game. They know it. Matty brought the Ponies out
loose and laughing. I brought my team out stiff and tense with tears in their
eyes. We dropped enough of Sam’s passes in the first half to win two dang
football games.”
TCU should have been ready for the fake punt, Sam believed. “The

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thing that galled us,” he recalled years later, “is that they won on a play we
were expecting; we just didn’t stop it. It was reported as a daring gamble,
but it was actually a routine play for that era.” In that era, if a team threw
an incomplete pass into the end zone on fourth down, it was a touchback
and the ball came out to the 20. “So if you were close enough,” he said, “you
might as well try it, ’cause you might score. And that’s all they were doing.”
SMU finished its 12–0 season the next weekend with a victory over Texas
A&M and officially accepted a bid to the Rose Bowl. But the New Year’s Day
Mustangs barely resembled the inspired Pony Express that had rolled over
UCLA on their earlier westward adventure. The Ponies lost to the Stanford
Indians 7–0, although the team’s $85,000 Rose Bowl cut allowed SMU to
pay off bank bonds on its new football field, a handsome redbrick structure
on campus called Ownby Stadium.
TCU had headed west nearly a month earlier, finishing its regular sea-
son on December 7 against the University of Santa Clara in San Francisco’s
Kezar Stadium. The Fort Worth Star-Telegram sponsored a special train
to the game, and on the Tuesday following the SMU game, the train pulled
out of Fort Worth’s Union Station carrying the team, the TCU band, and
several hundred fans who had paid $108.70 for an upper Pullman berth
and all expenses, or $56.05 for those who took care of their own meals and
expenses.
The train first stopped in Denver, where Dutch Meyer put his players
through a light workout and the Horned Frog band paraded downtown. The
team then headed to Salt Lake City, where the Frogs took in the Mormon
Tabernacle and Brigham Young’s home. In San Francisco for two days and
nights, the Fort Worth entourage took in the exotic sights of Chinatown,
marveled at the magical greenery of Golden Gate Park, enjoyed the view
from Telegraph Hill, and sampled fresh shrimp on Fisherman’s Wharf. Sam
and his fellow Texans were a long way from Cowtown.
On Saturday, the TCU Horned Frogs tended to business, defeating the
Santa Clara Broncos 10–6. Sam completed fourteen passes, one a touch-
down strike to Lawrence; Tilly Manton kicked a field goal for TCU’s other
points. “After the game,” Flem Hall reported, “hundreds of fans swarmed on
the field and mobbed the slinger from Sweetwater with congratulations and
for his autograph.”
The Texas entourage then headed to Los Angeles for more sightsee-
ing. Sam and Darrell Lester were photographed with the actress Maureen
O’Sullivan.
Meanwhile, West Coast sportswriters sang the Frogs’ praises. The

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Associated Press described the Santa Clara victory as “a thrill-a-minute

display that once again demonstrated the superiority of Southwest football
over the Pacific Coast variety, as the Horned Frogs passed their rivals dizzy.”
Looking back many years later on that glorious season and the West
Coast trip, the sportswriter Dan Jenkins waxed nostalgic: “It must have
been fun to have been a grownup back then, I’ve always felt. Ride the special
trains to the out-of-town games, Stetson squared away, flask handy, dinner
in the diner. What a giddy time for the fans who could afford to travel with
the Frogs in ’35 and ’38, the national championship seasons.”
The ’35 Frogs still had a game to play—against Southeastern Conference
champion LSU in the Sugar Bowl. The Tigers were 9–1, their only loss com-
ing early in the season to Rice.
Frog boosters collected “bonus” checks for TCU coaches totaling $1,550
and organized another special train—three trains, in fact, with interest
growing as New Year’s Day approached. A round-trip ticket could be had for
$4 (upper berth, Tourist Pullman), while the coach rate was $11.26. Those
who could afford to go in style paid $30 for a drawing room. Eventually,
more than 4,000 Frog fans made the journey from Fort Worth, most of them
decked out in a white sombrero festooned with a purple Horned Frog.
“The whole thing was just amazing,” L. D. Meyer told Whit Canning
many years later.

It was all orchestrated by Amon Carter, I’m sure. You can’t imagine the extent
to which he ran this town back then. He could do anything he wanted.
He was a great supporter of TCU, and in a situation like that one, any-
thing we needed we got. If we had to take a long road trip somewhere for a big
game—poof—he got us a special train. He was a tireless supporter of anything
he thought would promote Fort Worth.

Meyer’s assessment of Amon G. Carter—born Giles Amon Carter—was,

if anything, an understatement. A one-man chamber of commerce and a
tireless booster, Carter had made millions in the oil business, and he spread
the wealth in his adopted town. It was Carter who enticed early oil compa-
nies to make Fort Worth their headquarters. The W. T. Waggoner Building,
the Sinclair Building, the Life of America Building, and several other down-
town skyscrapers were the direct result of Carter’s blandishments. His phil-
anthropic efforts were as larger than life as he was.
He helped found the Fort Worth Star-Telegram in 1909, and by 1923 had
become the newspaper’s publisher. It was Carter who coined the phrase
that adorned the paper’s masthead: “Fort Worth is Where the West Begins.”

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In 1911, he headed a committee that brought the first airplane to Fort Worth.
By 1928, he was director and part owner of American Airways, the forerun-
ner of American Airlines. In 1922, he established WBAP, Fort Worth’s first
radio station.
A beefy, broad-faced man, he loved to drink, loved to womanize, and
loved to gamble, particularly on football games, and was known to drink and
play poker for forty-eight hours at a stretch in Suite 10G of the Fort Worth
Club. He also loved to hate Dallas, the bigger, snootier city that anchored
the eastern end of what, in decades to come, would come to be called the
Metroplex. Carter—who would play a major role in Sam Baugh’s ascension
to the NFL—hated Dallas so much he always carried a sack lunch when-
ever he was forced to visit the place. He refused to spend a dime in Dallas,
even for lunch.

A few days after Christmas, Carter and thousands of other Frog boost-
ers boarded the special trains in Fort Worth for the ten-hour ride to
the Crescent City. The Horned Frog band paraded up Canal Street, despite
cold, gray skies and a steady rain. The Fort Worth-Star Telegram ran a photo
of Sam, Dutch Meyer, Bear Wolf, and all-American center Darrell Lester in
suits and ties and ten-gallon hats. The New Orleans Picayune reported that
crowds were pouring into the city by car, train, and plane. Special trains
were coming in from Pensacola, Montgomery, Atlanta, Mobile, and Mem-
phis. Three special trains were coming from Dallas–Fort Worth.
The only damper on the festivities was the incessant rain, three straight
days of cold, wintry drizzle. Oddsmakers installed LSU as the favorite, since
their ground game was considered less susceptible to the elements than
TCU’s passing attack.
Although the field was not a sea of mud when the two teams took the
field before 37,000 fans, the turf was heavy and treacherous, and the rain
resumed shortly after kickoff. “I’ve never seen a rain like that in my life,”
Knowles recalled more than three-quarters of a century later.
The field soon became a quagmire, and it wasn’t long before the Frogs
in their purple jerseys and the Tigers in gold pants and white jerseys were
virtually indistinguishable. A cold wind out of the northeast only added to
the miserable conditions. “There was standing water over your shoe tops,”
Dutch Meyer recalled years later. “After every play, when they put the
ball down, an official had to stand there with his foot on it to keep it from
floating away.”
In the second quarter, TCU lost Lester, its all-American center, when he

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broke his shoulder stopping an LSU drive at the goal line. Squarehead Law-
rence also left the field with an injury.
The game was a defensive battle for three quarters. Although Sam had
trouble with the slippery, waterlogged ball—footballs weren’t changed out
in those days—he kept the Tigers on their heels with his punting.
All the players on the field, including Sam, also were waterlogged them-
selves. Equipment in those days added about fifteen pounds to a player’s
weight. When the leather helmets, woolen jerseys, and ill-fitting equipment
got soaked, a player could hardly move around.
An old friend also gave him trouble. Ernie “Son” Seago, LSU’s “signal
caller and brilliant blocker,” had lived across the street from the Baughs
in Temple. “Throughout the game,” the New Orleans Morning Tribune
reported, “the two kidded each other continually, with Ernie teasing Sammy
to throw him a pass.” Flem Hall of the Star-Telegram reported:

Sam played a good part of the game without knowing what he was doing. A
blow on the head from the knee of “Son” Seago knocked Baugh loose from
clear thinking, but he went right on by instinct.
“I kinda knew what was what, but I couldn’t get things connected up,” he
said after the game.

Twice Sam passed from his own end zone, despite the slippery ball
and the treacherous condition of the field. The second time he tried it, he
retreated deep into the end zone, desperately looking for a man downfield,
and when he could retreat no farther without falling back into the bleacher
seats, he let the ball fly. The pass was incomplete, but unfortunately, Sam
had stepped over the end-zone line, giving LSU a safety.
As the “Cowtown Christians” lined up at their own twenty to kick off to
the Tigers, both teams were well aware that a 2–0 lead could hold up, given
the trouble both offenses were having moving the ball. LSU fielded the kick-
off at its own 40. On the first play from scrimmage, LSU’s big fullback, Bill
Crass, fumbled, and Will Walls, TCU’s 190-pound end, fell on the ball. The
Frogs drove to the LSU nineteen, where Manton kicked a thirty-six-yard
field goal that gave TCU a 3–2 win.
“I’ll never forget that,” L. D. Meyer recalled, “because under those play-
ing conditions, I was amazed that Tillie got the kick off. And from the time it
left his foot, the whole way, it never rose more than two feet above the cross
bar. We won that game on a line drive.”
On the last play of the game, Sam ran through the LSU defense for a

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forty-three-yard gain, the longest run of the day. He was pulled down at the
one-yard line as time ran out.
Afterward, young Meyer’s irrepressible uncle was ecstatic. “Boy! Boy!
Give me five!” he shouted, shaking Bear Wolf’s hand in the dressing room.
The coach called the Sugar Bowl victory “the greatest game I ever saw in
the rain.”
Addled or not, Sam had a superb day, especially with his kicking. He
punted the heavy, waterlogged ball an amazing fourteen times, averaging
more than forty yards a kick, often spiraling the ball out of bounds inside
LSU’s five-yard line, the old “coffin corner.” His long run put the game out
of danger.
“Texas may run dry of oil, the cows may die of old age or the butcher’s
knife and the Alamo might crumble like fresh Graham crackers,” wrote
columnist Charlie Dufour of the New Orleans Item, “but as long as Texas
has Sam Baugh the Lone Star Staters are home on the range, footloose and
fancy free.”
After the bowl game results, the Williamson Rating Service, the only
reputable poll of the day, declared TCU the top team in the nation. The little
school from Fort Worth, a school few outside the Southwest had ever heard
of a few years earlier, was now the national champion.
“Back then,” Sam recalled, “we really didn’t make a big deal out of it. I
don’t remember even being aware of the fact there was a national rank-
ing until we were told after the season that we’d been voted the No. 1 team.
What excited us most was the fact it provided some recognition for TCU
outside the state of Texas.”
The nation was getting to know Slingin’ Sam, but as he recalled years
later, he learned during his days at TCU not to take it too seriously.

“A Fort Worth sports writer came out and talked to me one time,” he remem-
bered. “He told me what they were going to do. He said they were going to try
to get me some publicity.”
The writer said, “We’re going to try to get the news back East where people
can hear about you. We’ve got to start early if we’re going to do anything.”
The writer also offered a bit of advice: “Now don’t you get too damn
wrapped up in this stuff and believe a lot of it. We’ll embellish a little bit. You
have to learn not to pay too much attention to the publicity.”

It was a lesson he took to heart. Modesty served him well throughout his
long career in the public eye.

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Meanwhile, a News Orleans paper had some news about Sam Baugh the
day after his team’s Sugar Bowl victory. “Sammy is taking physical educa-
tion at TCU and will not play pro football when he finishes school,” the New
Orleans Morning Tribune reported. “He is a junior and intends to try pro
baseball. He is a third baseman. After a few years of baseball, he will try his
hand at coaching football.”
Unbeknown to the New Orleans Morning Tribune—and to Sam Baugh
himself—a Washington, D.C., laundryman had other plans in store for him.

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 CHAPTER

GEORGE PRESTON
MARSHALL
footballimpresario

G
eorge Preston Marshall was not happy. And when George Preston
Marshall wasn’t happy, no one around him was happy either. He
made sure of that.
A big ruddy-faced fellow with slicked-back hair, a beaked nose,
and bushy eyebrows, a showman with a flair for fancy dress (including full-
length raccoon-skin coats) and a blusterer, even a bully, Marshall was used
to having his way, used to people paying attention. He had made his debut
on the burlesque stage at age sixteen and had been onstage in one way or
another ever since.
Jack Walsh of the Washington Post once observed: “Whether having a
shampoo in the Statler-Hilton barbershop, dining at Duke Zeibert’s or hold-
ing court on the Shoreham [Hotel] terrace, Marshall considered it a lost
opportunity were he not the center of attention.”
Writing about him in 1935, the Associated Press noted that Marshall
didn’t drive but had a chauffer and an automobile “with a trick back seat
that slides into a bunk and a small bar.” The rest of his lifestyle was likewise
a combination of the elegant and the odd: “He lives in a hotel with a valet-
butler, never plays golf, has never been in an airplane and has traveled all
over the world.”
In the mid-1930s, though, the Washington laundry magnate, the flashy

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dresser who liked to think of himself as a bigger-than-life impresario, was

not having his way with Boston sports fans. They didn’t care that he had
brought professional football to Beantown. They didn’t care that in five
short years he had built his Boston Braves (later Redskins) into a league
powerhouse.
Certain habits of Bostonians upset Marshall to no end. First was their
habit of finding other things to do—reading the Sunday papers, going for a
drive, taking a nap—when the Braves were playing on Sunday afternoons.
Second was the low priority the local newspapers gave his team. Editors
laying out their pages invariably allotted more space and blaring headlines
to traditional Boston favorites—to Harvard and Boston College football or
to the city’s two big-league baseball teams, the storied Red Sox and the less
loved Braves.
The absolute nadir for the proud football impresario was when the Bos-
ton Globe gave more space to the Radcliffe College girls’ field hockey team
than to Marshall’s gridiron minions. He stomped, shouted, and cursed—
and redoubled his efforts to woo the Boston fans, even if not the Boston
newspapers.
He had a legitimate beef. He may not have been Boston born and bred,
and he was certainly no Brahmin, but he was no callow newcomer to profes-
sional sports. Although he wasn’t present at professional football’s creation,
he has to be considered one of its pioneers and certainly one of its primary
innovators. Right before their very eyes—the relatively few eyes of Boston
fans—he was changing the game for the better. Boston didn’t care.

G eorge Preston Marshall had always been a go-getter. He was born on

October 11, 1896, in Charleston, West Virginia, and grew up in Graf-
ton, a small railroad town near the Pennsylvania border (and the town
that bequeathed Mother’s Day to the nation). His father, T. Hill Marshall, a
descendant of Confederate officers, and his mother, Blanche Preston Mar-
shall, were publishers of the local newspaper, the Grafton Leader.
Young George first displayed his lifelong flair for promotion when he
went into the rabbit-breeding business. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only
rabbit breeder around town, and he was having trouble moving his stock,
even at the bargain-basement rate of fifty cents apiece. The fledgling entre-
preneur (and born promoter) had an idea, either his own or someone else’s
suggestion. He took out an ad in the family newspaper touting “Rare Jack-
sonville Hares” that were going for only a dollar and a quarter apiece. He
cornered the Grafton-area rabbit market.

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He got into football at an early age as well. At fourteen, he organized a

local team that traveled all the way to the Washington suburbs for games.
When George was in his teens, the Marshall family left the hills of West
Virginia and moved to the nation’s capital, where his father had acquired
the Palace Laundry by way of a bad debt. George attended Friends Select
School in Washington—now the prestigious Sidwell Friends School—and
Randolph-Macon College. By age sixteen, he had resolved to become the
next Douglas Elton Ullman, better known as the iconic star of stage and
screen Douglas Fairbanks.
Young Marshall, tall and athletic-looking, with glistening black hair
and a commanding presence, was cast in a few bit parts at Poli’s Theater
in Washington and at the old Morosco Stock Company in Los Angeles, and
he occasionally landed a few roles in New York. Still, it soon became obvi-
ous—to casting directors first and then to Marshall himself—that his act-
ing career was unlikely to measure up to his outsized ambitions, probably
because he had trouble imagining himself as anyone but George Preston
Marshall. He liked to be called the Magnificent Marshall.
Although he grudgingly conceded he wasn’t much of an actor, he did
like to tell about how he once brought down the house by delivering just
a single line. “It was at the Walker Theater in Winnipeg, Canada, in 1917,”
he recalled. “The stage manager asked me to go out at intermission and
make an announcement. I stepped out in front of the curtain and said: ‘The
United States has just declared war on Germany.’ And those Canadians
went crazy.”
Marshall turned to managing theaters in the Baltimore-Washington area
and produced a few theatrical shows in Washington, included a musical
called Getting Gertie’s Garter. His first wife was a Ziegfeld Follies girl; his
second was a silent screen goddess, Corinne Griffith, known as the “Orchid
of the Screen” because of her delicate features.
Discovering that he had a flair for the business end of entertainment,
he invested big money in Broadway and Hollywood productions. He might
have stayed with it had World War I not intervened. His father died during
the year and a half George was in the army, and when the doughboys came
marching home again, George returned to a widowed mother who needed
his support and to a sadly neglected laundry business that was only a few
laundry loads short of going broke.
Still only twenty-two, he plunged into the family enterprise with char-
acteristic vigor and verve. He saw an opportunity to, in his words, “apply
theatrical principles to merchandising.” He would promote his area-wide
laundry chain the way you would promote the latest Mary Pickford flick.

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He painted his laundry storefronts around the Washington area—even-

tually, fifty-seven in all—blue and gold. He commanded his managers to strip
away slapdash ads in the display windows touting “specials.” He painted his
delivery trucks blue and gold too, and outfitted his drivers in blue and gold
uniforms. For the Palace Laundry’s trademark, he chose a chrysanthemum
in a simple blue vase. The message was cleanliness and professionalism; the
company’s slogan, “Long Live Linen.”
He spent a hefty portion of his budget on paid advertising. Often he
wrote the copy himself, which frequently was witty, humorous, and offbeat.
He once took out a full-page newspaper ad that was completely devoid of
print except for a line in small type at the bottom: “This space was cleaned
by the Palace Laundry.”
Soon, Marshall’s laundry business was making him lots of money, and in
1926, he found a way to combine his business acumen, his promotional flair,
and his love of sports. He took over a semiprofessional basketball outfit, and
in exchange for paying team expenses and a token fee to the players, he had
a ready-made advertising venue. He outfitted the team in blue and gold uni-
forms, “ PALACE LAUNDRY ” emblazoned on the jerseys.
On the basketball circuit, Marshall met Joe Carr, a Columbus native
and former sportswriter for the Ohio State Journal who founded one of the
first professional football teams, the Columbus Panhandles. In 1920, at a
time when the nation was returning to “normalcy” under the leadership of
Carr’s fellow Ohioan, President Warren G. Harding, the Panhandles’ owner
sent out an invitation to other team owners around the East and Mid-
west to get together and organize a league. Ralph Hay, a sports fan and the
owner of the Hupmobile agency in Canton, Ohio, offered his showroom as a
meeting place.
On September 17, 1920, Jim Thorpe, player-coach of the Canton Bull-
dogs; George Halas, owner of the Decatur Staleys; and hardworking owners,
coaches, and managers from tough midwestern industrial towns trooped
into the downtown dealership. Carr himself chaired the meeting. Hay had
forgotten to provide any chairs of the sitting variety, so the owners leaned
against shiny new cars or found seats on running boards. Hay also provided
buckets of beer that hung over the fenders. Apparently no one was con-
cerned about violating Prohibition laws.
The minutes of that fateful meeting are imprecise. The recording sec-
retary, Art Rooney, a little man with a big cigar, somehow wrote down
that twelve cities were represented instead of the actual ten. The stated
purpose of the meeting was “to raise professional football to the highest
level,” whatever that meant. The group formed the American Professional

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Football Association that historic day in Canton and decided on a franchise

fee of $100 for each of the ten teams, although it seems that no money ever
changed hands.
They weren’t rich men. Hay owned a Hupmobile dealership. Another
man owned a cigar store. Halas was merely the manager of his team, which
was owned by the Staley Starch Company of Decatur, Illinois. Thorpe
was elected president because he had the highest public profile of any in
the group, but not much happened under his leadership. Carr replaced the
Carlisle legend as president in 1921 and served until his death, eighteen
years later.
Halas was the most important man in the Hupmobile showroom that
day, the most important man in the newly formed league. A former athlete
himself, Halas had been a second-team all-American end and halfback at
Illinois and a pro for eleven seasons. He had captained the Illini basketball
team as well and was good enough on the baseball diamond to sign a con-
tract with the New York Yankees in 1919. He played in twelve games for
the Yankees, batted .091, and injured his hip sliding into third base one day.
The Yankees replaced him with a youngster named Ruth, and Halas went
back to football.
He became the player-coach, trainer, ticket seller, and pitchman for the
Decatur Staleys, which became the Chicago Staleys, which became the Chi-
cago Bears. As Halas morphed into Papa Bear over the years, he and Mar-
shall would butt heads countless times as old friends and heated rivals.
It was Halas who suggested in 1922 that the football association change
its name to the National Football League. The change was adopted. Three
seasons later he pulled off the biggest coup in the fledgling league’s history
when he signed Harold “Red” Grange, the “Galloping Ghost” from Illinois
and the greatest college football player of his time. His signing—for $3,000 a
game plus 50 percent of the gate receipts—gave the pro game much-needed
legitimacy. From them on, it was harder to make the argument that profes-
sional football was nothing but a haven for plodding has-beens slugging it
out—usually on a borrowed baseball field—simply for the dollar.
Grange attracted huge crowds, and Halas took advantage of it. He led his
team on a barnstorming tour that took the Bears from the Midwest to the
East Coast, down to Florida, cross-country to California, and up the West
Coast to Washington. During the first part of the whirlwind tour, the Bears
played an incredible eight games in eleven days in eight different cities.
During Grange’s first year, the Bears played a seventeen-game schedule—
twelve was the norm—and when the team pulled into New York to play
the Giants, more than 73,000 people packed the Polo Grounds. The game

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not only broke a newly set attendance record—it doubled the record. The
Grange-led Bears drew 75,000 in Los Angeles.
Baseball—whether it was the Gashouse Gang out “west” in St. Louis, or
Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and their fellow New York Yankees—was still the
national pastime, but professional football was beginning to catch on. No
longer would teams take the fields on Sunday afternoons to crowds as small
as two or three thousand, and press accounts were gradually migrating from
back pages to the front of the nation’s sports pages.
The Galloping Ghost played nine seasons for the Bears and served five
more years as an assistant coach. His success drew not only fans to the pro
game but players as well. Other college stars reasoned that if professional
football could attract the likes of Red Grange, maybe the pro game had
a future.
Maybe. Twenty-two teams took the field in the fall of 1926, even though
Grange had helped start up a rival American Football League. The Gallop-
ing Ghost signed with the AFL New York Yankees. But the AFL was such a
financial disaster that it folded before the season ended. The Yankees and
Grange entered the NFL fold in 1927.
Red Grange or no, the NFL was struggling, and clubs in smaller towns—
Canton, Akron, Dayton, Hammond (Indiana), Massillon (Ohio), Rock
Island (Illinois)—couldn’t draw enough paying customers to make a go of
it. By 1927, the NFL’s twenty-two teams had dwindled to twelve. Carr and
Halas realized that the league had to establish beachheads in big cities; oth-
erwise, it would fold completely.
They had their eye on Boston, where they placed a franchise in 1929.
Beantown sports fans barely noticed. The Boston Braves in their first incar-
nation folded at the end of their inaugural season. By 1931, with the Depres-
sion taking hold around the country, only ten teams were left. Three of the
ten—the Cleveland Indians, the Frankford (Pennsylvania) Yellow Jackets,
and the Providence Steamrollers—packed it in at season’s end.
Desperate to find sportsmen with the financial heft to take over some
of the inactive franchises—particularly Boston—Carr and Halas set their
sights on young George Preston Marshall. They knew him through basket-
ball. Carr also was president of the fledgling American Basketball League,
and Halas owned the ABL Chicago Bruins. In 1926, Marshall ventured into
the big time when he signed a squad of journeymen pros, including “Horse”
Haggerty, a star of the original Boston Celtics, and entered the ABL. He
called his team the “Palace Big Five.” The franchise turned out to be a finan-
cial disaster, so he sold it during the ABL’s third season, in 1928.
Halas and Carr still had their eye on Marshall as a potential football

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owner, and in 1932 they recruited him to buy the bankrupt Duluth Eskimos.
The price was right—$100—but the laundry magnate was leery, and with
good reason. Professional football, particularly in Boston, was something
far down the ladder of respectability.
Less than a decade earlier, the legendary Amos Alonzo Stagg, the foot-
ball coach at the University of Chicago, had condemned pro football as an
insidious enterprise on a par with gambling. And while Boston was a great
baseball town, its football affections were reserved for hometown college
teams—Harvard, Boston University, Boston College. And, of course, the
nation was seeking to struggle out of the quicksand of the worst economic
depression in history. It was not an auspicious time to launch a football
franchise in a skeptical city.
Still, Marshall agreed to think about it, so he traveled to New York to
watch a game between the two strongest franchises in the league, the
Giants and the Bears. What he saw intrigued him. The inveterate showman
recognized that football could benefit from the razzle-dazzle promotion
approach that came naturally to him.
At a postgame party, he talked over the idea of ownership with three
friends: Jay O’Brien, a New York investment banker; Vincent Bendix, an
auto supplier from South Bend, Indiana; and M. Dorland “Larry” Doyle, a
New York stockbroker. Before the evening was over, the four would agree to
form a syndicate, buy the Eskimos, and move the team to a city big enough
to support an NFL franchise. Marshall’s own city was ruled out because it
was considered too southern. Cities in the Northeast and the Midwest, with
their large blue-collar ethnic communities, were more likely to be football
towns. Or so the conventional thinking went.
Marshall, of course, would head the syndicate; there was no question
about that. But the question lingered about where the franchise would be
located. Carr was pushing Boston, and Jay O’Brien was a friend of Emil
Fuchs, who owned the baseball Braves and presumably would give the foot-
ball owners a good deal on a stadium lease. The four owners agreed to reac-
tivate the Boston franchise and advised Carr they would field a team for the
1932 season.
More than three decades later, on the occasion of Marshall’s induction
into the NFL Hall of Fame, the Redskins owner was asked how much he had
paid for the Boston franchise. What he had paid, he said, was nothing. Zero.
The going rate for most franchises at the time was about $2,500, but with
the league down to seven active teams after the 1931 season, league officials
were in no position to insist.
He and his three partners each put up $7,500 for an initial working capi-

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tal of $30,000 and hoped that amount would carry them until the team built
a fan base. Marshall signed a one-year lease on Braves Field, built in 1915
and located about three miles west of downtown Boston and a mile west of
Fenway Park, home of the Red Sox. The new owners decided to retain the
Boston Braves name, hoping to build on the baseball fan base.
He hired a coach, Ludlow Wray, a former University of Pennsylvania
standout who had played for the Buffalo All-Americans and the Rochester
Jeffersons shortly after World War I. Wray had also been head coach at his
alma mater.
Marshall put together a pretty good team. Anchoring the line was a 255-
pound tackle, Glen “Turk” Edwards, an all-American from Washington
State University and a future NFL Hall of Famer who played both offense
and defense. He would go on to be named all-pro four times. A veritable iron
man, he was on the field for all but ten minutes of play during one fifteen-
game season in Boston. Signing Edwards was a coup for Marshall. Other
teams coveted the giant lineman, but Marshall prevailed with the highest
bid, $1,500 for the season.
In the backfield were two stars from the University of Southern Califor-
nia, a 225-pound fullback named Jim Musick and a superb blocking back
named Erny Pinckert.
The undisputed star of the team was a shifty running back from West
Virginia Wesleyan named Cliff “Gip” Battles. Also a future Hall of Famer,
the six foot one inch, 190-pound Battles was fast and elusive, with a long
stride and a deceptive change of pace. Marshall liked to say that he himself
discovered his fellow West Virginian when Battles played in Washington
in 1931 in a game against Georgetown University. A couple of other teams
offered contracts, but Battles signed with the Braves because they were the
only team that had sent a representative to see him play in West Virginia.
The Boston Globe announced the team’s arrival on September 7, 1932,
with a short item near the bottom of one of its sport pages: “Members of
the Braves professional football team arrived in Boston yesterday, and, with
Coach Lud Wray in command, will have their first practice session today at
Lynn Stadium. More than forty men will take the field to condition them-
selves and perfect team play.”
After three exhibition games against area semipro teams—including a
loss to the Providence Steam Rollers—the new team opened its inaugural
season on October 2 at Braves Field against the Brooklyn Dodgers. Marshall
took out newspaper ads touting “Big League Football,” with the game to be
played “rain or shine.” He also advertised that the Braves would keep the
crowd updated on the World Series game between the New York Yankees

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and the Chicago Cubs. And he held a dinner for local sportswriters and
Boston dignitaries.
Only 6,000 die-hard football fans ventured into the stadium to see the
new team. There might have been more, but Marshall, for some reason,
raised ticket prices shortly before game day. Boston sportswriters jeered,
and a pattern was set. The Dodgers, behind the passing wizardry of Benny
Friedman, beat the Braves that day 14–0. Marshall watched from his box,
although he couldn’t restrain himself from occasionally dispatching coach-
ing tips to Wray on the field.
The next week, the Braves bounced back for their first regular-season
victory, 14–6 over the New York Giants. Defensive back Algy Clark scored
one of the Braves’ two touchdowns when he intercepted a lateral and
returned it fifty-five yards.
After losing to the Chicago Cardinals and tying the Giants in a rematch
at the rain-soaked Polo Grounds, the Braves had to get ready for what prom-
ised to be the biggest game of the year, at home against Halas’s Bears. Mar-
shall could not imagine losing to the Bears. The prospect of falling to his
good friend and arch foe was simply unthinkable.
He didn’t lose, but he didn’t win either. The game ended in a 7–7 tie. Even
though a famous college coach years later would describe a tie as being like
kissing your sister, Marshall was happy to settle for football’s version of sib-
ling affection against the heavily favored Bears.
The Braves ended the year with a 7–0 victory over the Dodgers to finish
the season at 4-4-2. The team wound up in fourth place behind the Bears,
Packers, and Portsmouth Spartans, and ahead of the Giants, Dodgers, Car-
dinals, and the Staten Island Stapletons. Battles led the league in rushing,
with 576 yards on 148 carries, gaining more yards than Bronko Nagurski of
the Bears, Ken Strong of the Stapletons, or any other backfield star.
With the Depression taking its toll on all professional sports, the Braves
ended the season with a loss of about $46,000. Marshall’s partners pulled
out, but the Braves’ owner announced he was sticking with football and
with Boston. He told reporters he was determined to make the team “not
only a treat for the people of Boston but also a profitable venture, without
stinting on hiring the best players money can buy.”

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 CHAPTER

MARSHALL’S REDSKINS
bostonbornbutd.c.bound

“I
wouldn’t marry George Marshall, if he were the last man on earth.”
That is the first line of My Life with the Redskins, an occasionally
delightful, too-cute-by-half memoir by Corinne Griffith, star of stage and
silent screen, recounting a phone conversation with Dorothy Kelleher.
The dialogue went on, starting again with Griffith:

“It is impossible for me to marry George. He spends twenty-four hours a day

in nightclubs.”
“That isn’t true, night clubs close in the day. . . . Besides, he has to work for
a living. There’s his laundry in Washington, he’s president of it. He’s trying
to buy the Boston Transcript, he’ll be president of that. He’s president of the
Roosevelt Raceway, and he’s president of the Boston Redskins . . .”
“Sounds like he’s president of everything but the United States. . . . How did
he happen to overlook a little old presidency like that? And right there in his
own home town!”

Corinne Griffith was smart, beautiful, and perhaps as ambitious as her

Washington suitor. She did, in fact, marry the ambitious sports impresa-
rio—he was the third of her four husbands—and, despite her self-professed
“little ol’ me” sports ignorance, she immediately became an active and

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influential partner in her husband’s efforts to make a success of his NFL

venture, on the field and at the box office. The Boston Redskins became
the Washington Redskins in large part because of her; a Texan named Sam
Baugh became a Washington Redskin star in large part because of her.
Griffith herself seems to have been a Texan. According to a 1952 United
Press biographical story, she was born in Texarkana, Arkansas, although
she maintained that her place of birth was Waco, Texas, and The Handbook
of Texas, a definitive historical resource published by the Texas Historical
Association, puts her birthplace in Hill County, north of Waco, probably in
1895, not 1899, as she claimed. Her father was a Methodist minister from
Virginia, her mother a Texan of Italian descent. Her first marriage, to the
actor-director Webster Campbell, ended in divorce, as did her marriage to
the movie producer Walter Morosco.
She married the recently divorced Marshall in 1936, during the same
week he was in Philadelphia attending the Democratic National Conven-
tion. “George was a delegate, and on the Rules Committee,” she recalled in
her memoir. “It was very important for him to be there, otherwise Roosevelt
might not have been nominated. In fact he practically nominated Roosevelt
all by himself, or at least that’s what he led me to believe.”
Marshall was indeed a major Roosevelt backer, and FDR, despite the tur-
moil of the Depression, had been arguably more successful during the pre-
vious four years than the owner of the Boston Braves/Redskins.
After the so-so success of the Braves on the field in their inaugural year,
and their failure at the box office, Marshall made wholesale changes. He
abandoned Braves Field and moved to Fenway Park. He also abandoned the
“Braves” nickname, but since he liked the Native American motif, he came
up with a synonym—the Redskins. For his newly christened Redskins, he
discarded the old blue jerseys and introduced burgundy and gold uniforms
with an Indian insignia on the chest. He even had his players wear red and
white war paint on their faces, until they complained that the paint clogged
their pores. (Political sensitivity was decades away.) He also had an Indian
medicine man sprinkle powder in front of the Redskins kickoff man. “The
whole thing was so overdone it was embarrassing,” Redskins running back
Cliff Battles recalled years later.
Marshall knew showbiz, even if he didn’t know football, but he gradually
grew more confident about exerting influence on his fellow owners, partic-
ularly as he came to recognize the confluence between the two.
In the spring of 1933, the owners were about to adjourn from their annual
meeting in Atlantic City when the young owner of the Redskins stood and
asked for permission to speak. “Gentlemen, you know far more about the

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game of football than me,” he said. “But, gentlemen, the game you are play-
ing is not entertaining. It is dull, uninteresting and boring. This is how I look
at it. We are in show business. And when the show gets dull, you throw it
out. You put another one in its place. I want to give the public what it wants.
I want to change the show.”
He had in mind, basically, striking the set and replacing it with a show
designed with the audience in mind. He suggested returning the goalposts
to the goal line, permitting a passer to throw from anywhere behind the line
of scrimmage instead of five yards back, spotting the ball on hash marks fif-
teen yards in from the sidelines for greater offensive maneuverability, and
relaxing substitution rules to allow what would eventually become two-pla-
toon football.
Halas was the first to see merit in the suggestions of the brash Boston
owner. With the Depression squeezing families across the country, spend-
ing on entertainment was not a high priority. A sports franchise had to
entertain if it were to stay in business. With Halas’s encouragement, the
other owners came around to seeing things Marshall’s way.
The owners also eliminated the five-yard-penalty rule for an incomplete
pass, as well as the change-of-possession rule for an incomplete pass in the
end zone. They reduced the fat, rugby-style ball from fifteen inches in cir-
cumference to eleven inches, making it much easier to grip and throw.
Marshall’s best idea was to divide the cumbersome one-division league
into two conferences, eastern and western, and staging a playoff for the
world championship every year. More teams would be involved in the
championship race, and more fans would have a reason to follow their team
in its quest.
They were good ideas all, but one more suggestion he made would stain
his reputation for the rest of his life. After the rules were passed, this owner
who would claim the South as his team’s bailiwick in a few years insisted
that African Americans be banned from the league. “They are bad for busi-
ness,” he said. “They are bad for our image. What are out-of-work white
people supposed to think when they look out on the field and see a bunch of
damned Negroes?”
Black players had played pro football from the beginning, and there had
been few problems. Still, the measure passed with ease. In later years, Mar-
shall was fond of saying he would sign a black player when the Harlem Glo-
betrotters signed a white one. A man who had opinions about everything, he
rarely had anything to say about his refusal to sign a black player, although
he bristled when the Washington Post columnist Shirley Povich mentioned
in print that “the Redskins colors are burgundy, gold and Caucasian.” His

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team would be the last in the NFL to sign a black player—Bobby Mitchell, in
1961—and that only under pressure from the Kennedy White House.
“Marshall was a loud, dynamic, forceful and arrogant man who many
people thought was unpleasant,” recalled Bernie Nordlinger, his longtime
attorney. “I would say he was an intensely loyal man, which kept people
close to him. And very few people who stayed around Marshall left him,
because he was so darned interesting. He was a volatile, wild man, in that
sense. There were so many times I wanted to quit because he made me so
angry. But there were so many other times when he made up for that.”

M arshall lost his coach in the summer of 1933 when Lud Wray signed
on to lead a new team, the Philadelphia Eagles. The promoter nonpa-
reil tracked down a real Indian to coach his Redskins.
The remarkable William Henry “Lone Star” Dietz was born in either
1884 or 1885 near Cut Meat, South Dakota, right outside the Sioux Indian
reservation. His father was a German railroad engineer captured by the
Sioux chief Red Cloud while working with a surveying party. He somehow
ingratiated himself with the chief and ended up marrying a young Indian
woman.
Their son, Wicarhpi Isnala (Lone Star), enrolled at the Carlisle Indian
School in 1907, where he played for Pop Warner and blocked for Jim
Thorpe. He was credited with inventing the “Indian block,” later known as
the cross-body block. Dietz unveiled the technique in 1911 against heavily
favored Harvard, a game in which Thorpe ran wild and the Indians upset
the Crimson 18–15.
An accomplished artist, singer, Hollywood actor, and dog breeder, he
coached at Washington State and the Haskell Institute, the famous Indian
school in Kansas, and was a consultant to Knute Rockne at Notre Dame
(where the writer Damon Runyon called him “the coach’s coach”).
While coaching Haskell in a game against Duquesne, he was accused by
the Dukes’ coach, Elmer Layden, of using his cigar to send smoke signals
to his players. At Washington State, he strolled the sideline in full tuxedo,
stovepipe hat, and cane. How could Marshall resist such a colorful charac-
ter, particularly after Dietz acceded to the owner’s request to wear buckskin
and an Indian war bonnet now and then?
With Boston, as with Washington State, Dietz indulged his penchant for
trick plays, including the “squirrel cage” on kickoffs. After the deep man
gathered in the kick, the other ten players would surround him and the ball
would be slipped to the gargantuan lineman Turk Edwards. Then all the

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Boston players would run downfield, pretending to hide the ball behind
their backs. The befuddled kick-coverage team didn’t expect the man actu-
ally carrying the ball to be the lumbering, 260-pound tackle.
The Redskins’ office became “the Teepee,” and Marshall, of course,
became the “Big Chief.” He also signed several of Dietz’s former Haskell
players, including Lawrence “Chief” Johnson, a lineman, and Louis “Rab-
bit” Weller, a halfback.
Dietz put together a pretty good team. On October 18, 1933, his war-
paint-wearing Redskins invaded New York and defeated the Giants 21–20.
Eighteen thousand fans at the Polo Grounds witnessed one of the best indi-
vidual performances in the NFL’s young history. The Redskins’ Cliff Battles
ran over, around, and through the Giants’ defense. Carrying the ball sixteen
times and averaging better than thirteen yards a carry, he wound up with
215 yards. It was the first time any running back had gained more than 200
yards in a single game. The record held for seventeen years.
The 1933 Redskins also beat the Bears for the first time ever, 10–0.
Marshall was ecstatic, but vanquishing the Monsters of the Midway turned
out to be the high point. The team ended the season with another break-
even record, 5-5-2, finishing third in the Eastern Division, behind the Giants
and the Dodgers. Box-office sales were slightly better than those from the
previous year, but nowhere close, in Marshall’s estimation, to what they
ought to be.
Dietz stayed on as coach for the 1934 season, but he had to endure an
owner who was beginning to consider himself something of a co-coach. One
example that became legendary: when the Redskins hosted the defending-
champion Giants, the “Washington laundryman”—as razzing sports writers
would come to call him—advised the coach to kick off if the Redskins won
the toss, thereby establishing early field position if, as expected, Boston’s
sturdy defense held.
Having delivered his words of strategic wisdom, Marshall, his flashy
coonskin coat flapping at his knees, hurried up the stairs to what he called
his “vantage point,” a corner of the press box where he had installed a phone
line to the bench. He had trouble adjusting his earphones, which were in
a tangle. Once he got himself settled, he stared down at the field and was
astounded to see the burgundy and gold lined up to receive. Marshall
grabbed the phone.
“Dammit, Lone Star,” he shouted, “I told you to kick.”
“We did, Chief,” Dietz replied.
The Giants’ return man had hauled in that kickoff and run it back down

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Redskins’ throats for a touchdown. With less than a minute gone from the
game clock, Boston trailed 7–0.
Marshall paid his Redskins “employees” as little as he could get away
with, and tried to wring as much out of them as he possibly could. He paid
his players only for league games, so he tried to schedule as many games as
possible to market his team and generate revenue, the players’ physical con-
dition be damned.
In addition to regular-season games, Marshall scheduled his team to play
several semipro teams every year. In those days, the Akron Awnings, the St.
Louis Gunners, and the Ironton (Ohio) Tanks drew large crowds eager to
see the pro stars in action. On September 13, 1934, Marshall sent the follow-
ing telegram to Michael V. DiSalle, a future Toledo mayor and Ohio gover-
nor, exploring the possibility of a game with a semipro Toledo team:

as we already have three games scheduled for that week coach refuses to play
another game stop am sorry and thank you for offer stop maybe we can get
together at later date. george marshall

Marshall had attempted to coerce Dietz into playing four games in a week.
It mattered little to the imperious owner that the 1934 Redskins roster con-
sisted of twenty-four players. Most of them played both ways.
For the third straight year, the Redskins broke even, finishing the 1934
season with a 6-6-0 record, good for second place in the Eastern Division.
Second place was not good enough for the increasingly impatient owner. He
fired Dietz and hired a true-blue Bostonian, Eddie Casey, an Irishman who
had been an all-American at Harvard in 1919 and the Crimson coach for
four seasons before joining the Redskins.
For the NFL as a whole, 1934 was a very good year. Nearly a million fans
witnessed the fifty-eight NFL games, and the Associated Press reported
that in its annual poll, sports editors had voted pro football the fastest-
growing sport in the country.

T
 he Redskins opened the 1935 season under Casey with a 7–3 victory
over the Brooklyn Dodgers, and the owner was sure he had a winner in
the former all-American. Marshall sat next to Casey on the bench almost
every game, offering plays he had diagrammed and strategies he had come
up with himself.
Unfortunately, the luck of the Irish eluded the hapless local hero for

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most of the season. The team finished the year with a dismal 2-8-1 record,
and attendance was equally dismal. The coach with the Harvard degree was
smart enough not to wait for the Marshall tomahawk. Before the impatient
owner could fire him, Casey announced that he was retiring from football
to devote himself full time to working with the National Youth Administra-
tion, a New Deal agency.

TURNING THE CORNER WITH FLAHERTY

Marshall was just about ready to give Boston back to Paul Revere, but he
still wasn’t ready to give up on his Redskins. His patience was rewarded in
1936, a very good year for the flamboyant owner. He found a glamorous new
movie-star wife (Griffith), became president of the Roosevelt Raceway, and
celebrated FDR’s reelection. And his Skins presented him with their first
winning season.
His experience with Casey had taught him a lesson—that is, that show-
manship alone wasn’t enough to win games. The man who made Marshall’s
year was his new coach, Ray “Red” Flaherty, a man who knew what he was
doing. A Gonzaga graduate, Flaherty was a former all-pro tight end for the
New York Giants who knew not only football, but also how to handle men.
Flaherty had begun thinking like a coach himself even before his play-
ing days were done. In the NFL’s 1934 championship game, played on an icy
field at the Polo Grounds, it was Flaherty who suggested using basketball
shoes. The Giants put them on at halftime and upset the heavily favored
Chicago Bears.
He served as a player-coach with the Giants in 1935 before Marshall
named him head coach of the Redskins. He would prove to be one of the
most successful coaches of his time, posting a 54-21-3 record.
A tough, no-nonsense kind of guy who had played for the great Giant
teams under “Stout” Steve Owen, the florid, freckle-faced Irishman was
determined to mold the Redskins into an image of himself. His teams would
be disciplined, workmanlike, certainly not flashy. He also negotiated a clause
in his contract that forbade Marshall from being on the field during games.
In the spring of ’36, NFL owners voted to institute a college draft, hoping
to spread the talent around and prevent the wealthier teams from cornering
the market on the best players. The Redskins managed to acquire a handful
of players who would form the nucleus of a championship-contending team
for the next several seasons. Their first pick was Riley Smith, a depend-
able Alabama quarterback and kicker. They also acquired a speedy Gonzaga
halfback, Ed Justice, and two fine linemen, Jim Karcher of Ohio State and

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Bob McChesney of UCLA. The team’s real find, though, was Wayne Millner,
a future Hall of Famer.
Millner, an all-American end at Notre Dame, was known as a clutch per-
former, as Sam Baugh would discover in years to come. At six feet one inch,
195 pounds, he had good size and could catch anything thrown in his vicin-
ity. He also was a fine downfield blocker and a tough defensive end.
The Redskins dropped their ’36 opener against the Pittsburgh Pirates,
10–0. They beat the Eagles and Dodgers, lost to the Giants and Packers, beat
the Eagles again and the Cardinals, and then lost a second time to the Pack-
ers. Although the Redskins seemed to be heading toward yet another .500
season, they still were in the thick of the division race at the halfway point.
The Bears invaded Fenway Park for the ninth game of the 1936 season.
With the two bitter rivals both in contention, Marshall, the consummate
showman, saw possibilities. The Boston newspapers saw it differently.
They ran a couple of stories announcing that a game was to be played, noth-
ing more. The Bears won 26–0, dealing a potential deathblow to the Red-
skins’ hopes of finally winning a division title.
When one of the papers ran a six-column spread on the fortunes of the
Radcliffe College field hockey team, Marshall threw up his hands in disgust.
He gave up, not on football, but on Boston. He made no announcements, of
course, but he resolved to shake the dregs of Beantown from his feet as soon
as the season ended.
Pittsburgh came to town, needing only to beat third-place Boston to
claim the division championship outright.
Game day, Corinne Griffith recalled, was cold, snowy, and gray. “Occa-
sional snowflakes,” she wrote, “large, gray and wet, emerged from the fog,
slithered to the ground and slid against our faces, making it difficult to
see across the field to the bleachers, where about twenty-five people hud-
dled together to keep warm.” Actually, fewer than 5,000 people huddled in
the stands that gray day in Boston. They watched the Redskins stomp the
Pirates 30–0.
The Giants also lost that weekend, which set up a December showdown
with Boston at the Polo Grounds for the division championship.
On the way back to Washington, the Marshalls stopped off in New York
to have dinner with famed writer Damon Runyon and his wife Patrice at
21, the celebrated restaurant and Prohibition-era speakeasy on West 52nd
Street. It was Runyon’s brassy Broadway women, horseplayers, bootleggers,
gangsters, and high-society swells who populated his Guys and Dolls, along
with dozens of other books and countless articles. Marshall loved him.
“Halfway up 21’s homespun stairway to 21’s homespun second floor,

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a southern accent, thick as molasses, stopped us,” Griffith recalled in her

memoir. It was another famous sportswriter, Grantland Rice, calling to
them from below.
Rice declined Marshall’s invitation to join the dinner party—explain-
ing that he had important business to finish at the bar—and the Redskins’
owner shouted down from the stair railing: “Then tell me what you know
about a kid down in Texas named Baugh.”
“Ah know plenty ’bout him,” Rice answered [the southernisms are from
Griffith]. “Ah think he’s the greatest passer Ah’ve ever seen in college foot-
ball. Whether he could stand the gaff of pro football is another question.”
And then he added: “He’s the skinniest guy Ah ever laid mah eyes on . . .”
“Well, I was just wondering what you thought,” Marshall said. “My
scouts tell me he’s great.”
“Oh, he’s great all right, but take mah advice,” Rice advised. “If you get
’im,” have his right arm insured for a million dollars, ’cause those pros’ll
break it off.”
Marshall—and his wife—would get back to the skinny kid down in Texas
a few months later. Meanwhile, the Redskins had a division championship
to win. The team set up camp in Rye, New York, to prepare for the December
6 showdown against the Giants. Back in Boston, team offices were shuttered
and the portable football stands at Fenway Park were dismantled.
“Coached by a great coach, Steve Owen, the Giants were with clock-like
precision, powerful, weather-beaten and self-assured, the idols of the great-
est city on earth,” Corinne Griffith recalled, “and the Redskins, poor little
Orphans of the Storm, didn’t know whether they were Boston Redskins or
Washington Redskins or just plain redskins on the warpath trying to win
back the island of Manhattan, given away so long ago by another group of
Indians—to these self-same Giants.”
By game time, a drenching winter rain had been falling all morning, and
the field, in the words of Arthur J. Daley of the New York Times, was “the
stickiest, clammiest mud imaginable.” The Giants had installed an innova-
tive five-man defensive-line scheme a few days earlier, designed primarily
to stop Cliff Battles. Flaherty countered by using Battles as a decoy for most
of the game and relying on a newly acquired running back, Don Irwin. On
defense, the Redskins teamed up with the mud and moisture, sometimes
relying on a ten-man line, and stopped the Giants offense cold. At halftime,
the Redskins led 7–0.
Rain continued to fall, and as the second half began, a fog rolled in. Pud-
dles of water were forming on the field, and mud-slathered players were
almost impossible to distinguish. “On nearly every play a towel was used to

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wipe the ball clean of excess mud,” the Times reported. “It probably is just
as well that Owner Marshall of Boston is in the laundry business.”
The gray afternoon faded to charcoal, and fans began yelling, “Lights,
lights!”
As the third quarter became the fourth, the rain stopped and the lights
came on, lending a magical Midas effect to the proceedings. The Redskins
stopped a long Giants drive at the twenty and took over on downs. On the
first play from scrimmage, Riley Smith handed the ball to the incomparable
Battles, who knifed off tackle and sloshed through the Polo Grounds swamp.
When he reached the New York thirty, only one man was between him and
the goal line. He thought it was Tuffy Leemans of the Giants, but when he
got closer and prepared to juke the defender, he saw it was a mud-covered
Pug Rentner, his own man. He ran on in for an eighty-yard touchdown. And
that did it. The Redskins, 14–0 victors over the Giants, were the Eastern
Division champs.
The Bears’ owner, George Halas, received a telegram after the game:
“george stop guess what stop you get to watch us in the big game stop gpm.”

CAPITALIZING

After the game, a deliriously happy Marshall announced to the New York
press that the Redskins were leaving Boston. “I’m licked,” he told them.
“Fans in paying quantities don’t seem to want us. Maybe they don’t want
me. Whatever it is, five years of trying and $100,000 in money is enough to
spend in one place. We’ll stay in, but it will be somewhere else. I don’t know
where, but there are two or three possibilities.”
Actually, he did know where, even if he hadn’t made an official decision.
He would heed the advice of his wife and head home. She recalled that her
husband had brought up the topic at the 21 dinner with the Runyons a few
weeks earlier. He told them that his wife “has this crazy idea that I should
move the team to Washington.” Griffith recalled in her memoir:

I tried to explain my viewpoint. “You see, Damon, there are so many displaced
citizens in Washington, from places such as Muleshoe, Texas, Ekalaka, Mon-
tana, and even Beverly Hills, California, I know. As a matter of fact, the D.C.
after Washington means: Displaced Citizen.”

Those displaced citizens, she maintained, needed something to do on Sun-

day afternoons other than sitting in the city’s beautiful parks and feeding
the squirrels and pigeons. “I am convinced that if the team should move to

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Washington, it would give these same D.C’s an opportunity to expend some

of their surplus energy,” she told Runyon.
As Griffith recalled the conversation that night, her husband broke in as
she was enumerating the reasons for moving to the nation’s capital:

“Will you tell her to leave me alone and let me run the football team? Will you
tell her what you think?”
“Sure I will,” said Damon, “I think you should move the team to
Washington.”

Marshall had reasons to be reluctant. His experience with the Palace Big
Five was a precursor to the Redskins’ unhappiness in Boston; his D.C. bas-
ketball team had played its games in virtual secrecy. Marshall was tired of
game venues that echoed with emptiness. Conventional wisdom also held
that Washington wasn’t a football town, that its residents didn’t support the
local college teams—Georgetown University and George Washington Uni-
versity—the way Boston backed Harvard and New York and its Connecticut
suburbs supported Yale.
But as Griffith reminded her husband, he would be going home, and in
Washington, he wouldn’t be a foreigner. And the nation’s capital was grow-
ing, she pointed out. It was beginning to outgrow its image as a sleepy south-
ern city. She had no doubt the town was ready for professional football.
Meanwhile, the homeless Redskins, with their best-ever 7–4 record, had
a championship game to play against the Green Bay Packers, who had edged
the Bears for the Western Division championship.
The ’35 title game had been a home game for the Western Division team,
so the ’36 would be a home game for the champion Redskins, although NFL
rules didn’t stipulate that the game had to be played at home. In a parting
insult to Boston and the Boston newspapers, Marshall announced that the
NFL championship game would not be played in Boston but at New York’s
Polo Grounds.
“We’ll make much more in New York than in Boston,” Marshall told
reporters. “We certainly don’t owe Boston much after the shabby treatment
we’ve received. Imagine losing $20,000 [the Redskins’ 1936 losses] with a
championship team.” NFL president Joe Carr announced that the Packers
also preferred playing in New York: “Since the playoff game is largely one
in which the players are rewarded for winning the division titles and their
sole remuneration is from the players’ pool made up from gate receipts of
the playoff, it was decided that New York was the place in which the players
would benefit to the greatest degree possible under existing conditions.”

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Arthur Daley of the New York Times reported that when the Redskins
had met the Pittsburgh Pirates at Fenway Park a week earlier in a game
that helped decide the division championship, there were only 3,715 paid
spectators, who paid just $4,600. “We have to be fair to the kids who won
the championship,” Marshall said. “If we meet Green Bay in Boston, they
wouldn’t get enough out of it to buy Christmas presents. But here in New
York, they may get something substantial.”
Marshall was right. The game drew nearly 30,000 fans, who paid $1.10 for
general admission and $2.20 for reserved seats. Although New Yorkers had
no partisan interest in the outcome, most of them cheered for the Eastern
Division champion Redskins. It wasn’t enough. The Packers scored in the
first three minutes after recovering a Riley Smith fumble, and Cliff Battles
injured his leg on the Redskins’ first play from scrimmage after receiving
the kickoff. The Redskins never recovered. The Packers, led by the future
Hall of Fame end Don Hutson, won 21–6. Corrine Griffith called it “a very
dull game.”
Dull perhaps, but momentous. Although her husband continued to insist
he had no idea where the Redskins would be playing next season—“I rather
like the idea of Newark,” he told the New York Times—he had invited a con-
tingent of Washingtonians to the game, including Clark Griffith (no relation
to Corinne), who was owner of the Washington Senators baseball team and
of Griffith Stadium. After the game, Marshall talked to Griffith about leas-
ing the ballpark, and the two men reached a tentative agreement. A week
later, the embattled owner announced that he was taking his team home to
Washington. The announcement was buried at the bottom of a Boston Globe
sports page.
In Washington, the ambitious impresario would stage a second act. The
star of his show, a skinny kid still in school in far-off Fort Worth, Texas,
hardly knew the Redskins existed.

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 CHAPTER

1936
baugh’ssenioryearattcu

S
am’s senior season started slowly. In Brownwood, in the mud, TCU’s
mighty Horned Frogs barely scraped by lowly Howard Payne College.
Late in the game, Sam engineered a ninety-eight-yard drive that he
capped off with a touchdown pass with less than a minute to play. The
defending national champions skulked the ninety miles back to Fort Worth
hardly bragging about their 6–0 win.
In Lubbock the next week, they picked on somebody closer to their own
size, and lost. Again playing in the mud, the Texas Tech Red Raiders kept
the pressure on the all-American quarterback and upset the Frogs 7–0.
An even tougher opponent was coming to town the next week. Accord-
ing to reports out of Fayetteville, the formidable Arkansas Razorbacks had
shaved their heads en masse, leaving only a row of bristles atop the crown.
They resembled, of course, razorbacks, the feral hogs that inhabited the
Ozarks hills and hollers.
Theatrics aside, the Razorbacks were a good football team—the best in
the Southwest Conference, in fact. Dutch Meyer was glum. His vaunted
spread offense had scored a grand total of six points in the first two games.
The ground game was anemic. The offensive line couldn’t protect Sam.
At midweek, Dutch announced that he thought he might shake up his

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sclerotic offense. At tailback, he might start Sam’s understudy, a remark-

able sophomore from Dallas named Davey O’Brien, who was all of five feet
seven inches tall and weighed about 140 pounds (and who would win the
Heisman Trophy his senior year). Sam would start at right halfback. The
Frogs worked on the new scheme in practice, and the offense did seem to
have a bit more pep.
Still, the Razorbacks, led by a stellar quarterback of their own named
Jack Robbins, were the favorites.
Dutch said later he wasn’t sending mixed signals into the hills of Arkan-
sas; he had, in fact, intended to start O’Brien at tailback and Sam at halfback
had the Frogs received the opening kickoff; he planned to stay with the new
lineup for at least a quarter. Since TCU kicked off, Sam was already in the
game at safety, and he stayed in the game—perhaps because Dutch changed
his mind shortly before kickoff, when Sam came to him and said, “Just put
me in there at quarterback, and I’ll play you a game of football.”
He was true to his word. “In fact, as the minutes wore on, some of the
more dubious were beginning to wonder if Davey O’Brien weren’t a myth,”
Flem Hall observed. “But there was nothing mythical about Baugh. He was
all-American to a ‘T’ all the way, as he heaved the ball, slammed into those
crouched red-shirts or booted the ball far down the field.”
Sam was on the field the whole sixty minutes. He threw for 183 yards,
and in the fourth quarter he set the red-clad Razorbacks back on their
heels with a forty-yard punt that died on the Arkansas five-yard line. When
TCU got the ball back, Sam threw a touchdown pass to Vic Montgomery.
Arkansas scored with two minutes left to play, but TCU escaped with the
win, 18–14.
Although it would be Arkansas’s only loss all season, at the time it was
seen mainly as a huge psychological lift for the downtrodden Horned Frogs.
Meyer was so happy he rushed into the shower after the game and lifted a
naked Sam Baugh off the floor in a jubilant bear hug.
Sam came out of the Razorback game with both shoulder and ankle inju-
ries, and during the week before the Tulsa game, he caught a cold. Dutch
decided to start his second unit, hoping to rest his quarterback and get him
healthy in time for the Aggies the next week. But with three minutes left in
the half and with TCU trailing the Golden Hurricanes 7–0, Dutch sent in
Sam and the rest of the first string. The ailing passer threw for 180 yards,
and put Tulsa in the hole with a punt that bounced out of bounds at the
one-yard line. Halfback Montgomery threw a touchdown pass, and Walter
Roach kicked a last-minute field goal for a 10–7 win.

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Sam was still ailing as the Frogs prepared for A&M, a team led by a slash-
ing running back Sam would get to know well in later years, Dick Todd from
Crowell, Texas. Sam said later he went to Dutch and insisted that he go with
O’Brien. “I told him I really thought Davey was ready, and I just couldn’t go,”
Sam recalled. “Hell, I was limping around like a cripple, and Davey was get-
ting better every week.”
Sam said that what he was really worried about was his ability to play
safety on defense. He knew that if Todd broke into the secondary or got open
on a pass route, a gimpy safetyman, even if he were Sam Baugh, wouldn’t be
able to catch him. Meyer told him he would wait to see how Baugh felt just
before game time before making a decision.
Sam started, and what he feared would happen did happen. “He ran right
past me for two long touchdowns that day and they beat us. I couldn’t have
hit him with a handful of gravel,” Sam recalled. The Aggies beat TCU for
the first time in twelve years, 18–7. That was the only time he ever second-
guessed Dutch Meyer, Sam said years later.
Still nursing injuries—he also had injured his throwing hand against the
Aggies—Sam sat out the next game, a nonconference tussle with Missis-
sippi State. The Frogs and the Bulldogs slopped to a 0–0 tie in the rain at the
Cotton Bowl. Dutch wasn’t pleased about the listless tug-of-war, but other-
wise his strategy paid off; Sam Baugh was ready for Baylor.
The Bears came to town with their own high-profile backfield star—
Lloyd Russell, known as “the crooning quarterback” for his habit of sing-
ing while he ran with the ball. Waxing rhapsodic about the Baylor star, the
Star-Telegram wrote that his “feet seem to fly on the wings of songs he
sings himself as he slashes enemy lines.” Running a punt back for a touch-
down against Southwestern College, “as the Southwestern tacklers grabbed
futilely at Russell’s flying feet, the clear, melodious notes of a tenor voice
could be heard over the roar of the crowd.”
Russell told reporters he had no idea why he did it. “I have a peculiar
habit of singing after the ball is snapped, often when I’m tackled,” he said.
“Some of the opposing players have told me that just before I am tackled I
start mumbling and singing. I don’t willfully start singing, but I have caught
myself doing it.”
Alas, the Frogs left Russell with nothing to sing about. Sam threw for
three touchdowns in the first twenty minutes and then retired to the side-
lines. TCU shut out Russell and his Bears 28–0.
“What burned Baylor more than the defeat Saturday was the manner in
which it was inflicted,” Flem Hall wrote in the Star-Telegram the Monday
after the game.

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They are sick and tired of seeing TCU score on passes, and when you consider
the facts it’s easy to understand their feelings. In the last two games between
the old rivals, the Frogs have made 56 points, crossed the goal line eight times
and never yet have they carried the ball over on a running play. It has been
pass, pass, pass, pass, pass, pass, pass and pass.

Hall noted that teams were so desperate to stop Sam’s passing that they
were resorting to rather odd defensive schemes,

but Baylor, we believe, had the most cock-eyed of all. It varied from what
amounted to a four-man line to an eight-man, but most of the time it was
either a five or six. The middle linebacker often huddled as close behind the
left guard as he could get, and was an extremely hard gentleman for a blocker
to find, much less get.
But the Frogs don’t fret. They just keep passing.

“They should handicap Baugh like they do race horses,” columnist Jinx
Tucker of the Waco Times-Herald wrote. “Against Baylor for instance, he
should have been forced to carry 30 pounds on his back. Defeating Baylor
with those passes was like shooting quail in a cage.”
Next up were the Texas Longhorns, in Fort Worth, and it promised to be
a great game. Jack Chevigny’s squad relied on power and deception with a
quartet of big, speedy running backs. TCU, of course, had Sam and some of
the finest receivers in the Southwest.
It was homecoming, and Coach Meyer took his players off campus after
practice Thursday afternoon so they wouldn’t get caught up in what the
Star-Telegram called “the hip-hip and hooraying of well-wishing friends.”
The Longhorns worked out Friday in Dallas on a high school field.
Texas, then as now, was the team that TCU—and every other Southwest
Conference school—loved to beat. That sense of satisfaction was evident
not long after Sam got his hands on the ball and started passing the Long-
horns crazy. TCU center Ki Aldrich ambled up to the line of scrimmage
early in the game. Aldrich, only a sophomore, had grown up in Temple, two
years behind Sam, and he would play with him again in Washington. “He
wanted to play football more than any player I ever coached,” Dutch Meyer
once said.
Looking across the line at a listless bunch of Texas Longhorns, he put
them on notice. “Gentlemen,” he announced, “Mr. Sam Baugh is about to
throw another pass. I don’t know exactly where he’s going to throw it, but I
suggest you get yourselves ready, ’cause it’s gonna be a good one.”

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Aldrich proved prophetic. Nineteen times Sam faded to pass; fourteen

times he threw “a good one.” The Frogs led by twenty at halftime and even-
tually racked up twenty first downs and gained 316 yards total offense. In
addition to his passing and punting, Sam contributed a sixty-one-yard run-
back of an intercepted pass. Harold McClure, one of the Masonic Home
Mighty Mites, scored four times.
Coach Chevigny also proved prophetic. “The only way Baugh can be
stopped,” he had told reporters earlier in the week, “is if he stops himself.”
He didn’t. TCU beat Chevigny’s Longhorns 27–6. Chevigny, the former
Notre Dame star, was on his way out at Texas.
The Frogs had one more nonconference game to play, a November 14
contest against Centenary College. It was significant only because it was
Sam’s last game at Amon Carter Stadium.
He played only the first quarter. On the first play from scrimmage, with
the ball on TCU’s forty-eight, he threw an eighteen-yard completion to
Walls, and on the next play found Walls wide open again. The rangy end
twisted across the goal line for the score.
Three minutes later, Sam was at it again, with a twenty-three-yard
touchdown pass to McClure, and then he was on the bench, much to the dis-
may of the home crowd.
“Coach Dutch Meyer, saving the potent Baugh for Southern Methodist
and other conference rivals, removed him and most of the other first-string-
ers,” the Associated Press reported on Sunday. “Tiny reserve quarterback
Davey O’Brien, 145-pound triple-threat star being primed to step into the
graduating Baugh’s shoes, never let up on the disorganized Gents, and in the
second half drove across two more touchdowns.” The Frogs beat the Gents
from Louisiana 26–0.
TCU got past Rice the next week, thanks in part to a timely interception
by big Ki Aldrich. Sam completed sixteen passes for 153 yards and a touch-
down in the 13–0 victory.
“By bombing the Owls into submission at Houston Saturday,” Flem Hall
wrote, “Sam Baugh made it a brass-bound cinch that he will be rightfully
recognized as the most valuable football player in the Southwest Confer-
ence for the 1936 season.” That left the Frogs, with a 4-1 conference record,
tied with Arkansas for the lead and needing only a win over SMU, the team
that had crushed their hopes the year before, to claim at least a share of the
Southwest Conference championship.
Mustang coach Matty Bell, Dutch Meyer’s close friend, began crying
crocodile tears early in the week. “How can you expect a team like ours—4-4

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with a three-game losing streak—to beat TCU, the way they’re going, and
with Sammy Baugh hot as a firecracker?” he asked reporters. “Yeah, we
know what he’s going to do, but that doesn’t mean we can stop it.”
Most experts agreed. “Comparing the results gained by each eleven thus
far in the season, it is obvious that TCU boasts an overwhelming strength,”
the Star-Telegram noted, “but taking into consideration the grudge between
the teams, it is possible that the final score may lean in either direction.”
On Saturday, inside the handsome redbrick walls of SMU’s Ownby
Stadium, the Frogs and the Ponies sloshed onto a field of mud. Torrential
rains made it almost impossible for Sam to get a passing game going, and
he played the worst game of his career—the only game, in fact, in which he
failed to complete a pass.
It seems unusual today for the finest passer in the game not to have com-
pleted a pass, but the game was much different in the 1930s. For one thing,
the ball was bigger—and in the rain, heavier. It was wet every time Sam tried
to throw it. For another, the passing game was much less technical in those
days, the routes less precise, Sam’s technique more haphazard. Although
Baugh did much to change the passing game, it was still a game of chance.
As the Star-Telegram put it, it was “the first time since Sammy started
chunking ‘drug store’ footballs back in the third grade that he failed to com-
plete at least one pass.” The paper noted though that he “turned in one of
the most brilliant kicking performances of the year in the Methodist dead
heat. He kicked, ran and tackled superbly, but none of his five passes found
a catcher. And that was the story.”
TCU gained 160 yards to SMU’s 60, but the Frogs couldn’t score. Late in
the first quarter, Harold McClure got loose for fifty-three yards before being
dragged down at the seven. The Frogs tried three times to punch it in and
then attempted a field goal, which sailed wide right.
SMU had its chance in the second half following a fumble recovery, but
Walter Roach blocked a field-goal attempt, and the game ended in a dreary
0–0 tie. Once again the Frogs had fallen short in their quest for a conference
championship.
“It was more than a shame that it rained today,” said the former TCU
coach Francis Schmidt, who witnessed the game. “It was a tragedy.”
Sam gave credit to the Mustangs for shutting him down. “I think I threw
the ball too damn hard,” he recalled years later. The reason he threw it so
hard, he said, was because the Mustangs were jamming the middle to stop
his short passes. He had to throw the ball hard to zip it past multiple defend-
ers. (Actually Sam could have been confusing the SMU game from 1936

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with the one from the year before, when his receivers dropped nine passes,
but the same thing happened his senior year.)
The next weekend, the Arkansas Razorbacks got by the Texas Longhorns
6–0 and claimed their first Southwest Conference championship. The
Frogs had failed yet again to win a conference championship during Sam’s
time wearing the purple and white.

T
 he Frogs had one more regular-season game to play. Normally, it would
be a meaningless intersectional contest out west with the University
of Santa Clara. As the 1936 season wound down, though, the Broncos were
the only unbeaten, untied team among the nation’s major colleges. They
had given up only thirteen points in seven games and had whipped Stanford
13–0 and Auburn 12–0. The Frogs, coming off a debilitating loss and with
running back McClure and others injured, were decided underdogs.
Forty thousand fans packed San Francisco’s Kezar Stadium, and for the
third straight year, the Broncos couldn’t handle Slingin’ Sam and his tal-
ented Frog teammates. “Led by the greatest passer this football-mad sec-
tion ever has seen—cool and courageous Sammy Baugh—Texas Christian
handed University of Santa Clara its first defeat of the season today, 9–0,”
the Associated Press reported on December 12. “Slingin’ Sammy’ pitched,
punted and ran the ball occasionally for 60 minutes of bitterly fought battle.
He was the big gun, the powder charge and the igniting spark in the Texans’
terrific attack.”
TCU gained only two yards on the ground that afternoon, but Sam com-
pleted thirteen of twenty-six passes for 122 yards and a touchdown. His
uncanny punts—five of them inside Santa Clara’s ten-yard line, one for sixty
yards, another for sixty-five—kept the Broncos penned up in their end of the
field. TCU added a field goal to clinch the victory, 13–0. The defeats by TCU
were Santa Clara’s only losses in the 1936 and ’37 seasons.
“Baugh did it almost single-handedly,” one West Coast writer observed.
“Baugh gave one of the finest exhibitions of offensive and defensive play any
gridiron has seen,” Grantland Rice wrote. “Santa Clara was the best team
we ever played, and we beat them three years in a row,” Sam recalled. “They
had some good boys on that team, and we ended up beating them every year,
even though we probably shouldn’t have. And mainly it [was] because our
passing game evened the field for us against the more talented teams.”
Once again TCU used the Santa Clara game as another excuse for a
merry West Coast jaunt, with Amon Carter picking up the tab. “Dutch said
we were gonna stay a week, break training, whatever,” L. D. Meyer recalled.

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We had just knocked off the only unbeaten team in the country, and everybody
was feelin’ good. The town was ours.
Sam was a big celebrity—they really loved him out there. They all thought
he was the greatest quarterback in the world.

Sam and his buddies may have been small-town boys, but it didn’t take
them long to appreciate the delights of the City by the Bay. “One night, we
were sitting in this bar—me, Sam and Willie Walls—and this guy comes up
and starts talking to us,” L. D. Meyer told Canning.

And he says, “You see that football game with TCU? Boy that Sam Baugh has
got to be the greatest passer in history.”
So Willie says, “Ah, he ain’t that good—I’ve seen better.” And the guy gets
really mad and starts talking real loud, telling us we don’t know anything
about football and that there’s never been anyone better than Sam.
So finally, we said, “You want to meet him?”
He looks at us and he says, “You know Sam Baugh?” So we pointed to Sam
across the table and said, “You’ve been talking to him for 30 minutes.”
Well, the guy starts lookin’ at Sam, and pretty soon he’s squinting, and
checking him out, and suddenly he runs out the door and comes back in with a
newspaper—and there’s Sam’s picture. He couldn’t believe it.

After that, Meyer recalled, their number-one fan showed the boys the
town—clubs, floor shows, the works, “and everywhere we went he would
stop the music and announce that the great Sam Baugh was with us. And he
told us, ‘Nobody pays but me.’”
Sam and friends finally wore him out. “We called him Good Time Char-
lie,” Meyer said, “but he finally drank so much he kinda fell over in his seat
when we were in a cab, so we had the cabbie take him home.”

I n 1935, inspired by the success of Pasadena’s Rose Bowl, a Dallas oil-

man named J. Curtis Sanford decided that his hometown needed a bowl
game of its own, particularly on the centennial of Texas independence and
with a newly remodeled stadium available at Dallas’s Fair Park. The next
year he launched the Cotton Bowl Classic, so named because Dallas was a
major trading market for cotton. Not until 1941 did the Cotton Bowl make
an arrangement with the Southwest Conference for its champion to play in
the Cotton Bowl, so in 1937 any two teams Sanford and friends thought they
could entice were fair game.

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The Cotton Bowl committee, on the prowl for crowd-pleasers for their
inaugural contest, picked two teams with spectacular passing quarter-
backs—TCU and the Golden Avalanche of Marquette University.
Sam’s counterpart was Marquette’s Ray “Buzz” Buivid, who had made
several all-America teams and who, in the Midwest at least, was considered
the equal of Sam Baugh when it came to throwing the ball. Buivid finished
third in the Heisman Trophy voting, Sam fourth.
“Marquette’s Golden Avalanche, just one peg away from national title
consideration, vowed that Capt. Ray ‘Buzz’ Buivid would bomb Texas
Christian clear out of the Cotton Bowl on New Year’s Day,” the United Press
reported. “Buivid, however, lacked their certainty. The hardened pheasant
hunter who pitched Marquette within a game of the national champion-
ship wanted none ‘to think we’re looking forward to a joyride.’” The UP also
reported that “the mammoth Christian line, averaging 201 pounds, will out-
weigh Marquette’s starting line some 19 pounds to the man.”
During the week between Christmas and New Year, Dutch Meyer told
reporters he was worried about Marquette’s “trickery” on offense, which he
feared would totally befuddle his Horned Frogs. TCU’s scrubs, running the
offense in practice against the regulars, were zipping up and down the field
with ease, the Saturday Fox reported.
The Frogs were indeed banged up. Vic Montgomery would start in place
of the oft-injured McClure at halfback, and L. D. “Little Dutch” Meyer
would start at end in place of Willie Walls, who had cracked a bone in his
foot. Meyer knew that he was probably playing his last football game; he
would go on to play professional baseball. With Sam’s help, he made his final
game a memorable one.
TCU took control of the game almost from the opening kickoff, despite a
sixty-yard punt return by Marquette’s speedy Art Guepe, who could talk as
fast as he could run. His twin brother, Al Guepe, also was on the Marquette
team. “They looked like two peas in a pod,” Sam recalled. “They could run
like hound dogs, and all during the game, he [Art Guepe] would run by our
bench, and he’d say, ‘Tell Sam to kick that ball to me, and I’ll run it back for
a touchdown.’ Dutch had seen pictures of him, and he said, ‘Don’t kick the
damn ball to him.’ He said, ‘He’ll run the damn thing back down your throat.’
He said, ‘I’ve seen it happen all year long.’”
Most of Sam’s punts either angled away from Guepe or sailed out of
bounds, but one didn’t. “Danged if that little sucker didn’t run it all the way
back for a touchdown,” Sam said.
That was the end of Marquette’s scoring, though. At halftime, the Frogs
led 16–6, and L. D. Meyer had scored all sixteen points—two touchdown

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catches from Sam, an extra-point kick, and a field goal. “They were real
scrappy,” L. D. Meyer recalled, “but I just don’t think they had ever seen a
passing attack like the one we had.”
Dutch Meyer started pulling his twelve graduating seniors early in the
second half, much to the consternation of the TCU fans, who realized they
were seeing one of the game’s great quarterbacks play for the last time.
Finally, late in the fourth quarter, Meyer motioned to the young man who,
more than any other player, was responsible for TCU’s success. Sam Baugh
ambled back onto the field.
The crowd rose, cheering, acknowledging the man who, during his ten-
ure as TCU’s starting quarterback, had led the Frogs to twenty-nine victo-
ries and a mythical national championship, had thrown for 3,471 yards and
thirty-nine touchdowns, had walked onto the campus of a tiny school few
beyond the bounds of the Lone Star State had ever heard of, and had put
TCU on the national football map. And now he was done.
He led the nation in both punting and passing in his final two seasons
at TCU, although he didn’t win the Heisman Trophy. Some say his perfor-
mance attracted so much attention to TCU football that he paved the way
for his successor, Davey O’Brien, who won the Heisman in 1938.
Sam was through playing football at TCU, perhaps through playing any-
where. It was 1937; the Depression still held the nation in its grip. Soon,
young Sam Baugh would need a job.

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 CHAPTER

1937
slingin’samchoosesacareer

O
n an April afternoon in 1836, General Sam Houston’s ragtag army of
Texians took Mexican general Antonio López de Santa Anna by sur-
prise and in eighteen minutes annihilated the vastly superior forces
Santa Anna had led northward to put down a bothersome Texas rebel-
lion. The Battle of San Jacinto severed Texas from Mexico and led in a few
short years to the Republic’s annexation by the United States. A hundred
years later, Texans were in a mood to celebrate.
The plan was to stage the first “world’s fair” to be held in the Southwest.
Three Texas cities—Dallas, Houston, and San Antonio—competed to host
the central exposition.
San Antonio would seem to have been the obvious choice. The old Span-
ish settlement was, of course, home to the Alamo, the cradle of Texas liberty,
where a motley gathering of fewer than two hundred men, including Colo-
nel William Barrett Travis, Colonel James Bowie, and Davy Crockett with
his buckskin-clad Tennesseans, held out for eleven days against Santa Anna
and his army of six thousand. The new San Antonio, with a population of
232,000, had become a bustling center of commerce and home to a number
of large military bases.
Houston would seem to have been the next logical choice. After all, the
site close to where Buffalo Bayou meets the San Jacinto River, where Sam

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Houston and his men yelled “Remember the Alamo!” was just outside what
would become the state’s largest city. The hero of San Jacinto, the man
whose name the city proudly bore, was elected the first president of the
Republic of Texas.
Both cities were passed over though. The state’s official centennial com-
mission picked Dallas, a city that had not existed during the early days of
Texas and had no connection whatsoever to the state’s founding fathers.
Dallas won the prize the same way it had wrested the railroad from its
neighbors some decades earlier—by being brash, confident, and organized.
The North Texas metropolis came up with the largest cash commitment
($7,791,000); it already had the State Fair of Texas facility with plans for
expansion; and it relied on unified urban leadership headed by prominent
bankers and civic honchos Nathan Adams, Fred F. Florence, and Robert L.
Thornton. Once the decision was made, the state legislature and the federal
government each appropriated $3 million for the project.
The official $25 million exposition, occupying fifty buildings on the
grounds of Dallas’s Fair Park, opened on June 6, 1936. It featured a dual
theme: history and progress. The “Cavalcade of Texas,” a historical pageant
depicting four centuries of Texas history, became one of the exposition’s
most popular attractions. “Visitors to the Centennial will find in Dallas a
rich, up-and-coming city of 260,000,” Time magazine reported, “filled with
tall, white buildings, smart shops, good restaurants, fine homes, sophisti-
cated citizens.”
All the favorable attention visited upon Dallas galled “Mr. Fort Worth,”
Amon G. Carter. The newspaper publisher, developer, and philanthropist
took it upon himself to organize a rival celebration. The competing non-
official Fort Worth Frontier Centennial Exposition opened on July 18
and featured the entertainment genius of the Broadway showman Billy
Rose. As the producer of Fort Worth’s Casa Mañana show, Rose himself
explained the difference: “Go to Dallas for education; come to Fort Worth
for entertainment.”
Both celebrations ran for about six months, and both cities were so
happy with their extravaganzas that they started up again in the summer of
1937. Carter and his Fort Worth compatriots brought Rose back for a repeat
performance.
As the Washington Post society reporter breezily put it, Rose

took in hand entertainment features of Fort Worth’s frontier fiesta and trans-
ported a bit of Broadway out to where the West begins in a manner that
strongly appealed to natives of the State where men are men and a woman

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was once Governor. Billy Rose’s shows—Casa Manana, Pioneer Palace, Firefly
Garden and Melody Lane—are still thrilling thousands of Texans at each per-
formance. Casa Manana, the spectacular revue featured at the fiesta, reduces
the plots of four best-sellers to 15 minutes of dance, song and pantomime that
breathes Broadway with every lilting tune.

Dallas called its second-act celebration the Greater Texas and Pan-
American Exposition and hired its own “Billy Rose”—one George Preston
Marshall, who, in the words of the Post, “turned into a $1,000-a-day pro-
ducer almost overnight.” Until they left for Malibu, the Post reported, Mar-
shall and his wife, Corinne, “could be spotted almost any evening at the
2,000-seat blue and chromium auditorium known as the Casino, where
thousands nightly see a smash-hit revue that would do honor to Broadway.”
Rose’s productions were still drawing thousands—never mind the
Depression—but Dallasites were quite proud of their own hired showman,
who was being paid $100,000 for his services, the Post reported. “His first-
rate entertainment has set a new high in the show world, and his top-flight
salary for producing it gives exposition-goers plenty to talk about.”
From balcony to stage, the Casino was terraced with tiers of tables to
accommodate the crowds who packed two shows nightly. Handsome
George Marshall and his glamorous movie-star wife, a child of Texas her-
self, were in the audience each time the show changed, through June and
into July. Sometimes they watched the revue from a close-up table for two,
but more often they were in the company of friends. They entertained a
number of guests, including Mrs. James Farley, who returned to New York
shortly afterward to join her husband, the postmaster general.
“The list of stars who have appeared and will appear on the stage reads
like the blue book of the American show world,” the Post reported. “Settings
and scenes were designed by the 36-year-old Paris-born artist, Joe Miel-
ziner, and lighting effects were worked out by George Gebhardt. With cos-
tumes by famed Constance DePinna, stage production by Chester Hale and
musical numbers arranged by Ray Kavanaugh, it’s no wonder Texans have a
real show this summer.”

I n her memoir, Corinne Griffith recalled how her husband had landed
his Dallas gig. He had signed on to stage a series of Pan-American ath-
letic contests for the Dallas event, and was attending a conference of Dallas
bankers who were backing their city’s extravaganza.

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His wife recalled the conversation he had with the bankers, ardent city
boosters to a man:

“How about a show, too—one that will close up Billy Rose’s Fort Worth show?”
asked one of the bankers at the conference. He was in shirtsleeves, his head
thrown back, thumbs hitched in his suspenders. His bank had just announced
their deposits over a hundred million. Mr. Nate Adams’ bank had one hun-
dred and twenty million on deposit. With the combined amounts of the other
banks represented by their presidents, there was over a cool half billion dol-
lars talking in that one room, but their chief concern seemed to be that Fort
Worth was enjoying a very successful show backed by Amon Carter and pro-
duced by Billy Rose.

Marshall told the bankers he was interested but felt he ought to call
Carter first.

“Amon Carter!” screamed the banker in shirtsleeves, “why, them’s fighting

words over here in Dallas.” He was so mad he could spit—and did.

Marshall, according to Griffith, called Carter anyway.

“Go ahead,” Amon said. “If you can close us up, that’s all right with me, but
don’t expect me to help you much.”
With Amon’s encouragement and the soft persuasion of a cool half billion
dollars, George gave them a very warm “yes.”

Back in New York, Marshall arranged for his wife to meet with Leon
Leonidoff, a producer of the Radio City Music Hall spectaculars from the
day the hall opened in 1932 until his retirement forty-two years later. “I dis-
cussed the show with him. We broke it down into working form, whereupon
I left saying I would return the next day,” Corinne Griffith recalled.
She drove out to Roosevelt Raceway, the harness-racing track at West-
bury on Long Island, where she found her husband in his office. “Everything
has worked out beautifully,” she told her husband. She tapped her handbag.
“I have the whole show right here under my arm.’”
Her husband shushed her. He was calling London. Cupping his hand
over the mouthpiece, he told her, “It won’t be necessary for you to do the
show. Hassard Short is going to do it—and for only $15,000.00. Isn’t that
wonderful?”

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Griffith agreed it was wonderful that one of Broadway’s greatest direc-

tors and lighting designers had agreed to stage a show in Dallas. “Of course,
my show would have been $15,000 cheaper since you weren’t paying me
anything,” she reminded her husband.
The next day she was on the phone with Leonidoff, telling him the deal
was off, when her husband burst in with the news that Short had reneged.
He had wanted an extra $10,000 for the famed dancer and choreographer
Albertina Rasch, and Marshall refused to pay. Leonidoff was “sweet and
understanding,” Griffith recalled. He agreed to do the Texas show.
Griffith met with him after lunch the next day.

I picked a number I had seen at the [Radio City] Music Hall, Ravel’s “Bolero”
for the final number of the show. I wanted an all white number, with 36 girls in
white dresses, white wigs and large, white ostrich fans. He thought that would
be good. George wanted a blue number for the Texas state flower, Blue Bonnet.
Then we decided on a colorful Gaucho number for a male chorus for the open-
ing that would tie up the Pan-American idea.

One morning in May a few weeks later, hundreds of people hurrying

through New York’s Grand Central Station on the way to and from their
trains were startled to see twenty-four Lynn Murray singers stomping
down the steps, the syncopated sound echoing through the vast main hall.
They wore cowboy boots and hats and were followed by thirty-six girls in
sombreros and boots, also stomping and all singing “The Eyes of Texas.”
“They stomped and sang all the way to our special train, which was loaded
and waiting on the platform below,” Griffith recalled. “They were crammed
into the observation car and onto the rear platform, where a round, red disk
of light spelled ‘Dallas Exposition.’”
The troupe pulled into Dallas’s Union Station at midnight, where a happy
crowd welcomed them to Big D. Once they were checked into the downtown
Adolphus Hotel, Dallas’s best, they rehearsed until two in the morning.
Opening night was a huge success, Corinne Griffith recalled. “Billy Rose
and Amon Carter came as our guests. ‘The Eyes of Texas’ was played at the
opening of the show and at the opening and closing of each show thereaf-
ter—twice a night and four times on Saturday and Sunday. It is the National
Anthem to Texans and they stand each time it is played.”
Between standing up and sitting down, she and the audience listened
to the sounds of jazz bands and twenty-four male singers, plus the crooner
Rudy Vallee, and watched thirty-six precision dancers dance. The Argen-
tine and Brazilian ambassadors were the Marshalls’ special guests, as were

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Jack Benny and Mary Livingston, who were broadcasting the show. Also
at their table was a young man George Marshall had invited at the last
moment.
“I was asleep at 11 a.m., May 10, 1937,” Griffith recalled.

We had rehearsed until two that morning. The show was to open that night.
From Fort Worth, Amon Carter had sent some prize steer beef, and Nellie
[her assistant] had kept the steak especially for that day. She said we should
have it for breakfast-lunch. It was going to be a long day, last-minute rehears-
als, with no time for dinner. I was awakened by George fumbling in the top
dresser drawer.
“What are you doing?”
“Oh, nothing—just some money. Tell you later.”
He disappeared into the living room, which was across the hall. I heard
voices, then he returned.
“That was a kid I’m trying to sign up for the Redskins,” he explained. “He’s
going to the opening tonight. His name is Sammy Baugh, and I want you to
look out for him—he’s such a shy kid. Didn’t have a dinner coat, so I sent him
to buy one.”
“But maybe he can’t afford a thing as expensive as a dinner coat.”
“Oh, that’s all taken care of,” said George. “I just gave him sixty dollars.”

Nellie the assistant—if Griffith is to be believed—fed Sam the prized Carter

steak. George told Corinne:

“Nellie said he looked so thin and hungry while he was waiting for us to wake
up, that she cooked that steak for him—the one Amon sent us.” But even
before I could complain he gave me a most winning smile. “Promise me you’ll
look out for Sammy tonight, won’t you?—he’s such a shy kid.”
“Oh, yes,” I replied, “I’ll look out for Sammy all right, but who’ll look out for
me? If he’s shy, I’m the Queen of France.”

In a photograph taken the night of the opening, Sam is seated next to a

bejeweled Griffith at a table in the crowded Casino. Wearing a white dinner
jacket with a black bow tie, sitting up straight and tall, his dark hair neatly
combed and a smile on his lean face, he stares at Griffith as she converses
with a man and woman who have stopped by the table. The caption reads:
“Resplendent in his first dinner jacket and black tie, Sammy Baugh is agape
and agleam with interest as Corinne Griffith chats with friends at the open-
ing of the Casino at Dallas’ Pan-American Exposition.” “It was a great night

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for Sammy,” Griffith recalled. “He wore his first dinner coat and black tie.
He saw his first New York show and because of a law in Texas against serv-
ing hard liquor, Sammy had his first Champagne cocktail.”
She was probably right about the cocktail. Apart from an occasional beer
with the boys or on a hot day, Sam didn’t drink, perhaps because he didn’t
like the taste of liquor or maybe because of memories of his father.

G riffith’s account of her introduction to Sam Baugh partook of a bit of

literary license. Her husband had been following his football exploits
for at least a year, probably longer. His scouts had kept an eye on the lanky
youngster during his two all-American years at TCU. Robert L. Humphrey,
a Dallas public affairs executive who was director of sports and entertain-
ment for the Pan-American Exposition, made sure that Marshall heard
about Slingin’ Sam. Humphrey himself also had talked to Sam about the
Redskins. Humphrey was so proud of his matchmaking role that when he
died in 1976, the headline on his Washington Post obituary didn’t men-
tion his career as a public relations executive or as publisher of a trade
journal for the oil industry. It read, “Robert L. Humphrey Dies; Scouted
Sammy Baugh.”
On December 12, 1936, the NFL held its annual meeting and considered
franchise applications from Cleveland, Los Angeles, and Buffalo, but action
was deferred until February. Meanwhile, owners and coaches selected ten
college players for each club’s “negotiation list.” Newspapers made note of
the draft, but barely.
“The players will be offered contracts with the club that selected them
for the list getting first call on their services,” the Associated Press reported
on December 13. “As in the baseball ‘draft,’ the club finishing lowest in the
standing was given first choice as the lists were made up in ‘round robin’
fashion.”
Unless the selection process was rigged, Marshall was holding his breath
as Philadelphia led off by picking Sam Francis of Nebraska. The game’s
greatest showman knew what he could do with a spectacular West Texas
quarterback known as “Slingin’ Sammy,” not to mention what Slingin’ Sam
could do for the Redskins in their inaugural season in the nation’s capital.
He also knew he would have to be lucky for another team not to pick the
best-known passing quarterback in America.
The team most interested in Sam was none other than George Halas’s
Chicago Bears. Although the Monsters of the Midway had finished higher
in the standings than the Redskins, they had acquired higher draft rights

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through a trade. Marshall learned, however, that his bitter rival also was
interested in Buzz Buivid, the great Marquette halfback. So the laundryman
from D.C. let it leak out that he meant to take Buivid in the first round. Halas
heard the rumor, wagered that the Marquette star would be a bigger draw
in the Midwest than the kid from Texas, and promptly passed on Sam. Mar-
shall was as happy as B’rer Rabbit in the briar patch.
The Brooklyn Dodgers picked Ed Goddard of Washington State. Mar-
shall’s dream stayed alive. The Chicago Cardinals picked Gaynell Tinsley,
a star end for the LSU Tigers, the team that had fallen to Baugh’s Horned
Frogs in the Sugar Bowl eleven months earlier. The Giants chose Ed Wids-
eth of Minnesota.
When Pittsburgh picked hometown boy Mike Basrak, Duquesne’s cen-
ter, it began to dawn on the Redskins’ owner and his head coach that other
teams were afraid to take a chance on the slender young passer from Texas.
He may have been the best passer and the best punter in the nation, but
they feared he was too frail to survive the pounding he would take in the
NFL. Marshall himself had no such concerns. Letting out a sigh of relief,
he smiled as Flaherty called out the name of the man who would make the
franchise—Slingin’ Sammy Baugh of TCU.
Coach Flaherty told reporters toward the end of the ’37 season that he
was shocked Sam was still available by the seventh pick.

I didn’t have any idea we’d land him. Six other clubs had choices of the col-
lege crop before it was the Redskins’ turn. I’d have bet they all would put in for
Baugh. . . . By the time three or four clubs passed Baugh up, I began to hope, but
I still didn’t think it was possible. Then five clubs passed Baugh up. Then they
asked Steve Owen of the Giants what player he wanted. He said, Widseth, of
Minnesota. Then it was my turn to pick. With Baugh not yet drafted, I thought
I was dreaming. Anyway the league president said “Flaherty, who is the Red-
skins’ choice?” Well, by gawd, I think I bellowed Baugh so loud that it must
have been heard downtown, and we had him.

Sam was not holding his breath. In fact, he had no idea a draft had been
held, and he knew little if anything about the Redskins and the NFL. He
enjoyed playing football, but the Depression still held the nation in its
grip. He needed a job, and playing football for pay might be an option, but
it wasn’t necessarily any more lucrative than other jobs. In fact, most play-
ers expected to work in the off-season because they couldn’t live on their
football salaries. Meanwhile, he was preparing for the Cotton Bowl, getting
ready for his final semester at TCU, and playing basketball for the Frogs.

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THE GRIDIRON OR THE DIAMOND?

He also was looking for work when he graduated in the spring. He had a
line on a job with a lumber company, plus the possibility of a high-school
coaching job in Phoenix, Arizona. On January 31, 1937, the Associated Press
reported that Sam had agreed to become the head football coach at Phoenix
Union High School. A photo showed him with the coach he would replace,
R. R. Robinson. Just before Sam signed a contract, talks broke off and he
was again in the job hunt.
Sweetwater had lost its football coach to Tyler, Texas, and the locals
were interested in their hometown hero coming back to coach, but noth-
ing came of the informal discussions. In March, he accepted a job as TCU’s
freshman coach. Signing a contract in the office of L. C. “Pete” Wright, the
business manager for TCU athletics, he agreed to coach football, basketball,
and baseball for slightly less than $5,000.
“Pro football was not something that was really on a lot of people’s minds.
Hell, at that time I couldn’t have named any of the pro teams for you—and
I had no idea how many there were, exactly,” he recalled. “The Washington
Redskins’ hopes of signing ‘Slingin’ Sam’ Baugh for 1937 are fading, what
with Baugh ready to accept an offer as assistant coach at Texas Christian
University,” the Post’s Shirley Povich reported on January 13, 1937.
Marshall the showman swung into action. He called Sam in Fort Worth
and told him an airplane ticket to Washington was waiting for him. On Feb-
ruary 6, 1937, Sam played in a basketball game against Texas A&M; the Frogs
lost in two overtimes, 39–38. The next morning, he hitched a ride to the Fort
Worth airport east of town and boarded a plane to Washington. It was his
first plane ride, and as the plane circled over the wide Potomac, Sam looked
down at the sparkling white Jefferson Memorial and the soaring Washing-
ton Monument just across the river from Washington Airport. The twenty-
two-year-old kid from Sweetwater wondered what was in store.
Marshall had instructed him to buy a few duds before he boarded the
plane—mainly, a pair of hand-stitched cowboy boots, a wide-brimmed Stet-
son, and a western-style suit.
“What size do you wear?” Sam asked the Redskins’ owner.
“They’re not for me, son, they’re for you,” Marshall said.
Sam owned a pair of boots and a hat—what West Texan didn’t?—although
he didn’t tell Marshall. As a town boy, he didn’t wear them all that often. He
good-naturedly acquiesced in Marshall’s plan, which is how it came to be

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that on a cold February morning, an American Airlines DC-3 rolled to a stop

in front of Washington-Hoover Airport’s terminal building. The last pas-
senger off was, from all appearances, a genuine Texas cowboy who had to
bend almost double to get his ten-gallon hat through the airplane’s door. He
stumbled a bit as the toe of his boot caught at the top of the stairs.
A gaggle of reporters, photographers and newsreel men were on hand to
record the scene. “This young Mr. Baugh, as you know, is a Texan, and if you
didn’t know it, you knew it after taking one quick gander at him,” Povich
wrote in the Post on February 7. “If the map of Texas can be humanized or
personified, then Mr. Baugh is it. Gaunt, I guess, is the best way to describe
him, his 185 pounds spread over 6 feet 2 inches of frame, his feet clad in
high-heeled cowboy boots and his head bedecked with a sombrero that
smacked of the ranchos.”
Marshall, hand outstretched, strode onto the tarmac to meet the tall
Texan. “How are you, Sam?” he said.
“Mah feet hurt,” Sam told him. Those were the first words he uttered in
Washington.
After a news conference, he and Marshall boarded a train in nearby
Alexandria for a ten-minute ride into Washington’s majestic Union Station,
then made their way over to the Occidental Hotel dining room for Sam’s
welcome-to-Washington luncheon. In confidential asides, Sam admitted to
reporters that he was the phoniest cowboy ever to visit Washington, Povich
later recalled, but Marshall was paying his expenses both ways and giving
him a $500 bonus for signing, so Sam claimed, “Ah guess Ah gotta dress to
suit him, not me.” Marshall, ever the booster, introduced Sam as not only
the greatest quarterback in Texas but also the state’s lasso champion.
Marshall and Baugh did not sign a contract: NFL rules forbade a college
athlete from signing until he had graduated, and the rustic young Texan
proved to be a better businessman than Marshall expected. Sam returned to
Fort Worth after having missed only a day of class.
He was committed to playing for the Redskins if he played professional
football at all. Baseball was still in his blood, and if he were to become a pro-
fessional athlete, baseball probably paid better and could guarantee him a
longer career than football. He had had a good year for the Frogs, playing
third base and pitching occasionally, and scouts were coming around.
After he took his last exam at TCU, he didn’t wait around for his diploma.
He headed north to Pampa, in the Texas Panhandle, where he had a job
with a lumber company that also sponsored a semipro baseball team, the
Pampa Roadrunners. Although he had played third base his whole life, the

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Roadrunners’ manager moved him to shortstop to make room for a major-

league third baseman who had been cut by the Washington Senators and
was trying to make it back to the Big Show.
Years later, Sam recalled what happened when the Roadrunners trav-
eled to Denver for an annual semipro tournament that attracted teams from
around the country. It was a single elimination tournament: lose one game
and you go home. “As soon as I saw this one team from the East, I knew we
weren’t going to win that tournament,” Sam recalled. “It was a team from
the Negro League. Turns out they had won that tournament every year.”
Sam and his Pampa teammates were in awe of the Negro-league players.
They had never seen anybody run the way Cool Papa Bell, the fastest man in
baseball, could scamper around the bases. They had never seen anybody hit
with power like Josh Gibson, the Negro leagues’ Babe Ruth. And they had
never seen anybody craftier than the great pitcher Satchel Paige, who would
make it to the major leagues in his forties after Jackie Robinson broke the
color barrier a decade later. The black stars played the game with passion
and panache, with confidence bordering on arrogance.
Sam usually went down swinging to Paige on the few occasions he faced
the crafty right-hander. “I hit one off him,” he said. “I got a kick out of just
watching him.”
“We won our first two games, and then we played the Negro League all-
stars,” Sam recalled.

During that game, Cool Papa Bell hit a line drive to left-center field. He was so
damn fast. He rounded first and headed for second, but when the ball bounced
high and the center fielder knocked it down, Cool Papa took off for third. The
ball and Cool Papa arrived at third base at the same time. He went in with his
spikes up and hit that sumbitch right in the face. [Sam, of course, was playing
shortstop, not his usual third base; the third-basemen was Sammy West, a
future major leaguer.] The third basemen rolled backward a few feet and was
out cold. Blood was gushing out of his face like oil.

Both teams charged out of their dugouts armed with bats. They were swing-
ing at heads. “Hell, I don’t mind telling you I’ve never been so damn scared
in my life,” Sam said.

I’d never seen anything like that. Guys without bats would throw up their
arms to keep from getting hit in the face and their arms and fingers would be
broken. I’ve never seen a bloodier bunch of people than I saw that day. There
were only four or five policemen, and they couldn’t stop it.

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The biggest guy on the Negro league team, a six-foot-six-inch pitcher, went
after the biggest guy on the Pampa team, the six-foot-two-inch shortstop.
Sam recalled:

I thought, “What the hell am I going to do?” When he got to me, he grabbed my
jersey. I grabbed his jersey. We just held on to each other and watched the fight
in front of us. When we took a step, it would be backward.

When the cops finally got the fight stopped, so many players were hurt
that the game was called. Tournament officials, perhaps fearing a race riot,
cancelled the rest of the games. Sam went home to Sweetwater.
On June 5, 1937, the Washington Post reported that Marshall, in Dallas
at the Pan-American Exposition, had sent a telegram back to Washington
reporting that Sam had signed to play for the Redskins. “Marshall, an astute
businessman, is believe to have offered him an option of $350 per game
or a flat salary of $6,000 for the season,” the Post reported. “At the firm’s
local office, it was said that Baugh would be one of the league’s highest paid
performers.”
The Post got it wrong, or Marshall was blowing smoke, or Sam reneged,
because Sam still wasn’t signed—with the Redskins, that is.
Rogers Hornsby, one of baseball’s all-time greats and the manager of the
St. Louis Browns, had been aware of Sam throughout his TCU career. When
the Browns fired Hornsby during the ’37 season, he touted Sam to Branch
Rickey, the St. Louis Cardinals’ owner. Both of the old baseball men thought
Sam showed promise. They had never seen a better arm on an infielder.
Hornsby told Sam that the Cardinals were ready to sign him to a contract,
but that he would have to go to Greenville, South Carolina, and sign with
Rickey himself. “So I did,” Sam said. “But I told Mr. Rickey that I was going
to play football first, and he agreed.”
On August 29, the Post reported that Slingin’ Sammy Baugh, “who was
supposed to chuck footballs for George P. Marshall’s Washington Redskins,
may chuck the football business.” Sam was in Evanston, Illinois, north of
Chicago, back to playing football again. He was working out with the college
all-stars, preparing for the annual battle between the collegiate best and
the NFL champion, in 1937 the mighty Green Bay Packers. “The tall Texan,
who, as Texas Christian University’s quarterback for the past three seasons
stamped himself the greatest forward passer in modern football history,
denied that he had already signed a contract with the Redskins,” the Post
reported. Quoting the young quarterback, the Post, as newspapers would do
throughout his career, made him sound like a character out of Uncle Remus:

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“Ah don’t quite know how come they said ah was signed. Ah never did sign
any papers.”
He revealed for the first time that he had been talking to the Cardinal
baseball organization. Whether it was a canny bargaining ploy on the part
of the young quarterback or whether he really was keeping all options open
is impossible to know. Sam never said, although in those days, playing base-
ball for the St. Louis Cardinals was more prestigious than playing for any
NFL franchise.
“Their scouts gave me a pretty swell report after watching me play short-
stop and third base for TCU for two years and Ah’ve had two talks with Mr.
Branch Rickey,” Sam told reporters.

They’ve drawn up a contract with me and I’m supposed to hear from them
Monday—that’s tomorrow.
If they put in the right salary figures, Ah guess Ah’m through with football.
Ah don’t think Mr. Marshall will pay me what Ah think Ah deserve anyway.
Those offers he’s already given me don’t suit and Ah’ve told him.

Povich reported that Marshall began to realize during the summer that
he might not sign the game’s premier passer, whose salary demands would
make him the highest-paid member of the team. The owner, who could be
chintzy, was reluctant to pay an unproven rookie that much money, no mat-
ter how heralded he was.
“To combat the possibility that he would not be able to sign Baugh, Mar-
shall prevailed upon Dixie Howell, Alabama’s famed Rose Bowl star, to join
up with the Redskins,” Povich reported in a Post column on August 29, 1937.

Howell, nearly as famed a passer as Baugh, would bolster the team’s aerial
attack and thus it is likely that Marshall may not feel inclined to meet Baugh’s
wage demands.

Povich, who would have much to do with crafting the “Slingin’ Sam” legend
over the years, seemed a bit peeved.

Big league clubs sign up hundreds of young fellows each year, Sammy, but
that doesn’t necessarily mean they stick. The chances are, Sammy, that
unless you’re some kind of a sensation, you’re doomed to the minor leagues
at best, and did you ever hear of the $400 monthly salary limit in most of the
minor leagues? And that means only for the six months of the baseball season,
which, with a bit of quick arithmetic, sounds like $2,400.

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The Post columnist also reminded Sam that he didn’t really fit the mold of
the classic major-league infielder.

I mean you have a natural handicap in those 6 feet 2 inches of yours. Big league
infielders don’t come that big. Guys like you are too tall. They don’t bend so
well for those ground-hugging balls and the chances are that your long stride
wouldn’t be much help. Hornsby was almost as big as you, I know, but there
hasn’t been another Hornsby in nigh onto 20 years.

Povich conceded that Sam might want to give baseball a fling and that he
could always come back to football if his diamond dreams were dashed.
“But, Sammy,” he warned,

you’re ripe now to cash in on all that fame you accumulated at TCU with those
forward passes of yours, and next year the football moguls might not be so
anxious to hand out that heavy sugar.

Marshall’s highest-paid player the year before, the superb running back
Cliff Battles, earned $2,100 for the season (plus about $180 for playing in
the NFL title game). Whatever the Redskins owner initially offered Sam, he
kept it a well-guarded secret.

M eanwhile, Sam had a football game to play. A summer game between

the defending NFL champions and a team of the best college seniors
was the brainchild of the Chicago Tribune sports editor Arch Ward, who
was more promoter than journalist. Ward also was the man behind base-
ball’s midseason all-star game; the first one had been played in Chicago on
July 6, 1933.
NFL owners at first rejected Ward’s proposal to match the pros against
the nation’s top collegians as selected by the press. What if they lost to a
bunch of amateurs?
George Halas and Pittsburgh owner Art Rooney finally convinced their
fellow owners that the game had real promotional possibilities, since every
newspaper in the country would cover the game and the NFL could count
on at least 80,000 in the stands at Soldier Field. The all-stars tied the Chi-
cago Bears 0–0 in the first game, before 79,432 fans.
In 1937, on a muggy August night in Chicago’s Soldier Field, Sam took the
field against the champion Packers before a crowd of 84,560. Red Flaherty
was among them. Less than two weeks before the Washington Redskins’

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first practice, he had boarded a Chicago-bound train in Spokane. He wanted

not only to see his passer of the future in action, but also to urge him to sign
a contract as soon as possible. He knew about Sam’s baseball flirtation, and
he wanted the youngster to realize that he had a future with the Redskins.
Flaherty, a straw hat on his head and a cigarette in his hand, was pleased
with what he saw. Early in the first quarter, with the ball on the Packers’
forty-six, Sam backpedaled away from the grasping Packers defenders and
managed to find LSU’s Tinsley, who would be catching passes for the Chi-
cago Cardinals in a few weeks. Tinsley caught the bullet on the run at the
twenty-eight, raced past the Packers safetyman, and scored the all-star’s
only touchdown.
The Packers made seventeen first downs to eight for the all-stars, and
gained 343 yards of total offense to 185 for the collegians. Final score: all-
stars 7, Packers 0.
“Tonight’s game was rated as the most thrilling and the best played of
the series,” the Associated Press reported. “Baugh and Tinsley matched the
marvelous passing of the professional, Arnie Herber, and the catching of
Don Hutson. Baugh not only passed his team to victory but intercepted two
throws and punted beautifully.”
On September 3, a few days after the game, Povich was back to singing
Sam’s praises in the Post. He quoted Gus Dorais, the Detroit Lions’ coach,
who designed the college all-stars offense. As Notre Dame’s quarterback in
1913, Dorais had surprised Army with a new offensive weapon, the forward
pass. Knute Rockne had been his primary receiver. “He’ll do until some
supernatural passer comes along,” Dorais said, speaking of Sam.

He showed me something last night. He showed me that he’s all the Texas
people claimed him to be. It didn’t make any difference to Baugh whether he
was on the spot or not. Those pros knew he was back there to pass, but that
didn’t stop him. That ball he threw to Tinsley for the touchdown was floating
so lightly through the air that a babe could have plucked it.
Baugh took plenty of time back there. He wasn’t long discovering that he
didn’t have to hurry with Vernon Huffman, of Indiana, back there blocking for
him. He took full advantage of Huffman’s blocking and didn’t let that ball go
until we shook somebody loose. And then when he did throw it, it was a thing
of beauty. If anybody could thread a needle at 30 yards with a football, Baugh
can do it.
Course he’s got a bit of an edge out there when he’s in the tailback position.
He doesn’t have to throw that ball. He can romp with it and the smart team

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won’t rush him too fast and get sucked in. They’ve got to be wary about it, and
that gives Baugh time to look the field over.
He’s an exception, that Baugh. Usually when a coach picks up one of these
passing babies and sticks him in there to throw, he sacrifices something in the
running attack or the blocking or on the defense. But Baugh is no drawback in
any way. He can do his share of the blocking and he’s big enough to take a beat-
ing. And he will run that ball for you, if you like.
But I’d say that outside of his passing, his best point is his defensive play.
He’s a dream guy as a safetyman. Cagey, smart and fast and they stay tackled
when Sammy hits ’em. You notice he was always the safetyman when he was
in there last night. I had a lot of fellows among those 65 on the team who came
to me with reputations as safetymen, but Baugh was tops.
George Marshall has got something there.

If Povich was using his Post column to get Sam into the Redskins corral,
Marshall was using the press to backtrack and play down his value. Maybe
Sam wasn’t all he was cracked up to be. Certainly he was unproven as a pro.
Maybe he wasn’t the best passer the world had ever seen (and he certainly
wasn’t the Texas state lasso champion). It just might be that the Redskins
could get along without him. As Marshall told reporters:

I wouldn’t say that Baugh proved himself out there at Chicago the other night
when he threw that pass to Tinsley to beat the Packers. That might have looked
good, but it wasn’t a fair test. The game didn’t prove anything in my book.

Marshall’s excuses were laughable.

Baugh and those college guys were playing against a bunch of pros who had
only two weeks’ training. That’s not enough. I know the collegians only had
two weeks’ practice, too, but they’re all young guys and easier to get in shape.
These pros average four or five years older, perhaps more, and they need to
stay in shape. The All Stars were playing a bunch of tired guys.
And if I were president of the Pro League, I’d have something to say about
the size of two squads. It isn’t quite fair to give the collegians a squad of 65 play-
ers to throw in there against the pros’ 25. Especially at that time of the season
when neither club has a game under its belt. That makes it tough on those pros.

Marshall reminded the scribes that Baugh was unproven and that other
NFL teams had passed him by before the Redskins drafted him:

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So I wouldn’t say Baugh was red-hot. Five [six, actually] other clubs passed
him up. That ought to make him come down in his demands. He isn’t that good.

Povich noticed that it was difficult for Marshall to take himself seriously.
His pride in drafting Sam and his anticipation at seeing him in a Redskin
uniform were hard for the old stage actor to hide: “Even at the expense of
tipping his hand, Marshall found himself saying nice things about the big
Texan who is balking now at the terms of the contract he signed.” Povich
quoted Marshall: “Ya know, neither Coach Flaherty nor myself ever saw
Baugh play when we signed him and offered him one of the highest figures
any pro star in the league is getting. But if he was half as good as our scouts
said he was, he must have been something down there with TCU. All I want
to see is that guy with a football in his hands throwing it to some of our guys
who can really catch passes. We’ll be hot.”
Marshall told Povich he didn’t know what he would do if Sam absolutely
refused to join up with the Redskins. The only thing he knew, he said, is that
he would take legal action to prevent him from playing with any other foot-
ball team, and he might even go so far as to enjoin him from taking a coach-
ing job. Marshall asked: “But where would Baugh get a coaching job that
would pay him anywhere near what he could get from the Redskins? Hell,
what we’re offering him is more than his own coach got paid down at Texas
Christian University. The TCU coach gets $4,500, which is better than an
average coaching salary. Anyway, whoever told Baugh he is a coach? We
know he can play football. He’d better stick to playing.”
In early September, the St. Louis Cardinals chipped away at Sam’s bar-
gaining power when Branch Rickey told him that the Cardinals expected
him to live up to his Redskin contract. Marshall sent a telegram to Sam, who
was in Dallas practicing with a second group of college all-stars, this one set
to take on the Chicago Bears:

Through Joe Carr, president of the National Football League, Branch Rickey
of the St. Louis Cardinals makes the following statement: “The St. Louis Car-
dinals expect Baugh to live up to his contract with the Washington Redskins
just the same as they expect him to live up to his contract with baseball. They
have no objection to his playing professional football. The St. Louis Cardinals
do not attempt to violate contracts or interfere in other contracts made by
other parties.”
Any statement other than this issued to the press is untrue. Expect you
here Tuesday afternoon.

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Marshall told reporters he was confident the Cardinals’ statement would

bring Sam into the Redskins fold. He said Sam still had his permission to
play in the Dallas all-star game on Monday night, but if he refused to report
within a reasonable time, he would be put on the NFL’s suspended list.
Years later, Sam told Sports Illustrated that he hadn’t been sure he
wanted to play pro football until he joined the college all-stars in Evanston.
“I talked with the rest of the boys on the All-Star squad and found that a
bunch of them were going to play pro football,” he recalled. “I found that
most of them were just like me—that they hadn’t been out of the country too
often themselves—and that I could play ball better than 99 percent of them.
So I became more confident. As it turned out, we beat Green Bay, and then
Mr. Marshall got after me pretty hot.”
With the season only days away, Sam turned to his old mentor, Dutch
Meyer. “I didn’t have any money, and I didn’t expect any,” Sam said years
later. “But when I was talking contract with Marshall, he called me, and I
wouldn’t tell him yea or nay but said I’d go talk to Dutch and told Marshall to
call me the next night. So I’d go talk to Dutch. The first contract they offered
me was for $5,000.”
It was an offer worth considering, he realized. Nevertheless, he already
had a job, and jobs were not something you took lightly. Sam had seen
too many breadlines, too many men following the wheat harvest, riding
freight trains looking for work. Plus, he knew next to nothing about profes-
sional football, how solid the league was, or whether the Redskins were a
reputable outfit.

I talked to Dutch and Dutch told me, he said, “Well, you know that’s pretty
good. There’s no coach here making $5,000.”
I hadn’t thought about it that way, and I told him, I said, “Well, I’m satis-
fied with that, but I feel like I’d like to see if I can get him to go up just a little
bit.” And Dutch said, “Well, you can do that. Maybe you could give him a fig-
ure that you wanted to split the difference.” So I told him, “Well, I think that I
would like to ask him for $8,000. I don’t know whether he can go that high, and
maybe he’ll split the difference with me.” So Dutch said, “That’ll be fine.”
So Marshall called me the next time, and I told him, “What would you think
about $8,000?” He thought a minute, and he said, “All right. Are you ready to
sign?” I said, “Yes.” He said, “All right. It’ll be $8,000.” Hell, I got more money
than I was thinking he’d give me. To me that looked like a million bucks.

“Slingin’ Sammy Baugh tore off a long gain for the telephone com-
pany yesterday when he haggled over salary terms for 20 minutes before

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accepting the Washington Redskins’ final offer,” the Post reported on Sep-
tember 8.

George P. Marshall, owner of the Redskins, reached Baugh by long-distance

phone at Fort Worth, Tex., and convinced the forward-passing ace it would be
to his benefit to sign.
Marshall announced that a satisfactory adjustment of Baugh’s contract
had been made and that the Texan had agreed to report to the Redskins today
after boarding a plane at Fort Worth. Marshall received a wire last night
which stated that Baugh would arrive at 6:30 p.m.
Coach Ray Flaherty expects to put Baugh into scrimmage tomorrow. “It
won’t hurt him. He ought to be in shape after those two All-Star games, and
it’s high time he’s started to learn some of our plays,” Flaherty said last night.

Corinne Griffith wrote in her memoir that her husband also relied on the
persuasive skills of Amon Carter to corral the tall Texan. She said that Mar-
shall called Carter, who managed to track down Sam.

At three o’clock in the morning, George talked to ‘Slingin’ Sammy Baugh, and
the Washington Redskins and the Washington Redskins fans will always
owe a deep debt of gratitude to one Amon Carter of Fort Worth, Texas—“Out
Where the West Begins.”

Griffith offered one other observation:

The general impression is that . . . Baugh signed with George. That impression
is entirely erroneous. The truth is that George signed with Sammy. Sammy
was just too shy to agree to anything less than the highest salary ever paid
a player in the National Professional Football League—and at that moment
Baugh’s standing was that of amateur.

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 CHAPTER

THE 1937 SEASON

baughandtheredskins
debutinwashington

O
n the morning of September 9, 1937, Sam Baugh stepped off an East-
ern Airlines plane at Washington-Hoover Airport and proceeded to
the team hotel in downtown Washington. “Slingin’ Sam’s in Town,”
the Washington Post proclaimed above a photo of the “wiry West-
erner,” this time outfitted in a somber double-breasted suit, a fedora in his
left hand. Coach Ray Flaherty, Shirley Povich reported, would throw Sam
into “the thick of a serious scrimmage” later in the day.
Both Flaherty and Marshall were on hand to shake the talented right
hand of the young Texan. Many years later, a sculpted version of that hand
would occupy a place on Marshall’s desk and later in the Pro Football Hall
of Fame.
“It’s about time that fellow arrived,” Flaherty had grumbled the night
before. “If he’s going to play football with us, he’d better show up in a hurry,
or there won’t be any place for him.” Sam had missed nearly a month of
preseason practice with his new team. The Redskins’ first game—against
the New York Giants—was, indeed, just a week away, and when Sam finally
arrived at the practice field, Flaherty asked him sarcastically, “Do you want
to participate?” “Sure do,” Sam said. “Ah’m in shape for most anything.
Got two games under my belt already, that’s more than any of your fellahs
can say. Ah’ll be in there ready to work. You don’t have to worry about me.”

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(Whether those were Sam’s words or Povich’s, or some amalgamation, is

impossible to determine, although Sam was indeed in playing shape after
his two all-star games.)
Flaherty would come to learn that Sam hated losing, and like all world-
class athletes, the young passer knew that practice was the best insurance
against that possibility. When the rookie stayed after practice until he had
completed 100 consecutive passes—he was likely to start over if he missed
one—Flaherty may have thought Sam was making up for lost time. He
would come to realize that was Sam’s regimen—and would be throughout
his career.

I n the week before the first game, Flaherty had to whittle down his team
to meet the roster limit of twenty-five, which accounted for the bruising
scrimmages the Redskins had held so far, each player battling to make the
cut. The day before Sam arrived, Coach Dutch Bergman of Catholic Univer-
sity had declined Flaherty’s invitation to let his squad scrimmage against
the Redskins. “Thanks, Ray, but I’d rather not let my kids work out with your
club,” Bergman said. “Those fellows on your squad are too tough for us. I
wouldn’t mind scrimmaging against your regular team, but putting my kids
in there against a bunch of guys who are trying to win professional football
jobs would be suicide. Thanks, just the same.”
The Redskins trained at Fairlawn Playground in Anacostia, across the
river from downtown Washington. When Sam ambled onto the practice
field on the hot September afternoon, he found more fans lining the prac-
tice field to greet him than had showed up at some of the Redskins’ games in
Boston. Marshall sat on the sidelines, and Flaherty took calisthenics with
his players. Povich reported on the scene:

Baugh put on a show for the 3,000 and Coach Ray Flaherty and Owner George
P. Marshall and his new Redskin playmates by rifling dozens of forward
passes into the arms of his colleagues—long ones, short ones, flat ones, high
ones—and any time the ball wasn’t caught, it wasn’t Sammy’s fault.
He was throwing a light ball that his ends could pluck out of the air with
the ease of picking grapes off a vine and he was throwing a heavy ball that ker-
plunked into their stomachs when the need was for a fast, short pass over the
center of the line. He was a passer with a change of pace.

He had a unique way of gripping the ball in his big right hand. Instead
of holding the ball with his fingers on the laces, like most passers, he had

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his thumb on the laces and his fingers on the smooth side of the ball near
its nose. “All that matters is how it feels in your hand,” he explained to a
reporter years later. “To tell you the truth, the reason I did it was because
when you’re finessing a ball, when you’ve got to get it up and let it drop over
a [defensive] man or something like that, I could get more feel from that
first seam than I could from the laces. If I was gonna throw long all the time,
I probably would have gripped the seams.”
Flaherty kept his defense from rushing Sam too hard, but still it was obvi-
ous the young passer was the real thing. A proud George Marshall paced the
sideline in shirtsleeves, sporting a new pair of burgundy and gold suspend-
ers and watching with a smile. He was pleased not only with his new tail-
back but also with other acquisitions, including halfback Don Irwin from
Colgate and fullback Max Krause, a 198-pounder who was, in the words of
Povich, “built along the lines of a pagoda.” With Sam at tailback in a single-
wing backfield that included Battles at halfback, Irwin at fullback, and 200-
pound Riley Smith at quarterback, Marshall was confident the Redskins
would field the most potent backfield in the league.
Sam was not the Redskins’ quarterback until his fourth season with the
team. Before that, he was the tailback in Flaherty’s single-wing offense.
Smith, positioned toward the flank as a blocker, called all the signals. That
was how single- and double-wing offenses were meant to be played. The
quarterback didn’t become the focal point of the offense until the early
1940s, when the T formation gradually replaced the single wing, requiring
the quarterback to initiate the play from under center.
At one point during the afternoon scrimmage—or so the story goes—Fla-
herty pulled his rookie tailback aside and said:

“Look, Sammy, Wayne Millner here is going to run a buttonhook, and I want
you to hit him in the eye with that football. Right in the eye, understand?”
“Yessir,” Sam said, his Texas drawl slower than usual, “but one question,
Coach.”
“Yeah?”
“Which eye?”

The anecdote may be apocryphal—although Flaherty himself was known

to tell the story—but the reason it has lingered down through the decades
is because it is completely in character. Sam was always confident in his
abilities from the beginning, and he never took himself too seriously. He
enjoyed himself.
The minimum pay of Redskin players was $125 per game, Povich

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reported, “but the envelope of Slingin’ Sammy Baugh contains $450 every
Friday,” adding, “Cliff Battles is the No. 2 man on George P. Marshall’s pay-
roll.” Povich also noted that when Babe Ruth was drawing his $80,000
annual salary from the Yankees in 1928, he was being paid $519 per game—
for 154 games. Despite the salary difference, the Redskins accepted Sam
from the beginning. “They liked the way he forgot his college fame and got
down to work like the veriest rookie trying to make good,” Povich wrote.
“And they appreciated, too, his forward passing. The guy could throw that
ball, there was no doubt of that.”

M eanwhile, Marshall had been working on other showbiz aspects of his

Redskins’ D.C. premiere. Corinne Griffith recalled getting a call ear-
lier in the summer from Barnet “Barnee” Breeskin, the leader of the Shore-
ham Hotel orchestra, the big hotel on Rock Creek Park that often hosted
Washington’s upper crust for dining and dancing. On Saturday nights in the
fall, Breeskin staged a musical football show at the Shoreham, announc-
ing the scores of the day’s big games while playing the school songs of the
teams involved. Breeskin told Griffith that since the Redskins were going to
be in Washington, the team should have a song, and he had written one he
couldn’t wait for the Marshalls to hear.
“I wrote it in just about five minutes,” Breeskin recalled. “For the first
and last parts of the song, to get a Southern flavor, I used the basic chords of
‘Dixie,’ and interpolated a different melody. For the chorus I wanted a Red-
skin, or Indian theme, so I gave it the tom-tom effect, which conjures up a
picture of an Indian war dance.”
Once Marshall heard the song—called “The Washington Redskins
March” before it became “Hail to the Redskins”—he loved it, and he sent
the music to Buddy DeSylva, who was the lyricist for such popular tunes
as “A Kiss in the Dark,” “When Day is Done,” and “You’re a Sweetheart.”
DeSylva told Marshall that a rousing team song was beyond his abilities,
so the owner turned to his wife to write the lyrics. Here’s what she came
up with:

Hail to the Redskins.

Hail Victory!
Braves on the warpath
Fight for old D.C.
Scalp ’um, swamp ’um, we will
Take ’um big score.

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 = THE 1937 SEASON =

Read ’um. Weep ’um, touchdown,

We want heap more.
Fight on, fight on, ’til you have won,
Sons of Wash-ing-ton.
Rah! Rah! Rah!

Hail to the Redskins.

Hail Victory!
Braves on the warpath
Fight for old D.C.

“We had a team; we had a song; so we had to have a band,” Griffith recalled.
Her husband found one in a group organized under the auspices of a local
dairy. The band members agreed to play for nothing in exchange for free
admission to the games.
On a hot night in the middle of August, the fledgling Redskins band
invited the Marshalls to attend a rehearsal at an old firehouse in Mt. Rain-
ier, Maryland, a small town just over the District line. As Griffith recalled,
her husband marked the occasion by making an introductory speech about
one of his obsessions—congressional representation for the District of
Columbia (ignoring the fact that the rehearsal was taking place in Mary-
land): “We were told how we of the District of Columbia were burdened
with ‘taxation without representation’; how we who resided in the greatest
Capital on earth were deprived of our constitutional rights and how we tax-
paying citizens of the greatest Democracy in the whole wide world were not
allowed to vote.”
After his speech, Marshall told the band members that a great song had
been written for the team, and he directed his wife to sit down at the piano
and plunk out the tune. Marshall felt the dairy band boys were insufficiently
impressed, so he climbed atop a chair and in a quavering falsetto sang an
entire chorus of “Hail to the Redskins.”
“It is a lasting tribute to Barnee Breskin’s musicianship that ‘Hail to the
Redskins!’ survived that performance to become the rousing opus whose
first few bars can set an entire stadium to roaring,” Griffith wrote.

BAUGH TAKES THE FIELD AS A REDSKIN

On September 16, 1937, a warm Thursday night, nearly twenty-five thou-

sand spectators rode streetcars, taxis, and Model A Fords to Griffith Sta-
dium, at Georgia and Florida Avenues in northwest Washington, a few

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blocks north of the Capitol. The stadium was normally home to the Wash-
ington Senators baseball team of the American League, which had lost to
the Detroit Tigers before a small crowd that afternoon. Clark Griffith, the
owner of both the perennially underachieving Senators and the stadium,
had agreed to add removable steel seats that would accommodate an addi-
tional ten thousand spectators. He also installed a modern lighting system,
a new public-address system, and a tarpaulin that would cover the entire
playing field and keep it dry.
Griffith Stadium was a homey little place, with a tree just outside the
center-field fence. It grew in the backyard of a property owner who had
refused to sell to Griffith when the stadium was built. Sam would always
say that the Griffith Stadium playing surface was one of the worst in the
league—uneven, and frequently puddled after a rain—but on that warm fall
night, neither the Redskins nor their new fans were concerned about such
things. The fans came ready to roar.
The size of the crowd filled not only the stadium but also Marshall’s
heart. Advance ticket sales had been slow, and he was afraid he would face
a repeat of his Boston nightmare. For the Redskins’ inaugural season in
Washington, tickets sold for $1.50 a game or $9 for a season ticket, a price
that attracted only 916 season-ticket holders. Marshall had pleaded for sup-
port from Washington sports editors. “With what I’m paying Baugh, I need
12,000 fans in the park every game to break even,” he said.
As Corinne Griffith put it:

The great night arrived. The night we were to know whether Washington
would take the Redskins into its heart or give them the Boston brush-off.
The night we were to take “take the wrappings off ‘Slingin’ Sam,’” the famous
forward passer of TCU.

In the cramped Griffith Stadium dressing room, Coach Flaherty gath-

ered his team around. “All right, you guys. You’ve got a football game out
there,” the no-nonsense coach told his men.

What are you going to do about it? You’re gonna kick hell out of those Giants,
that’s what. You’ve got to. You’ve moved into a new town, you and me and all of
us. And the future of pro football in Washington depends on this game tonight,
here. And me, too. And we want to keep those jobs. And that means we’ve got
to win this ball game. Not only that, but there’s a hell of a crowd out there
tonight. They’ve come out to see what pro football is like. Well, show ’em.

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I want 60 minutes of the best that’s in you. I won’t take anything less. Sixty
minutes of 100 percent effort. Those Giants are going to be tough tonight. You
know how they hate us. And I’ll tell you something, I’ve found out that they’re
out to get Erny Pinckert. I want you guys to give Erny plenty of protection. I
don’t want anybody standing around when they start to give Erny the works.
You’ve got hands, use ’em. You’re as big as they are. And I think you’re tougher,
understand?

Pacing back and forth, the red-faced young coach glanced at the young tail-
back from TCU.

For three years now, you guys who’ve been with the Redskins have been com-
plaining that you haven’t had a passer. Well, we’ve gone out and got you one.
And I want plenty of protection for Sammy Baugh. You know damn well those
Giants will be out to cut Sammy down the first chance they get and try to get
him out of there. Well, what are you going to do about that? You know damn
well what I want you to do. I don’t want to see a Giant get to Sammy. Don’t let
’em get to Sammy, understand?

Before the Redskins could get after the Giants, they had to endure pre-
game festivities that Redskin fans would come to associate with the team’s
razzmatazz owner. He had each player introduced individually, and as a
burgundy-jerseyed Redskin trotted from the dugout onto the field, a spot-
light picked him up and followed him to midfield. The brand-new Redskin
band played “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and an American flag was raised
from behind the grandstand. As it reached the top of its white flagpole, the
banner caught the breeze and unfurled against a purple sky.
Captains Turk Edwards of the Redskins and Mel Hein of the Giants trot-
ted over to the box where Jesse Jones, the Texan who headed FDR’s Recon-
struction Finance Corporation, was waiting to throw out the first ball.
Jones, substituting for a president who wasn’t particularly interested in
sports, held up the white ceremonial football in his right hand while pho-
tographers captured the historic moment.
“We ascended the long ramp to the upper tier of seats,” Corinne Griffith
recalled. “The glare of floodlights gave off an unnatural fuzzy, blue haze. I
caught a glimpse of the crowd. It was like a dream come true. Into the white
circle of light were packed 23,000 people waiting to welcome the Washing-
ton Redskins in their opening game against the New York Giants.”
The Giants were preseason favorites to win the NFL’s Eastern Division.

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They relied on one of the best rushers in the game in fullback Alphonse
Emil “Tuffy” Leemans, popular in Washington because he had starred as a
halfback for George Washington University a couple of years earlier.
The Giants kicked off, and the Redskins’ deep man, none other than
Sam Baugh himself, gathered the ball in on his own six-yard line. With the
Giants’ kickoff team bearing down on him, the long-legged Texan managed
to thread his way up the field thirty yards before being brought down. On the
first play from scrimmage—the first offensive play of his Redskin career—
Sam completed a pass to Erny Pinckert for a five-yard gain. After Hein,
playing safety, knocked down a pass intended for right end Charlie Malone,
Sam punted to Leemans, who was downed on the Giants’ twenty-eight after
a seven-yard return.
After a Giant punt, the Redskins took over on their own twenty. Don
“The Bull” Irwin, behind Pinckert’s blocking, sliced through right tackle for
a fourteen-yard gain. Sam, on a counter play, picked up another eleven yards
around left end. Irwin picked up fourteen more, although a backfield-in-
motion penalty cost the Redskins five yards.
On the next play, Sam picked up eight yards over right tackle, and on sec-
ond down Irwin gained three more. The Giants, fearing Sam’s arm, were
lined up in a 6-2-2-1 defense, which allowed the Redskins to make yards on
the ground. On first down at the Giants’ twenty-eight, the defense stiffened,
stopping Sam on two running plays at the line of scrimmage. On third down,
he ducked under the grasp of Giants left tackle Ed Widseth and rifled a pass
in the flat to Malone, who picked up thirteen yards and a first down at the
Giants’ fifteen.
The Giants held, and Riley Smith lined up to kick a field goal from the
sixteen-yard line, with Sam holding. Smith kicked the ball straight through
the uprights for the first points ever scored by the Washington Redskins.
Washington’s 3–0 lead held up until the third quarter, when the Giants’
Tilly Manton kicked a field goal from the fourteen to tie the score.
After Irwin returned the Giants’ kickoff thirty yards to the Redskins’
twenty-five, Sam took over. He banged over right tackle for a nine-yard
gain. After Irwin got the first down, Sam faked a pass and then ran for ten
yards. He rifled a pass to Malone for a twelve-yard gain, and then hit him
again for twenty yards, although the Redskins end fumbled the ball away to
the Giants.
The Giants gave the ball back on a quick kick that slithered off Ed Dan-
owski’s foot, going out of bounds on the Redskins’ forty-three. The third
quarter ended with the score still tied.
Sam picked up where he had left off the previous offensive series. He

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hit Krause for a sixteen-yard gain, to the Giants’ twenty-eight. Then he

found Malone open in the middle of the field for a fourteen-yard gain, to
the Giants’ fourteen. Next he hit Bob McChesney, who was wide open, but
the receiver dropped the ball. After another pass went incomplete, Smith
kicked another field goal to give the Redskins a 6–3 lead.
The Giants returned Smith’s kickoff to their own thirty-four, but on
third down, Ed Justice intercepted a Danowski pass at the Giants’ forty-
four. Sam ran over right tackle for five yards, and then completed a thirteen-
yard pass to McChesney for a first down. He threw to Justice for a seven-
yard gain that put the ball on the Giants’ nineteen. Rushed by right end
Pete Walls, from TCU, Sam was thrown for a twenty-three-yard loss. He
gained eighteen back when he found Malone open on the next play, but the
Redskins stalled.
With time running down, Smith intercepted a long pass on the run at
the Redskins’ forty-yard line, streaked down the sidelines behind a quar-
tet of blockers, and crossed the goal line standing up. He also kicked the
extra point.
The Giants weren’t finished. They put together a drive that ended on the
Redskins’ one-yard line, where the Redskin defense held. “Right there from
the 1-yard line that solid wall of Redskins climbed into the hearts of 23,000
fans,” Corinne Griffith recalled. “And that’s how the Washington Redskins
were born.”
Final score that first and fateful night: Riley Smith 13, New York Giants 3.
Although Smith was the hero, the Post’s Povich and the team’s new
fans also liked what they saw of the heralded young passer from the wilds
of West Texas. “If there was any doubt about Baugh’s passing ability in
the professional league, it was dissipated that night,” Povich wrote later
in the season. “He threw 16 passes against the Giants and completed 11 of
’em. The Redskins were falling back to protect their new star as if he were
something sacred.”
“As for the near 25,000 crowd,” sportswriter Bill Dismer Jr. of the Wash-
ington Evening Star observed, “methinks the patrons were more than sat-
isfied with professional football’s debut and believe that the pros, like the
talkies, are here to stay.”

H ere to stay they were, but for a few weeks after the opening-night vic-
tory, the Redskins played as if they had left their A game in Boston. On
a Friday night at home—Sundays worried Marshall, given the empty seats
he had seen in Boston—Washington’s new team lost its first game, falling to

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the lowly Chicago Cardinals when rookie end Gaynell Tinsley, from LSU,
scored three times on sixty-yard-plus pass plays. Final score: Cardinals 21,
Redskins 14.
The first Redskins schedule featured five home games. As the leaves
turned burgundy and gold in Rock Creek Park, the Brooklyn Dodgers visited
Griffith Stadium on a Sunday afternoon with an opportunity to take over
undisputed possession of first place in the Eastern Division of the NFL. On
a cold drizzly day, Sam’s passing and a tough Redskins defense banished
the Dodgers into fourth place. “Throughout the first half Brooklyn more or
less was always in trouble,” the New York Times reported. “Before the game
was three minutes old, Baugh sent a long quick kick to the Dodgers’ 22-yard
mark and thereafter, except for one brief respite midway in the initial quar-
ter, the invaders were trying to crawl out of unfavorable situations.”
With rain falling, Sam threw a touchdown pass to Wayne Millner late
in the first half, and Riley Smith kicked a thirty-five-yard field goal in the
third. In the fourth quarter, Turk Edwards blocked an attempted punt by
Reno Nori on the Dodgers’ goal line, and the ball rolled out of the end zone
for an automatic safety. The Dodgers scored late in the game after recover-
ing a Redskin fumble, but Washington escaped with the victory, 11–7. Sam
was ten of fourteen for 137 yards.
A week later, the Redskins couldn’t score a point against the cellar-
dwelling Philadelphia Eagles. Bill Hewitt, the Eagles’ superb end who
played without a helmet, scored on two pass plays, and the 14–0 victory was
one of only two the team managed all season. At that point in the season, the
Redskins seemed to be reverting to their old .500 form, and Marshall must
have been wondering about the wisdom of his investment in the man they
called Slingin’ Sam. Despite showing flashes of brilliance, the young passer
was inconsistent.
But then things began to click. Against Pittsburgh, which had changed
its name from the Pirates to the Steelers, Cliff Battles ran wild. He inter-
cepted a pass and took it sixty-five yards for one touchdown, then reeled
off sixty- and seventy-one-yard touchdown runs. Final score: Redskins 34,
Steelers 20.
In a rematch the following week with the Eagles, Sam threw a fifty-nine-
yard touchdown pass to Charlie Malone for one touchdown, and then com-
pleted several passes in the closing moments to put Riley Smith within field
goal range. Smith kicked the ball through the uprights with twenty-five sec-
onds left on the clock, and the Redskins managed a 10–7 victory.
Invading Brooklyn’s Ebbets Field for their seventh game of the sea-
son, the Redskins held the Dodgers scoreless while the Baugh-Battles duo

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accounted for three touchdowns. The 21–0 victory vaulted the Redskins
into a first place tie with the Giants, who lost to Chicago, 3–0.
The Redskins traveled south to Richmond, where they defeated the
semipro Richmond Arrows 30–0, and then lost a close one to the Steel-
ers the next weekend, 21–13. It was the last time they would lose a game
that year.
The Redskins bounced back against the Cleveland Rams in a blizzard.
Slogging through ankle-high snow, Battles starred again in a 16–7 victory.
With the Redskins running neck and neck with the Giants for the East-
ern Division title, the world champion Green Bay Packers paid a visit to the
nation’s capital. The Packers featured the magnificent Don Hutson, a swift,
acrobatic receiver from Alabama whose collegiate career had ended with
a two-touchdown performance against Stanford in the 1935 Rose Bowl, a
game the Crimson Tide won 29–13.
Hutson thought his football career was over after that game. He and a
former teammate named Paul “Bear” Bryant were all set to go into the
laundry business when he got a telegram from the Packers’ owner, Curly
Lambeau. Hutson, a skinny kid who could spring up and grab the goalpost
crossbar with one hand and catch a football with the other, signed with the
Packers and became an instant star.
Thirty thousand Washingtonians packed Griffith Stadium—the largest
crowd yet—and kept up a steady roar the whole game. The Redskins, partic-
ularly those who had experienced the dark days in Boston, had never heard
or seen anything like it.
The fans were treated to a magnificent defensive battle from start to fin-
ish. The only score of the first half came when Hutson, the “Alabama Ante-
lope,” took a pass from tailback Arnie Herber and left the Redskins’ second-
ary, including Sam, clutching at air as he glided into the end zone. The half
ended with the Packers leading 6–0.
The Redskins shut down the Packers in the second half. When the Red-
skins had the ball, the Packers braced for the expected Baugh barrage.
Instead, they got Battles, who rode the blocks of Erny Pinckert, Don Irwin,
and Baugh to march steadily down the field. Battles smashed into the end
zone, Riley Smith made the crucial extra point, and the Redskins led 7–6.
As the game moved into the fourth quarter, the Skins’ defense remained
unyielding, and the offense kept the ball on the ground. With the ball inside
the ten, Battles, as expected, got the ball and was buried at the line of scrim-
mage. The Packers again keyed on the splendid running back and buried
him under a pile of forest green jerseys at the line of scrimmage, but Battles
didn’t have the ball. It was still in the long-fingered hands of Slingin’ Sammy

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Baugh, who rifled a pass to Malone in the end zone. The Washington fans
nearly shouted the stadium down, and when the stadium clock read 00:00,
they refused to go home.
“I just can’t get over them fans,” tackle Turk Edwards told reporters.
“They’re the greatest I ever saw.”
“I think just about everyone on the team felt that way,” Wayne Millner
later recalled. “Boston was a funny town. They never did take to us there.
But from the moment we came to Washington, things were very different. I
felt that I had found a home.”
“This was the exact moment when Washington football fans took their
newly acquired football team to their hearts and bosoms,” the sportswriter
Morris A. Bealle wrote years later. “It was the exact moment George Mar-
shall’s Redskins became a civic institution in the Nation’s capital. It was
the exact moment they made themselves a home after their sour experience
in Boston.”
The Redskins’ 14–6 victory over the defending champions set the stage
for a crucial rematch against the league-leading Giants, who, with a 6-2-2
record, had lost only one game since the opener at Griffith Stadium. They
led the Redskins, who had a 7-3 record, by a half game. It would be winner-
take-all at the Polo Grounds on December 5.

I n just three short months, the Redskins had become the toast of Wash-
ington. Battles was the league’s leading rusher, and the tall rookie from
TCU was the league’s leading passer.
“Slingin’ Sam is the hottest thing professional football has known since
Red Grange, the erstwhile Wheaton iceman, came to town and drew 70,000
customers, including two Chinese who were misled by the association of
tongs with his name,” wrote the New York Times columnist Allison Danzig.
“It isn’t just a coincidence that professional football has enjoyed its biggest
season.” Danzig speculated that if Marshall had endured one more season in
Boston, the city would have warmed to the Redskins just as Washington did;
Slingin’ Sam would have won them over. As it was, Boston had cast them
out, Danzig noted, just as the city had surrendered Babe Ruth to New York
back in 1919.

O n a cold December morning, fifteen thousand raucous fans, most of

them with burgundy-colored feathers stuck in their hatbands, gath-
ered at Washington’s Union Station, across from the broad expanse of the

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Capitol grounds. They crowded onto fifteen extra trains that Pennsylvania
Railroad officials had managed to scrounge together from their yards for
the three-hour ride northward. The first train pulled away from the station
at six in the morning, its cars draped with signs hanging from windows that
read “Sammy Baugh Club,” “Cliff Battles Club,” and others.
Many passengers, flasks raised frequently in triumph, started celebrat-
ing as early as Baltimore, forty miles to the north. They kept celebrating
as the train rattled across rural Maryland, past the sparkling waters of the
Chesapeake and through Delaware. Ignoring a stern William Penn looking
out from atop Philadelphia’s stately city hall, they kept celebrating up the
spine of New Jersey. When the train pulled into New York’s Penn Station,
more than a few burgundy-befeathered passengers staggered onto the plat-
form, trying to recall where they were and why.
The Washington Redskins Band was on board too. Resplendent in
their burgundy and gold uniforms and tall white-feathered Indian head-
dresses—Marshall had gotten them from a Hollywood costumer he knew—
band members formed up in front of the station and marched up Seventh
Avenue to the sound of “Hail to the Redskins.” Bright sunlight bounced off
their white-feathered finery. The leader and two drum majors wore chief’s
warbonnets, streamers of white feathers dangling down their backs to
the ground.
A gaggle of noisy fans straggled along behind, creating a procession sev-
eral blocks long. Sunday traffic was light, so New York’s finest declined to
interfere as the manic mob surged all the way to Columbus Circle, twenty-
five blocks away.
The jubilant Redskin owner, resplendent in his coonskin coat, stepped
down off the train and proclaimed, “The Indians have come to reclaim Man-
hattan Island.” Marshall, of course, led the parade. Bill Corum of the New
York Journal put it this way on December 5: “At the head of a 150-piece
brass band and 10,000 fans, George Preston Marshall slipped unobtrusively
into New York today.”
Washington’s fans were coming to appreciate the owner’s showman-
ship. Two weeks earlier, he had arranged for Santa Claus to parachute into
Griffith Stadium, although children in the stands were disappointed when
a gust of wind snatched St. Nick’s chute and he drifted over the right-field
wall and landed on Florida Avenue.
The fans’ appreciation was reciprocated. Only a year earlier, the team
had been homeless, Corinne Griffith recalled. “Now they had a home and a
large family and ten thousand of the family were there to prove their loyalty.
In fact they were simply full of loyalty and red feathers and other things.”

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As the crowd of Washingtonians streamed into the cavernous Polo

Grounds a little after noon on a glorious winter day, Marshall watched—
and wept, no doubt thinking of the Boston misadventure. He told his wife:
“I can’t believe it—my home town—what a wonderful group of people.”
Griffith was stunned.

I didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t that I hadn’t seen a man cry before, but
this was different. After all, I had never had one six feet two weep into a brand
new raccoon coat in front of sixty thousand people. So I wiped his eyes and
blew his nose.

Earlier in the week, Giant coach Steve Owen had made the mistake
of providing the Redskins with just the sort of motivational fodder he no
doubt warned his players to avoid: “I don’t think the Redskins are in the
same league with us now,” he told reporters. The Giants’ “great line,” plus a
new 5-4-2 defense installed just for the championship game, would render
Slingin’ Sam and friends helpless.
Owen also told reporters that he had failed to include a single Redskin
player on his all-pro ballot. He apparently wasn’t impressed by the fact
that Sam led the league in pass completions (81) and yards gained pass-
ing (1,127), or that Battles had rushed for the most yards in the league
(874) and scored the most touchdowns rushing (5). Baugh and Battles did
make the all-pro team, despite Owen’s slight, as did Charlie Malone, the
league’s third-ranked receiver, and Turk Edwards, the dominant lineman in
the league.
The Washington papers played the Owen story big. The Giants coach
and his team trotted onto their home field to a thunderous chorus of boos.

T
 he original Polo Grounds, built in 1883, was on the northern edge of
Central Park. Its successor was built in 1911 in the Bronx, between
Coogan’s Bluff and the Harlem River, and was shared for a number of years
by the baseball Yankees and the Giants, football and baseball. Its spacious
outfield was enclosed by a towering double-deck grandstand.
The Polo Grounds was a roaring cauldron as the Giants’ kickoff tumbled
into the tree-trunk arms of Turk Edwards, all 270 pounds of him. The giant
left tackle lumbered twenty yards upfield before a gaggle of Giants man-
aged to gang-tackle him. On the first play from scrimmage, Battles fum-
bled the snap from center, and the Giants recovered but were unable to do
any damage.

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On the next series, it was all Battles. He carried five straight times on
runs of two, sixteen, nine, six, and four yards, scoring on the fifth carry.
The next time the Redskins got the ball, the Giants were keying on Bat-
tles, so Sam took charge. A series of bullet passes to Battles, Millner, and
Malone made the score 14–0. The Redskins scored again before the half
ended, making it 21–0.
The Giants scored twice in the third quarter, to make it 21–14, but just
when it seemed they were back in the game, Sam began threading deadly
passes through their befuddled secondary. In ten short minutes, he com-
pleted eleven of fifteen passes for 128 yards, including a perfect pass he
dropped into the lap of long, lean Ed Justice, who had gotten five yards
behind the nearest defender. Justice scored easily, and the rout was on.
A few plays later, Battles took the ball on his own twenty-seven-yard line
and headed around right end. Cut off, he reversed his field all the way to the
left sideline, reversed it again, and continued zigzagging his way into the
end zone. The splendid West Virginian’s seventy-three-yard romp covered
an estimated 200 yards. Late in the game, he intercepted a pass and took it
seventy-six yards for another touchdown.
With the clock ticking down and the scoreboard showing “Visitors 49,
Home 14,” crazed Redskins fans rushed the field. (Those who could, rushed;
others staggered.) They tore down both goalposts and made happy fools of
themselves before making their way back downtown to Penn Station. The
next day, Stanley Woodward of the New York Herald Tribune would write:
“The Giants used a 5-3-2-1 defense. They should have used a 12-7-5-4.”

I n the dark of night four hours later, rain was falling on Washington, but
the moisture did nothing to dampen the glee of some 5,000 fans at Union
Station, eager to welcome home the Eastern Division champs. As the spe-
cial trains disgorged the giddy, raucous mobs, they blocked traffic, shouted
themselves hoarse, and held impromptu pep rallies until long past midnight.
Corinne Griffith recalled sitting in the Marshalls’ limousine with their
driver, Welles, the car parked on a side street away from the excitement.
It was a little before midnight. The rain had stopped, and she could see the
ghostly white Capitol dome through the shadowy outline of trees, with the
Washington Monument in the distance. She also saw an old police patrol
wagon parked not far away, with three or four policemen standing in a semi-
circle nearby. They were arguing, it appeared, with a tall man in a raccoon
coat. Behind him were dozens of Washington Redskins Band members.
Suddenly she saw her husband begin to beat his chest.

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I waited for the wild jungle call of Tarzan, but instead one hundred and fifty
white head-dresses were lifted high in the air and one hundred and fifty voices
shouted.
“Hoorah!” The head-dresses lowered, then raised again, and another.
“Hoorah!” Then lowering of the head-dresses and a third!
“Hurrah!”

What was happening, Welles found out, was that the cops were determined
to arrest the 150 band members because they wanted to parade up Pennsyl-
vania Avenue without a permit. Marshall was insisting that they arrest him
instead. “That explained the chest beating,” Griffith wrote. “I can imagine
it was one of those, ‘Do with me what you will, but touch not one feather of
those old, white head-dresses.’”
Marshall climbed into the limousine and instructed Welles to drive up
Pennsylvania Avenue. At a certain cross street, Welles pulled over to the
curb and waited for the band and a good-sized group of fans to catch up with
them. Marshall and the band had concocted a plan. Having ditched the cops,
the musicians would march just one block to one chorus of “Hail to the Red-
skins” and everybody would be happy.
Almost everybody, that is. Suddenly, another patrol car pulled up, and a
police sergeant strode over to the Marshalls’ limousine. After much discus-
sion with Marshall and members of the band, the sergeant—who told Mar-
shall he wasn’t a football fan and cared not a whit what had happened in
New York—arrested the drum major, who was bundled into the backseat of
the police car, warbonnet and all.
“Follow that patrol car,” Marshall instructed Welles, who drove the lim-
ousine to the Precinct No. 1 station house. Marshall jumped out, ran up the
steps of the building, and yelled over his shoulder to Welles to bring what-
ever money he had on him. Griffith waited in the car.
Her husband came out a few minutes later and asked her whether she
had $5. Marshall and his driver together could only raise $20 toward the $25
bail. Griffith dug through her purse. Fortune shone on the drum major—and
on the Washington Redskins. She found $5 exactly.

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 CHAPTER

1O

THE 1937 NFL

CHAMPIONSHIP
slayingthemonstersofthemidway

T
he two Georges—Halas and Marshall—first got acquainted in the
1920s when they owned teams in the fledgling American Basketball
League. In fact, the Halas-Marshall rivalry started on the basketball
court.
During that first season, Marshall’s Washington team, the Palace Big
Five, was playing Halas’s Chicago team, and Halas was the official timer.
Marshall, ever suspicious, found a stopwatch and sat beside Halas as the
associate timer. With the Big Five holding a single-point lead and the final
seconds ticking away on both watches, Marshall’s timepiece showed the
game was over, but Halas refused to blow the whistle. Only after a Chicago
player hit the game-winning basket did Halas declare that time had run
out. A red-faced Marshall was furious. He slammed his stopwatch to the
floor and stomped on it. Halas laughed—and so did Marshall, eventually. It
wouldn’t be the last time the two men would almost come to blows over an
athletic contest.
Years later they were still battling. The hated Bears invaded Boston in
November 1936 and quickly built a lead against the Redskins. From his box
seat high above the playing field, it looked to Marshall as if his boys were not
only having to battle the Bears, but the officials as well. The zebras seemed
to be intimidated by Papa Bear himself. Finally, the Redskins’ owner could

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stand it no longer. He stood up, marched down the aisle, and clambered over
a railing onto the field, where he flew into a spitting rage against the guys in
striped shirts.
When Halas saw what was happening, he raced across the field and got in
Marshall’s face, jabbing him in the chest with his right index finger. All eyes
in the stadium were on the two men; the crowd was going crazy.
“Get off the field, you sonofabitch,” Halas yelled.
“George!” Marshall yelled. “This is my field and my town! I can do as
I please!”
At that moment, Marshall’s own coach, Ray Flaherty, inserted himself
between the two bloviating bulls. In a firm voice, he reminded his boss
about a certain item in his contract: owner confines himself to the stands,
hands-off the team during games.
Marshall tried to argue with his no-nonsense coach. “Halas needs to
shut his damn mouth,” he said.
“Go back to your seat,” Flaherty muttered. “Or find yourself another
coach.”
For once in his life, the imperious owner did as he was told. As he walked
back up the aisle—while an official walked off fifteen yards against his
team—a fan threw a beer at him, the odoriferous brew splattering down his
raccoon coat. Marshall glanced down at the sopping fur, then decked the fan
with a left jab to the jaw and a right to the solar plexus.
Waiting for Marshall to return to his seat was Corinne Griffith. She was
outraged by the whole scene, by her husband’s impetuousness but also by
Halas’s language, by the way he had treated her husband. When she began
to berate the Bears’ owner, her husband stopped her in midsentence: “Don’t
you dare say anything against Halas,” he said, shaking his finger under her
nose. “He’s my best friend!”
For the first time, the two “friends” would play for the NFL champion-
ship. Halas’s mighty Bears, already legitimate Monsters of the Midway, had
gone 8-1-1 to clinch the division title for the third year in a row.
Halas was smart enough not to make the same mistake the Giants’ Steve
Owen did. When reporters asked him which of the Redskins would be on his
all-pro team, he named a Redskin to every position. “Please see that these
selections get into the paper before Sunday,” he said.

T
 hree seasons earlier, playing in the Polo Grounds for the 1934 NFL
championship game, the Bears had the Giants on the ropes when the
wet field began to freeze as the afternoon sun sank behind the stands. With

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the thermometer plunging into single digits, the field became an ice rink.
The Bears led 10–3 at halftime.
At the start of the second half, the Giants, to the surprise of the Bears,
trotted onto the field wearing white gym shoes. By the fourth quarter, many
of the Bears were so frustrated by the icy conditions that they had stripped
off their useless cleated shoes and were playing in their socks, their frozen
feet bloodied by the ice. The team many considered the greatest in NFL his-
tory lost 30–13 to the tennis-shoe-shod Giants. Halas vowed he would never
be unprepared again.
Reading in the Chicago papers about Sam’s aerial exploits against the
Giants in the division-championship game, the Bears’ owner could almost
pray for snow and ice. If his prayers went unanswered, Halas thought he had
another plan for controlling the slender young passer from Texas. He would
injure him, knock him out of the game.
It would be perfectly legal. In those days, the rules allowed the defense to
stay after the quarterback until the play ended and the whistle blew. Even if
he had thrown a pass thirty yards down the field and the action had shifted
with the ball, a burly defender could continue hammering the passer until
his receiver was either brought down or had crossed the goal line. Quarter-
backs literally had to run for their lives until the play ended.
“A passer had to learn to throw and move,” Sam recalled. “You would
never see him just throw and stand there looking. You had to throw and
start protecting yourself, because those linemen were going to lay you flat-
ter than the ground every time.”
As the Redskins’ tailback, Sam also ran the ball several times a game,
which meant he often ended up on the bottom of a punishing pileup, where
a knee could be twisted, a strong right arm bent at the elbow, maybe a thumb
bent back toward the wrist. And when Sam wasn’t running or throwing, he
often was assigned to block the defensive end, invariably a guy bigger than
he was. He knew the Bears would try to hurt him every chance they got.
Since nobody wore a face mask in those days, it was easy to gouge an eye or
throw a grinding punch to the nose.
Teams carried only twenty-two or twenty-three men on a squad, and
most were playing both ways, so, in Sam’s words, “if you lost two good ones,
you were dead.”
Halas, like most other coaches, intended to use the rules to his benefit.
He coached by intimidation, and he expected his men to play angry. Cheap
shots were perfectly respectable as long as they didn’t cost the team penalty
yardage. Sam would be a marked man on Sunday.
“I want you to hit that sonofabitch until blood is coming out of his ears,”

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Halas told the Bears when they gathered for practice on Tuesday morning
before Sunday’s game.
If the Bears defense couldn’t get him, the offense would. The Bears’
bounty hunter, and Sam’s chief nemesis, was the toughest man in football,
the legendary Bronko Nagurski. The all-American fullback from Minnesota
didn’t just run over people; he ran through them. If the 235-pound Nagur-
ski broke through into the Redskins’ secondary, as he invariably would, he
would be on the lookout for the Redskins’ safetyman, a 180-pound rookie
from TCU. “The only way to stop Nagurski is to shoot the sonofabitch before
he leaves the dressing room,” the Giants’ Steve Owen remarked before the
NFL championship game in 1932.
The blue-collar Bronk played linebacker on defense, and with his lat-
eral speed and his nose for the ball, he was lethal. When he exploded into
a runner’s chest and drove him to the ground, the man with the ball often
stayed there.
The Chicago Tribune described his approach to the game as “smashing,
driving and forever fighting.” Playing against the Chicago Cardinals on an
October afternoon in 1931, the Bronk ran out of bounds and collided at full
speed with a mounted Chicago policeman. When his left shoulder slammed
into the horse’s girth, all four hooves lifted off the ground and, as a news
photo showed, the cop flew about two feet above the saddle. Neither man
nor beast was hurt, but Nagurski apologized to both.
Although he was a mild-mannered sort off the field—except when he was
wrestling professionally in the off-season—opposing players were afraid
of him. Even his teammate the great Red Grange dreaded having to tackle
him in midweek scrimmages. “When the Bronk hits you, it’s like getting
an electric shock,” Grange told reporters. “Better not hit above the ankles.
He’ll kill you.”

O n the Friday afternoon before the last regular-season game, a storm

hit Chicago, two days before the Bears were to meet their crosstown
rivals, the Cardinals, in Comiskey Park. By game time, the playing field was
as slippery as oiled glass. Most of the fans who ventured out to watch the
fourth-place Cardinals take on the division champs packed a flask. Whis-
key-fueled, they broke up the wooden bleacher seats and started bonfires.
Halas got into a fight with the Cardinals’ coach, Milan Creighton, and threw
a punch that missed Creighton but decked the referee. Meanwhile, the
game turned into an offensive circus that lasted so long the final few min-
utes were played in the dark. The Bears won 49–21.

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Three days before the championship game at Wrigley Field, Halas got
the snow- and ice storm he wanted. “The beautiful white snow turned gray
from the dirt of Chicago, and some of it turned blue, just from being so cold,”
Corinne Griffith recalled. “Ice formed everywhere, on the sidewalks and on
the sides of the street where the snow had been shoveled. On the edge of the
lake, great blocks of ice, some five or six feet long, had broken and piled up
in frozen defiance.”
With the mercury falling toward zero at night, flat surfaces, including
football fields, became miniature glaciers. On Saturday, the Bears’ organiza-
tion brought in road-construction asphalt burners to thaw the ice, and had
its crews spread hay over the field to soak up the water. Workers then cov-
ered the entire playing surface with a tarpaulin. By Sunday, the field was in
relatively good shape, with only scattered patches of ice.
By game time, the temperature was fifteen degrees above zero, and the
wind whistled through Wrigley Field at about twelve miles an hour, creat-
ing a wind chill factor of about six degrees below zero. Only 15,000 hardy
souls were huddled inside 25,000-seat Wrigley Field. Many were cloaked
in blankets and long woolen coats. Most of them huddled beneath the steel
awning along the third-base line. “It was colder than nine miles in an ice-
berg, slippery as a Vaselined eel and wetter than a duck’s spats,” columnist
Robert Ruark wrote.
Three thousand of the fans were Washingtonians who had made the trip
by special train. As during the Cardinal game a week earlier, fans built bon-
fires in the stands, although the flames did little, if anything, to ward off the
punishing cold. Those who braved frostbite and chilblains saw a game they
would never forget.
Fans could be forgiven for staying home by their radios—and not just
because of the weather. Even though the Redskins had gone 8-3 and had
decisively whipped the Giants a week earlier, the Monsters of the Midway
were of a different order. They were 9-1-1, they were big and punishing and
fast, and they had a slew of players who would have been dubbed superstars
had they played decades later. They had two other punishing runners, Ray
Nolting and Jack Manders, in addition to Nagurski. They also had Hall of
Fame linemen Joe Stydahar and Danny Fortmann.
The Redskins would receive the kickoff at the north end of the field, near
the outfield wall. Surveying that end of the field, Sam noticed there was
more ice than at the south end. His receivers would be able to avoid slippery
patches; backpedaling defenders might not.
The Bears’ Manders kicked a line drive that skittered along the diamond-
hard field and off the cold fingers of Cliff Battles. It slid through the legs of

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Erny Pinckert before Max Krause managed to scoop it up at his own one-
yard line. Krause immediately disappeared under an avalanche of rampag-
ing Bears.
On the first play from scrimmage, Riley Smith smashed his chin into the
knee of one of the Bears and lost a tooth. Shortly afterward, the Bears’ Ber-
nie Masterson kneed Pinckert and sent him to the sidelines for the rest of
the game. These were the Bears, after all.
The first time Sam got his cold hands on the ball, he started slingin’. As
tailback, he took the snap from center and initiated the play, but he didn’t
call the plays. That job belonged to quarterback Riley Smith, who func-
tioned primarily as a blocking back. But as the season had progressed, Sam
more and more offered his opinion in the huddle or occasionally took over
calling the plays himself.
Backed up against his own goal line, Sam looked around the huddle, ten
men snorting steam in the punishing cold. “We’re gonna trick ’em,” he said.
“I’m dropping into punt formation. But I ain’t punting. Cliff, see that chunk
of ice right over there? Run straight to it, cut to the sideline and look for
the ball.”
The Redskins broke their huddle and lined up in punt formation, as the
Bears expected, since punting on first down was standard strategy in those
days when a team was bottled up in its own end of the field. The Bears knew
that Sam was one of the best punters in the game—possibly the best, but the
NFL did not keep punting statistics in those early years.
Sam waited for the snap about two yards inside the goal line, but instead
of stepping into the ball with his strong right leg, he began running to his
right toward the goalposts, which were still at the front of the end zone in
those days. An unblocked defensive end had an angle on him, but just before
he was enveloped in a punishing Bear hug for a safety, Sam spotted Battles,
who had carefully set his pivot foot and cut in front of safetyman Gene Ron-
zani at about the seven-yard line. As Ronzani slipped on the ice, the Red-
skin halfback gathered in Baugh’s toss over his right shoulder and motored
up the sideline past pursuing Bears and patches of ice for a forty-two-yard
gain. (The Times found it notable that Ronzani wore gloves during the game;
just before he was ready to receive a punt, he would yank them off and tuck
them in his pants.)
Although the Bears held shortly afterward, the pass from the end zone
delivered a message: the Redskins’ brilliant young passer wasn’t going to
allow the elements to dictate strategy. Neither the weather nor the Bears
scared him.
Chicago bogged down on its first possession. When the Redskins took

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over, they moved methodically downfield on the strength of four straight

Baugh passes. From the Chicago ten, Battles took the handoff from Sam,
broke off left tackle, and literally dived into the end zone.
The Bears, lined up in T formation, responded in character, with Nagur-
ski bulling his way into the Redskins’ secondary on six straight carries. With
the ball at the Washington forty, Nagurski took the ball again and roared
through a large hole opened up by 260-pound George “Moose” Musso. One
man stood in his way, a slender safetyman wearing number 33. Nagurski
lowered his shoulder and hit Sam like a runaway train.
The Redskins’ trainer had to help Sam off the field. Trying to clear his
head, he managed to remark, “That sonofabitch ran plumb over me.” For
the rest of the game, Sam merely tried to hang on to the Bears’ monster
back when he rampaged into the secondary, praying all the while that help
would arrive.
Sam’s “bodyguards” did their best to keep the rampaging Bears off their
man. Play after play, Big Turk Edwards would trot up to the line and warn
them not to try to get dirty with the passer. On one play, he was so obsessed
with protecting Sam that he backed into him and knocked him down for a
fifteen-yard loss.
The Bears finally got to him in the second quarter when he took off run-
ning through the middle of their defense. After a ten-yard gain, he hit the
frozen turf with four beefy Bears on top of him. He was limping when he got
up out of the pile, and the back of his throwing hand dripped blood.
Years later, Sam remembered the blood. The field had been muddy before
the ice storm arrived, and clods of dirt gouged out during a high-school play-
off game a week earlier had frozen as well. “Every time you hit that icy field,
you’d slide and everybody was bleeding. You’d hit those little pebbles that
were frozen, and they’d just slice you. When we got in the dressing room
and undressed, everybody was bleeding.” Edwards and his fellow linemen
were slipping and sliding all over the field, and yet the weather was just
what Papa Bear—and the Bear offense—had ordered. Quick-opening power
plays, straight-ahead running by Nagurski behind a big, mobile line—the
Bears were hampered by the slippery conditions, but not nearly as much as
an offense built around precision passing.
With Sam on the bench, the Bears’ Masterson connected with Edgar
“Eggs” Manske on a sixty-yard pass play. With the ball on the Redskins
nineteen, Nagurski charged nine yards around left end and Manders, the
NFL’s leading scorer, dashed through a hole up the middle for ten yards and
the touchdown. Manders then kicked the extra point, tying the game.
On the Redskins’ next possession, the rookie tailback, still a bit woozy,

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threw an interception to Bears end George Wilson at the Redskins forty-

nine. With the Redskins keying on Nagurski, Masterson found Manders
open over the middle at the Redskins twenty, and a block by Wilson on
Battles—who claimed he was clipped—allowed the running back to score
standing up. The extra point made it 14–7, Bears. Sam twisted his knee—or
had it twisted for him in a pileup—and sat out much of the second quarter.
Corinne Griffith wrote that at half time “the score was Chicago 14,
Washington 7, Thermometer 0.”
The two teams hurried to the blessed warmth of the dressing room,
where Flaherty talked strategy and Sam tried to treat his various injuries.
Dreading the dangerous cold, both teams hated going out again, but they
had no choice.
Halftime was a lifesaver for Sam, and early in the third quarter, he
limped back onto the frozen field and began to connect. After Don Irwin
made a first down on the Bears’ forty-five, Millner dropped a Baugh pass.
On the next play, though, the former Notre Dame all-American cut sharply
across from the opposite end of the field, despite the ice, and took a pass
from Sam that, as one observer described it, “virtually hung on a peg.”
In a foot race with Masterson across the icy tundra, Millner scored on a
thirty-five-yard run. Reliable Riley Smith added the extra point to tie the
game at 14.
The Bears came back. Starting at their own twenty-three, they marched
methodically down the field, relying primarily on Nagurski’s mad-bull
thrusts. With the ball at the Redskins’ four-yard line, Masterson faked a
handoff and then lobbed a jump pass to Manske in the end zone. Chicago led
21–14 after Manders’s extra point.
Sam would not allow his Redskins to fold. They had come to realize dur-
ing the course of the season that as long as he had the ball in his hands, they
were still in the game. He didn’t have to say much. He didn’t get excited.
Against the Bears, he brought them back by teaming up with Millner,
known as the “money player” for his penchant for coming through in the
clutch. Against Ohio State in 1935, he single-handedly won the game in the
last minute for Notre Dame with a leaping one-handed grab at the back of
the end zone of a pass from Bill “The Bard” Shakespeare. He also was used
to playing in cold weather.
With the ball on his own twenty-two, Sam faded back, scanned the field,
and fired a forty-five-yard pass to Millner, who gathered in the ball on the
dead run exactly at midfield. Once more he led Nagurski and Manders on
a fifty-yard chase to the end zone. Smith again kicked the extra point to tie
the score.

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Sam had thrown three touchdown passes within a span of ten minutes
on the game clock.
“It was amazing the way Baugh worked,” the Times’ Arthur J. Daley
wrote. “Without him Washington would have been buried deep in the drift
of Bear touchdowns. For this was weather and these were conditions that
were hand-tailored for Chicago.” Chicago used five defensive linemen, one
less than normal in those days, and tried to cover Sam’s receivers with six
people. They couldn’t stop him.
Late in the third quarter, Sam drove the Redskins deep into Bear terri-
tory, relying on short passes to Millner, Malone, and Irwin. With the quarter
winding down, Sam took the ball on the snap, leaped into the air, and faked a
jump pass to Millner. With his feet back on the ground, he fired a thirty-five-
yard bullet to Ed “Chug” Justice, who was wide open in the left corner of the
end zone. With the extra point, the Redskins led the mighty Bears 28–21.
“Baugh threw passes that had to be seen to be believed,” Daley wrote the
next day. “He pitched them while in full flight and hung them on a nail. He
tossed them as tacklers were carrying him to the ground, but so accurate
were they that a blind man could have caught them.”
Grainy film footage from the game shows that Sam really did sling the
ball on occasion, in part perhaps because the ball was still watermelon
shaped. (In his later years, he was more likely to cock the ball at his ear,
which became the standard way of throwing a football.) As Daley noted, he
also threw off his back foot, threw on the run, flicked it with his wrist over
the shoulders of rampaging linemen about to take him down. Invariably,
however the ball was thrown, it traveled on a line to his receiver.
Throughout the punishing game, the Bears tried to send Sam to the side-
lines for good. By the third quarter, he was limping from a banged-up knee
and a bruised hip, and blood trickled from his nose. He stayed in the game.
When Dick Plasman caught a pass from Masterson, Sam, still in at safety,
caught up with the Bears’ end and bounced him out of bounds. Plasman,
who played without a helmet, landed headfirst on the cold hard ground.
Immediately, he bounced up and punched Sam in the face. (Daley of the
Times called it “a gentle punch.”) Sam punched back.
“They’ve hit Baugh!” Marshall screamed, leaping over the rail.
Unfortunately for Plasman, the Redskins’ owner wasn’t the only one
who came after him. The six-foot-three-inch, 210-pound end happened
to be standing directly in front of the Redskins’ bench. Sam’s teammates,
eager to protect their all-star, piled on Plasman, while the Bears came roar-
ing off their own bench and raced across the field. Fans poured out of the
stands. “Riot! Riot!” people yelled.

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“Coach Flaherty was the first to leap to his feet and the first to rush to the
battle scene,” Shirley Povich later wrote in the Post. “He tackled Plasman
high—high around the mouth—with a set of knuckles and put an end to the
battle.” Here is how columnist Ruark described the melee: “The team arose
as one Indian, and systematically commenced to separate Mr. Plasman
from his hair, hide and tallow.”
The mighty Nagurski played peacemaker. Striding into the melee, he
tried to pull players off the swarming pile and stop the fight. Once Bronk and
the officials had dug down to the bottom of the pile, they found the Washing-
ton trainer, Roy Baker, atop Plasman. “He had fastened himself to Plasman’s
pelt,” Ruark wrote, “and apparently was trying to bite his initials into Dick’s
ear. In between bites he was belaboring Plasman’s puss with both knotty
little fists, and a luscious, iridescent mouse even then had appeared on
Plasman’s peeper.”
Plasman left the field with a bloody nose, gashed eye and split lip. Sam
emerged unscathed. No penalties were assessed. The crowd settled back
into their cold hard seats.
The Redskins held the Bears scoreless throughout the fourth quarter.
With only seconds to play, the Bears were on the move. Tailback Masterson
spotted his backup end, Les McDonald, uncovered at the Redskins’ thirty-
two-yard line. McDonald gathered in the pass and set sail for the goal line,
only to get tangled up with the back judge, Ed Cochrane, a Chicago Tri-
bune sportswriter who moonlighted as an official. Cochrane, limping from
a sprained knee, had slipped and fallen on the ice, and by the time McDon-
ald got himself untangled, Sam and Cliff Battles were on hand to bring him
down. The gun sounded seconds later.
Washington had waited twenty-four years for its first baseball pen-
nant. Now, in their inaugural year in the nation’s capital, George Preston
Marshall’s Redskins—young Sam Baugh’s Redskins—were NFL champi-
ons. Sam had completed seventeen of thirty-four passes for 358 yards. At
a time when the single-season passing record was a mere 1,236 yards, it
was an astounding number. It also was the greatest passing performance in
NFL history.
As the players left the gridiron tundra, happy Redskins fans still yelling
in the background, Nagurski extended his hand to the young Texan. “You’re
a fine fella and a great quarterback,” he said. Sam thanked him and then
asked him a question: “Did you know that when you’d break through the line
and head towards me, nobody ever blocked me?” Nagurski laughed. “No one
was supposed to put a block on you. Hey, I was supposed to run over you and
get you out of the ballgame.”

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Sam and his teammates, banged and bruised, their burgundy jerseys
stained with blood, made their way to the warmth of the dressing room.
Several hundred delirious Redskin fans mobbed their heroes at the door.
They tried to get close to their exhausted idols—Cliff Battles, Turk Edwards,
and the young quarterback who had changed the face of professional foot-
ball with his sterling performance.
Inside the steamy clubhouse, Marshall was uncharacteristically modest.
He told reporters he was particularly proud that his team had won a cham-
pionship their first season in Washington.
Sam was modest as well. Saying that he planned to head home to Texas
the next day, he drawled: “What the heck, anyone can do the pitching—but
it takes real ball players to do the catching.” Sportswriters weren’t buying it.
“Against Baugh [the Bears] prided themselves they had a defense,” Povich
wrote. “But there was no defense for the deftness of those pitches he made
today and there was no defense, furthermore, for the raw, naked courage of
the tall boy from Texas.”
“There are a lot of other fine football players on the Washington Red-
skins, as New Yorkers well know from their work against the Giants,” Alli-
son Danzig of the New York Times observed two days after the champion-
ship game.

But Pinckert, Smith, Battles, Irwin, Millner, Karcher, Kawal, Malone and com-
pany could never have won this one without Slingin’ Sam. The giant Musso
and his mates stopped Cliff Battles, as great as he was at the Polo Grounds,
and they put on such pressure at the middle of the line that it seemed at times
that Nagurski and Manders would never stop running. But they couldn’t stop
Slingin’ Sam any more than could Winter’s icy hand. The ayes of Texas are
now unanimous. John Nance Garner and Jesse Jones will please shove down
to the end of the Washington bench.

Povich agreed. “All season, the fellow was uncanny,” he wrote, “and his
Texas admirers were guilty of vast understatement all these years when
they were saying that Slingin’ Sammy could bloody your nostrils with a
football at 50 yards.”
Sam impressed the coaches as well. The Detroit Lions coach, Earl
“Dutch” Clark, told the Associated Press that Sam “is the greatest passer
I’ve ever seen.” Ray Flaherty, Sam’s own coach, called his performance “the
greatest one-man show ever put on in pro football.”
For their heroics on that frigid Chicago afternoon, Sam and his team-
mates—twenty-three players in all—each earned $234.26.

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T
 he week before Christmas found Sam back in Sweetwater, where the
folks who knew him as a youngster could show him their apprecia-
tion with a “Welcome Home, Sammy” banquet arranged by the Board of
City Development. Two hundred forty townspeople, former teammates,
and former classmates gathered on a Monday night to honor the young man
who had done more to “put Sweetwater on the map than any citizen in its
history.”
The master of ceremonies was Ney “Red” Sheridan, the Sweetwater
football star whom TCU had tried to sign instead of Sam and who had just
completed a stellar career as a Texas Longhorn. He told the crowd that what
stood out most about Sam was that “all the adulation had not gone to his
head.” He still “has his feet on the ground” and was still “the level-headed,
likable kid he was back in 1931 and 1932, when in high school.”
Seated at the head table with his mother, his sister, Edmonia Smith (his
high school sweetheart and now fiancée), and her parents, the twenty-two-
year-old football star, cool and calm on the football field, admitted to a bit
of nervousness when he spoke to the local folks. His voice quavered a bit,
Flem Hall of the Star-Telegram noted. “It’s hard to get up and say things to
a crowd made up of folk who know you as well as you know yourself, and
I don’t mind telling you I’m a bit scared,” Sam said. “If I told you this was
the happiest moment of my life, I wouldn’t be telling the truth, because that
moment is to come when I sit down.”
Sam told about life in the NFL and predicted that professional football
would grow. It would probably take its place beside major league baseball,
he said, but would not cut into college football.
The hometown folks had taken up a collection to buy a ring for Sam. It
was solid gold in the shape of a football, with diamonds representing the
ball’s threads. He wore the ring for most of his life. He liked it, he said years
later, because it was from the people who knew him best. “That Hall of Fame
ring, I could throw it away and never miss it,” he said. “I liked that ring I got
from the Sweetwater people.”

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 CHAPTER

11

CARDINAL SAM?
baughtriesthemajorleagues

S
am Baugh was a child of the Depression. Although he made a com-
fortable living as a professional football player, he knew he could take
nothing for granted, particularly playing for a mercurial owner like
George Preston Marshall. He enjoyed playing football, reveled in the
competition and the pride of accomplishment, but he had no illusions about
why he was playing: football was a business, and if he could do better for
himself doing something else, he would have to consider it.
The way Marshall handled his star running back, Cliff Battles, was a
reminder to Sam—if he needed one—that the owner of the Redskins could
turn on him in an instant. Battles, an all-pro and arguably the best running
back in the NFL, was twenty-eight years old and at the peak of his career. In
his rookie season, the Redskins paid him $200 a game; six years later, he was
only making about $300 a game. With small bonuses for exhibition games,
he averaged about $4,000 a year.
Battles asked Marshall for $5,000. Marshall said no.
Disappointed and more than a little disgusted, Battles quit. He joined
Lou Little’s coaching staff at Columbia University. When he left profes-
sional football, he had gained more yards rushing than any runner in NFL
history—3,622. He would be inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame
in 1968.

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Marshall not only refused the raise, but also accused Columbia of steal-
ing his employee. Three years later, after the Chicago Bears annihilated the
Redskins 73–0, Marshall accused Battles of selling Redskin plays to Chi-
cago. The two men didn’t speak to each other for years. “It wasn’t just the
money,” Battles said years later. “It was also the fact that he [Marshall] just
didn’t seem to appreciate me. It hurt my feelings.”
Sam, who twice during his career proposed that his own salary be reduced
when he felt he didn’t perform to expectations, felt bad for his friend. “Hell,
if I had known about it, I would have given him the $300 myself, because
after that first year I was making $12,000,” he said years later.
Baugh led the league in passing during his first year as a pro, with 81
completions out of 171 attempts for 1,127 yards and 8 touchdowns. Besides
being only the second back in professional football history to pass for more
than a thousand yards in a season, he was the team’s stellar defensive back
and punter. He also earned for himself all-pro honors. Still, playing for Mar-
shall, he could never be sure of his status.

O n January 19, 1938, Sam announced that he would sign a baseball con-
tract with the St. Louis Cardinals. Although he and Marshall had not
agreed to contract terms after Sam led the Redskins to a national champi-
onship, the sensational passer said the Redskins’ owner had agreed he could
play baseball during the spring.
He told the Associated Press that he had conferred with Marshall, who
had proposed two salary arrangements: a flat, one-year contract for between
$13,000 and $14,000, or a three-year renewal at the same salary he made his
rookie year, which amounted to approximately $727 per game.
“One year’s football at $13,000 or $14,000 is considerable money,” Sam
said, “but I’m a pretty frail boy, you know, and I’m liable to go out any time.

Suppose I signed for a one-year term; got hurt. I’d be through. Under terms of
the three-year contract, I am protecting myself for that length of time—bro-
ken leg, smashed career or not.

Protecting himself was an immediate concern. Marshall had his team

playing at least three exhibition games in the off-season, including two
against the Bears. And he scoffed at rumors that he was holding out for a
$25,000 contract.

Me get $25,000? Whoever heard of such a thing? It’s the bunk—just publicity.

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Salaries just don’t come that high in professional football. The amount I made
in my first year was very good for a youngster. It’s tough going though—having
those big fellows slam you around on the tail end of every pass. Guess maybe
I earned that money.

Sam added he still intended to coach some day, although not any time soon.

It doesn’t hurt to keep your name before the public when you are shooting for
a coaching job. I’m learning more football all the time.

And he assured everyone that he still enjoyed playing.

After that Chicago game for the title on that icy field, Sammy had enough foot-
ball. But then I came on down home, rested up for a couple of weeks and now
I’m ready for more.

The Redskins were still playing. In an exhibition game in Dallas, they

again beat the Bears 10–0, and then faced them in Miami on February 6.
Before a shirtsleeved crowd of 16,000, the Bears finally won, defeating the
Redskins 16–10 in a game marked by out-and-out brawls. Eight players, four
from each team, got tossed out. Sam stayed on the field but was ineffective,
attempting eleven passes and completing only four. He played only briefly
in the second half after receiving a slight injury to his left shoulder when
he was tackled while throwing a pass. The Redskins’ trainer said he had
strained a ligament.
A week later—the same week Battles announced that he was leaving—
Sam told reporters he would play one more year and then retire to enter
the college coaching ranks. He made his announcement from Chapel Hill,
North Carolina, where he was serving as backfield coach for the University
of North Carolina under head coach Ray Wolf.
“The professional football racket is tougher than any professional ath-
letics there is,” Sam told the Washington Post. “One more year of gittin’
banged around for me—and then I’m gittin’ out.” He said he expected to
make not less than $15,000 playing for the Redskins. He said that would
give him a bit of nest egg that would allow him to go into coaching with no
financial worries.

I n March, still unsigned by the Redskins, Sam reported to spring training

with the St. Louis Cardinals in St. Petersburg, Florida. He told reporters

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he wouldn’t sign with the Redskins unless “Marshall comes across with a
considerable amount of cash,” adding, “I think I’m entitled to more than
Marshall offered, and I’m not going to sign until I get what I want. I’m only
going to play one more year of pro ball anyhow, so I’m gonna get what’s
coming to me.”
He said he would either be a baseball player full-time or he would coach
football. If he made the grade with the Cardinals, he said, he would give up
football altogether: “I realize that you can’t play football without endanger-
ing your baseball career, and I’m in this thing for keeps.”
He said he liked football as much as baseball but was looking at his career
from a business angle. Baseball players, he pointed out, lasted longer than
football players. He said he didn’t expect to break into the major leagues
right away: “If I can’t stick with the Cards, I hope the club will find a place
for me on one of its farm teams. Of course, I want to play for the Cards, but if
they ship me out, I hope it will be to Houston.”
The Cardinals, with Dizzy Dean and his brother, Paul “Daffy” Dean, man-
ager Frankie Frisch, scrappy infielders Pepper Martin and Leo “The Lip”
Durocher, and slugger Joe “Ducky” Medwick, were known as the Gashouse
Gang, the most colorful team in all of professional sports. They were also
very good.
“I had a good time with those damn boys,” Sam recalled. “There was
never anybody exactly like that bunch, and I enjoyed it.” He roomed with
Medwick, one of the best hitters in baseball. The Cards coaches told Sam
and the other rookies that Medwick was the only hitter in their system who
could hit any pitch a pitcher could throw. They told the youngsters to watch
him in batting practice.
“One guy that really tried to help me was their third baseman, Pepper
Martin,” Sam remembered. “He’d played football somewhere, and he’d bring
a football to practice and ask me to throw it to him. We’d throw it before
practice, and he could really catch that ball.”
As the Gashouse Gang gathered to work out winter’s kinks, the big story
was not the arrival of a championship football player, but whether Dizzy
Dean, a thirty-game winner in 1934, would be back in form. The irrepress-
ible Dean, loud, outrageous, and preternaturally talented, had become base-
ball’s biggest attraction after Babe Ruth retired in 1934.
In 1937, the year before Sam joined the team, fans of big headlines had
plenty to choose from—Amelia Earhart’s disappearance, the explosion of
the Hindenburg, the bombing of Guernica—but for baseball fans, the biggest
headline of all concerned Dean’s big toe.
On July 7, 1937, at Washington’s Griffith Stadium, the temperature

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ninety-two degrees and President Franklin D. Roosevelt in attendance, Diz

was on the mound for the National League all-stars. At the plate with two
outs in the third inning was Earl Averill, a Cleveland Indians outfielder.
Averill drove Dean’s first pitch right back at him, and the line drive hit Diz
on the left foot. The Cards pitcher limped from the field, and it wasn’t until
some time later that he found out his toe was broken. Trying to come back
too soon, he altered his pitching motion because of the pain in his toe, and
ended up hurting his arm.
The injury to his arm was so serious that some suggested he sit out the
’38 season, but Diz would have none of it. Having taken a $7,500 pay cut
without complaining, he told sportswriters his arm would “be the same ol’
great soupbone.”
“I believe him, I do,” said the Cardinals’ general manager, Branch Rickey.
“The boy’s got fire in his eyes. And that may mean a lot to our ball club. The
Cards are a seventh-place team on paper, but the spirit Dizzy is showing
may be catching.”
As usual, Diz and his Gashouse Gang teammates were making news.
Early in 1938, J. Edgar Hoover, the head G-man, revealed an aborted plot
to kidnap Diz. Peter Anders, a former Dillinger gang member, had planned
to hold him for $50,000 ransom, Hoover said, but backed out because he
wasn’t sure the Cards would pay.
In late March, Frisch talked to reporters about his rookie football player.
“That bird with No. 21 on his back at third base. That’s Sammy Baugh,” he
told the New York Times. “He can field,” Frisch said. “He’s a natural. Good
thrower too. But can he hit? That’s what tells the tale in this league. You’ve
gotta get those base hits, or there’s no soap.”
What Frisch didn’t know is that Sam was injured. After the Redskins had
won the title, Marshall and Halas scheduled three exhibition games in Jan-
uary to make extra money. Near the end of the third game, in Miami, Sam
broke his sternum.
“I’ve still never felt such pain,” he recalled years later. “I couldn’t let them
operate, because I was supposed to report to spring training with the Cardi-
nals in March. Naturally, when I got to spring training, I couldn’t throw or
hit because of my sternum. People said my baseball career ended after one
season because I couldn’t hit a curveball, but hell, who could have hit with a
broken sternum?”

J ohn Kieran of the New York Times noted: “Baugh hasn’t looked like Lou
Gehrig or Muscles Medwick at the plate so far in his big-league career,

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but the Cardinals are a long way from giving up on him in a hurry. Every
morning Onkel Franz leans on the batting cage and gives Slinging Sam spe-
cial instructions in hitting.”
Frisch told Kieran that a half hour of instruction daily ought to bring
him up to major-league par. “He’s a great prospect,” the manager said. “We’ll
keep him around for a while—let him see what the big league looks like. The
rest is up to him.”
Sam told Kieran that he would like to play baseball in the spring and
summer and then switch to football in the fall. Kieran reminded him that if
he made the Cardinals roster, he was likely to find a little stipulation in his
contract that wouldn’t allow him to play football. Sam said his baseball con-
tract allowed him to play football. “That’s all right for now,” Kieran wrote,
“because nobody knows whether or not he can hit well enough to stay in the
big leagues.”
Kieran suggested that if he developed as a baseball player, he would
switch sports. “At the moment, Slinging Sam is a great football star coming
up for a baseball trial,” he wrote. “But he can certainly handle himself in the
field, and if he can learn to hit there will be an opening for a good forward
passer on Mr. George Preston Marshall’s Washing-Done Redskins. Prob-
ably not this Fall, though. Slinging Sam, at best, for baseball purposes, looks
to be a year away.”
Sam was one of six third basemen in camp that spring, and he was ranked
at the bottom of the six. On the Cards’ early trips around Florida for exhibi-
tion games, Frisch didn’t even take him along with the squad. After a few
days, though, the manager realized the other five were even more inept than
young, inexperienced Sam Baugh.
“I never saw a worse bunch of third basemen in my life,” Frisch told
Shirley Povich of the Washington Post after a particularly irksome work-
out in St. Petersburg. “We’re in a bad way. I’ll really show what I think of the
third basemen on this club. I’ll show you how bad off we really are. I’m going
to put a football player out there on third base. Tomorrow it’s going to be
Sammy Baugh in our lineup.”
So there was Sam—“the ugly duckling of the bunch,” Povich called him—
on the field against the Yankees next day. He met the challenge like a pro. He
handled ten chances like a big leaguer, Povich noted, and on one occasion
faked a throw to first and trapped a Yankee off third. He also got three hits,
one of them a double. “And,” Povich wrote, “he appeared to be all the Cardi-
nals needed in the way of a third baseman.”
Povich also revealed that Sam’s hitting woes were the result of a football

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injury. He had hurt his shoulder in an exhibition game in Miami in January

and couldn’t follow through on his swing. Now that his shoulder was get-
ting better, though, Frisch was getting excited. (No word about the sternum
injury.) “He’s a better ballplayer than I was when I came into the league,”
said the Cardinals manager, who had been a fixture in the New York Giants’
infield from the day he left Fordham University.
That was on April 3. On April 4, Povich reported that Sam was on his way
to the minor leagues. “Frisch has given me my choice—Houston or Colum-
bus,” Sam told him. “It was pretty nice of him to put it that way. I don’t know
yet which club I’ll join. I’ll figure it out in a couple of days.” He didn’t stick
with the Cardinals, Povich reported, because he still wasn’t a reliable hitter
and because of his inexperience.
Sam didn’t appear all that disappointed, Povich said. “I’m satisfied I
made a good showing for a fellow who never played much except college
baseball,” Sam said. “I learned plenty here with Frisch. I’ll be back with the
Cardinals next spring—perhaps before that. Steady work in a fast minor
league will help me more than sitting on the bench with the Cardinals.”
The next day, Sam told the Post he had rejected the contract Marshall
sent him for the ’38 season. “He’s offering me the same salary I received last
year,” he said. “What does a fellow have to do to make good in that league?”
On April 6, the Post reported that Sam had been optioned to the Colum-
bus Redbirds, the Cards’ AA team in the American Association, where
Frisch wanted him to play shortstop.

O n April 9, Sam caught a Delta Airlines plane out of Atlanta—he was

still with the Cards in Florida—and flew to Dallas’s Love Field. “I prob-
ably will play pro football one more year, maybe more,” he told the Dallas
Morning News. “Football pays me well, although I think baseball beats foot-
ball, because you can play it longer. But I’ll probably be on the gridiron again
next season. After that I’ll decide whether I want to play it any longer or not.
I may and I may not.”
He then drove to Sweetwater, where he and Edmonia Smith, his high-
school sweetheart, planned their wedding. Sam told the Fort Worth Star-
Telegram that Edmonia still hadn’t decided exactly who would be at the
wedding. As for the best man, Sam said he hadn’t met him yet.
The young couple—Sam tall and rawboned, Edmonia petite, demure, and
dark haired—married in a quiet ceremony in the Sweetwater home of the
bride’s parents. The United Press reported that the bride was dressed in

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navy blue net with a bolero jacket. Even though Sam had left the marriage
license at his mother’s house, Edmonia’s father, Dr. Gary L. Smith, a Pres-
byterian minister in Sweetwater for the previous eleven years, went ahead
with the ceremony. He laughed and told Sam he could pick up the license
afterward.
Sam had used some of his football money to buy a little house on Sweet-
water Lake with about 750 acres, some cattle, and a horse. The young couple
didn’t live there at first. Right after the wedding, they left for Fort Worth on
their way to Columbus.
Edmonia—friends and family called her Mona—seemed less than excited
about the baseball experiment, even though the Star-Telegram reported
that she was “apparently happily resigned to her life as an ‘athletic widow’
for the next few years.” Having never lived anywhere but West Texas, it all
seemed a bit daunting to the young woman.
A reporter caught up with her in the coffee shop of Fort Worth’s Black-
stone Hotel the day after the wedding. “We’ll be home in January and Feb-
ruary, anyway—unless we discover we can play ice hockey,” Mona said
(whether with a smile or a grimace, the reporter didn’t indicate). “Sure,
I knew what I was in for,” she said. “Football from September through
December, baseball from March to September. It will be worse than a ‘golf
widow,’ but I don’t care.”
She said that she and Sam were a bit embarrassed that they couldn’t go
anywhere in Fort Worth without being recognized, whether it was the cof-
fee shop, the hotel lobby, or the street.
Sam said the couple didn’t plan to get a house in Columbus, at least until
he had a better idea of what the future held. “Frankly, I don’t know how I’ll
do in baseball,” he said. “They want me to play shortstop and it’s a new posi-
tion for me. The Cards have a mighty big chain, you know. If I don’t go at
Columbus, I may be shipped to a dozen other places. We can’t plan much
until we see how things come out.”
Sam would always remember one of his teammates at Columbus, a tall
rookie who looked like he might weigh 125 pounds, no more. He remem-
bered how the rookie outfielder would do calisthenics between pitches, put-
ting his glove in his back pocket, turning his back to the plate and touching
his toes. The vets, players whose big-league dreams had been dashed, hated
the young prima donna, but Ted Williams didn’t much care.
Sam didn’t have an opportunity to play very long on the same team as the
man who would become one of the greatest hitters of all time. A few weeks
after his marriage, Columbus optioned him to the Rochester Redwings of

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the International League, where his batting average was about .220 and
he mostly rode the bench. “As far as his value to the Rochester club is con-
cerned, Baugh will have no difficulty in getting permission to start football
work on August 10,” Povich reported.
L. D. Meyer, Sam’s old TCU teammate, spent six years in the majors
with the Cubs, the Tigers, and the Indians. Sam, Meyer recalled years later,
“was definitely a big-league third baseman”: “He had the greatest arm I ever
saw, and tremendous hands. He could catch anything—and then fire those
strikes to first base from behind his ear all day long.”
In later years, Sam always said he gave up on baseball because of one
man, Marty Marion. He realized that he would never be as good as the slick-
fielding infielder, who was about seventeen at the time and who would go
on to be the Cardinals’ stellar shortstop for eleven seasons. “Anyway, I had
problems with the curveball,” he said.
In July, Marshall scoffed at press reports that Sam was unhappy with his
salary. “We will pay Baugh his price,” the owner said, “but it will be my price
too. I will not have any trouble with Sammy Baugh. He can’t keep away from
football. If it came right down to it, he’d probably pay us to let him play.”
On August 3, the Post reported, “football’s greatest forward passer
scrawled his prized signature on a three-year contract with the Washington
Redskins.”
Sam was in Baltimore to play Rochester’s last game of the season when
he got a call from Flaherty. After meeting with the coach and Marshall at
the Annapolis Hotel, the trio drove to the Redskins’ office on Ninth Street,
where Marshall announced that Sam had signed over to the Redskins the
rights to “all his athletic endeavors” for three years at a sum that Marshall
termed “unprecedented in the history of professional football.”
Marshall wouldn’t reveal how much he was paying, just that it was sub-
stantially more than the $7,500 the Redskins had paid Sam the year before.
He said it wasn’t as much as Red Grange made for one year during his peak,
but that for a three-year period it constituted a new high.
Four Redskins remained unsigned, including Sam’s favorite target,
Wayne Millner, “but the biggest part of my worries is over,” the owner told
reporters. “You can tell Washington football fans for me that this is the great-
est thing that could have happened to local football. This three-year exclu-
sive rights contract guarantees that Baugh will play with the Redskins until
the end of the 1941 season. Also that he cannot accept any coaching offers
or even play baseball without our permission during that period. . . . He can
play down on the Texas sandlots if he wants to, but no more infielding for

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the St. Louis Cardinals or the International League.” Sam told reporters he
was more than satisfied with the new contract and was “sure glad to get it
off my chest.”
Whether he would ever play baseball again rested solely with Marshall,
who told reporters he believed baseball helped football players stay in
shape. “Look at Sammy,” he said, “in condition now, a week before practice
starts.” The Post reporter, describing Sam as “a picture of sartorial elegance
in a blue sports ensemble,” noted that he certainly appeared to be in shape.
He weighed 183, about five pounds below his playing weight, but expected to
put on about ten pounds before the first regular-season game.
Also in August, Sam inaugurated a thrice-weekly column in the Wash-
ington Post about his career, football techniques, and the NFL. “This is my
first offense as a sports writer, so kindly don’t rough the passer, at least until
I am squared away,” he wrote.
Actually, Shirley Povich, the Post’s beloved sportswriter for more than
four decades, ghostwrote that line and all the others attributed to Sam.
Years later, Povich confessed that he not only wrote the columns but also
invented many of the postgame quotes. He recalled that in the early days,
he was the only Post reporter covering the Redskins, which meant he had
to write the play-by-play, the color, the postgame comments, and his own
column. “Just a night’s work on the road. I did not feel abused,” he wrote
years later.
“Ghostwriting was not a wholly dishonorable profession, although
sometimes there were extremes,” he recalled. His favorite ghostwriter, he
said, was a reporter named John Gilhooly of the Boston Hearst newspa-
pers, who wrote for the morning paper under the name of Eddie Stanky,
the manager of the Boston Red Sox. In the afternoon paper, under his own
byline, he wrote a column second-guessing the Stanky story he had written
that morning.
“Baugh couldn’t be bothered with any discussion and gave me a blank
check to write anything I liked, and I did,” Povich revealed.

Every Sunday with Baugh’s help I would diagram a Redskin play, labeling it
one that had beaten some other team. But once, when Baugh was unavailable,
the team’s trainer came forward with a play we could publish.
“When did it ever work?” I asked. “We never really used it,” he said, “but I
always thought it would work.”
So the play was diagrammed and published, and that day the Redskins
took an awful beating from the Bears. Two days later the sports editor got an

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angry letter from a lady who complained, “How can the Redskins expect to
win when Sammy Baugh gives away their best plays every Sunday?”

Even when the Redskins won the NFL championship in 1937, the first in
Washington and team history, Povich was the sole reporter on the Redskins
beat. He didn’t have time to track down Sam and get exact quotes, so he
invented what he expected Sam would have said, usually aw-shucks obser-
vations that made the Texan sound like a young Will Rogers—if Rogers had
been a Boy Scout. The real Sam was one of the nicest guys in the league, but
he was gloriously profane; Povich’s Sam was straight from the pages of a
Clair Bee sports novel for boys.
“Right now, I want to refute a story they’ve been telling about me ever
since I broke into the pro league,” Povich’s Sam wrote in his inaugural
column.

Up until this time, I’ve let it stand, but the thing ought to be cleared up. I don’t
like to be sailing under false pretenses.
The story I’m talking about is the one they tell about me and Coach Fla-
herty the day I reported to the Redskins last year. Flaherty was pointing out
the differences between pro football and college football and he was discuss-
ing passes with me. He said the pros were particular and that pass receivers
weren’t in the habit of jumping all over the lot for wild passes.
According to the story, Flaherty said, “Sammy, on those short passes
where the ends cut sharp to the opposite side, you’ve got to lay that ball right
up there for ’em. Throw it right at their eye.”
The story went that I told Flaherty that was all right with me, but which
eye did he mean?
That isn’t true. I never said that. Coach Flaherty never leaves anything to
the imagination. He is plenty thorough and specific. He made it all plain in the
beginning. He told me I had to throw my passes at the right end’s left eye and
the left end’s right eye, on those cut-back plays.

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 CHAPTER

12

THE 1938 AND

1939 REDSKINS
giantvictims

S
am’s value to the Redskins extended beyond his slingshot arm, his
strong right leg, and his winning ways. His Texas drawl and his easy-
going attitude toward life made him an instant hero for the newly
established Redskins fans. “In one short season, his first as a profes-
sional, he became football’s greatest thrill,” the NFL’s president, Joe Carr,
wrote not long after Sam’s rookie season.
The excitement he brought to the game and the success he brought to
Washington helped the Redskins build the kind of solid fan support that
they had never known in Boston (and that continues to this day). “The fact
that fans in the nation’s capital are among the most ardently loyal in the
league can be traced directly to the arrival of Slingin’ Sam, cowboy hat and
all, back in Washington’s first season in the NFL,” wrote the team’s histo-
rian, Richard Whittingham.
Of course, the city was his, as it would be for any young and handsome
sports hero. He couldn’t go anywhere in D.C.—to a barbershop, a restau-
rant, or the movies—without being accosted by admiring fans. Sam liked
the attention, but even as a young man, he didn’t let it go to his head. He
realized, even then, that although he was a talented athlete, that didn’t make
him any better than anyone else.

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 = THE 1938 AND 1939 REDSKINS =

F or their summer training camp in ’38, the Redskins moved to a softball

stadium in Ballston, Virginia, just across the Potomac from Washing-
ton. Except for Cliff Battles, the world-championship team was pretty much
intact, and fans were excited.
Not only was Sam, rookie year under his belt, expected to set the league
afire yet again, but the team had added several promising newcomers also.
The biggest of the bunch was Wilbur “Wee Willie” Wilkin, a tackle from
St. Mary’s College, who would go on to have a stellar career with the Red-
skins even as he established himself as a real character. Also expected to
play major roles on the ’38 team were rookies Tilden “Tillie” Manton, a full-
back from TCU; Bob Masterson, an end from the University of Miami; and
Frank Filchock, a quarterback from Indiana. Andy Farkas, a halfback from
the University of Detroit, was slated to step into Battles’s shoes.
Two-a-day workouts began on August 10, the weather hot and humid
in Washington. Thirty-six players, including eighteen rookies, answered
the morning call. Sam missed the morning workout but arrived by plane
shortly after lunch. A shirtsleeved crowd of about 200 watched from por-
table bleachers. Among the spectators was Battles.
Three weeks later, the world champion Redskins opened their exhibi-
tion season at Chicago’s Soldier Field against the college all-stars. The day
before the Wednesday-night game, Ray Flaherty blistered his men for their
lackadaisical attitude. “You fellows are acting too much like world champi-
ons before the game,” the red-haired, freckle-faced coach shouted, pacing
the floor of the team locker room between benches filled with his players.

The time to act like the champions is Wednesday night. We won the league
championship because we didn’t underestimate the opposition. And if we lose
to the college All-Stars, it will be because you fellows underrate them. That
team those college coaches will put on the field will be a tougher outfit than
anything we saw last year. But you fellows don’t seem to think so. You’re not
working as hard. You’re not taking this game seriously enough. You’re letting
me down, and you’re letting down those Washington fans who supported you
last season and are expecting big things from you Wednesday.

Even though the rah-rah exhortations sounded more like something

that would come from the Post’s Povich than from Flaherty, the coach had
reason to be concerned. Before nearly seventy-five thousand fans the next

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night, the all-stars whipped the world champions 28–16. The collegians
thoroughly outplayed the defending champions, and Sam’s collegiate coun-
terpart, Cecil Isbell from Purdue, showed up the previous year’s rookie sen-
sation. Isbell’s passing and running resulted in two touchdowns and set up a
field goal. The spotlight going into the game had been on a Colorado running
back named Byron “Whizzer” White, but the future Supreme Court justice
played only sparingly.
The Redskins gave up two interceptions, but two rookies, George Kara-
matic and Bill Tuckey, threw them, not Sam. He had injured his foot early in
the week and wasn’t really a factor in the game.
Despite the loss to the youngsters, the Redskins got off to a good start
in the regular season. Opening at Municipal Stadium in Philadelphia, the
team rode the passing arm of their star, who was twelve of thirteen passing
in the first half.
Just before the end of the half, Sam went back to pass and found Max
Krause open as an avalanche of Eagles drove him to the turf. Krause scored
on the forty-seven-yard pass play; Sam stayed on the ground. When he
finally got up and limped off the field, twenty thousand Eagles fans gave him
a standing ovation, “for he had treated them to an amazing spectacle of for-
ward passing,” wrote Povich, who was at his lyric best:

Get the picture of a Redskin team, leaderless, reeling, with Sammy Baugh
forced to the sidelines by painful injuries. Get the picture of a team stripped
of its greatest attacking threat, bereft of the weapon it always had counted
on and worried by the prospect of losing the first defense of its national
championship.
Then get this picture: That same team summoning some strange hidden
force in the second half, fighting in sheer desperation, and twice finding the
power to produce two Hollywood-script touchdowns to come from behind
and win the game.
That was how the Washington Redskins beat the Philadelphia Eagles,
26–23, in a supersensational game today before 20,000 wildly gibbering pro-
fessional football fans goggle-eyed at the amazing pace.

The Redskins won on a trick play. With Bill Hartman from Georgia
replacing Sam at tailback, and the ball on the Redskins’ thirty-eight-yard
line, Hartman dropped back to pass. His right end, Wayne Millner, dropped
into the backfield just before the ball was snapped, which made a guard, Bill
Young, pass eligible. The Eagles never even noticed the 245-pound lineman

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as he rumbled down the field. Hartman saw him, though, and flipped a pass
to Young, who gathered it in on the Eagles’ thirty-five-yard line. “With the
ball in his grip, Young no longer lumbered,” Povich wrote. “He was off with
all the speed at his command and in the clear. It was 245 pounds of guard
streaking it for the goal line and making it with ridiculous ease, for not an
Eagle was in the vicinity.”
Even with Sam on the bench for the next three games because of his
shoulder separation, the Redskins were 4-0-1 when they traveled to Detroit
to face the Lions.
Andy Farkas, heir apparent to Battles, was playing his first pro game in
his hometown before the largest Lions crowd ever. He let his nerves get the
best of him in the early going. After the Lions scored on a field goal near the
end of the first quarter, Farkas fielded the kickoff inside his own ten and,
mentally reverting to the college game, where the goalposts were at the back
of the end zone instead of the front, assumed he had fielded the ball in the
end zone for a touchback, which meant the Redskins would get the ball on
the twenty. When he realized his mistake, he attempted to circle behind the
goal posts and run the ball out, but the Lions were on him before he could
escape the end zone. The Lions led 5–0.
The score stayed that way until shortly before the half, when the Lions
lined up for a sure-thing field goal. Wee Willie Wilkin made sure it didn’t
happen. At the snap, he launched his 270 pounds across the line of scrim-
mage, swept aside the defensive end, and barged into the Lions’ backfield.
The deep blocker, Ace Gutowsky, moved to stop the giant rookie, but Wee
Willie picked up the 200-pounder and hurled him at the Lion kicker. The
ball bounced off Gutowsky’s helmet; blocker, kicker, and ball scattered like
bowling balls.
In the second half, Farkas redeemed himself, hauling in a number of
Baugh passes and scoring the winning touchdown. The Redskins won 7–5.

M eanwhile, the Redskins were in near revolt against their owner and
what they called his “chiseling tactics.” Marshall arranged for the
team to play a number of exhibition games before, during, and after the reg-
ular season, but he refused to pay his players for them. “We received noth-
ing for playing the exhibition game at Louisville in September, although
the Redskins front office received a sizeable guarantee for the game,”
an unnamed player told the Post. “And we have already been told that we
can expect nothing from an exhibition game scheduled at Richmond in

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November.” That anonymous player could well have been Sam, who always
called the Redskins owner “Mr. Marshall” but certainly wasn’t intimidated
by him. The team’s superstar had quickly established himself as a leader
despite his youth.
In the same article, several players told the Post that their contracts
with Marshall called for them to be paid for exhibition games as well as
league games. “Our contract says that we are to receive a ‘sum to be agreed
upon’ for the exhibition games. We have reminded Marshall about that, but
received nothing.” The player quoted above noted that every other club in
the league paid its players for exhibition games scheduled during the league
season. “Even the Pittsburgh Pirates, who are losing money this year, are
paying their players,” he said.
The Redskins’ discontent began in January after they had won the cham-
pionship and set out on an exhibition tour to California and throughout the
South. Marshall lost $6,000 on the tour, but the players believed it was his
own fault. “We wanted to play the exhibition games on percentage, but he
wouldn’t let us,” the player said. “He thought he could get a terrific gate out
of a Los Angeles game, and he insisted on paying us our regular weekly sal-
ary instead of a percentage. The Los Angeles game fell through, the others
didn’t draw and he took the loss instead of us.”
Marshall’s “chiseling” was nothing new. From the beginning, he and
other owners scheduled as many exhibition games as possible to market
their teams and generate revenue— never mind that the players ran the risk
of getting hurt and ruining their ability to play during the regular season.
For example, in 1937, Marshall attempted to schedule semipro games
in cities near those with NFL franchises, as a way to cover travel expenses
for league games. On August 19, the Redskins’ general manager, J. K. Espy,
wrote a letter to LeRoy White of Terre Haute, Indiana, that illustrates the
fly-by-night nature of scheduling in the early days:

This is to advise that the Redskins would be interested in a proposition to play

in Terre Haute sometime between November 14th and November 21st.
On those two dates we will be playing in Pittsburgh and Cleveland respec-
tively and might very well be able to play some team in your city between the
League games, providing, of course, that the terms are suitable.
If you can schedule a team of players who are eligible in the eyes of the
National Football League, of which we are a member and whose rules we must
adhere to, we will be willing to play you for a guarantee of $2500.00 with an
option of 50% of the gross receipts after the federal taxes and park rental have
been deducted.

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With the players in almost open revolt in 1938, Flaherty told the Red-
skins’ owner the players deserved to be paid for exhibition games. “It isn’t
Flaherty’s fault. He’s for us,” the anonymous player told the Post, “but Mar-
shall isn’t doing himself any good by chiseling on us. In fact, Marshall is
ham-stringing Flaherty. That’s what it amounts to. One of Ray’s big jobs is
to keep the players on his club contented, but he’s not getting any support
from Marshall. We’re not kids anymore. Flaherty’s pep talks can’t make us
forget that we’re getting a raw deal.” One of the Redskins, a veteran, sug-
gested that the team’s poor showing against Brooklyn—the Redskins man-
aged only a 6–6 tie, despite being heavy favorites—was the result of the pay
dispute. “The fellows just didn’t have the old spirit,” he said, “and I think
I know why.”
The dispute simmered for years. Owners, as columnist William Rhoden
of the New York Times once observed, “were essentially feudal lords who
often treated their teams like fiefdoms, their players like subjects.”
Marshall was even more imperious than most, but Sam and his team-
mates, however much they grumbled, put up with “Mr. Marshall” and his
high-handed ways. They were well aware that he owned them.
Roy Zimmerman was one of the few who stood up to him. A running back
and quarterback drafted by the Redskins out of San Jose State in 1940, Zim-
merman was a superb football player. He played in the Pro Bowl in 1942,
was All-Pro twice, and in 1945 led the league in interceptions.
In the summer of 1943, the Redskins played the College All-Stars. When
Marshall refused to pay for that game, Zimmerman refused to play in it. The
Redskins owner unloaded him to the Steagles (the merged team of the Phil-
adelphia Eagles and the Pittsburgh Steelers during World War II). Zimmer-
man’s obstinacy, plus a lawsuit filed a few years later by Bill Radovich—a
lineman who played for the Detroit Lions—would lead, eventually, to the
formation of the National Football League Players Association. Sam would
be out of the league by then.
Marshall may not have been eager to pay his players, but he did buy
them new burgundy and gold uniforms. “Satin pants which weigh less than
two pounds, feature the new regalia, while a positively foreboding Indian
head decorates the jerseys,” the Post reported. Sam was lighter as well.
He weighed only 177 pounds, ten pounds less than he did his rookie year.
He blamed the weight loss on his summer of baseball.

O n November 13, the Redskins invaded Chicago for their first regular-
season meeting since the ’37 championship contest, and on a cold,

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windswept Wrigley Field, the Bears beat them in more ways than one. It
was “a brawl game,” Shirley Povich wrote, “a bruising battle of doubled fists,
crushing knees and cleated anger. Tempers were short from the outset, but
when the two teams settled down to football at odd moments, the Bears
were superior.”
The tone was set early when, on the third play of the game, Redskins run-
ning back George Karamatic hauled in a punt at his own thirty-yard line and
was immediately hammered in the face by the ham-sized fist of big Joe Sty-
dahar. Karamatic, out cold, dropped the ball, and the Bears recovered on the
Redskins’ thirty-six-yard line.
George Marshall was enraged. He vaulted the railing in front of his box
seat, strode onto the field, and demanded that the officials penalize the Mon-
sters of the Midway for unnecessary roughness. Bear fans went crazy as
the red-faced owner argued nose-to-nose with the referee. Later in the half,
three players—two from the Bears and one from the Redskins—were kicked
out the game for what the Post called “flagrant slugging with closed fists.”
Sam was ineffective for much of the day and also had a punt blocked. The
Bears won 31–7.
Halas rubbed it in after the game, “apologizing” that the Bears were
too tough on their visitors. “That’s too bad, girlies,” he told reporters. “I’m
awfully sorry my boys were a little rough. What say we all go down to the
corner for a double banana split and a fistful of chocolate éclairs? And get
this, Gertrude—one more squeak out of you pantywaists and I’ll lick the lot
of you myself, and that goes for your boss too.”
On the way back to Washington that evening, Marshall burst into Shirley
Povich’s Pullman compartment, holding a check in the air and crowing that
it was the biggest check any visiting team had ever taken out of Chicago.
The next day, as Povich walked through the train cars, he noticed that Mar-
shall had moved his players from the more comfortable Pullman cars back
to coaches, and that some of the injured players were lying in the baggage
cars. In a column, Povich contrasted Marshall’s penny-pinching with his
boasting. Marshall banned the Post columnist from the locker room.

O n a wet, cold Sunday afternoon at Griffith Stadium two weeks after

the Chicago loss, the Pittsburgh Pirates kept the Redskins offense
bottled up for three quarters in a game the Redskins had to win in order to
stay in the title chase with the New York Giants. As Sam sat on the bench,
still not 100 percent, the rookie Whizzer White ran up and down the field
almost at will. “Whizzer White justified all his pregame notices,” Povich

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reported. “The slender White, playing with a team that has won only three
of its games this season, was a dazzling fellow with his shifty gallops, and
for the 45 minutes he played he was a constant menace for the Redskins.”
Somehow the Skins were leading 3–0 when Sam made his first appear-
ance on the field. The more than twenty-five thousand overcoated and blan-
keted fans in the stands rose as one to cheer as the slender, young tailback,
seemingly unconcerned about the wet, slippery ball, took the snap from
center and immediately began passing. He whipped a long low pass to his
buddy Wayne Millner, who had gotten behind safetyman White. The scor-
ing play covered fifty-seven yards. Three minutes later, Sam found Bob
McCheney for a fifty-six–yard touchdown pass.
Sam threw eight passes that day, completing five. His receivers dropped
the other three, no doubt because of the wet ball.
With Sam hurt most of the year and without Battles in the backfield, the
Skins struggled throughout the ’38 season. Still, they found themselves in a
familiar place at the end of it, battling for the division title with the Giants.
In New York, Richards Vidmer of the Post reported, “everything seems to
be going along as usual.”

A lot of people don’t even seem to be aware of the fact that the New York
Giants and the Washington Redskins are going to play in the Polo Grounds on
Sunday for the Eastern championship of the National Professional League.
. . . But it’s different in Washington. The Capital has become a campus. Every-
body seems to be aware that the Redskins are going to play the Giants in New
York on Sunday, and the old college spirit is running up and down Pennsylva-
nia Avenue like a lobbyist looking for an appropriation.

Vidmer professed to hear Washingtonians singing the Redskins’ fight song

as they walked along the city sidewalks.

The professionals, as a whole, don’t go in for the campus spirit, but Washing-
ton is different. It’s probably due to the influence of George Preston Marshall.

Vidmer noted that although Marshall had not gone to college, he was always
looking for a local college team to call his own—sometimes Georgetown,
sometimes George Washington, occasionally the University of Maryland,
one season Catholic University.

He organized various teams to cheer about. One was a professional basketball

team and there was a report that he spent one entire evening looking for a line

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to rhyme with “Fight for good old Palace Laundry.” Finally he was forced to
give up his basketball team. He couldn’t find a rhyme.

Twelve thousand Redskins fans made the trek north to the Big Apple;
they might as well have stayed at home. “Caught in the fury of ceaseless
onslaughts by a Giant team in a passion for revenge for the Redskins’ 49–14
victory of last year, the Redskins were utterly routed,” Povich wrote. “Their
defenses shattered, their attack a puny puerile thing today, their balance
and precision lost in the face of the Giants’ assaults, the Redskins were not
only beaten but humiliated.”
“In the middle of the fourth period the Redskin brass band marched out
in a body, leaving their football players to save their lives and uniforms if
possible,” John Kieran of the New York Times reported. “The band had seen
enough. So had the Giant rooters. Last year’s humiliation had been royally
revenged.”
The Giants beat the Skins 36–0, at the time the worst loss in the club’s
history.
Sam completed only four of twelve passing attempts and threw three
interceptions. After the game, the Texan tossed his helmet into a trunk,
yanked off his flimsy shoulder pads, and peeled tape off his legs. “I’m mad
and don’t let anybody tell you any different,” he told reporters. “Hell, they
played on the same field we did, didn’t they? They played with the same
football, and they were the same club we slapped down last year, weren’t
they? But everything went wrong.” The Skins ended the season with a
6-3-2 record.

S am endured something of a sophomore jinx in 1938, although at least

one good thing happened that year that probably extended his career
by at least a decade. Marshall was finally successful at convincing his fel-
low owners to change the rule that allowed defensive players to pound on a
quarterback until the end of the play, even after he had gotten rid of the ball.
Sam and his fellow quarterbacks were often literally running for their lives,
even though the man with the ball might be twenty yards downfield.
“Passers took a terrible beating,” Sam recalled. “That’s one rule Mr. Mar-
shall finally got changed. I remember he called me and asked me if it would
help if he could get a rule through that would protect passers. I said, ‘Heck,
yes, it would probably let me play 10 years longer.’”

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S am went back to Texas as soon as the season was over. When he

reported back to the Redskins in the late summer of 1939, he reported
not to hot, humid D.C. but to Spokane, Washington, Coach Flaherty’s home-
town. The team trained at Cheney Normal School, eighteen miles outside
Spokane. The coach believed that the more comfortable climate—Spokane
is two thousand feet above sea level—would help his guys get in shape more
quickly. He blamed the loss to the Giants in the division-title game on poor
physical conditioning.
On their cross-country trek back to D.C. to start the season, the Red-
skins won exhibition games in San Francisco and Los Angeles. The regular
season started off with the Redskins’ biggest rivals, the Giants, coming to
Griffith Stadium. The game ended in a frustrating 0–0 tie, the only scoreless
tie in Redskins history. During the following three weeks, they beat Brook-
lyn 14–13, the Chicago Cardinals 28–7, and Philadelphia.
The game with the Eagles before 33,258 fans in Philly’s Municipal Sta-
dium—the largest turnout in Eagles history—was billed as a duel between
Slingin’ Sam and little Davey O’Brien, the Heisman Trophy winner who had
been Sam’s understudy at TCU. It didn’t turn out that way. Neither team
scored through three quarters. Early in the fourth quarter, Sam threw a
thirty-yard touchdown to end Charley Malone, and the Redskins won 7–0.
Next up was Pittsburgh. Sam Boyd, who had joined the Steelers that year
after an outstanding career as a receiver at Baylor, recalled years later play-
ing against Sam. (Boyd was later Baylor’s head coach.)

From the first time he stepped onto the field, Sam was the best quarterback
in the league—the best there ever had been. And in all my years of playing and
coaching, I still can’t think of anybody I ever saw who could throw the ball like
he could.

Boyd recalled that 1939 was the year that Dick Todd, a Texas A&M standout,
joined the Redskins.

I knew all about Dick, because I’d played against him for three years, but
nobody else up there had ever heard of him. The first time we played Wash-
ington, I tried to tell our people we needed to watch out for the new running
back. But they told me, “We don’t worry about rookies.” Well, early in the game
we had them backed up on their four-yard line, and all of a sudden Sam takes

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a snap and just straightens up and throws a quick slant to Todd, who runs 96
yards for a touchdown.

The Steelers paid a lot more attention to the rookie after that, but it didn’t
really matter. With Todd running and Sam passing, the Redskins beat Art
Rooney’s team 44–14.
The next game was with the Green Bay Packers, in Green Bay. The Pack-
ers handed the Redskins their first defeat of the season, 24–14. Washington
rebounded with victories over Pittsburgh and Detroit, thus tying the Giants
for the Eastern Division lead. The final game of the season was in New York,
where for the third straight year, the Redskins would be facing off against
the Giants for the division championship.
As usual, the exodus from the nation’s capital began early on the morn-
ing of December 2. Buses, private cars, private trains, airplanes—every con-
veyance that could ferry fifteen thousand rabid fans to the Big Apple was
jammed. As usual, Marshall and the Redskins Marching Band led thou-
sands up Broadway toward Columbus Circle. At the Polo Grounds, thou-
sands were turned away as a record-breaking crowd of sixty-three thousand
jammed into the stadium.
The Giants kicked two field goals before Sam got his arm unlimbered.
Although he completed a string of passes, the Redskins had to give up the
ball on downs. For the Giants, it was three and out, and the ensuing punt
ended up on the Redskins’ three-yard line. The Redskins opted to punt out
of trouble. Just as the ball left the foot of kicker Jimmie Johnson, a Giants
player knocked him down. Although referee Bill Halloran was right on top
of the play, he declined to throw his flag, and the Giants took the ball at the
Redskins’ thirty-yard line. The Giants settled for their third field goal of the
game, making the score 9–0 going into the fourth quarter.
Early in the final quarter, Wee Willie Wilkin blocked a punt, and backup
tailback Frank Filchock hit Bob Masterson for a touchdown. Masterson
kicked the extra point, making the score 9–7.
The next time the Redskins got the ball, Filchock again found Masterson
open, and the receiver caught the ball on the Giants’ two-yard line. Thinking
the sideline was the goal line, he stepped out of bounds, exultant that he had
scored what was likely the game winner. The Redskins fumbled on the next
play, and the Giants recovered.
Washington, still trailing by two, got the ball back with five minutes left
to play. Sam drove them down the field on a sixty-five-yard march to the
Giants’ eight-yard line and a first down. Two plunges into the line got them
to the Giants’ three—three yards for a touchdown and the Eastern Division

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championship with a minute and a half to play. The overflow crowd was on
its feet, the noise deafening. The Redskins called time out, and Bo Russell,
who hadn’t missed a field goal all year, trotted onto the field for a chip shot
and the championship. More than sixty thousand were silent.
Filchock, the holder, took the snap. Russell stepped into the ball and sent
it sailing through the uprights. Filchock and Russell hugged each other. Mel
Hein and other Giants tore their helmets off in disgust. The brass band,
directly behind the goalposts, began beating drums of victory. Referee Hal-
loran, staring toward the goalposts as if transfixed, brought his hands up
as high as his waist, preparing to signal that the kick was good, when sud-
denly he brought them down and across his knees, signaling “no good”! He
claimed the kick was wide right.
The Redskins couldn’t believe it. And neither could the Giants. As fans
poured onto the field, fights broke out. When the game ended a few minutes
later, police tried to escort a wide-eyed Halloran from the field through the
milling mass of infuriated Redskin fans. As the cops struggled toward the
exit, another fight broke out, and Halloran was roughed up but not seriously
injured. Redskins player Ed Justice, who was in the middle of the melee,
appeared to hit Halloran.
Flaherty also caught up with the referee. In the dressing room, he told
reporters what he had found out: “Halloran told me he could have called
it either way. He said it was like a close decision by an umpire on a ball or
strike. I could argue, but it would do me no good. If that guy has got a con-
science, he’ll never have another good night’s sleep as long as he lives.”
Corinne Griffith recalled that the rain began shortly after the Redskins’
entourage pulled out of Grand Central. “As we passed through the brightly
lighted coach, I had my nearest view of a team unjustly defeated,” she
recalled. “The tragic looking faces reflected the gall in their cup of bitter-
ness; it was heartbreaking, the more so because there was no word of com-
fort to offer; nothing one could say or do; just a hopeless, helpless feeling.”
The Redskins arrived in Washington two hours late, but more than seven
thousand fans were waiting in the rain. The stationmaster called it “the
largest crowd since the troops returned from France.” As Griffith recalled,
there were “men, women, children, newsboys, Congressmen, Judges, fans—
black and white—all of one accord—all in unity—all of one mind—all agreed
on one thing: ‘We was robbed!’”
The morning papers in both Washington and New York carried pic-
tures showing the ball well inside the uprights as it sailed past the cross
bar. Newsreels showed the same thing. The NFL’s president, Carl Storck,
insisted the pictures taken from an angle proved nothing. The National

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Geographic Society offered to make a scientific survey of photos made by

the Associated Press, but Storck refused the offer. Storck also ruled on the
Redskins’ Justice, who faced a $500 fine and a life suspension from pro-
fessional football. According to Halloran, the player had not struck him, so
Justice lived to play again.
The Post’s Povich recalled years later that he got scores of irate letters
about the infamous kick. One in particular was memorable, from a fan whose
fanaticism may have been a bit spirit fortified. “I was sitting on the 50-yard-
line,” the fan wrote Povich. “I saw two balls and two sets of goal posts, and I
know damn well one of those balls went through one of those posts.”

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 CHAPTER

13

THE 1940 NFL

CHAMPIONSHIP
themonsters’revenge

I
n 1940, the Redskins headed back to Spokane, the theft of a division
championship a few months earlier still rankling, and set up camp at
Flaherty’s (and Bing Crosby’s) alma mater, Gonzaga College. Vincent X.
Flaherty of the Washington Times-Herald described the training facility
as “the most ultramodern” he’d ever seen, “with its rigging of nickeled heat
lamps, violet ray contraptions, lily-white cots and rubbing tables which
would make a Hollywood masseur blink in admiration.”
The team started strong, with exhibition wins over Green Bay, 28–20,
and an outfit called the Eastern College All-Stars, 35–12. That game was
played in Boston, of all places; twenty-five thousand fans showed up. Before
the regular season began, they Redskins had traveled 7,229 miles by train,
playing football along the way.
They opened at home against Dan Topping’s Brooklyn Dodgers before a
crowd of thirty-three thousand; the ice-skating star Sonja Henie threw out
the first ball. Sam, completely free of injuries for the first time in three sea-
sons, got off to a great start. Against a tough Brooklyn team, he completed
eleven of fourteen passes, including a forty-one-yard touchdown pass; aver-
aged better than fifty yards on three punts, including a crucial fifty-seven-
yard quick kick; and carried the ball twice for a total of ten yards from the
left halfback position. The Redskins won 24–17.

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“Baugh, starting the final season of his three-year contract with the
Washington club, was the cause of Coach Ray Flaherty’s greatest post-
game rejoicing,” the Washington Post reported. “Even more significant for
Flaherty than the victory over Brooklyn was the knowledge that Baugh is
ready for a great season. ‘They’re a great ball club, make no mistake of that,’
said Brooklyn coach Jock Sutherland, ‘and in Baugh they possess one of the
greatest players in football today.’”
Marshall let it be known that he wasn’t so sure—for the most transpar-
ent of reasons. Sam’s three-year contract would be up after the ’40 season,
and the niggardly owner was planning to pay him just as little as he could
get away with, even as he goaded him into another great year. “I think he will
get out of football if he bumps into another spotty season,” Marshall told a
reporter. “I think he will make a good coach. It’s unfortunately true that the
last two of Sammy’s seasons here have been spotty.” He also predicted that
Sam would never be as good as he had been in 1937.
Sam was a proud man, but he also knew his owner was a blowhard. As
he would do throughout his career, he went out and played as well as he was
able. More often than not, that was better than anyone else in the game.

Y ears later, Sam would label the 1940 Redskins the best team he ever
played on, despite the nightmare ending to that season.
The second game of the season was with the same team that had “stolen”
the Eastern Division title the previous December. This time the Redskins
won, 21–7, before 34,713 at a packed Griffith Stadium. Dick Todd, the “Crow-
ell Cyclone,” ran back a punt seventy-eight yards for a touchdown. The for-
mer Texas Aggie star played so well in several games that Sam remarked,
“Dick Todd is the greatest running back I’ve ever seen in my life—and I’m
not excepting Cliff Battles. Get Dick into the open field and nobody will
catch him.”
The Redskins won their first seven games before falling to the Dodg-
ers in a rematch, 16–14. Despite the loss, Sam completed an NFL record
twenty-three completions in a single game. Two were for Washington’s only
touchdowns.
That set up one of the two grudge games the Redskins played every year,
with Halas’s Chicago Bears coming to town in a game that was billed as a
preview of the championship game. It turned out to be that and more.
The Redskins came into the game 7-1, the Bears 6-2. From the start of
the year, the Bears had been the odds-on favorite to win the NFL title. “No

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one’s going to beat the Bears this year,” said Bert Bell, the then owner of the
Eagles, in the preseason. “They’re the greatest team ever assembled.”
Although the Bears didn’t go undefeated, they did have six future Hall of
Famers in their starting lineup: quarterback Sid Luckman, the first mod-
ern T-formation quarterback; halfback George McAfee, the most danger-
ous broken-field runner in the league; center “Bulldog” Turner; tackle Joe
Stydahar; and guards Danny Fortmann and George Musso. The team also
featured several all-pros. Most opponents agreed with Jim Lawrence, a
Philadelphia lineman: “It was worse when the Bear second string came in
because they were breathing fire trying to prove they should be first string.”
The sellout crowd of thirty-six thousand at Griffith Stadium expected
a high-scoring affair from the NFL’s two top offenses. Instead, they saw
a defensive battle as the Bears’ Hunk Anderson kept Sam running for his
life most of the afternoon. The Redskins’ defense kept the Bears bottled
up as well—as did two booming punts from Sam that each traveled more
than seventy yards. The only touchdown pass of the day was thrown not
by Sam or Bears star Sid Luckman, but by the Redskins’ backup, Frank
Filchock. In the second quarter, the halfback was sweeping right when he
suddenly pulled up and tossed an eighteen-yard pass to Todd at the back of
the end zone.
The Redskins led 7–3 with forty seconds left to play when the Bears’
backup quarterback, Bob Snyder, took the snap at midfield and found
receiver George McAfee loose at the fifteen. McAfee, the fastest man in the
NFL, appeared to have a clear route to the goal line. Todd, playing defen-
sive halfback, gave chase and, with a diving tackle, managed to bring down
McAfee at the one-yard line. On the next play, Wee Willie Wilkin burst
through the line and smothered the Bears ball carrier five yards behind the
line of scrimmage.
With only two seconds left on the clock, Snyder fired a pass into the right
corner of the end zone, where fullback Bill Osmanski was open for a split
second. Filchock came up fast and hit Osmanski just as the ball arrived. It
looked as if the Redskins defender had pinioned Osmanski’s arms and the
Bears receiver couldn’t hold on. “Interference!” the Bears screamed, and an
enraged Halas raced onto the field. The referee thought otherwise, but the
Bears continued to protest long after the final gun had sounded.
The Bears were devastated. Some of the players were crying as they
walked down the ramp toward the locker room. Bulldog Turner came up
alongside his old Sweetwater pal. “Just remember,” he muttered to Sam,
“we’ll be seeing you bastards in three weeks. Don’t forget that.”

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Sam knew better than to rub it in, but a graceless Marshall did not.
Reporters asked him about the call, and the Redskins’ owner, not surpris-
ingly, shot from the hip. Still fuming about the Halloran incident that ended
the Redskins’ ’39 season, he had no sympathy for “We wuz robbed” argu-
ments. “Crybabies!” he called the Bears. “Quitters!” Marshall couldn’t con-
tain himself. “They fold up when the going gets tough,” he said. “Just look at
what they did today. They don’t know how to win a close game.”
Sam and his teammates cringed when they read Marshall’s comments
in the Monday-morning papers. They respected the Bears, and they knew
how they would have reacted if it had been Halas making such ill-advised
remarks.
“I never played against a poor Bears team,” Sam recalled. “I always
thought they had the toughest damn defense in the league. Day in and day
out, they were the best team when I was up there. We never had any game
with them that was easy. Any time we went up against them we got two or
three boys hurt.”
Meanwhile, the Bears breezed through the final two weeks of the season.
The Redskins traveled to New York with an opportunity to wrap up the divi-
sion title against the Giants. Even though the Giants weren’t in contention,
they managed to be a pain, beating Sam and his boys 21–7, thereby handing
the Dodgers a chance to catch the division-leading Skins.
The Redskins took care of business, though, by defeating the Eagles in
the regular-season finale to win their third division title in five years—their
fourth in the view of the many fans who still couldn’t stomach what had
happened in New York the year before. Their record of 9-2-0 was the best
thus far in team history. Sam, named all-pro for the second time in his four-
year-old career, completed 111 passes for a league-leading 1,367 yards and
12 touchdowns.
The Bears had won the Western Division title, and the stage was set for
the first world championship game ever to be played in the nation’s capital.
The game sold out in three hours, the quickest sellout in NFL history. “We
could sell 100,000 tickets,” Flaherty noted.
“Plainclothes detectives, keeping a sharp eye out for known ticket scalp-
ers, also had instructions to keep their eyes open for ‘amateurs,’” Marshall
told the Post.
“There were more red feathers in downtown Washington last Sunday
than had been seen all fall at Harvard, Cornell and Stanford put together,”
Time magazine reported. “Not since the World Series of 1924 had there
been so much excitement in the nation’s capital. Louisville might have its
Derby, Indianapolis its auto race, but this year Washington had the show

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of shows: their beloved Redskins were playing the Chicago Bears for the
professional football championship of the world.”
Marshall kept it up. He sent a telegram to Halas that read:

congratulations. you got me in this thing and i hope i have the pleasure of beat-
ing your ears off next sunday and every year to come. justice is triumphant. we
should play for the championship every year. game will be sold out by tuesday.
right regards, george

The owner’s glamorous wife was on top of the world. Writers were giving
her credit for designing the team’s burgundy and gold uniforms, for writing
“Hail to the Redskins,” for “becoming the most influential woman in mod-
ern sports.”
And now, only three years after persuading her headstrong husband to
give Washington a chance, her Redskins were once again playing for the
championship. “Senators, Congressmen, Big Shots, Tough Guys, Influential
Persons, college coaches, football experts, sportswriters, real sports, phony
sports, begging—threatening—every man, woman and child in Washington,
its suburbs, Virginia, Maryland and parts of Pennsylvania and West Vir-
ginia, seemed to want tickets for the game,” she recalled.
The Bears arrived in Washington on Thursday and checked into the
Mayflower Hotel on Connecticut Avenue in downtown D.C. While the team
worked out at Griffith Stadium on Saturday, carpenters were busy expand-
ing the press box to accommodate some 150 sportswriters. In addition to
115 radio stations broadcasting the game, Paramount, Metro-Goldwyn-
Mayer, Fox, Universal, and Pathé planned to make newsreels. Also on Satur-
day, the two coaches were interviewed on the Mutual Radio Network. The
Redskins’ Flaherty spoke “in a very modest sort of way,” Griffith recalled,
“and Halas in a very self-assured one.”
The Bears were a great team, Time observed, but Washington had “his
Excellency, Slingin’ Sammy Baugh” and three of the best receivers in
pro football.

Only three weeks ago, the Redskins had taken the Bears 7–3. They had just
averted defeat, to be sure, with a miraculous tackle on the one-yard line in the
next-to-last play of the game. But the score is what counts. Thus Washington
residents, from Cabinet members to White House flunkeys, mesmerized by
the big talk of the Redskins’ Big Chief, George Preston Marshall, trooped into
Griffith Park . . . convinced that it was all over but the whoopee, and all set to
drape the Washington Monument with red bunting after the game.

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The Redskins were solid favorites, despite injuries to Dick Todd, Bill
Young, and Wilbur Moore. The Post advertised that the game story would
appear on Monday’s front page. What the oddsmakers didn’t know was that
Halas, a player, coach, and owner for nearly thirty years, had his men ready
to play—not only physically but also psychologically.
In 1940, Stanford coach Clark Shaughnessy, considered one of the offen-
sive geniuses of college football, came up with the T formation. The T soon
would become standard in football at all levels, with the quarterback lined
up directly behind the center and the running backs four or five yards
behind the quarterback. But in 1939, it was revolutionary.
Before the T formation, most teams, college and pro, ran the single wing,
invented by Glenn “Pop” Warner at Carlisle in 1912. The tailback took most
of the snaps from center and could either run, pass, or kick. Most single-
wing offenses relied on power, not passing, because of the unbalanced line.
The quarterback, also known as the blocking back, could line up behind
either guard or between them, or sometimes between the strong-side guard
and the tackle. Passing was rare.
The T allowed running plays to develop much quicker. Rather than wait
for blockers to mobilize in front of the ball carrier, the T popped the runner
through the line before the defense could get moving.
The T formation also solved the basic problem of the single wing, which
is that the tailback had to be incredibly versatile. He had to be able to run
with power and speed as well as to throw. The T allowed backs to specialize.
Halas, considered the NFL’s great innovator, hired Shaughnessy as a
consultant, and the Stanford man adapted his version of the formation to
the Bears. He introduced the hand-to-hand snap, with the quarterback right
up under the center. Previously, the quarterback stood a half yard to a yard
behind the center, and the snap was a short toss of the ball. The hand-to-
hand snap got the play moving quickly because the quarterback didn’t have
to wait to make sure he had control of the ball. From the T formation, he
could immediately move out from under the center and hand off the ball to
one of his three backs or drop back and pass.
Shaughnessy also widened the splits between the offensive linemen.
When the defense adjusted, holes opened up for running backs reaching the
line of scrimmage at full speed.
Although Halas had used the T in the 7–3 loss to the Redskins, who man-
aged to contain it except on counter plays, the Bears didn’t have it fully
implemented. Preparing for the championship game, Halas and Shaugh-
nessy studied films of previous Redskins-Bears games, looking for ten-
dencies and studying the Skins’ defense and the team’s reaction to various

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features of the T-formation attack. They produced a modified T-formation

offense that focused on counter plays and a number of others tailored to the
Redskin defense, including a mystifying man-in-motion maneuver that left
the Redskins vulnerable to quick openers up the middle.

A t last it was Sunday afternoon in D.C. Fans around the country set-
tled in to listen to the NFL title game on network radio, with the game
broadcast to 120 stations over the Mutual Broadcasting System. Mutual
paid $2,500 for the rights. Red Barber provided play-by-play and analysis.
Inside the stadium on Florida Avenue, on a warm and sunny December
day, a sellout crowd of thirty-six thousand watched the brass section of the
Redskins Marching Band step onto the field, then the chief and two drum
majors strutted out, and then the trumpeters, heralding the arrival of the
full 150-piece band. They played “Hail to the Redskins,” interspersed with
“Dixie,” and the crowd went wild.
In the visitors’ dressing room, with the noise of the band and the crowd
filtering through the cement walls, the Bears gathered on benches or knelt
on the floor around their coach. As he looked around the room, staring into
eyes both determined and apprehensive, Halas pulled a newspaper clipping
from his pocket and began reading a story that quoted Marshall. He read it
slowly and clearly, looking up occasionally to make sure his men were listen-
ing closely: “The Bears are a team that folds under pressure in the second
half against a good team. If they come down here to play us in the champion-
ship game, they’ll have to win by a big score or they won’t win at all.” Halas let
the words sink in. He folded the paper and put it in his pocket. “Gentlemen,”
he said, “this is what the Redskins think of you. I think you’re a great football
team, the greatest ever assembled. Go out on the field and prove it.”
Shaughnessy, a distant man who rarely spoke to the players except in
meetings, stepped to the blackboard. As he drew up the first play of the
game, he said, “Men, I promise you this one will go for a touchdown. And if
it doesn’t work, I’ve got another one coming up that will.” The play he dia-
grammed was an early version of the modern pro set, with two backs and
two ends split. It worked exactly as he said it would.
Fans had barely settled into their seats after the two o’clock kickoff when,
on the second play of the game, Bears halfback Bill Osmanski darted into a
gap off left tackle and ran sixty-eight yards untouched for a touchdown, a
crowd of grasping Redskins in his wake. “When I saw the type of blocking
we were getting on that play, I knew it was only a question of the final score,”
Halas said later.

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The Redskins ran the ensuing kickoff back to the Bears forty, and Sam,
calmly directing the offense as usual, got them down to the twenty-six. From
there, he took the snap from center, looked downfield, and spotted Charlie
Malone, standing alone at the two. Sam and his favorite receiver connected
with a sure touchdown pass. Incredibly, the ball hit Malone’s hands, then
his chest, and then bounced to the ground.
The pass was perfect, Arthur Daley of the New York Times noted, except
it was thrown in the one corner of the field where the sun was in the receiv-
er’s eyes. Had the Redskins tied the game at that point, “it might have been a
far different story,” Daley wrote.
“What happened after that was a waking nightmare to the Washington
fans,” Time reported. “The Bears began to roll—like the German Army roll-
ing through France. Dazed onlookers waited for the defenders to make a
stand—in Belgium, at the Somme, at Dunkirk—but the juggernaut kept roll-
ing, rolling, rolling. They chalked up 21 points in the first quarter, seven in
the second. Radio fans, tuning in at half time thought they were listening to
a basketball game—or an Atlantic City auction.”
When the Redskins had the ball, as Griffith recalled, “McChesney playing
with a broken hand dropped a pass. Wilbur Moore [playing with a cracked
rib] dropped one. Sandy Sanford dropped one. Zimmerman missed Farkas
with one. The Redskins became mentally petrified.”
With the score 28–0, Sam went over to Flaherty and told him they might
as well go for broke. They had nothing to lose. The Redskins started throw-
ing on fourth down instead of punting; the Bears sat back and intercepted,
eight times in all. “I remember saying, ‘Hell, we may get beat 60–0, but we’ve
got to try it,’” Sam recalled. “Well, we sure didn’t get beat 60–0.”
Angry and disgusted, Sam and the rest of the Redskins trudged into the
dressing room at halftime determined to at least make the game respect-
able, even if victory already was out of reach. Inside the Bears’ dressing
room, Halas didn’t say a word until right before his team was ready to hit
the field again. “Well, fellows,” he said, “are we a first-half team or aren’t we?
Go out there and show ’em.”
The Bears—those “quitters” and “crybabies”—didn’t let up after the half.
Bear end Hampton Pool intercepted a Baugh pass and ran it in nineteen
yards for a touchdown. Ray Nolting scored on a twenty-three-yard counter
play. George McAfee intercepted a Roy Zimmerman pass and turned it into
a thirty-four-yard touchdown. Bulldog Turner, Sam’s old friend, picked off
another Zimmerman pass and lumbered in from twenty-one yards out.
The score was 56–0 at the end of the third quarter, but the Bears were in
no mood to show mercy. The fourth quarter opened with the Bears’ Harry

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Clark loping around end for forty-four yards and a touchdown. The Red-
skins fumbled deep in their own territory, the Bears recovered, and Gary
Famiglietti scored on a two-yard plunge.
It was about then that Marshall had his public-address announcer
make what the Post columnist Bob Considine called “the most ill-advised
announcement in the history of sport.” It was about the availability of sea-
son tickets for 1941. Considine also observed that “the unluckiest guy in the
crowd was the five-buck bettor who took the Redskins and 70 points.”
Clark scored the last Bear touchdown on a one-yard carry, making the
score 73–0. It could have been worse; the Bears made only seven of eleven
extra points.
With two minutes left to play, Marshall left his box to go down to the field.
“I’m going down to those kids, anything might happen,” he told his wife. As
he made his way down the steps a fan sitting near Marshall’s fifty-yard-line
box shouted, “Get ’em out of here, you Lug. Take ’em back to Boston.” “You
come down here and say that, you Lug,” Marshall responded. (“Lug,” no
doubt, was a euphemism used by Griffith.)
“I didn’t even turn my head, just leaned on the rail and prayed,” Griffith
recalled. What she didn’t say is that her husband had stadium attendants
take the section and seat number of the heckler, who was told he would
never see another Redskins game as a season-ticket holder.
The try for the extra point after the ninth touchdown exhausted the sup-
ply of footballs, which sailed into the stands, never to be seen again. The
Redskins had to borrow a ball from the team mascot. After the tenth touch-
down, referee Red Friesell scurried over to the Bears’ bench. “George,” he
said to Halas, “this is the last football we have. Would you mind running or
passing for the extra point?”
Halas was happy to oblige. Reserve quarterback Sollie Sherman passed
to Joe Maniaci for the extra point. Following the last touchdown, Sherman
tossed a pass toward Maniaci again, but this time the Redskins’ Andy Far-
kas leaped high in the air and broke it up. A dwindling band of Redskins
fans cheered.
Turner, who was playing center for the Bears that day and who grew up
in Sweetwater, two years behind Sam, had his own recollection. “Well, after
one of those touchdowns,” he recalled,

Bob Snyder comes in from the bench and says to me, “Coach said to make a
bad pass from center. He said we don’t want to kick any more points because
we’re losing too many footballs.” I think it was Snyder who was going to hold
for that next extra point, but anyway, I said to him, “I’m going to put that ball

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right back in your hands, and if you want it, drop it. But I’m not going to make
a bad pass.” So I centered it back there, and he just turned it loose and it lay on
the ground. I don’t remember who was kicking—we had a lot of guys kicking
extra points that day—but whoever it was, damn if he didn’t kick it up through
there and lose another ball.

Finally, mercifully, it was over. The Bears had piled up 382 yards on the
ground, the Redskins 22. Ten different Bears scored eleven touchdowns. Six
individual Bears each gained more yardage than the Redskins as a team.
Luckman told the Chicago Tribune years later that the Bears weren’t try-
ing to run up the score. Halas sat his star quarterback on the bench at the
start of the second half and promised to put him back in only if the Redskins
scored. He never got back in. “We were only ahead 28–0 at the half, and they
had Sammy Baugh,” said backup quarterback Saul Sherman.
“We were scared,” said halfback George McAfee.
Marshall said afterward that when he got to the dressing room, the team
was already inside. As he opened the door, one of the players was sobbing
like a child. The others sat in stunned silence.
Povich said he saw several players crying. “Some of these elder play-
ers weren’t sorry for themselves,” he wrote. “They were ashamed of the
way they let their Washington fans down. They were the fellows who lived
through those lean days at Boston where they were playing under suffer-
ance and who couldn’t quite get over the friendliness and the warmth of
Washington fans who tried to make big heroes of them.” Years later, Povich
observed: “The Bears visited on Washington the greatest carnage since the
British torched the White House in 1814. At least in that affair, Dolly Madi-
son saved the silverware.”
The Post writer also posited the notion that the Redskins had been
befuddled by the Bears’ newly installed T formation. “That T-formation is
really dread stuff and Coach George Halas comes pretty close to being the
No. 1 offensive genius in the land,” he wrote. “The Bears’ ball carriers were
under way at full speed before they had their hands on the ball and at the
rate they were galloping when they hit something, it didn’t make a differ-
ence whether there was a hole in the Redskins’ front line or not.”
Sam, who had thrown two interceptions, left the game early; from the
bench, he watched as his two replacements threw six interceptions. He was
mad—at himself, at his teammates, at Marshall. “That was the most humili-
ating thing I’ve ever gone through in my life,” he told reporters as he peeled
off a dirty jersey.
Decades later, he told Sports Illustrated that he had his own ideas about

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what had happened on that horrendous day. “I don’t know whether they’d be
right or not, but I think it starts with the fact that we had played the Bears
three weeks earlier and had beat them 7–3,” he said. “Boy, it hurt ’em. Leaving
the field, both teams had to go down the same steps, and I remember some of
the Bears were crying. Oh, they were cut to pieces. Their pride was hurt bad.”
He also recalled that the week of the championship game, the weather
was so bad in Chicago that the Bears had to work out inside, which meant
that practices weren’t as intense as usual. “In the meantime,” he said, “we
had beautiful weather in Washington, where the game was going to be
played, and we worked like we were in training camp. We worked like dogs,
I’m telling you the truth. But I think we left a lot of football on the practice
field. Mentally we weren’t ready.”
Sam also believed that Marshall himself deserved a lion’s share of the
blame. “Everywhere he went, he would talk about it,” he recalled years later,
speaking of the 7–3 victory three weeks earlier.

He just kept making fun of them every chance he got. It was ridiculous for
anyone to say stuff like that about a team that was as powerful as they were
back then. Year in and year out, they were the strongest team in pro football,
and everyone knew it.
Every time Marshall opened his mouth, they got madder and madder, and
our morale got lower and lower. He basically destroyed his own team, but
George was like that. I never knew anyone who liked him much.

Immediately after the game, Marshall sat on the edge of a trunk in the
dressing room and berated his own team. “Those guys out there today quit,”
he told reporters.

Filchock’s quarterbacking was awful. Two of the highest-salaried backs in the

league, Dick Todd and Andy Farkas, stood in that backfield and not once car-
ried the ball. Boys, that’s one on Ripley.

He said he felt sorry for the fans, and he promised changes.

But it’ll show up in next year’s salaries. We’ve got some good rookies and we’ll
get some more. There’ll be some changes.

Later, apparently aware that his words would not go over well with either
his demoralized players or their fans, he tried to change his tune. “Maybe
they didn’t lack courage,” he said, “but they lost their heads.”

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Most of the Redskins retreated to the showers, dressed quickly, and left.
Sam hung around long enough to leave reporters with one classic line. Asked
whether things would have been different if Charlie Malone hadn’t dropped
the sure touchdown pass in the first quarter, he squinted up at reporters and
drawled, “Yeah, it would have been different. It wouldn’t have ended 73–0. It
would have been 73–7.”
Redskins tackle Jim Barber heard what Sam said. “My locker was close
and I thought, ‘Damn good answer, Sam,’ he recalled. “We stunk it up pretty
bad. But then everybody in town had an excuse for us. Walking downtown,
nobody said, ‘Hey, you bums.’ They were all for us. ‘You just had a bad day.’”

D espite the debacle at the end, Sam had enjoyed another great year.
He finished the season as the league’s most efficient passer, with an
astounding completion rate of 61.7 percent. He also led the league in punt-
ing, averaging fifty-one yards a kick, eight yards farther than the league’s
second-place punter.
He never forgot what happened on that December day in 1940, and
reporters every now and then wanted to hear his recollections. More than
a half century later, he offered another, very curious explanation. In 1999,
he told a reporter that he believed some of his teammates had thrown the
game, that they had tried to lose in a big way to spite Marshall. He acknowl-
edged that he had no proof, and said he hadn’t offered his opinion earlier
because no one had ever asked him. David Baugh believed that the writer
misunderstood his father. “I don’t think he was saying they threw the game,”
he said. “He was just saying that they were tired and angry and disgusted,
and just sort of gave up.”
Clyde Shugart, a Redskins lineman who played in the game, was stunned
by his old teammate’s remarks. “Was he drunk when he said that?” Shugart
asked. “I don’t remember anything like that.”
The remark didn’t attract much attention, maybe because most people
didn’t want to believe it. Others, no doubt, wrote it off as the nattering of
an old man. An NFL spokesman told the Associated Press that the league
would not comment on Sam’s remarks.

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 During his senior year at Sweetwater’s Newman High School,
Sam may have passed occasionally, but he was primarily a
blocking back. Photo courtesy of the Baugh family.

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 Before he starred at TCU as the nation’s premier passer, Sam
considered himself a baseball player. This photo is probably
from his days playing with the Mose Sims Oilers, an Abilene
semipro team. Photo courtesy of the Baugh family.

Sam, shown here punting the football at TCU,

worked as long and hard on his kicking as he did on
his passing. Photo courtesy of the Baugh family.

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 Sam demonstrated his running ability in Dallas on December 15, 1936, a couple of weeks before the
TCU Horned Frogs would meet Marquette University in the inaugural Cotton Bowl. Associated Press.

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Holley Pages2.indd IV 7/24/12 3:08 PM
 Washington Redskins back Cliff Battles (20) scores against the New
York Giants in a playoff game at the Polo Grounds on December 5, 1937.
With Battles and Baugh, the Redskins smashed the Giants, 49–14, to
win the NFL eastern division championship. Associated Press.

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 Every time the Redskins’ brilliant young
quarterback hit the cold, hard ground in the
1937 NFL championship, the Chicago Bears
made sure he felt it. Associated Press.

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Holley Pages2.indd VII 7/24/12 3:08 PM
 Sam spent the spring of 1938 in the St. Louis Cardinals training camp at St. Petersburg,
Florida. He fielded well at third base but had trouble hitting the curve ball. Associated Press.

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 Sam was injured off and on during the 1938 season, but he was ready to play on December 4
in a crucial game at the Polo Grounds against the New York Giants. Associated Press.

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 Sam flirted with coaching even before he signed with the Redskins. Here, he offers
passing tips to fiancée, Edmonia, at the Baugh home in Sweetwater on December 21, 1937.
At the time, Edmonia was a TCU sophomore. Associated Press.

Holley Pages2.indd X 7/24/12 3:08 PM

 .

When Sam and Edmonia got married in Edmonia told reporters she was resigned to being
Rotan, Sam forgot to bring the marriage a “golf widow.” Photo courtesy of the Baugh family.
license. The minister, Edmonia’s father, said
he could bring it by later. The newlyweds
posed for this photo in Columbus, Ohio, where
Sam was playing baseball in the summer of
1938. Photo courtesy of the Baugh family.

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 Sid Luckman of the Bears brings down Washington’s Jimmy Johnstone (31) in
the 73–0 NFL championship game in Washington, D.C., on December 8, 1940.
Moving in on Johnstone are Chicago’s Joe Stydahar (13), Bill Osmanski (9),
Dan Fortmann (21), and George McAfee (5). Associated Press.

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 Sam may not have been an Oscar-caliber actor, but he sure looked like a Western hero and he could
ride a horse. His sidekick in the background in this still from 1941’s King of the Texas Rangers is
Duncan Reynaldo, who would later star as TV’s Cisco Kid. Photo courtesy of the Baugh family.

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 From the time he stepped on the field as a rookie in 1937,
Sam knew his offensive linemen would do their utmost to
protect him, as in this September 13, 1942, game against
the Bears in Washington. Associated Press.

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 In this December 13, 1942, photo, Sam intercepts a Chicago Bears pass in his own end zone
to break up a Bears scoring threat during the fourth quarter of an NFL playoff game in
Washington. Coming up behind him is Chicago tackle Lee Artoe (35). Associated Press.

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 In this October 1, 1945, photo, the thirty-one-year-old All-Pro looks on
during a Redskins workout in Washington. Associated Press.

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 In this photo taken in the early 1940s, probably in Silver Spring, Maryland, young
Todd Baugh is a bit wary of the family dog. Photo courtesy of the Baugh family.

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 When he wasn’t throwing passes, Sam was a regular family man at the Baugh’s
rented home in Silver Spring. Photo courtesy of the Baugh family.

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 At Griffith Stadium on December 14, 1952, on Sam’s last day as a Redskin,
he shook the hand of the man who helped shape his illustrious career,
Redskins owner George Preston Marshall. Associated Press.

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 Pulling on number 33 for the last time, Sam shows off the flimsy pair of
shoulder pads he wore his whole career. Associated Press.

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 Hardin Simmons Coach Sam Baugh steps off the plane at Washington National
Airport with two of his starters, tackle Burley Polk (top) and fullback Pete Hart,
on October 5, 1956. The Cowboys were in town for a game with George Washington
University. Photo by Jim McNamara, courtesy of the Washington Post.

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 Although the front office was a fiasco, New York Titans Coach Sam Baugh and his staff put
together a pretty good American Football League team. Photo courtesy of the Baugh family.

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 Sam in about 1941 atop his beloved mare Bluebonnet. The foal in the
picture is one of her half-siblings. Photo courtesy of the Baugh family.

Sam atop his mare Chubbette in about 1954.

Photo courtesy of the Baugh family.

Sam on Lucy, one of Bluebonnet’s daus, in about 1968.

Photo courtesy of the Baugh family.

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 Sam’s athleticism, plus a good horse and hours of practice, made him a
champion roper. Photo courtesy of the Texas Sports Hall of Fame.

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 A horse-drawn wagon carries Sam’s saddle-draped casket to his
burial site near Rotan, December 22, 2008. Associated Press.

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 CHAPTER

14

GO WEST,
YOUNG SAM
hollywoodcalling

“H
e looks like he invented cowboy movies,” one of Sam’s teammates
once observed of the lean, leathery Texan. George Preston Marshall,
the man who had much to do with creating Sam’s cowboy persona,
waxed even more rhapsodic. “He looked like the personification of
every cowboy star who ever straddled a bronc, only more so,” the Redskins
owner once said.
Hollywood agreed, despite the fact that Sam, before Marshall got hold of
him, had rarely been astride a horse and had never roped a steer. He was a
town boy, not a cowboy, but as far as Hollywood was concerned, he looked
like what a genuine Western movie hero ought to look like. In the spring
of 1941, not long after the championship-game debacle, a representative
from Republic Pictures called Sam and offered to pay him $4,500 to star in
a twelve-episode western serial called King of the Texas Rangers. That was
about what he was paid, of course, to get pummeled by Giants and Bears for
about half a season.
“I thought at first he was kidding,” Sam recalled. “When I realized he was
serious, I pointed out to him I didn’t know the first thing about that sort of
thing. Hell, I was a football player. He told me players like Red Grange had
done okay in movies and Tom Harmon of Michigan, who had just won the
Heisman Trophy, had signed to do a picture.”

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Knute Rockne: All-American had come out the year before, and fellow
Texan and longtime friend John Kimbrough, the Texas A&M star from
Haskell, north of Abilene, was about to sign a contract to star in Zane Grey
westerns for 20th Century–Fox (Lone Star Ranger and Sundown Jim).
“I guess I was the world’s worst actor, unless it was John Kimbrough,” Sam
joked in later years.
Republic was known in those days for its quality B pictures, especially its
westerns and movie serials. Hoot Gibson, John Wayne, Gene Autry, and Roy
Rogers all made pictures for Republic at one time or another.
Although Sam was never materialistic, he recognized opportunity when
he saw it, so he quickly signed the contract. After all, almost every player
in the NFL had to work in the off-season (and were still doing so into the
1960s). Football was a part-time job that didn’t pay that well to begin with.
Charlie Malone sold insurance and had a vending-machine business. Turk
Edwards sold cars for a dealer in D.C., while Erny Shugart worked for an
ice cream company. In 1940, four Redskins quit pro football to become FBI
agents. Sam himself might have found some kind of part-time coaching
position or maybe wangled a job in Sweetwater.
Instead, he signed the Republic contract, got in his car, and drove to Hol-
lywood, leaving Mona back home in Sweetwater. He didn’t fly; he didn’t take
the train. Even though he was as famous as Joe DiMaggio and Joe Louis in
those days, the bright lights of Hollywood weren’t for him. During his six
weeks on the West Coast, he stayed in a tourist court, rarely went out at
night, and usually passed up the big parties.
“Ah, shit on celebrity,” he told a magazine writer in 1999. “It didn’t
make sense to be showboating all over Hollywood and spending a lot of
money for a steak when I could take that money back to Texas and buy a
whole cow.”
Sam’s director was none too happy when he found out his star was not
a professional actor. “Sammy Baugh? Baugh? Bah! I never heard of him,”
the director, Jack English, stormed (or so he said). “Why, oh why, don’t they
give me an actor? Even a seal. At least I could train one of them. But a foot-
ball player—.” Sam, according to a newspaper account, was sitting on the
ground and chewing a straw while English was talking. The reporter noted:
“He grinned ear to ear. A pleasant, friendly grin.”
“Boy, I don’t blame him,” Sam said, and then got to his feet and went back
to work.
“Believe me, I didn’t lose any time writing Baugh’s part,” English
continued.

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I knew he couldn’t handle dialogue, and I figured he’d probably have to have
a side saddle.
But I’ll tell you what—the guy is a natural. Yes, a natural. Of course, he
hasn’t learned yet how to give the right punch to a line, but he’s the fastest bird
I ever handled. No prima donna athlete, that fellow. He’s got it in the head.
He’s a real find, mark what I say.

Sam, meanwhile, was emptying out his boots. Members of the crew had
playfully filled them with a bucketful of sand. “This is the silliest business I
ever got in,” he said, while shaking out the sand. “Remember how we used to
play cowboy and Indian? Well, that’s all this is, except we get paid for doin’
it.” Still, he relished the experience. “I can truthfully say that I can recall no
other six-week period that I so thoroughly enjoyed as the time I spent on
that picture,” he said many years later. “No way I can tell you just how great
those people at Republic treated me, or just how great I thought they were.”
Years later he was asked what Marshall thought about the fellow who
represented nearly 90 percent of his franchise traipsing off to Hollywood
and possibly breaking his neck while shooting a western.
“Lord, he was tickled to death,” Sam recalled. “It was good publicity for
him, the Redskins and me. In those days, pro football did good to get the
game scores in the papers and anything short of going to jail that got public-
ity pleased everybody.”
Sam had fun, but no one suggested that he quit his day job. “Baugh is no
threat to Olivier, but athletically he’s perfect for the role of the ever-charg-
ing lawman,” John Stanley wrote in the San Francisco Chronicle in 1992,
recalling Sam’s one and only Hollywood adventure.
Sam himself realized he had a lot to learn, and fortunately his fellow
actors helped him. Duncan Reynaldo, the actor who would go on to star as
the Cisco Kid on television, helped more than anybody.
“The first day at the studio,” Sam recalled more than three decades later,
“the director handed me some paper and said it was my lines for the next
day, and to study them that night. I did. And if they used those lines the next
day someone else did them ’cause I never heard them. Then they gave me
some more to learn that night that I haven’t heard yet, either.”
The next day Sam told Reynaldo he had memorized three days’ worth of
lines that he had never used. Reynaldo laughed and told him not to worry
about memorizing lines. The director would tell him what to say on the
set each day.
“I liked Sammy very much,” Reynaldo once told an interviewer. “He was

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so green. I tried to get him to be natural and not to act. Neither [directors]
Jack English or Billy Witney could do that with him; they didn’t have the
time nor the capacity to do that. I’m a very patient man, and I directed him
really. Billy used to let me.”
“One day, we couldn’t film because Duncan had gone to the courthouse
to be sworn in as a U.S. citizen,” Sam recalled. “He was a big enough star at
that time to attract a lot of media attention. When he came out of the court-
house, he stopped on the steps for a press conference. Someone asked Dun-
can what he had to say about becoming a U.S. citizen, and I’ll never forget
what he said: ‘I think we should keep all the foreigners out of the country.’”
On lunch breaks, Sam never ate with the other actors.

I always ate lunch with the technicians, because they told me some great sto-
ries. They had all the gossip. I’ve never understood this, but they all hated
Gene Autry. I don’t know why. Gene Autry was one of the biggest stars in
Hollywood.
It was funny because those technicians told me they knew a young guy
who was going to be as big as Autry in a couple of years. They told me I’d never
heard of him, but that I would because he was going to be a big star. And they
were right. His name was Roy Rogers.

S am’s character, Thomas King Jr., is a college football star in Texas who
leaves school to join the Texas Rangers to avenge the death of his father.
The elder King has been murdered by “the Fifth Column,” a group of Nazi-
type agents operating on the U.S.-Mexico border with nefarious plans to
take control of Texas oil fields. “Fifth column” was a term that described
undercover agents working inside a country on behalf of an enemy. It origi-
nated with Emilio Mola, a Nationalist commander during the Spanish Civil
War, who said, “I have four columns moving against Madrid, and a fifth will
rise up inside the city itself.” In 1941, the year the serial came out, Nazi fifth
columnists were known to be working in Mexico and throughout Latin
America.
In the opening reel, Tom’s Ranger father is killed at the very moment the
young man is winning a football game for the Texas All Stars. Brief film clips
of Sam in action on the football field establish Tom’s football bona fides.
Cy Feuer, the music director for Republic serials, adapted the TCU school
song, “Come to the Bower,” as the score for the serial.
Setting up his base of operations in a friendly little border town, the
rookie Ranger uncovers a plot to sabotage nearby oil fields. Assisted by an

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officer of the Mexican Rurales (Reynaldo) and a winsome young female

newspaper reporter, he brings his father’s murderers to justice and puts an
end to their sabotage activities along the border.
Each episode ends with a spectacular cliffhanger orchestrated by How-
ard Lydecker, the head of Republic’s special-effects department. Lydecker
produced a rampaging oil-field fire, an exploding dam, and, for the grand
finale, Ranger King’s plane plunging into a hovering dirigible and destroy-
ing the enemy agents in an exploding ball of fire. The ranger, against all
odds, survives to fight again for justice and the American way.
Costars included Reynaldo, who plays a Mexican police officer named
Pedro Garcia, and Sally Crane, who plays the reporter who witnessed the
murder of the elder King and who, of course, falls for the tall, taciturn young
Texan, resplendent in a Stetson, black western shirt and an ivory-colored
bandana artfully knotted around his neck. Crane, considered a Vivian Leigh
look-alike, appeared in Republic westerns with Roy Rogers and also made
several Charlie Chan movies. Sam remembered her as “a very nice lady.”
The serial had more than its share of gun battles—they are intermina-
ble, in fact, and hardly anyone gets hit—as well as chases on horseback and
very little dialogue, a blessing in disguise for Sam. Although he may have
looked the part of a western hero, he delivers his lines as if he is onstage for
the junior-class play back in Sweetwater. His voice, which must have been
commanding in the huddle, sounds muffled and indistinct on screen.
King of the Texas Rangers had its “world premiere,” the Sweetwater
Reporter announced, on a Sunday afternoon at the R & R Ritz Theater in
Sweetwater. Also on the bill at the Ritz that fall were Zorro and Bud Abbott
and Lou Costello in Hold That Ghost. The theater manager, Henry Rogers
Sr., told the newspaper he tried to get Sam to make an appearance, but the
star couldn’t leave the Redskins’ training camp on the West Coast. (It was
more likely that Sam begged the Redskins not to let him go.)
The twelve-part serial popped up in movie theaters around the coun-
try for a number of years. Sam hoped, maybe even prayed, that his team-
mates would be too busy to see King of the Texas Rangers, but of course they
weren’t. The Washington movie house that booked it naturally had Slingin’
Sam’s name on the marquee, and on that first Saturday morning, a number
of Redskins were in the audience—as was Sam himself, who attended under
threat of physical violence from his teammates.
Every heroic feat—Sam slugging the villain, Sam vaulting into the saddle
and galloping down the dusty trail—earned raucous cheers from the over-
grown boys in the audience. As the gaggle of Redskins emerged from the
darkened theater on that first Saturday, halfback Dick Todd looked up with

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adoring eyes into the face of the blushing hero. “Gosh, Sam,” he murmured,
“you truly were brave today.” Sam took a swing at his West Texas buddy.
He was still blushing nearly a half century later. The sportswriter Dennis
Tuttle, visiting Sam in the 1990s, watched an episode with the star, Sam’s
son, and a grandson. “He cringed, but we howled,” Tuttle recalled.
In one scene, Sam throws a vase that hits one of the bad guys on the
side of the head and flattens him. “The bad guy crumbles like a cracker. We
are screaming at the TV, laughing like hell,” Tuttle said. During a pause,
Sam recalled that the vase was a prop designed to break on impact. “But
this one bad guy, a stunt man, got mad during the scene and had slugged
Baugh pretty hard with one of the plywood chairs,” Tuttle said. “In retalia-
tion, Baugh instantly picks up the vase and fires a rocket—I mean he really
zipped him—and on frame-by-frame you can see the impact and the bad
guy’s head snap back.”
Baugh told Tuttle the vase knocked the guy out and that he was worried
he had killed him. The fellow came to seconds later with a knot on his head.
Sam apologized, but the man sat up and rubbed his head. “Sammy Baugh
gave me a lump on the head,” he said, disbelievingly. “Wait until I show
my friends!”

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 CHAPTER

15

THE NEWEST THING

UNDER HEAVEN
thedoublemountainranch

R
ising out of the gently rolling plains of West Texas, a few miles north
of the little ranching town of Rotan, are dual promontories that
resemble titanic ships adrift on the land. For untold centuries, the
twin peaks served as navigational reference points for the wandering
indigenous tribes that eventually would be called the Comanche. Sixteenth-
century Spanish explorers and federal troops stationed in the region more
than three centuries later—including a contingent led by Lieutenant Colo-
nel Robert E. Lee—relied on the landmark, as did dreamers headed for the
California goldfields, Texas Rangers, buffalo hunters, and, eventually, set-
tlers on the sere and challenging land reaching to the far horizon.
Known as Double Mountain, it is a mountain in name only—the peaks
are only 2,300 feet high—but the twin promontories thrust up from the
vast prairie like solitary sentinels, their bluish tint visible as far as fifty
miles away.
A branch of the Brazos River is named for Double Mountain. East of
the peaks, the Double Mountain Fork, the Salt Fork, the Clear Fork, and
numerous meandering creeks wind their way like veins on the back of the
hand through red sandstone, shaping canyons and arroyos and rough-hewn
draws. Along with the dark green stands of juniper and the indomitable
mesquite, the shallow streams give character and distinctiveness to the

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terrain. East of the peaks, the three forks join to form the Rio de los Brazos
de Dios (the River of the Arms of God). The Brazos meanders through the
heart of Texas until it empties into the Gulf of Mexico at Matagorda Bay.
Double Mountain was something of a temple for the Comanche, a soli-
tary place where the spirits gathered. A young brave would climb the rocky
slopes toward the great arc of sky to receive his “medicine,” his spiritual
sixth sense, from the Great Spirit. Only then would he be a full warrior. Set-
tling himself on the rimrock near one of the peaks and facing eastward, he
would sing the sacred chants, smoke his pipe, and fast for four days and
nights, awaiting the visitation of a beneficent spirit that would guide his life.
Long after the last Indian departed the area, white men ventured up
Double Mountain in pursuit of baser rewards. They were chasing legends of
gold and silver bullion, perhaps even doubloons, said to have been buried by
early Spanish explorers. Although many have tried, including modern trea-
sure hunters with earth-moving equipment, no one has ever found anything
except arrowheads and marine fossils, remnants of the Permian Sea, which
invaded the continent some 250 million years ago.
Near the base of Double Mountain, buffalo hunters in the 1870s set up
a supply post and went on a rampage that led to the near extermination of
the vast herds in West Texas and, consequently, the removal of the Plains
Indians to Oklahoma. A man named Charlie Rath established Rath City, a
ragtag camp that kept the hunters in salt, beans, bacon, coffee, and whiskey
as they fanned out across the prairie in all directions and slaughtered the
shaggy beasts by the thousands. They brought the buffalo to near extinc-
tion within a few years and then made way for those settlers hardy enough
and daring enough to establish homesteads and vast ranches on the inhos-
pitable land.
It was a way of life that always had intrigued Sam, the noncowboy. Late
in the summer of 1941, he was back in Sweetwater—$4,500 richer, thanks to
Republic Pictures—and he was looking to buy some land. A man named J. F.
Dennis got in touch with him and told him he had some acreage for sale, so
Sam looked him up.
“That’s when I first saw those mountains, and the closer we got to them,
the more I knew this was where I wanted to live,” he recalled.
Using his movie money and a loan from a woman in Eastland, Texas, Sam
bought the Double Mountain Ranch, some 7,500 acres of wild scrub and cat-
tle country, plus a small four-room house that had been built in the winter
of 1902 out of lumber brought from Sweetwater. (A black-sheep member of
the Dennis family had been relegated to a dugout across the road from the
ranch house at the time Sam took possession of the property.) He paid about

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sixteen dollars an acre for the land, which included all of what the locals
call East Mountain.
The hard-packed land under a high blue sky, the ragged mesquite and
prickly pear and dry, stubbled prairie grass look like “the oldest thing under
heaven,” a journalist once wrote—“but it smells like the newest,” Sam
told him.
Sam’s mountain and the acreage at its base may be isolated, but the foot-
prints of relatively recent history left their mark long before a famous foot-
ball player took up residence. Robert E. Lee, chasing Comanches while sta-
tioned at Camp Cooper, camped near Double Mountain. He was impressed
by its quiet majesty. A man named W. H. Kirby, a Texas Ranger and Civil
War scout, camped on Double Mountain in 1859 while on an Indian hunt; a
Ranger named A. C. Tackitt was the first to carve his name on top, in August
1863. In the 1870s, a Norwegian settler named Ole Nystel, kidnapped from
his Bosque County home by Comanches, recalled that his captors camped
on Double Mountain for three days.
Panthers found the mountain hospitable, at least until the coming of the
white man. A rancher named Alex Shipp trailed two big cats to a cave on
the mountain, crawled in after them, and shot both. A man named Toulas
Green of the Circle Bar Ranch was trailing horses when his hounds treed
a panther. Green roped the creature, dragged it down, and killed it with his
pocketknife.
When Sam bought his ranch, West Mountain, with its distinctive saddle-
back indentation, was owned by J. D. “Uncle Jimmy” Smith, who had come
to the area in 1883 to work as a straw boss on the Ten Hands Ranch. Uncle
Jimmy’s exploits were legendary. Once, while riding herd, he met a bear at
the base of Double Mountain. He captured the animal, tied his mouth with
rope, and carried him on horseback to the ranch house. The bear smothered
to death en route; a visiting Englishman later took the bearskin home with
him as a souvenir of his visit to the wilds of West Texas.
A few years before Sam bought the ranch, a man asked Raymond Dennis,
son of the former owner, if he could dig under a particular ledge on the east
peak. He told Dennis he was from Minnesota and had experienced a vision
of the mountain when he was a child; he believed the bones of a giant race
of people could be found there. He dug, found some bones of something,
and left happy.

S am didn’t care that the place was primitive—and, of course, he was away
for at least half the year—but he realized that it was tough on Mona, a

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Presbyterian preacher’s daughter who had lived in town all of her young
life. There was no electricity out on the vast prairie, so the Baughs used oil
lamps for the first few years. It was so isolated that they had to go through
six gates just to get to a dirt road into Rotan. The only water—for cooking,
bathing, washing—came from a cistern, and if it didn’t rain, there wasn’t
much water to be had. Mona did the washing in a big black pot over a wood
fire in the yard. She and Sam bathed in a horse trough under the windmill;
the trough was equipped with a wooden seat for just that purpose.
Between paying off the mortgage and trying to run cattle on the place,
there was little money left over for improvements on the house. Mona had
to make do. It was the kind of place he had wanted for years, but he went into
a lot of debt to get it.
The economics of cattle ranching didn’t always make sense either. “The
first calf crop we brought in, we sold for nine cents a pound,” he told Whit
Canning. “By then I was learning that ranching was a little harder than it
had seemed to be when I was a kid.”
Paying the bills on the ranch was the main reason he stayed with the
Redskins for so many years, Sam recalled years later. As the highest-paid
football player in the country, he was eventually making $20,000, but what
with paying off the mortgage, raising five kids, and buying more land, there
never seemed enough to get ahead. He may have been a big-time football
player, but for years he and Mona were in debt.
Life on the ranch was particularly hard on Mona. The first couple of
years that Sam was with the Redskins, she joined him in Washington; the
couple rented an apartment in Silver Spring, Maryland. After the children
were born, she stayed home in Texas with them. Sam knew how hard it was
for her on the ranch. He sometimes wondered why she stayed.
He knew why he stayed. Far from the roaring crowds, far from the buzz
of traffic and the crowded cities, far from claustrophobia-inducing build-
ings and roads and trees, he had found his place on the earth. When he first
moved to the ranch, a herd of antelope lived at the foot of the mountain.
He was riding his horse one day when he came upon them by surprise, and
when they spotted him, they did not run. “They just sort of stared at me, and
I stared at them,” he recalled. “They felt like they belonged there, or some-
thing, I guess. The deer that came in drove them out later, and I thought that
was sort of too damn bad.”
The deer stayed, and so did the jackrabbits and the wild turkeys and the
roadrunners. And so did Sam. He loved the starry nights, and quiet that was
almost unearthly, the stillness broken only occasionally by the soughing of

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doves or the howl of a coyote up on the mountain. He was a long, long way
from the big city.
For the first few years, though, he was away more than he was at home.
He relied on a local cowboy named Owen Brazee to take care of his cattle,
brand calves, build fences, find buyers, keep the windmill in good repair,
buy hay for the winter, and keep the horses in good shape. The two men met
in 1941, and for nearly a decade after that Sam relied on Owen and his wife,
Viola, not only for the ranch work but also to help Mona. “He didn’t know
much, but he learned fast,” Viola Brazee recalled.
“One thing about Sam,” Owen recalled, “he wasn’t lazy, no way. He’d do
anything.”
Owen recalled the year Sam bought a bunch of roping calves. While Sam
was in D.C., the cows all got sick; Owen and Mona stayed up all night tend-
ing to them. “Not many from her background would do that,” the old cowboy
recalled. He remembered how Mona cooked for the cowboys and helped
him move cattle from one pasture to another before Sam got home from
Washington, usually around Christmas.
Sam had a lot to learn—about the work, about the land. “The year we
moved out here,” he told Whit Canning, “one thing that really amazed us
was how much it rained. We had some Hereford cattle, and the rain brought
the grass up so we were really excited.”
Sam happened to mention to an old-timer how much it had rained and
how happy he was. The two men were sitting on the fellow’s front porch.
“Well, he kinda smiles and then he says, ‘Son, I’ve been out here since ’03,
and I’ve never seen this much rain before. And you’ll never see it again.’”
“Damned if he wasn’t right.”

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 CHAPTER

16

1941
alacklusterseason
andadayofinfamy

A
fter the Baughs bought the Double Mountain Ranch and Mona began
staying in Texas, Sam was one of the boys, living in the Hotel Roos-
evelt with the other single guys on the team. Like young guys every-
where, they were determined to have fun, and their fun often involved
a particular teammate, the giant lineman Wee Willie Wilkin.
Willie was born Wilburn Byrne Wilkin but was christened Wee Wil-
lie after growing to be six feet six inches tall and weighing as much as 280
pounds during the peak of his football career. With a broad farm boy’s face,
a gentle, fun-loving nature—off the field, that is—and a zany approach to life,
he was instantly likeable.
Wee Willie had played college ball at St. Mary’s College in California; the
Redskins signed him in 1938. From the beginning, he was awesome on the
field and a real character off it. During his rookie year, he was fined $25 nine
times for training infractions during the eleven-week season. He wasn’t
necessarily on good behavior the other two weeks; he just didn’t get caught.
Don Looney, a former Horned Frog who played for the Philadelphia
Eagles, recalled staying in the same hotel with him while playing a char-
ity game on the West Coast. One evening Willie knocked on Looney’s door
and asked whether he could come in and take a shower. Looney, assum-
ing something was wrong with Willie’s shower, welcomed him in. Later,

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Looney stepped across the hall into Willie’s room and discovered that the
shower worked just fine, but Wee Willie had filled the tub to the top with
iced-down beer.
Sam loved telling the story about the time Willie went missing for about
a week before the Redskins were scheduled to play the college all-stars. No
one had any idea where he was until he shuffled into the stadium dress-
ing room about an hour before game time. There were rumors he had got-
ten back to the hotel about two thirty that morning and had gone out again
about four.
His clothes a mess, his eyes bleary, the gentle giant was obviously nurs-
ing a giant hangover. Willie was in the process of pulling on his uniform
when Coach Flaherty walked in and spotted him sitting on a bench, one leg
of his football pants not quite pulled up to his knees, one cleated shoe on the
wrong foot. An enraged Flaherty couldn’t help himself; he backhanded the
big man and knocked him backward off the dressing-room bench.
“You drunk son of a bitch,” he growled, his face getting redder and red-
der, “I’m gonna start you in this ball game, and I’m gonna leave you in their
’til you die.”
Willie, his pants tangled up around his knees, his legs still draped over
the bench, slowly gathered himself off the floor and, with a pathetic pout on
his face, looked up at the long-suffering Flaherty standing over him. “Coach,
I was gonna play a helluva game for you,” he burbled, “but you done broke
my spirit.”
Flaherty wasn’t kidding. He had Willie in on every play, offense and
defense, but after he started throwing up continually, the all-stars called
a time-out and desperately requested that the big man be banished to the
sidelines. Telling the story to friends, Sam would laugh so hard that he could
hardly get through the telling.
A couple of years later, Willie was lounging around the Roosevelt lobby
on a Saturday morning with Sam and several other teammates when the
Redskins noticed a mink-coated society matron mince through the lobby in
the company of a toy poodle. The dog was puffed and pompadoured within
an inch of his life, its leash attached to a diamond-encrusted collar. Both dog
and woman had their noses pointed toward the ceiling, a look of disdain on
their pedigreed faces.
The Redskins got a kick out of the sight, and then Wee Willie went miss-
ing for a while; his teammates came up with all kind of wild theories about
where he might have gone. They found out when the giant of a man came
waltzing through the front door, his broad nose high in the air. At the end of a
dirty piece of rope he had found in an alley—well rope, Sam called it—Willie

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was leading a scroungy stray mutt across the carpeted floor. The hotel man-
ager was outraged; either get rid of the dog forthwith, he ordered, or all the
Redskins would have to go. Sam and his friends howled.
Despite his antics, Wee Willie was a superb athlete. He was as fast as
many of the backs and so strong that Flaherty once said that having him
on the defensive line was like having a tank in combat. Although Marshall
once complained that he spent more time bailing Wee Willie out of trouble
off the field than he did enjoying his exploits on it, the giant defensive tackle
made all-pro in 1940 and 1941.
During the summer of 1941, Wee Willie was joined by another charac-
ter, the all-pro center Charles “Ki” Aldrich, an all-American on TCU’s 1938
national championship team. Sam and Ki had lived across the street from
each other in Temple. Aldrich had played two seasons with the Chicago
Cardinals before the Redskins acquired him.
“I played that game for more than 20 years—in Temple, in Sweetwater, at
TCU and in the pros—and in all those years I never saw anyone play football
like Ki Aldrich,” Sam recalled. “I never saw anyone who loved it like he did.”
Sam recalled that in high school, Aldrich would come home after football
practice and would spend the next hour or so banging into the garage just to
toughen himself up. “He would do it again and again—just slam into those
boards until they called him in for supper,” Sam said.
Aldrich was an inveterate gambler who loved to play the ponies. Sitting
around the Roosevelt one morning, Aldrich persuaded Sam and friends to
lay down some money on a sure winner. Sam, reluctantly, bet $200. That
afternoon, the Redskins gathered around a radio, most of them already
counting their winnings. The race began, and the eager gamblers never
heard the announcer mention Aldrich’s sure-shot—until the race was over,
that is. The horse finished dead last. “I never bet on another thing after
that,” Sam always told his friends, although his West Texas friends would
remind him that ranching is a pretty good gamble all its own.

T
 he Redskins had their fun as the ’41 season began, but they were still
smarting after their humiliating loss to the Bears. Coach Flaherty went
home to Spokane with his dog, a majestic boxer that Marshall had given
him. After the ’40 championship game, Flaherty said the boxer was the only
one who loved him.
Actually, even Marshall recognized that Flaherty was a superb coach,
as did his players. “He had a brilliant football mind,” tackle Jim Barber
recalled. “He developed the screen pass. He could handle players. He knew

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when to kick you in the fanny and pat you on the back. Everyone respected
him. Sammy had eight coaches with the Redskins, but Ray was the best
by far.”
Sam said the same thing.
The team opened camp in San Diego, not Spokane, since members of the
Spokane Athletic Round Table, their host the year before, had spurned the
Redskins for the champion Bears. The Redskins were the first NFL team
to train on the West Coast, and attendance at their exhibition games per-
suaded league officials a few years later that California was prime expan-
sion territory.
Marshall also liked to be close to his Hollywood pals. “He’d be in his tent
having gin and tonics with them,” Redskin guard Vince Promuto recalled.
All-pro lineman Turk Edwards and running back Erny Pinckert, both
charter members of the Boston Redskins, retired after the ’40 season.
Edwards became an assistant coach. Outstanding rookies included two
ends, Joe Aguirre from St. Mary’s College and Ed Cifers from Tennessee,
both of whom expected to be on the receiving end of many of Sam’s passes.
Sam’s passing and Dick Todd’s running kept the Redskins in conten-
tion for much of the season, although the team faltered toward the end.
One of Sam’s most memorable games was on October 19 in Philadelphia’s
Shibe Park. Six days after the birth of the Baugh’s first-born, Gary Todd, the
young father threw a pair of touchdown strikes to lead the Redskins past the
Eagles, 21–17.
“Young Sammy may not know it, but before senior ‘Slingin’ Sam’ got busy
today his Redskin mates were trailing that ‘T’ formation attack of the lowly
Eagles by 14–0, and there were many anxious Washingtonians among the
19,071 in the stands who visioned a Philadelphia triumph,” the Washington
Post reported. Sam sealed the victory by intercepting an Eagle pass toward
the end of the game. Immediately afterward, he flew to Sweetwater to see
his new son.
On November 3, the Redskins took over sole possession of first place,
temporarily at least, when they took on the Pittsburgh Steelers before more
than thirty thousand Griffith Stadium fans. Sam completed twelve passes in
nineteen attempts and set up the second touchdown with a fifteen-yard run
through a startled Steelers defense to the two-yard line. Final score: Red-
skins 23, Steelers 3.
By the time the final game of the year had rolled around, the Skins were
out of the title race. They would finish the season with a record of 6-5, com-
ing in third behind the Giants and Dodgers. Sam finished with a 55 percent
passing percentage and a 48.7-yard punting average.

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At two on the first Sunday in December, the Redskins hosted the Phila-
delphia Eagles at Griffith Stadium before a crowd of 27,102. Since it was
the last game of the year, the crowd included an unusually large number of
governmental officials—senators and congressmen, army and navy officers,
judges, Cabinet members.
Also in the stands that day was eight-year-old Lynn “Buddy” Watwood,
whose family had purchased season tickets when the Redskins moved to
Washington in 1937. (The family still owns them.) For the first three sea-
sons, Buddy sat in his father’s lap at all the home games; as a seven-year-old
in 1940, the Redskins required that he have his own seat.
He remembered that day in December, a beautiful Sunday afternoon,
temperature in the sixties. He and his dad parked in the neighborhood,
about six blocks from the stadium. The fragrance of fresh-baked bread from
the nearby Wonder Bread bakery wafted over the working-class houses sur-
rounding Griffith Stadium.
In New York, the Giants, having clinched the Eastern Division title,
hosted the Brooklyn Dodgers at the Polo Grounds. At Wrigley Field in Chi-
cago, the Bears, needing a victory to tie the idle Green Bay Packers for the
Western Division championship, were taking on their crosstown rivals,
the Cardinals.
Before the game in Washington, there was a bit of end-of-the-season cer-
emony. Down on the field, Al Blozis, a tackle and shot put champion from
Georgetown University, presented traveling bags to three members of the
Eagles and one Redskin—all Georgetown alumni—on behalf of the school’s
student body.
In New York, it was “Tuffy Leemans Day.” In pregame ceremonies, the
Giants’ veteran running back received a silver tray inscribed by his team-
mates and $1,500 in defense bonds. Those government securities would
soon be called war bonds.
Sam was not in the starting lineup; Coach Flaherty’s strategy was to feel
out the opposition with his number two tailback, Frank Filchock (“Slin-
gin’ Sam” and “Flingin’ Frank”). Midway through the first quarter, Fla-
herty nodded toward number 33 and indicated it was high time, because
the Redskins, trying to break a four-game losing streak, were trailing the
Eagles, 7–0.
Sam went in on defense, but as soon as the Redskins got the ball, he had
them headed down the field toward the Eagles’ goal line. With the ball on
the Eagles’ four, he threw from a spread formation and found receiver Al
Krueger open in the end zone for the tying touchdown.
The first word about the catastrophe that had unfolded in the Pacific

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earlier that fateful day came to the sportswriters in the Washington and
New York press boxes. In the first quarter, the Associated Press ticker
reported a score from Chicago—Cardinals 7, Bears 0—and then the wire
service interrupted its report with the words “cut football running.” After a
pause, the bulletins that made the football games irrelevant began to clatter
across the wires.
At the Polo Grounds, the man who would direct clandestine war actions
as head of the Office of Strategic Services (forerunner of the Central Intel-
ligence Agency) was paged. “Attention please. Here is an urgent message.
Will Col. William J. Donovan call operator 19 in Washington immediately.”
Watwood remembered that the announcements from the public address
system at Griffith Stadium began in the second half. The first, as Shirley
Povich recalled years later, was for Admiral W. H. O. Bland, who was asked
to report to his office at once. That announcement attracted little attention
among the fans, few of whom knew that Bland was the navy’s chief of ord-
nance. Even fewer, presumably, knew the nation faced a sudden and urgent
need for the guns and ammunition under the admiral’s command.
The next announcement also seemed routine: “The resident commis-
sioner of the Philippines, Mr. Joaquin Elizade, is asked to report to his
office at once.”
The announcements began to avalanche—one general after another,
along with admirals, colonels, ambassadors, and Cabinet members. Then
the city’s five newspapers began paging their personnel to come in to work.
Povich recalled that by the end of the first half, the swarm of photographers
working the game had been reduced to one. The others had been dispatched
to the White House and to the Japanese embassy, where officials were burn-
ing documents.
Not relayed over the Griffith Stadium loudspeaker was the report of a
phone call for Edward A. Tamm, an assistant to the director of the FBI,
J. Edgar Hoover. Employees of the message center in the stadium knew
where Tamm was sitting, so they sent a courier to bring him to the phone.
Hoover, in New York for the weekend, was patched into the connection. The
caller was Robert L. Shivers, the special agent in charge of the FBI’s Hono-
lulu office. Shivers reported what he knew about the attack on Pearl Harbor
and then placed his phone near an open window so Hoover and Tamm could
hear the sounds of explosions.
Povich, sitting in the press box next to Pat O’Brien, an Associated Press
reporter, had found out about the attack eight minutes after kickoff. O’Brien
had shared a message he had received over the telegraph wire from his
office in the Washington Evening Star building. “Keep it short,” an editor

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demanded. O’Brien was miffed. He sent a message to his operator: “Ask him
who’s giving me these orders.”
The reply came quickly: “The Japs have just kicked off. Pearl Harbor
bombed. War now.”
“For a few moments it was our exclusive secret—Pat O’Brien’s and his
telegraph operator’s and mine,” Povich recalled. “And hard to grapple with
was the stupefying news.”
In Marshall’s box, Jesse Jones, the Texan who headed the Reconstruc-
tion Finance Corporation, leaned over and whispered to Corinne Griffith:
“I’m leaving. I’ve just had word the Japs have bombed Manila.” “I couldn’t
believe it,” Griffith wrote. “I was sure it was just a wild rumor. Then the
telephone in our box rang and a voice from the press box said we had been
attacked at Pearl Harbor.”
Povich spotted the former managing editor of the Washington Post, his
old boss, Norman Baxter, sitting in a nearby box seat. He told him the grim
news. “Something’s wrong,” said Baxter, who was familiar with Pacific
geography. “How could their bombers overlook our bases in the Philippines
and fly all the way to Hawaii?” Povich had an answer from O’Brien a few
minutes later: “And they’ve bombed the Philippines too.”
Fans, long before they brought transistor radios to the game, were aware
that some kind of emergency was developing, but they didn’t know the
details. As they watched Sam and his Redskins battle the Eagles in an unex-
pectedly close game, they had no idea that a sneak attack on Pearl Harbor
had claimed the lives of thousands of American soldiers and sailors.
Marshall was not about to tell them. He was worried they would leave
the stadium en masse—and maybe even demand their money back. For
almost three hours, the Redskins owner kept them ignorant of one of the
most momentous events in U.S. history.
Povich was still angry years later. “On a day when the United States was
suddenly plunged into the biggest war in history, with thousands of Ameri-
cans already dead or dying, Marshall ordered his staff to make no public
announcement to the stadium crowd,” he wrote. “Marshall’s later explana-
tion was a statement of his priorities, peculiar to himself: ‘I didn’t want to
divert the fans’ attention from the game.’”
It was a good game, to be sure. The Eagles were out in front 14–7 in the
third quarter when Sam found Joe Aguirre, his big right end, open for a
touchdown. As the teams lined up for the point-after attempt, Eagles right
guard Bob Sufferidge, an all-American from Tennessee, burst through to
block the kick, but he was offside. The teams lined up again, the Redskins
center snapped the ball, and Sufferidge was again offside. He jumped four

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times and blocked the kick four times, but the referee refused to call the
fourth one, so the score remained 14–13.
In the fourth quarter, Aguirre got open again, and Sam hit him in stride
for the game-winning touchdown. Even as Redskins fans celebrated the
touchdown, newsmen in the press box were asking the team’s management
when Marshall was going to authorize a public announcement about Pearl
Harbor. Jack Espy, the team’s general manager, said he had no orders from
Marshall. “We don’t want to contribute to any hysteria,” he said.
“After all, there were still eight minutes left in the game,” a caustic
Povich wrote.
At the Polo Grounds, the public-address announcer at the conclusion of
the Dodgers’ victory over the Giants asked all members of the armed forces
in the crowd to report to their duty stations.
In Washington, Corinne Griffith noticed that patches of empty seats
were beginning to appear as the news slowly spread throughout the sta-
dium and onto the field. She recalled the players being confused about what
was going on.
“I guess the Redskins didn’t announce it because they didn’t want to
cause a panic,” said Clyde Shugart, a Redskins lineman who turned twenty-
five that day. “We sensed that something happened, and everybody in the
stands realized there was something wrong. But we didn’t know what.”
“We beat the Eagles, but that’s not what I remember most about the
game,” Sam recalled years later. “What I’ll never forget is how the [public
address] announcer kept interrupting play by calling out people’s names.
We kept on playing, but that hadn’t happened before, not when we had the
ball. I’d be calling signals, and he’d be calling out names and saying some
other stuff. Hell, I couldn’t tell what it was. We talked about it on the side-
line and tried to figure it out, but no one had any answers.”
The game ended in almost complete silence. As the fans filed out of the
stadium, they experienced what Povich called “mass shock.” Newsboys
shouting, “Extra! Extra!” waved papers. The headlines screamed the news
that transformed the world, including the lives of everyone in the stadium
that day: “ U.S. AT WAR .”
The Redskins’ Shugart said he and several of his teammates marched on
the Japanese embassy that night. “We wanted to square the account if they
were looking for a fistfight,” he said.
“The United States of America and the Empire of Japan are at war,”
the Post reported on Monday. “The conflict that Adolf Hitler started on
September 1, 1939, has now truly become a death struggle of world-wide
proportions.”

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Also on Monday, President Franklin D. Roosevelt addressed a joint ses-

sion of Congress. His opening words: “Yesterday, December 7, 1941—a date
which will live in infamy—the United States of America was suddenly and
deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.”
On Monday in New York, Steve Owen, the coach of the New York Giants,
talked with reporters about the NFL championship game two weeks later,
but his mind seemed elsewhere. “I don’t know what is going to happen,” he
said, and reminded reporters that the game might even be canceled. Even
if the game was played as scheduled, teams might not be at full strength.
He said that Jack Lummus, a rookie end from Baylor, had been called in for
an interview with the navy only hours after the U.S. entered the war. “He
was sent back, but there is no way of telling when they will call him again,”
Owen said.
The championship game wasn’t canceled, although only 13,341 fans at
Wrigley Field watched the Bears beat the Giants 37–9. It was the smallest
crowd for a title game since 1933, when they began.

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 CHAPTER

17

THE 1942 SEASON

avenging73–0

“N
o sport faces a more uncertain future,” a United Press reporter noted
just a few days after the trauma of Pearl Harbor. “Its life blood is
the constant flood of ready-made stars from the collegiate ranks to
replace veterans forced into retirement by the bruising pace of five or
six seasons in the National League. How many current college seniors are
interested in football for 1942?”
The reporter answered his own question with the words of Bruce Smith,
the 1941 Heisman Trophy winner from Minnesota: “There’s a bigger game
than football going on now.”
The Office of Civilian Defense decreed that spectator sports were impor-
tant to civilian morale, so the pros continued to play throughout the war
years, although both baseball and football were deeply affected, lightly at
first but more heavily as the war dragged on.
The NFL commissioner, Elmer Layden, offered the following state-
ment: “From Aristotle’s time on down we have been told, and it has been
demonstrated, that sports is necessary for the relaxation of the people in
times of stress and worry. The National league will strive to help meet this
need with the men the government has not yet called for combat service,
either because of dependents, disabilities, or the luck of the draw in the
Army draft.”

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Several NFL teams struggled. In 1943, the Pittsburgh Steelers merged

with the Philadelphia Eagles to form the Steagles; a year later, Pittsburgh
pooled its players with the Chicago Cardinals. When the Cardinals-Stea-
gles amalgamation went 0-10, sportswriters dubbed them the “Carpets.”
The Cleveland Rams folded.
The league managed to get by with players awaiting the draft (the army
draft, that is), players too old for the draft, 4-Fs (those ineligible for the draft
for various physical, mental, or moral reasons), and men who worked dur-
ing the week in draft-deferred defense industries. Several teams brought
back old-timers, including Bronko Nagurski with the Bears and Ken Strong
with the Giants.
Although draft boards didn’t begin their big push until 1943, hundreds
of pro football players were caught up in “the bigger game.” Baseball’s Joe
DiMaggio, Ted Williams, and Hank Greenburg left the playing fields.
So did George Halas, who in 1942 at age forty-seven left the Bears at mid-
season to join the navy. During World War I, he had enlisted as a volunteer
and had asked for sea duty. Instead, he was assigned to the sports program
at the Great Lakes Naval Training Station, whose football program won the
1919 Rose Bowl.
Some did not return. Al Blozis, the young man who presented the travel-
ing bags to Georgetown alumni at Griffith Stadium on December 7, would go
on to become an all-pro tackle with the Giants. Then he joined the army. On
January 31, 1945, Lieutenant Al Blozis was cut down by German fire as he
searched for missing members of his platoon while on patrol in the snowy
Vosges Mountains of France. Jack Lummus, the Giants rookie from Bay-
lor, was killed by an exploding hand grenade on Iwo Jima. By war’s end, 638
players had served in the military; 21 lost their lives.
For the NFL draft, the Redskins and other NFL teams were scouting
not just for players but also for players who would be available for the ’42
season. The Washington Post reported that fifteen of the twenty players
drafted that year were either married, had family dependents, or were unfit
for army duty. “The objective of the ten league clubs was not particularly
to get the big name stars first but with the war draft facing a great majority
of the graduating seniors the idea was to sign up those with classifications
which would allow them at least a season of pro ball,” the Post reported.
Before the ’42 season, the Redskins lost about five players, the least of
any NFL team. Wayne Millner, Sam’s friend and favorite receiver, departed
for military service, as did Frank Filchock, Sam’s backup. Players who had
applied for military service were allowed to finish the season.

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As a married man in his late twenties and the father of two children, and
as a rancher providing beef cattle to the armed services, Sam was exempt
from service. Whether he ever thought about joining up or whether his fans
expected him to enlist as his patriotic duty is a mystery. His sons, Todd and
David, said they never heard their father voice any regrets about not serv-
ing, and neither the Washington Post nor Shirley Povich in his Post columns
ever made an issue of it.
A Sport magazine article in 1948 reported that Sam “drew criticism in
some quarters for not volunteering. When he continued to play football,
commuting by airplane each weekend, the cries grew louder.” Sam told the
magazine he was at a loss to understand the complaints. “As far as he is con-
cerned, Uncle Sam didn’t see fit to call him, and that was that. The draft
board told him it didn’t care what he did on weekends, so why shouldn’t he
keep on playing football?”
Maybe it was as simple as that. Despite being intensely competi-
tive, despite being a natural leader, maybe Sam didn’t give much thought
to whether he ought to volunteer or whether it was his patriotic duty. He
wasn’t called, so he didn’t go.

T
 he Redskins were coming off their poorest season yet in D.C., a 6-5
third-place finish in the NFL East. They began the first wartime sea-
son, and what they hoped would be a comeback year, in San Diego, where
the Shriners had invited the Redskins to play the intrasquad East-West
game for their Crippled Children’s Fund. After three weeks of training in
the cool, sunny city by the sea, the Redskins played before a packed stadium
on August 20, 1942. Half of the crowd was made up of paying fans; the other
half was made up of soldiers, sailors, and marines who had received free
tickets to the game.
A week later, the Redskins traveled up the coast to Los Angeles to stage
an exhibition game with the army all-stars, a team made up of college and
professional players turned soldiers. Coaching the army team was Major
Wallace Wade, who had coached Alabama in the ’20s and Duke in the ’30s.
In Southern California, where there would be no professional football until
the Rams arrived in Los Angeles in 1946, the game attracted a crowd of
more than sixty thousand, including Hollywood celebrities George Raft,
Ann Sheridan, King Vidor, and Linda Darnell. On the strength of Sam’s
passing, the Redskins won easily, 26–7, and headed back east.
The Skins opened the regular season with a 28–14 win over Pittsburgh, a

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game highlighted by Sam’s old Texas buddy Ki Aldrich. The Redskins center
knifed through the Steelers line and blocked a field-goal try, then caught the
ball in midair and rumbled more than ninety yards for a touchdown.
After losing to the Giants 14–7—a game in which the Redskins made not
one first down and ended up with minus yards rushing—the Redskins then
reeled off six straight wins. With three games to go, special Baltimore & Ohio
trains ferrying fifteen thousand fans accompanied the team to New York for
a rematch. It would be the last mass exodus from Washington before travel
restrictions put an end to such frivolity.
“In the first half, the Redskins fumbled nine times. . . . Fifteen thousand
Redskin fans moaned and groaned; and many were driven to drink as the
half ended 0 to 0,” Corinne Griffith recalled.
The Giants kicked off to start the second half. Andy Farkas fielded the
kick on his own goal line and then galloped 100 yards for the game’s first
touchdown.
Shortly after Farkas’s sensational run, Sam went to work, completing
four straight passes to the Giants’ twenty and then finding Wilbur Moore
in the end zone for a second touchdown. The Giants scored a touchdown
in the fourth quarter, but the Skins managed to hang on for their first vic-
tory in the Polo Grounds since 1937. Two more victories—against Brooklyn
and Detroit—made the Redskins the Eastern Division champions, with a
record of 10-1. For the third time in six years, the Redskins were in the NFL
title game.

T
 he world championship the next Sunday in Griffith Stadium would be
a rematch with the hated Chicago Bears, 11-0 and the winners of eigh-
teen straight games. Theirs was the second perfect season in NFL history;
the first had been a 13-0 finish by the Bears in 1934.
Five eventful years had passed since the Redskins had defeated the
Bears for a championship in Chicago, two years since the awful drubbing
the Bears had administered in D.C. Despite that nightmare, the Redskins
had yet to experience a losing season, finishing first in the NFL twice and in
third place once.
Flaherty declared the team ready, “If the Bears want to get tough in the
clinches,” he told reporters, “we’ll get tough too. You can look at the pictures
and see how they use their hands and get away with other stuff that should
be called by the officials. This time we’re going along with them and play
their way. If there’s some rough stuff, we’re going to be in on it.”
Flaherty had taken his one assistant coach, former tackle Turk Edwards,

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 = THE 1942 SEASON =

on a trip to Chicago to scout the Bears in their last game of the season,
against the Chicago Cardinals. He left Sam and Wee Willie to run prac-
tice. While in Chicago, he happened to read the following in a newspaper
column: “The Bears say that Sammy Baugh is the most overrated passer in
football. They point to the records which show that Sid Luckman [of the
Bears] and Cecil Isbell [of the Packers] do more damage with one pass than
Baugh does with five. Baugh gets his team to the 50-yard line with five short
passes and Luckman and Isbell get their teams over the goal line with one.”
The two coaches returned with film from the Bears 21–7 victory over
the Cardinals. The Post reported that Flaherty would prepare his Redskins
with lighter physical training than usual and rely more on “the medium of
lectures and motion pictures.” He remembered the worn-down Redskins
team that got annihilated in 1940.
Sam, no doubt recalling Marshall’s incendiary comments two years
earlier, had nothing but good to say about the ’42 Bears: “Ah wouldn’t say
they’re meaner than any other team. The Bears just play harder. That’s what
they’re supposed to do, after all. They make it look rougher because four or
five of ’em hit a ball carrier at the same time. A lot of ’em get the same idea at
the same time about making a tackle, and you can’t condemn ’em for that.”
December 6, 1942, was a cold, crisp day in the nation’s capital; more than
thirty-six thousand fans filled Griffith Stadium, and a record 178 radio sta-
tions broadcast the game. It was the largest crowd to attend a sporting event
in Washington since the 1933 World Series. In the stands that day were
the singer Al Jolson; Dan Topping, who owned Brooklyn’s football Dodg-
ers; Kentucky senator A. B. “Happy” Chandler, who later would become the
commissioner of Major League Baseball; and, of course, numerous military
brass and politicians.
“Curly Lambeau, sitting with George and me, predicted the Redskins
would win,” Griffith recalled. “I appreciated it very much, but would rather
by far have been in New York with two new hats, one for each half, listen-
ing to the game over the radio, than seeing it from that upper box exposed to
those Bears, and the memory of that 73 to 0 score.”
Ray Flaherty made sure his Redskins remembered it too. Instead of
delivering a Knute Rockne–style pregame pep talk, he slowly walked to the
front of the dressing room minutes before kickoff and wrote “73–0” on the
blackboard. Then he circled it.
Enraged, still embarrassed, and barely able to wait for the kickoff, Sam
and his teammates lined up along the sidelines while “The Star-Spangled
Banner” was sung and the flag raised, patriotic rituals that meant more to
the assembled crowd than ever before. The Bears, in blue jerseys and white

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pants, won the toss but got nowhere against the Skins’ defense. Both teams
spent the first quarter feeling each other out.
In the second quarter, Dick Todd tried to snag an errant pass from cen-
ter, only to have the ball bounce off his shoulder pad. Under NFL rules at
the time, a defender was allowed to recover a bad pass from center but not
advance the ball, whereas he could recover a fumble and run with it. When
Todd couldn’t control the snap, both the head linesman and the umpire ruled
the ball dead. Nevertheless, Bear tackle Lee Artoe came rushing across the
line of scrimmage, scooped up the ball, and raced with it sixty yards down
the field. Everybody else, on both teams, stood and watched.
Artoe crossed the goal line and touched the ball to the ground, and every-
one laughed—everyone but the referee, that is, who threw up his arms to sig-
nal a touchdown. He had ruled the play a fumble.
While the crowd screamed and yelled for the referee’s head, Artoe
attempted an extra point but missed, and then kicked off to the Redskins,
who took over on their own twelve-yard line. In the stands, a wire-service
photographer caught General George C. Marshall helping his wife don
heavy wool socks, while Mrs. Jesse Jones pulled on a red sweater, a super-
stition she relied on to bring the team luck.
Redskin fans saw Sam spit on his hands, rub them together, and get
down to work. Sam took the snap—and kicked. The ball traveled eighty-
five yards. Corinne Griffith called that kick “the greatest play I ever saw.”
She expounded:

Ninety-nine per cent of pro-football strategy is to get possession of the ball

and keep it, but Sam’s quick kick was a monumental piece of contempt for
all football strategy. It was notice to both the Redskins and the Bears that he
believed his football team could score on the Bears whenever it pleased and he
was going to kick out of the danger of his own goal-line for a mere safety pre-
caution. The fact is that the play dumbfounded the Bears and elated the Red-
skins, and it put the Bears back on their own 5-yard line, in far more danger of
a score by the Redskins than when we had the ball.

“That kick turned out to be a big play,” Sam told reporters after the game.
“When I quick-kicked, I had the wind to my back, and that’s why I did it.
If the quarter had run out and we had to punt, we would have had to do it
against the wind.”
Meanwhile, Corinne Griffith’s husband was doing his part to give his
men every advantage. Knowing that the Bears were using a press-box phone

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to assist Luckman with his play calling—Halas was the first NFL coach to
do so—Marshall stationed the Redskins’ band close to the Chicago box.
Every time assistant coach Luke Johnsos picked up the phone to call down
to the field, the band would strike up a loud number.
Shortly after Sam’s quick kick, the Redskins’ Wilbur Moore intercepted
a pass from Luckman, the only passer in the league who could hold a can-
dle to Sam, to give the Redskins the ball on their own forty. The Redskins
caught three interceptions that day, one by Sam, and outgained the Bears on
interception-return yardage, 11–0.
Again Sam went to work. Standing in against a furious Bear rush, he took
his time and stood tall until he found Moore at the three. Although he was
well covered by three Bears, the receiver leaped high in the air for a sensa-
tional catch and fell into the end zone for a touchdown.
“The Bears were very angry,” Griffith wrote, “and they were not the papa
bear and the mama bear and the little baby bear—that’s another story—
because our Wilbur said the language they used was not the pretty language
one reads in Children’s Story Books.”
The Redskins’ Bob Masterson booted the all-important extra point, and
the half ended with the Redskins leading 7–6.
After a halftime Christmas tribute to “our boys”—Redskins in the armed
services, boys on the field playing their last game, and all the other “boys”
fighting for their country—the two teams came out to begin the second half.
The Redskins surprised the Bears with a sustained ground march led by
Farkas and Sam.
After making a first down at the twenty, Farkas carried four straight
times to the one. On his next effort, he fumbled as he crossed the goal line,
but officials ruled that the ball had broken the plane of the goal. The Red-
skins led 14–6.
In the fourth quarter, Luckman threw a long pass that Sam intercepted
in the end zone. With an eight-point lead and time running out, the Red-
skins seemed on their way to their second world championship, but with a
little less than three minutes to play, the Bears’ Joe O’Rourke threw a long
pass to Bob Nowaskey. Again Sam was there for the interception, but he
couldn’t quite pull the ball in; he only knocked it high in the air. It fell into
Nowaskey’s hands and stayed there. With Sam on the ground, no one was
near the Bear receiver, but somehow big Ed Justice of the Redskins caught
up with him and brought him down on the one-yard line.
With first and goal from the one, and the crowd in a frenzy, the Bears
tried to punch it in, but the Redskins held. That made it second and goal

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from the two. The Bears were penalized for having a man in motion, which
made it second and goal from the seven. On a running play into the line, the
Bears gained four yards.
On third down and goal at the three, with thirty-seven thousand crazed
fans on their feet, the Redskins held. On fourth down and goal from the
three, Luckman faded, but Redskins swarmed him. He threw a desperation
pass that fell incomplete. The final seconds ticked off, the 73–0 shame faded
away, and once again Sam’s Redskins were world champions.
“People went crazy,” Buddy Watwood recalled. He was nine years old
that long-ago Sunday, sitting with his father along what was normally the
third-base line of Griffith Stadium. As Watwood remembered, Redskin fans
spilled onto the field, tore down the wooden goalposts, and swamped Sam
and his teammates. For a nine-year-old, it was a glorious day.
“By way of supplying a final madhouse touch to a football season that
was noted for its lunacies and upsets, the Redskins soundly trounced the
supposedly invincible Bears before an incredulous and deliriously happy
gathering of 36,036 spectators in Griffith Stadium today to win the world
professional championship,” the New York Times columnist Arthur Daley
wrote. “This was a team that was so much an underdog that the gamblers
stopped giving 7-1 odds and handed out as much as 22 points. This also was
largely the team that had been beaten 73–0 in the playoff two years ago. Yet
it cracked into the mighty Bears with disregard of the Chicagoans’ reputa-
tion and handled them as easily as if the Monsters were only P.S. 9.”
For Sam, the victory was bittersweet. It was the last game he would play
for Coach Flaherty, who joined the navy immediately after the game. Sam
always called him one of the better coaches he ever played for. “Everyone
respected him as a coach,” he said.
Immediately after the game, the victorious Redskins posed for a team
picture. Flaherty sat in front of the team, his loyal boxer at his knee. He
would never coach another game for the Redskins.
During the last week of the year, Grantland Rice took his sportswriter
colleagues to task for overlooking Sam when they voted for the nation’s
“Top Male Athlete of 1942.” Those who garnered votes included Heisman
Trophy winner Frank Sinkwich, Ted Williams, Don Hutson, Johnny Beaz-
ley, Gunder Haegg, Sugar Ray Robinson, Mort Cooper, Cornelius Warmer-
dam, Ben Hogan, Joe Louis, and Willie Pep, but not Sam. Sinkwich, a Uni-
versity of Georgia halfback and the first player from the South to win the
Heisman, was voted the year’s top male athlete; Williams, the Boston Red
Sox triple-crown winner, was runner-up.
“Those are all keen, earnest fellows,” Rice wrote.

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They all did a fine job. But where’s the fellow called Sammy Baugh, the Wash-
ington Redskins’ halfback, who happens to be the 1942 standout? Apparently
they haven’t heard of Sammy this season. But Sammy happens to be just about
the most valuable football player of all time, according to most pro coaches
I’ve talked to. He’s the lean, grim, dark, wiry Texan who took a good, but aver-
age, football team to the pro championship, rough-riding over the Chicago
Bears in the climax game.

Sam was the top male athlete of 1942, Rice insisted, even though he failed
to get a single vote.

He’s the game’s greatest passer, finest kicker and greatest competitor when it
comes to the main test, as he did against the Bears this year.

Greatest ever, maybe, but Sam found himself in a bit of trouble as the
year came to an end. Marshall had arranged for his team to play a team of
professional all-stars in Philadelphia on December 27, 1942. Sam failed to
show up.
Commissioner Layden called for a full investigation. He cleared the Red-
skins star after learning that Sam had missed plane connections in Dallas
and after hearing his teammates swear that Sam had never even hinted that
he wasn’t intending to play. Layden’s official report exonerated Sam, but
chided him for his carelessness.

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 CHAPTER

18

THE 1943 SEASON

abaughtrifectaand
anotherchampionshiplost

T
he Redskins weren’t sure where they would be training in 1943. At the
last moment, the Office of Defense Transportation ruled that it would
be a boost to military morale for the team to head back to San Diego,
where they could entertain military personnel for six weeks or so.
They also weren’t sure who would be wearing the burgundy and gold. Of
the thirty-two men who had played on the 1942 world championship team,
only fourteen remained. The rest were wearing a different kind of uniform,
including Coach Flaherty, who was a navy physical training instructor
in Idaho.
Around the league, four hundred pro football players or coaches were in
military uniform as the season opened. A number of college teams, includ-
ing Harvard, Stanford, Princeton, and Alabama, dropped football for the
duration, and several NFL owners, including Halas, favored a hiatus as well.
Marshall wanted to keep playing, and his wife seconded his opinion.
“My training had been ‘the show must go on’—the more tragic the event, the
more important to keep up the morale,” she recalled. Several other owners—
Freddy Mandel (Detroit Lions), Tim Mara (New York Giants), and Curly
Lambeau (Green Bay Packers)—backed Marshall. They would play each
other home-and-home if it came to that.
At the league meeting where the owners decided the NFL would stay in

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business, they also made the wearing of helmets mandatory. Sam always
had worn a helmet, although his headgear didn’t have a face mask.
Years later, he recalled another form of protection that occasionally
came in handy: “We were playing somebody—I don’t know who it was—and
they had an end. He was a really fine football player, but he’d come in and
he’d hit me in the face. He’d make like he was hitting at the ball and swing
down, and he had my face bleeding on both sides. Our linemen, they got
pissed off, and they wanted to run what was called a ‘bootsie play.’”
In a bootsie play, he explained, nobody blocks the “son of a bitch playing
dirtier than hell.” When he came roaring into the backfield, Sam would rifle
a pass right between the guy’s eyes.
On the particular occasion he recalled, Sam hit the rampaging lineman
so hard that he stood straight up, then fell facedown like a statue. “It scared
the living hell out of me,” Sam recalled. “I thought I’d broken his damn neck
or something and it had killed him. Shit, he got up, and they didn’t even take
him out of the ball game. He came just as hard, just the same damn way.”
For the most part, Sam didn’t seem to worry much about self-protection.
He provided his own shoulder pads and used the same pair throughout his
professional career. Regular pads hampered his throwing motion, so his not
only were lightweight, but also had the straps cut off. “I didn’t like some-
thing pulling on me,” he recalled. Even though he also played defense and
made countless tackles wearing the same old flimsy pads, he never thought
about sturdier protection.
Helmets, maybe even shoulder pads, would have come in handy for two
of the owners—the notorious Georges. At the league meeting, Marshall told
the forty-seven-year-old Halas that he had no business joining the navy,
that he was too old to fight. In a fit of temper, Halas clambered over the table
and hit Marshall atop his head with his fist. The Bears’ owner was not about
to leave the fighting to somebody else.
An embittered Corinne Griffith recalled:

The 4-Fs carried on through the ridicule of two isolated sportswriters, with
plenty of space and printer’s ink with which to explain their own exemptions;
through gambling accusations, dropped as quickly as created—and they car-
ried the National Professional Football League to the biggest money-making
season of its history. The war workers, the men in service and the men over-
seas wanted to see and hear the games.
The boys in Guadalcanal, North Africa, the mosquito-infested, fever-rid-
den, far-flung outposts of the world, battle-weary and homesick for some-
thing as typically American as American football, again heard an excited voice

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proclaim, “. . . and there he goes folks, right through the middle, and he’s o-ver
for a touch-down!”

Unlike those boys, Sam was fortunate. He could continue playing the
game he loved—for pay. He could attend to his beloved ranch, unlike many
Americans slogging through the jungles of the South Pacific or braving the
withering fire of German guns. “If we are lucky, we can pay for the land and
the house this year,” he wrote Mona in a September 10 letter from Birming-
ham, Alabama, where the Redskins were playing an exhibition game. “I am
getting $15,000 from the Redskins, and we have the cattle in Colorado—also
some calves at home to sell.”

A rthur J. “Dutch” Bergman took over for Flaherty in ’43. A former

coach at Catholic University in D.C., he had been chief scout for the
Redskins in ’42. A lively, humorous fellow, Bergman had been a star run-
ning back at Notre Dame, where his roommate was the legendary George
Gipp. In 1936, he took Catholic University to its one and only Orange Bowl
appearance.
Bergman picked up where Flaherty left off, with the Redskins defeating
Brooklyn 27–0 before 35,450 fans at Griffith Stadium. In a return match in
Brooklyn, Sam played sixty minutes and threw six touchdown passes.
Sam and his boys were unbeaten through their first seven games, with a
tie against the Philadelphia-Pittsburgh team their only setback. Later in the
season, the lowly “Steagles” beat the Redskins 27–14.
On November 15, the Washington Post reported on “another of Sammy
Baugh’s untouchable one-man shows, a truly great individual performance
in which the torrid Texan smashed two more National Football League
records.” Here is what the writer had in mind: in the Redskins’ 42–20
defeat of the Detroit Lions, Sam became the first NFL player to intercept
four passes in one game, all of them thrown by the Heisman Trophy winner
Frankie Sinkwich. He got off an eighty-one-yard punt and completed eigh-
teen of thirty passes for four touchdowns. He also punted on three consecu-
tive first downs, for fifty-four, forty-six, and sixty-six yards. “He’s something
out of a book,” Sinkwich told Shirley Povich.
Sam would agree with folks who labeled him one of the best passers of all
time and possibly the best punter. He was more modest about his defensive
exploits. “I was passable,” he told a television interviewer decades later. “I
knew what I was doin’ back there. But I was the weakest one, so they worked
on me, and that gave me an opportunity to intercept passes.”

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Povich vociferously disagreed with his old friend. “If Baugh wasn’t the
Babe Ruth of football, no one was,” he recalled. “Like Ruth, who pitched
before he became a home run hitter, Baugh excelled at every phase of
his game.”
By December, the Redskins were two games ahead of the Giants, their
nearest rivals for the Eastern Division championship. They had two games
left to play, both with the Giants.
For the first one, the Redskins journeyed to New York, unaccompanied
this time by their usual entourage of a marching band and special-train
fans. Wartime restrictions prevented unnecessary travel. Three key Red-
skins—Wilbur Moore, Bob Seymour, and Wee Willie Wilkin—went out with
injuries, and the Giants won 14–10.
The loss trimmed the Redskins’ lead to one slim game, with the Giants
coming to town the next Sunday. Should the Giants win, the two teams
would meet in a playoff game. Commissioner Layden was in Washington in
case a coin toss was needed to determine where the game would be held.
Meanwhile, the Redskins encountered a foe more formidable than the
Giants as they prepared for the final game of the regular season. As Corinne
Griffith recalled, she was reading the afternoon paper on the evening of
December 7 when the phone rang. It was her husband, who was bringing
Gabe Murphy, the Georgetown University athletic director, home for din-
ner. After dinner, the three were having coffee in front of the fire when Mur-
phy told Marshall, “I think you’d better tell her.”
“Tell me what?” Griffith wanted to know.
“Oh, nothing, nothing important,” Marshall said.
“She’ll read it in the morning paper,” Murphy said.
“Yes, I know,” Marshall said.
Finally Marshall revealed that a newspaper story the next day would
claim that several Redskins were mixed up with gamblers and had been
paid to throw the game against the Steagles the Sunday before. If it was true,
he told her, the team and its owner would be ruined for life, just as the Chi-
cago White Sox baseball team had been destroyed a couple of decades ear-
lier by the notorious Black Sox scandal.
“Oh, that isn’t true!” Griffith protested.
“Of course, it isn’t true,” Marshall said. “You know it isn’t true; Gabe
knows it isn’t true and I know it isn’t true, but the [Washington] Times-Her-
ald is printing a story insinuating it just the same. It’s probably rolling off
the press at this very moment.”
Griffith urged her husband to do something.
“What can I do?” he said. “I’ve spent the whole day pleading with them

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not to print the story. I’ve offered $5,000.00 to anybody who can prove that
any member of the team has gambled.”
“And have they any proof ?” Griffith asked.
“No, all they have are some records.”
“Records? What do you mean, records?”
“They’ve had Dictaphones placed in the bedrooms of certain Redskins.”
“How awful!”
Still, investigators had no proof, Marshall insisted. “And even if they
did, it couldn’t be all the Redskins. That’s what’s so unfair about a blanket
accusation.”
Griffith suggested to her husband that he call Sam. “If he’s heard any-
thing, he’ll tell you,” she said.
Marshall got the Texan on the phone. Sam said he had heard nothing,
although he was hot about the Dictaphone scheme. He asked Marshall
to take him down to the newspaper office so that he could confront any-
one who had accused him of consorting with gamblers. Marshall refused,
although his wife told him it wasn’t a bad idea.
On December 8, 1943, readers of the Washington Times-Herald woke
to a front-page story headlined “Probe Reports of Pro Football Gambling.”
According to the story that followed, Commissioner Layden and league offi-
cials had been looking into rumors that several players were closely associ-
ated with known gamblers and that a number of Redskins were under inves-
tigation after the team’s 14–14 tie with the Steagles on November 7. The
Redskins had been favored to win that game by as many as twelve points.
The paper went on to report that the Redskins’ November 21 game with
the Bears had aroused suspicion because Sam was out with a knee injury,
the Bears were 4-to-1 favorites, and yet the crippled Redskins won 21–7.
The Redskins also came under suspicion because of the outcome of
the second Steagles game. Although Washington was a 4-to-1 favorite,
the lowly Steagles won 27–14. Sam had a rare bad day, Willie Wilkin and
Clyde Shugart got tossed out of the game, and the team looked as though it
wasn’t trying.
Authorities were also suspicious of the game the previous Sunday, when
the Redskins had been 5-to-1 favorites to defeat the New York Giants, but
lost 14–10.
“Reports that a betting coup had been effected, headed by Washington’s
three biggest gamblers, spread through the ranks of the underworld in New
York, Chicago, Philadelphia and other major cities from coast to coast,
following the second Washington-Phil-Pitt Steagle game,” the Times-
Herald reported.

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All betting on National Professional League football games now has been cur-
tailed and under no circumstances will bookmakers accept a bet.
After the [November 21] game with the Bears and the second contest
a week later with the Steagles, one Washington gambler [later revealed to
be the convicted bookmaker Pete Gianaris] is reported to have won over
$150,000.
The Times-Herald has learned that Owner Marshall’s appeal to Major
[Edward] Kelly [the superintendent of Washington police] that he investi-
gate was based not entirely upon suspicion of gambling, but that Marshall
told Kelly he suspected some of his players of visiting night clubs, taverns and
other places in the city where they should not be.

The Washington Evening Star asked Dutch Bergman for a statement.

“The whole thing is a gross libel on a hard-working bunch of kids,” the coach
said. “It is scurrilous, and unless it can be proved it should not be discussed.”
At noon on the day the story broke, Marshall called the Times-Herald
editor and asked whether he would gather other editors and reporters in his
office. “I’d like to bring some of the players over,” he said.
That afternoon, Marshall strode into the editor’s office, followed by
Coach Bergman, Sam Baugh, and twenty-four of his teammates. As many
of the Redskins as possible crowded into the office; the others jammed the
open door. Marshall faced the newspapermen. “Now gentlemen, here is the
team,” he said. “You have accused some of these boys of throwing a football
game. That’s a pretty serious charge. I want you to point out the guilty ones.”
As Corinne Griffith told the story, none of the editors in the room and
none of their reporters could name any of the Redskins as having consorted
with gamblers. Vincent X. Flaherty, who cowrote the story, said some gam-
blers had told him that some of the Redskins were involved, but none of
them would sign an affidavit. “And you wrote the story on hearsay?” Mar-
shall said. “You printed it with a banner line on the front page on hear-
say? Now I demand to know what you have to substantiate it.” As Griffith
recalled, none of them responded. “Their answer,” she wrote, “was cow-
ardly, grim silence.”
Sam recalled the incident in 1948: “Some sportswriters said back in 1943
that the whole Washington team must be betting on games. That was the
year we lost three straight games at the end of the season, when a victory in
any one of them would have given us the Eastern title.”
As it turned out, the Redskins and Giants had to meet each other in a
playoff game to determine the division champion. “We fellows on the team
didn’t get any extra money for that playoff game, and we’d rather not have

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had to play it,” Sam recalled. “We couldn’t help it because we lost those
other games. Sometimes, those things just happen in football.”
On December 12, the Redskins took the field for the final game of
the season. For the first time ever, they were greeted with boos from the
hometown crowd.
For their water boy that game, the team had the services of Max Krause,
a Redskin running back serving in the navy at nearby Anacostia. Flaherty
of the Washington Times-Herald wrote that Krause wanted “nothing more
than the chance to imparadise himself in the environment.”
During a time-out, he rushed onto the field with his water bucket and
warned his old teammates that the Giants were crisscrossing to get to Sam
when he was punting. No one listened to the “water boy” that day, and Sam
got a punt blocked. To make matters worse, the Giants won, 31–7.
Commissioner Layden, watching the game from the Marshalls’ box,
went down to the field to toss a coin to determine where the playoff game
would take place. The Giants won the coin toss, which sent the Redskins to
the Polo Grounds the next Sunday.
When Marshall arrived at his office Monday morning, he got a call from
Cissy Patterson, the owner of the Times-Herald. “I’m so sorry you were
unable to reach me on the telephone the other day,” she said. “I would have
stopped the story. But I would have given a million dollars if I could have
seen the expressions on the faces of my editors when you walked in with the
entire football team.”
Back in the good graces of their fans, the Redskins journeyed to New
York’s Polo Grounds, where, as Dutch Bergman recalled years later, they
were a cheerless, dispirited group. After all, the Giants had beaten them two
Sundays in a row, and a sure-thing championship was slipping away. The
Redskins’ coach decided a little psychological gamesmanship was in order.
Strolling into the dressing room after pregame warm-ups, he could feel
a definite “let’s get it over with” atmosphere. “I just want to say,” he began,
speaking slowly and deliberately, “that we have some good ballplayers on
this squad, and we have some yellow-bellied, gutless ones too. I know that
some of you already have bought train tickets and are leaving for home right
after the game.” The coach paused to let his words sink in. “You’re going out
there, take your beating and slink home like whipped dogs. You don’t want
to play the Bears. You’re yellow, gutless.”
Bergman saw shock, then anger on the players’ faces. Sam stood up, his
face red, his voice tight. “Wait a minute there, you can’t call me yellow,” he
drawled. “Nobody’s gonna call me a quitter.” Sam took a couple of menacing
steps toward his coach, but Bergman held his ground. “All right, Sam,” he

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said, “if you want to fight, go out and fight the Giants. I’ll be here in this room
after the game. I’ll be waiting for you.”
A chastened Sam did just that. Maybe he needed Bergman’s kick in the
pants. Playing before 42,800 fans, he had what Time magazine described as
“a one-man field day.” He completed sixteen passes, quick-kicked twice—
once for sixty-seven yards—and intercepted two passes, one of which he ran
back thirty-eight yards to set up the third touchdown. Final score: Redskins
28, Giants 0. “As he trotted off the gridiron after last fortnight’s upset,” Time
reported, “Baugh was mobbed on the 50-yard-line by autograph hounds.
The crowd swelled to a thousand and Sammy scribbled frantically for 30
minutes before policemen rescued him.”
Buddy Watwood, who saw every home game Sam played, recalled that
the Redskins star regularly stayed an hour or more after games, signing
autographs for kids. Watwood recalled how he would dangle his helmet
by the chinstrap over his left wrist and stand there and sign every single
autograph.
Occasionally, when youngsters mobbed him on the field, he would tell
them he had to go to the locker room and shower, but to wait for him after
he had gotten dressed. They would be waiting for Sam when he came out.
He would find a car running board to prop his foot on—often George Pres-
ton Marshall’s Cadillac or a long, sleek LaSalle—and then he would sign
countless autographs. Or he would tell the kids he was headed over to Mar-
vin’s Grill, a steak house on Connecticut Avenue near Calvert Street, and he
would be happy to sign autographs there.
Bill Patten was a ball boy for the Redskins in the late 1930s. His job, he
recalled years later, was to keep track of the footballs and warm up Sam
before practice sessions and games. During games at Griffith Stadium, he
sat on the end of the bench and looked after Duke and Duchess, two boxer
dogs that belonged to Turk Edwards.
Patten recalled one Sunday when a youngster had sneaked into Griffith
Stadium without a ticket. Normally, team officials would probably look the
other way, and young Patten and his fellow ball boys never paid. They just
came into the stadium with the team. This time, though, the police barred
every kid without a ticket, including the ball boys. As Patten recalled, a
boy who had sneaked in the Sunday before set a book of matches afire and
burned himself badly. Marshall didn’t want to be sued.
Young Billy Patten spotted Sam as he headed into the stadium and told
him about his plight. “Wait right here,” Sam told the youngster. He went to
the dressing room, put on his uniform, and came back to talk to the police.
He told them that if the ball boys weren’t allowed in to sit on the bench and

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keep track of the balls and the dogs, there would be no game that Sunday.
The Redskins star escorted the kids into the stadium.
Twenty-nine years old in 1943 and at the height of his career, Sam cap-
tured the NFL’s first triple crown, leading the league in three statistical cat-
egories: in passing with 133 completions, in punting with an average of 45.9
yards a kick, and on defense with eleven interceptions. It is an unmatched
feat of versatility, and likely to remain so.
It could be said, and some did say, that Sam’s success was due to the
reduced competition he faced during the war years. Nevertheless, he put up
spectacular numbers for several seasons after the war.
Sam was the league’s most valuable player in another area as well: from
the beginning, he had been, without question, the team leader. His team-
mates looked up to him, believing in his ability to pull out a victory no mat-
ter the odds.

T
 he 1943 championship game on the day after Christmas—against the
Bears, of course, at Wrigley Field—was cold, windy, and sunny. The two
old rivals took the field before a sold-out crowd at a time when the news
from Europe and the South Pacific was disturbing enough to keep Ameri-
cans awake at night. A football game on a Sunday afternoon was a welcome
distraction, at least for a little while.
Although the war had crippled the NFL, the Bears and the Redskins,
thanks to astute management and good coaching, had not only survived
but also thrived. They would be playing in the championship game for the
fourth time since 1937, with the Redskins holding a 2–1 edge.
Sam, who had almost single-handedly whipped the Bears in the ’37 and
’42 championship games, was uncharacteristically cocky as he talked to
reporters a couple of days before the game. “I ain’t as worried about the
Bears as I am that danged cold weather in Chicago,” he said. “We can handle
the Bears. I just don’t know whether we can handle that goddamned hur-
ricane coming off Lake Michigan.” All-pro fullback Andy Farkas was even
brasher. “The Bears are a bunch of old men,” he said. “We’ll outhit them and
outquick them.”
Was it false bravado on the part of the Redskins? After all, they were
tired and beat-up after their grueling contests with the Giants, and the
Bears were confident and rested. They had ended their season with a record
of 8-1-1. Their only loss was to the Redskins, 21–7, a game that featured the
old Statue of Liberty, a trick play that became part of Sam’s standard reper-
toire whenever end Wilbur Moore was in the game.

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“If there was a tougher Redskin than Wilbur Moore, nobody can recall
who it might be,” a Washington Post writer observed in 1986. Al DeMao,
the Redskins’ center from 1945 to 1953, once counted the number of bro-
ken bones Moore reportedly had, and got to twenty-two before he stopped
counting. “Reckless,” DeMao said. “He’d throw his body anywhere. He’d
guard [Hall of Fame receiver] Don Hutson all the time when we’d play the
Packers. And do a good job.” A famous newsreel film of Moore captures him
at least six feet in the air as he flew over Green Bay center Charley Brock to
tackle Ted Fritsch. “Wild on the field,” said Riley Smith, an early-day Red-
skin. “Crazy, and a hitter.”
For the Statue of Liberty play, Sam would cock his arm and look down-
field as if to pass. From his position at end, Moore would loop behind Sam,
grab the ball out of his passing hand, and run. Since defenders were hyper-
conscious of the pass whenever Sam had the ball, and trying to match
receivers stride for stride as they raced downfield, the Statue of Liberty
usually brought huge gains, as it did in the Giants game. Relying on three
blockers ahead of him, Moore ran twenty yards for a touchdown.

O n game day, December 26, Halas strolled the sidelines in his seaman’s
cap and navy dress blues while Marshall, resplendent in his trade-
mark raccoon coat, sat with his wife in their box. As it turned out, fans also
got to see the flamboyant Marshall in action.
Shortly before the end of the first half, the owner began making his way
down to the field from his box seat and, for some reason, chose a ramp that
led to the Bears’ bench. As he stood behind the bench and waited for the half
to end, the Bears’ general manager, Ralph Brizzolara, spotted him. “My god,
it’s Marshall,” he shouted. He accused the Redskins owner of trying to steal
the Bears’ signals.
Brizzolara began yelling and waving his arms, trying to shoo Marshall
away. He then dispatched the team trainer, Jack Goldie, to escort Marshall
out of the area. Marshall, his raccoon coat flapping in the breeze, ducked
into a lower box near the Wrigley Field home plate. Ushers asked him for
his seat number, and when he couldn’t produce a ticket, they called the cops.
Two of Chicago’s finest took him by the arm and walked him about a dozen
steps before he was able to talk himself out of his predicament.
“I didn’t want Marshall there eavesdropping . . . ,” Brizzolara told report-
ers after the game. “A championship and a great honor were at stake. . . .
That’s the lowest way there can be of trying to win a game. . . . Yes, we threw
him out—not invited him out.” Marshall’s response: “Fiddlesticks! It was a

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first-class bush-league trick. You can say for me that Brizzolara is not a gen-
tleman. And I’ll never speak to him again!”
On the field, Marshall’s boys found themselves in trouble as well, almost
from the beginning. After the Bears stopped the Redskins on third down,
Sam sailed a forty-four-yard punt in a high spiral that landed in Luckman’s
arms at the Washington thirty. Luckman angled for the left sideline, hop-
ing to pick up a bevy of blockers, but instead found himself one-on-one with
Sam. As he moved in to bring down the stocky, hard-running ball carrier,
Sam slammed his head into Luckman’s knee; instantly, he was down for the
count in front of the Redskins bench. When his teammates realized what
had happened, they rushed Luckman, who had to be rescued by the officials
and his teammate (and Sam’s friend) Bulldog Turner.
Sam gradually got to his feet, and a couple of teammates escorted him on
rubbery legs to the sidelines. As he sat on the bench, his face twisted in pain,
tears rolling down his cheeks, the team doctor examined him. “Do you know
where you are?” he asked.
“Fort Worth,” Sam replied.
“Who do you play for?”
“The TCU Horned Frogs.”
“What’s the matter, Baugh, lost your guts?” Bear’s end George Wilson
jeered. Dazed, enraged, Sam sat on the bench sobbing.
Sam had completed eight of twelve passes for 123 yards and two touch-
downs when he went out. Meanwhile, Luckman was passing the Redskins
dizzy, eventually completing fourteen passes for 276 yards and a record five
touchdowns. The Redskins, reverting in Sam’s absence to a running game,
scored on an eighty-yard drive early in the second quarter, but trailed 14–7
at halftime. As the Redskins trudged up the tunnel toward their locker
room, Sam wondered out loud, “How the hell did we get to Chicago?”
In the locker room, the team doctor reexamined Sam and pronounced
him fit to play. Although he threw two touchdown passes in the second
half, his teammates couldn’t stop the Bears. Luckman threw touchdown
passes of thirty-six and sixty-six yards for a 28–7 Bears lead before Sam
could get unlimbered. With the 41–21 victory, the Bears captured their sixth
NFL title.

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 CHAPTER

19

1944 AND 1945

yetanothermissedchampionship
andtheendofanera

S
am headed back to the ranch immediately after the championship
game, back to Mona and the two kids. With the war still raging on both
the Pacific and the European fronts, his football future was suddenly
in doubt. In September 1944, just as the new season was beginning,
the Sweetwater draft board decided to make an issue of his status. After a
day of what the Washington Post called “conjecture, consternation and con-
siderable comment,” the board ruled that Sam had to either return to rais-
ing cattle full-time or, if he decided to play for the Redskins in ’44, take his
chances in the military draft. He was playing on “borrowed time,” the Post
reported. He had until October 1 to decide. Sam said he would “do as the
Draft Board says.”
As a rancher, Sam was still in a “second-class” essential occupation cat-
egory. As a football player, he was 1-A (fit for service). The chairman of the
Nolan County Selective Service Board, C. R. Simmons, told the Post that the
board had given Sam permission to play three charity games, but he had to
return to the ranch thereafter.
Corinne Griffith recalled a conversation Sam had with her husband in
July 1944, which may or may not have been absolutely factual. Marshall
asked him whether he would be able to play in the upcoming charity exhi-
bition games. “Oh, yes sir,” he said. “I’ll be there for the charity games. I’ve

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got the best ranch hand in all Texas taking care of the ranch for me those
three weeks.”
“Well, Sam,” Marshall asked, “why can’t you get him to take care of the
ranch for the entire season?”
“Him? It ain’t’ a ‘him,’ Mr. Marshall, it’s a ‘her.’ It’s my wife.”
When the Redskins opened at home on October 22 against the Brooklyn
Tigers, a strong reserve team was ready to step in, the Post reported, in case
the starters faltered. “The reserve team’s name is Sammy Baugh.”
With the government making heavy demands for beef, Sam became a
long-distance commuter. He had to make sure that the government got its
beef shipments on time.
He worked on the ranch five days a week, then drove to Forth Worth,
where he boarded a plane and flew either to Washington or to wherever the
Redskins were playing on game day. The draft board’s ruling—that he work
his ranch full-time or be subject to immediate call—did not apply to week-
ends. Marshall told Sam he needed him to hold for extra points; his kickers
kept missing without Sam.
The Redskins’ starting quarterback in 1944 was Frank Filchock—
“Slingin’ Sam” and “Flingin’ Frank,” the papers called them. Filchock was
a former Indiana star who recently had received a medical discharge from
the navy after nearly two years of service overseas. Although no one could
replace Sam as a punter, Filchock filled in admirably as a passer. Against
the Eagles early in the season, he threw thirty-three passes and completed
twenty-five, five for touchdowns in a 31–31 tie. Against a new team, the Bos-
ton Yankees, in late September, he completed ten of eighteen passes in a
21–14 victory.
“His average of .673 is better than Baugh’s best,” the Post noted. “It would
be almost folly to bench a red-hot Filchock for a Baugh who has not touched
a football for nearly a month, despite Sam’s brilliant record.”
Dutch Bergman resigned before the season began, not because of any
dispute with Marshall—the usual reason Redskin coaches departed—but
because he wanted to go into broadcasting. To replace Bergman, Marshall
signed Dudley DeGroot, a former Stanford all-American who had just com-
pleted four successful years as the University of Rochester coach. Turk
Edwards continued as assistant coach.
DeGroot, at Marshall’s behest, instituted a profound change in how the
Redskins played the game, a change Sam hated at first, although he later
conceded it probably extended his career. As a tailback in the single wing,
he was usually on the move, either rolling to his left or right while looking
for a receiver, or passing. He got battered time and again. In DeGroot’s

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new offensive scheme, the T formation, he often got rid of the ball before
defenders got to him.
“I figured I only could go maybe another year or two as tailback,” Sam
recalled. “Hell, I was getting beat up and hurt all the time, and my shoulders
and knees were getting pretty bad by that time. But with the T formation
I didn’t take such a beating and that enabled me to play another seven or
eight years.”
Most of the NFL teams already had made the switch from the single
wing to the T, and Marshall had considered it at least since the Bears used
the formation to eviscerate his team in the 1940 championship game. When
he finally decided it was time for the Redskins to make the switch, he hired
Clark Shaughnessy, who had played a major role in the 73–0 rout. Through-
out the spring, the “Father of the T” put DeGroot and Edwards through what
Corinne Griffith called “T formation kindergarten.” For some reason, Sam
and his backup quarterbacks weren’t involved in the sessions, although they
got their fill when training camp began in July. Only one player, second-year
guard Al Fiorino, had ever played in the formation.
“Coach Shaughnessy explained the T formation as based on the defen-
sive strategy of the opponents; explained why telephones must be placed at
various points high up in the stadium with spotters relaying information to
the bench,” Griffith wrote. “The Bears were the first to install the roof tele-
phones, prior to that they had had to toss notes to the bench; then Shaugh-
nessy charted a new system of play; developed the signal system, far more
intricate in the T than any other formation; worked through April’s spring
days and nights, May’s warmer days and warmer nights, June’s hot days and
hotter nights until July 1, when Dudley DeGroot and Turk Edwards were
graduated—they thought.”
Sam got a chance to work from the T in early exhibition games in Los
Angeles; Ogden, Utah; and Baltimore. Although he was throwing touch-
down passes, he still was feeling awkward after years of taking a long snap
from center and surveying the field even before the ball got to him. Drop-
ping back to pass from the T formation required him to turn his back to the
line of scrimmage, plant his right foot, and immediately turn and scan the
field for an open receiver. The whole process felt awkward, as did faking and
spinning with the ball on running plays.
“When I switched from a single-wing tailback to a T-formation quarter-
back in ’44, it was the most difficult thing I’d ever had to do in my football
career,” he said.
It didn’t help that he had to leave the team after the exhibition season
and get back to punching cows in West Texas. He played in a preseason

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game in Pittsburgh and then was lost to the team until the Brooklyn game a
month later.
Some years later, he ridiculed the idea that he had resisted the T forma-
tion. “Why, that’s the easiest position in football—quarterback in the T-for-
mation,” he told Sport in 1948. “If they’d had the T when Ah started playing
pro ball, Ah could play until Ah was 40 years old. All you do is hand the ball
off and pass.”
Playing tailback in the single wing was punishing. “I had to block in the
single wing, and when I went up against those big linemen my shoulders
would shake afterward,” Sam recalled years later.
He said he admired Shaughnessy, even though his offensive scheme was
complicated. “Why, we had over 20 plays to get around one end,” he recalled.
“Only trouble was, we couldn’t find anybody who could do it.”
One result of the switch to the T did not work in Sam’s favor: it all but
eliminated the quick kick as an offensive weapon. Sam was the best quick-
kicker in the history of the game.
“You use a rocker step,” he explained to a reporter many years later.
“From the single wing, as the ball’s coming to you, you step back, step [for-
ward] and then kick. You’d kick it just the same as any other kick except
you’d kick it lower . . . and you’d kick it down the middle of the field. Nor-
mally when you punted the ball, you’d go for the sideline. But on the quick
kick, you’d just try to get it over the safety’s head.”
With the quarterback under center, the quick kick wasn’t possible—
unless the center hiked the ball through the quarterback’s legs to the full-
back. The quick kick also fell out of favor as more and more offenses adopted
the wide-open style of play pioneered by Sam and the Redskins. Kicking
for field position became less an option when teams expected to score from
anywhere on the field.
The old single wing—like the various iterations of the shotgun offense
used today—was also more amenable to another Baugh weapon, the quick
pass. He got his passes off quickly because his center knew to snap the ball
to him in the vicinity of his right ear, where he could instantly whip a “short,
safe, sure” pass to one of his receivers.
Despite the changes, or perhaps because of them, the Redskins got off to
a fast start in ’44. They opened with a tie and then won the next three to lead
the division. Filchock, alternating with Sam, had the season of his life. With
more than 1,100 yards through the air and a completion percentage of .571,
he led the NFL in passing.
Sam, his time divided between the pasture and the playing field, didn’t do
too badly himself. He completed 82 of 146 passes for 849 yards and a passing

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 = 1944 AND 1945 =

percentage of .562. That was good for second place in the NFL, ahead of the
Bears’ Luckman, whose percentage was .497.
The aerial prowess of the Redskins duo wasn’t enough. After their quick
start, they only managed to break even in their final six games and finished
6-3-1, in third place behind the Giants and Eagles.

T
 he Germans had surrendered by the time the 1945 NFL season opened,
and the Japanese were in their final throes. Fewer men were being
drafted into the military, so most of the 1944 regulars were on hand when
the Redskins began preseason training on Georgetown University’s new
football field. Sam was again free for full-time quarterbacking.
When the Japanese surrendered on September 5, the Office of Defense
Transportation removed all travel restrictions, and the owner immediately
scheduled five exhibition games (for no extra pay to the players). That might
be why the team looked tired and sluggish in the season opener, a 28–20 loss
to the Boston Yankees, which listed the singer Kate Smith as a co-owner.
In Pittsburgh the following Sunday, the Redskins ignited a winning
streak that lasted for six games. Sam threw two touchdown passes in
the 14–0 shutout. He threw another touchdown pass to his fellow quar-
terback, Frank Filchock, but the thirty-yard toss was called back on a
holding penalty.
Sam, now in his ninth season, was playing as well as he had played in
years. In a 24–14 victory over Philadelphia at Griffith Stadium, he threw
thirteen passes and completed ten. He had grown so comfortable in the T
formation that he told a reporter, “I could play it in top hat and tails.”
The next Sunday against the Giants, he completed twenty-three passes,
including a touchdown pass to his old buddy Wayne Millner, back from
the war. Another spectator also was back from the war. Corinne Griffith
recalled the Redskins swing band suddenly breaking into a jaunty tune and
the Griffith Stadium crowd rising as one in a mighty ovation. A man in khaki
uniform stood up and acknowledged the ovation. General Dwight D. Eisen-
hower had come home.
At home the next week, Sam completed nineteen of twenty-five passes
for 249 yards in a 24–21 victory over the Chicago Cardinals. The Redskins
were averaging twenty-five points a game.
By November, other Redskins were drifting in from all over the world.
Running back Dick Todd returned from the navy, and Ki Aldrich from
the army.
Another returning veteran was Al DeMao, a big tough center from

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Duquesne who had been drafted by the NFL in 1942 but had not yet played
in a pro game. What he found when he joined the Redskins surprised him.
As he recalled four decades later:

I’d come from a very disciplined program in college, and here I am in my

first meeting with a pro team. The coach is diagramming a play and saying to
Baugh: “Sam, we’ll run this.”
Sam says: “It won’t work, so I won’t call it.”
Then DeGroot says: “Okay, we’ll use Filchock at quarterback.” And
Filchock looks up and says: “I won’t call it either.”
I’m dumbfounded. The players are telling the coach what to do.

Sam, of course, had been around a lot longer than DeGroot—and prob-
ably knew the game better than his coach. And returning veterans like
DeMao had taken orders from much more intimidating superiors than a
head football coach—and in life-and-death situations—so it probably wasn’t
easy to take a demanding coach all that seriously.
Marshall—always “Mr. Marshall,” as far as Sam was concerned—was
another matter. He ruled by intimidation, and since he was signing the
checks, he usually got the respect, or at least the obedience, he craved.
Sam led Marshall’s team to two more wins before the Eagles tripped
them up in Philadelphia, 16–0. The next week, the Skins were back in
Griffith Stadium, where they defeated Pittsburgh 24–0. In the regular-sea-
son finale, the Redskins defeated the Giants 17–0, thus claiming the Eastern
Division championship for the fifth time in nine years.
Sam, selected for the first time as an all-pro quarterback—he had pre-
viously made the team as a halfback—set an NFL record in 1945 by com-
pleting 70.3 percent of his passes. His 128 completions were the most in
the league that year, and only the Bears’ Luckman gained more yards pass-
ing—1,725 for Luckman, 1,669 for Sam.
The Cleveland Rams—soon to be the Los Angeles Rams—won their first
Western Division championship, and with it the right to play the world
championship game at home on December 17.
Sam was hurting, and four days before the game, doctors determined
that he had suffered a broken rib in the Giants game. Marshall told his
wife that he was keeping it a secret. “Be sure you don’t even whisper it,” he
told her.
The next morning, she recalled, all the morning papers led with the story
about the star’s injury. “May I whisper it now?” Griffith asked her husband.
He said yes.

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S am and the Redskins left Washington’s Union Station on Friday night

for Cleveland. A huge crowd jammed the station, already bustling with
holiday throngs trying to get home for Christmas and servicemen trying to
get home for good. Leaving an hour late, the special train carried the team,
coaches, sportswriters, fans, a 150-piece brass band, a huge papier-mâché
Christmas tree, a Santa Claus sled, and six Santa Clauses (for the halftime
extravaganza).
The train pulled into Cleveland late Saturday morning. One reporter
observed that Sam looked weak and drawn, in no condition to play, “but
Texas blood and guts demanded he be given the nod over the fresher
Filchock who came back from the Navy in the middle of the season.”
Sam never liked playing in Cleveland. “Out there,” he told the Post’s Shir-
ley Povich years later, “they pumped up the ball to make it round and hard to
throw. The league didn’t have a regulation ball when I broke in.”
Horrible weather only added to his Cleveland woes. A blizzard had
gripped the city for a week, and playing conditions rivaled those from the
fabled game with the Bears in ’37. Corrine Griffith recalled getting a wake-
up call from a cheery Statler Hotel operator: “Good morning! It’s nine
o’clock. The weather forecast for today is clear and sunny. The temperature
is Zero.”
Cleveland’s Municipal Stadium is situated on the shore of Lake Erie. The
end of the stadium facing the lake was open, purposely so, to allow in cool
breezes on summer nights when the Cleveland Indians were playing base-
ball. On December 16, the cool breezes felt as if they were gusting across the
lake from the North Pole. By game time at 1:30 p.m, the temperature had
fallen to two below zero.
Some 33,000 of the 40,000 ticket-buying fans huddled for some measure
of warmth in the 80,000-seat stadium. They were wrapped in fur caps, ear-
muffs, sheepskin-lined parkas, corduroy pants, and heavy boots. Corrine
Griffith and her husband had stuffed newspapers under their heavy coats
and sweaters.
“They’re peddling hot coffee in the stands, and the lucky fans are getting
it spilled all over them,” Shirley Povich wrote on the day of the game. “When
one clumsy vendor attempted to apologize, he was told, ‘Never mind, the
pleasure is all mine.’”
Groundskeepers had spread $7,000 worth of hay across the field the night
before, hoping to keep the ground from freezing. It didn’t work, although
players sitting on the bench covered their legs and feet with it. Icy gusts

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blew through the stadium opening; fine bits of frozen snow swirled through
the air. The only color on the field came from the garish yellow jerseys and
helmets the Rams wore.
After pregame warm-ups, the teams left the field and the trumpeters
of the Redskins band marched in from the open end of the stadium. They
held their feathered headdresses with one hand, their instruments with the
other. At the goalposts, they halted, resting their trumpets on their hips. The
director gave a command, and with a flourish the trumpeters lifted their
instruments to their lips. Out came a few pathetic squeaks. The trumpets
had frozen.
Early in the first quarter, the Redskins took over deep in their own end
of the field. Sam, his ribs tightly bandaged, jogged gingerly onto the icy field.
Fading to pass from his own end zone, he spotted his buddy Millner in the
clear on a crossing pattern and let the ball fly.
It didn’t fly very far. In those days—and for some years thereafter—the
goalposts were on the actual goal line, not at the back of the end zone, and
Sam’s pass to Millner hit the goalpost crossbar. The ball bounced back for
an automatic safety and a 2–0 lead for the Rams. (Marshall would get the
safety rule changed at the next league meeting.)
“Everyone expected Sam to punt, because we were backed up to the goal
line,” Millner said later. “There was no one within a mile of me when I broke
into the clear. But as Baugh threw the ball, the wind shifted and blew the
ball into the goalpost. Instead of being ahead 7–0 on a 105-yard play, we
were behind 2–0.”
As Sam recalled the play years later, his injured ribs were to blame.
“I couldn’t throw very hard, couldn’t put anything on the ball,” he recalled.
“We’d been better off with Filchock playing the whole game.”
“Wayne would have gone the rest of the distance, no question,” said Al
DeMao, then a rookie. Sam, obviously in pain, retired to the bench, and
Filchock came in and almost immediately threw a fifty-eight-yard scoring
toss to running back Steve Bagarus.
The Rams came back and scored on a thirty-eight-yard pass play from
the Rams’ rookie star Bob Waterfield to Jim Benton, making the score Rams
8, Redskins 7. Waterfield came on to kick the extra point. Having trouble
finding firm footing, he lofted a wobbly kick that landed atop the cross-
bar, balanced briefly, and then toppled over for the extra point. Rams 9,
Redskins 7.
DeMao recalled what happened at halftime: “Marshall came into the
locker room and told Coach DeGroot, ‘Okay, Doug, let’s get out the sneakers.’
Doug said very meekly, ‘Mr. Marshall, we made a gentleman’s agreement

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that we wouldn’t use the sneakers.’ He was, in essence, fired right then and
there. Marshall said, ‘This is no gentleman’s game. That’s the last decision
you’ll ever make as coach of the Redskins.’”
In the second half—after Marshall’s six-Santa halftime show, and his de
facto firing of the coach—Waterfield passed forty-four yards for a touch-
down, making it Rams 15, Redskins 7. This time, Waterfield missed the
extra point. Sam, who had completed two passes in the first half—one for
seven yards, the other for one yard—watched from the bench, his skinny
legs draped in hay.
The Redskins scored again on a pass from Filchock to Bob Seymour. Joe
Aguirre’s extra point made the score 15–14.
Late in the fourth quarter, the Redskins stopped the Rams’ final drive
and, with minutes remaining, began to mount one of their own. They
fought their way to the Rams’ twenty-four before stalling. On fourth and
four, with less than a minute to go, Sam walked painfully toward his team-
mates as they lined up for an Aguirre field-goal attempt. Drums accompa-
nied a desperate chant from the frozen Ram faithful: “Block that kick! Block
that kick!”
Like an old man, Sam knelt gingerly on the frozen turf and, while Aguirre
waited, tried to scrape away the ice and snow so he could put the ball down.
The wind died down, the drums went silent.
Sam blew on his fingers, wiped them across his jersey, and barked out
a signal. He handled the snap cleanly and tilted the ball toward Aguirre,
who sent it tumbling high in the air toward the goalposts. He had the dis-
tance, but just before the ball tumbled down between the standards, a gust
of wind from the open end of the stadium caught it. The ball sailed just
inches outside the upright. One minute later, the Cleveland Rams were NFL
champions.
Since the Redskins had been in the championship thick of things so fre-
quently, they and their fans assumed they would be back next year. So did
Sam. As it turned out, there would be no next year—for Sam, for Marshall,
for any of the ’40s-era Redskins. Sam would see only one more winning sea-
son in his time as a Redskin, and it would be thirty-seven long years before
Washington won another championship.

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 CHAPTER

2O

THE 1946 AND

1947 SEASONS
thedismalyearsbegin

“I
f you play long enough . . . you’re going to play on a real good team, you’re
going to play on a mediocre team and you’re going to play on some bad
teams,” Sam told an interviewer nearly a half century after he retired.
“It’s a lot more fun to play with a good bunch.”
Sam’s time with “a good bunch” pretty much came to an end with the
1945 season. For the next seven seasons, he played on teams that were, at
best, mediocre. Although Sam still had some good football left in him, the
Redskins during that period managed only one winning season. The bizarre
blizzard matchup with Cleveland was his last championship opportunity.
The reasons for the decline were manifold. For one thing, the team
experienced a spate of injuries during the postwar years, plus the veter-
ans, including Sam, were aging. In addition, the free-substitution rule went
into effect, which led to modern two-platoon football. Sam and his amaz-
ing sixty-minute cohorts faded into the past, to be replaced by specialists.
Teams with depth prospered; the Redskins were thin at several positions.
The draft—the military draft, that is—also had an effect on the Redskins.
With the advent of the Cold War, Uncle Sam needed men, and the Redskins
lost several key players at inopportune times. Also, the newly established
All-American Football Conference challenged the NFL for players. Most
NFL owners responded to the challenge by raising salaries.

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Not Marshall. He hated the new conference but was unwilling to spend
money to hold on to his players.
Several Redskins decamped, including Joe Aguirre, Lou Rymkus,
and Wee Willie Wilkin. The Redskins’ coach, Dudley DeGroot, asked for
his release and then almost immediately became head coach of the Los
Angeles Dons.
Sam was no doubt approached, but he felt a certain sense of loyalty to
“Mr. Marshall.” Corinne Griffith recalled a conversation the quarterback
had with the owner a few hours after the championship game in Cleve-
land: “I kind of figure it this way, Mr. Marshall, if a football player wants
to jump the Redskins—that’s just the kind of football player the Redskins
don’t want.”
Not all the Redskins felt the same way about the hardheaded, flamboy-
ant owner, who, after 1945, was a negative influence in another way as well.
That was the year he sold his laundry business, which allowed him to devote
all his time and effort to his beloved Redskins. That was fine when it came
to ever more spectacular halftime shows, but not so fine for the unfortunate
coach who had to endure his constant meddling.
“Marshall could promote the game, but he didn’t know his ass from a
hole in the ground, as far as I was concerned,” said Hall of Fame running
back Bill Dudley, who played in D.C. with Sam toward the tail end of the Tex-
an’s career. “He was just a big, damn fan.”
Since he didn’t know enough football to be the coach himself, he settled
for hiring and firing incessantly. During Sam’s sixteen-year career, Marshall
went through Ray Flaherty, Dutch Bergman, Dudley DeGroot, Glen “Turk”
Edwards, John Whelchel, Herman Ball, Dick Todd, and Curly Lambeau.
“Mr. Marshall would have loved to have been the head coach,” recalled
Joe Tereshinski, a Pennsylvanian who joined the team in 1947 after an all-
American career at Georgia. “I always firmly believed that his life would
have been complete if he could have coached the team for one season. He
was always competing with George Halas, and it made Mr. Marshall jealous,
because Halas would be on the field and Marshall would have to sit up in the
stands. He would call his general manager, Dick McCann, who sat behind
the Redskins bench, and tell him plays to give to the coach.”
Tereshinski recalled the sight of the owner’s long black Cadillac nosing
onto one end of the practice field while the team was working out on the
other. Marshall would summon his star quarterback to the car, Sam would
amble over, and the doors would open wide. The two men would sit in the
front seat, Sam in his workout uniform, for maybe half an hour and talk
football—or, more likely, Marshall would talk and Sam would listen.

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“Goddamn it, Sam, I want you to go over there and tell Ball he’s through,”
Marshall growled. “No coach is going to wreck this team, and I want you to
be the one to tell him.”
Sam looked at the owner. “But Mr. Marshall,” he said. “He’s the coach;
I’m just the quarterback.”
Sam knew how his teammates felt about the high-handed owner; he
knew how he himself felt. And yet, as far as anyone knows, he was never less
than respectful with the man.
After the war, Marshall made no effort to bring back Flaherty. “Ray didn’t
let anybody dominate him, which was difficult when he was working for
Marshall,” Flaherty’s wife told the Washington Post years later.
After DeGroot’s departure, the reluctant recipient of Marshall’s game-
day missives and inordinate attention was Glen “Turk” Edwards. As it
turned out, the recently retired Redskins lineman, a future member of the
NFL Hall of Fame, was a better player than he was a coach. “Turk was a
great football player with a great reputation, but he was probably too nice
to be a head coach,” Tereshinski recalled. “Having played with some of the
guys on the team, it was hard for him to come down on those guys.”
The Redskins, including Sam, struggled all year. Wayne Millner, his
favorite receiver, retired, and Frank Filchock, his longtime understudy, was
traded to the Giants. With the new coach constantly juggling the lineup, the
team never developed any consistency. They wound up 5-5-1, the first non-
winning season since leaving Boston.
Still, there were highlights. In a victory against Philadelphia on Novem-
ber 24, Sam spent most of the game on the bench with bruised ribs. Toward
the end of the fourth quarter, though, he ran on the field, bruised ribs and all,
and took charge of the offense.
“I’ve got to celebrate,” he told Edwards and then proceeded to lead the
Redskins’ offense on a fifty-three-yard touchdown drive. With his injury, he
couldn’t raise his arm to throw a pass, so he engineered the whole drive on
the ground. The game ended 27 to 10.
On the train back to Washington, Sam continued to celebrate. He couldn’t
throw a football, but he could toss cigars to teammates sitting around him.
“Mrs. Samuel Adrian Baugh, ‘the best ranch-hand in all Texas,’ had just pre-
sented Sammy with their third baby boy—four forward passers in one fam-
ily,” Corinne Griffith wrote.
Sam went back to the ranch and his growing family at the end of the sea-
son. He got home earlier than usual, thanks to the Redskins’ record.

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T
 he 1947 season was even less memorable than the season before.
Although Sam came back stronger than ever, leading an offense that
could score almost at will, the defense was as leaky as a sieve. The season
opener against the Eagles at Griffith Stadium was a portent. The Redskins
scored forty-two points—and lost. For the rest of the season, the Redskins
gave up an average of more than thirty points a game.
With the team out of the running by November for a division title, Mar-
shall started looking for a gimmick to entice fans into Griffith Stadium. He
found one: a special day to honor the greatest quarterback in team history,
arguably the greatest in the history of the game.
Sammy Baugh Day at Griffith Stadium was November 23, 1947; the
Redskins’ opponent was the league-leading Chicago Cardinals. Before the
game, Redskin fans stood as one to greet their hero with a raucous ovation.
The Touchdown Club of Washington had collected donations to purchase a
magnificent Packard station wagon for Sam—Redskin burgundy with gold-
colored wood paneling, white sidewall tires, D.C. license plate number 33,
and an inscription on the side: “Slinging Sam—the Redskin Man.”
After the car presentation, the usual keys to the city, and other assorted
gifts, Joe Tereshinksi gathered his teammates around him and nodded
toward Sam, who was still being feted at the middle of the field. “There’s the
best football player in the world,” Tereshinski said, “Let’s show him what
we think of him. Let’s see that he doesn’t get any mud on his pants today.”
Although Washington was 2-6-0 and merely playing out the string,
Sam’s teammates desperately wanted to win one for their leader, then in his
eleventh season. They also realized that he was nervous that day, perhaps
because of all the attention he was receiving or maybe because he was fac-
ing the best team in the league. That was a portent.
“The tip-off was the number of times he went to the john during the
time he was getting dressed,” fullback Jim Castiglia recalled. “If he went
more than three times, we knew we were going to have a helluva day. You
could book it.” On Sammy Baugh Day, he seemed especially nervous. “I was
Sammy’s scorekeeper,” Castiglia said, “because I had a locker next to the
john. When he visited the toilet for the third time, we were all grinning. Just
before time to go out on the field, he went one last time. I held up seven fin-
gers. There was loud whooping. We knew we had this one won.”
Castiglia’s theory held up. Redskin fans finally had something to cheer

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 = SLINGIN’ SA M =

about as Sam’s inerrant missiles found Bones Taylor, Tereshinski, Dick

Todd, and Joe Saenz. Playing against the best defensive team in the NFL
that afternoon, he completed twenty-five of thirty-three passes for 355
yards. Six of them were for touchdowns as the Redskins beat the title-bound
Cardinals 45–21.
“That was the easiest game I ever had,” Sam recalled. “Our team played a
great game. I was proud of them.”
Sam was proud of his car too. His sister and brother-in-law had come
down from Philadelphia for Sammy Baugh Day, and after the game, he drove
them back home in the magnificent new station wagon. He had planned to
spend the night in Philly, but on the way up he remembered that he was sup-
posed to make an appearance at a school in Washington the next morning.
After he dropped off his relatives, he turned around and headed south.
“At that time of the night there were hardly any cars on the highway,” he
recalled.

I saw this car coming toward me. It was coming across the middle of the road
a little too much, I thought. I slowed down a little bit. I thought he would
straighten the car out. But he kept coming toward me, so I moved over to the
right a little bit. He kept coming toward me, so I had to do something. I went
on the gravel. I thought he was going to hit me head-on. When I hit that gravel,
I slid right into a concrete bridge. It destroyed one side of the car. That guy
didn’t stop. He just kept going.

Sam’s explanation sounded plausible, since he didn’t drink. “He was actu-
ally a very good driver,” his son David recalled. “He had to be, since he
always drove too fast.”
Sam got the car repaired and drove it home to Texas. David would
remember how he and his brother Todd climbed all over it and scratched
the finish with the buckles on their overalls.

T
 he Redskins’ ’47 season was something of a car wreck as well. Despite
the upset victory over the Cardinals, the team had its worst year since
moving to Washington, finishing 4-8 for next-to-last place in the Eastern
Division. One of those losses, a 56–20 thrashing at the hands of the Bears,
prompted Shirley Povich to remark: “They are suffering from Halas-tosis.”
The Associated Press noted that “the thin man from Texas was never
better.” He threw 354 times and completed 210 for 2,935 yards, setting two
passing records in the process, both of which held up into the 1960s. Those

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numbers brought his lifetime record to 2,093 attempts and 1,202 comple-
tions for 15,194 yards and 128 touchdowns, all records at the time.
The numbers were even more impressive because Washington usually
fell behind early and the opposition knew he was going to throw. Still, he
was hard to stop.
“Sammy would still have all the passing records in football if he had
the receivers they had today,” his center, Al DeMao, recalled in 2006. “Sam
never had that luxury. We had outstanding players, but they had to play both
ways. Bones Taylor was probably the best end Sammy had to throw to. If
Sam had those kind of receivers, there’s no telling what kind of records he
would have set.”
“Is Baugh beginning to feel tired?” the AP wondered in 1947. “Well, he’s
outlasted a long line of stars brought in to succeed him. Roy Zimmerman,
Frankie Filchock and Jack Jacobs all got tired and went away. And Jimmy
Youell, the Iowa boy now understudying Baugh, hardly played enough this
year to work up a sweat.”
“I sure would like to have us win another championship before I quit,”
the AP reported Sam having told a luncheon gathering on December 15.
“You know, I haven’t got much longer—maybe only another year.”
“But he didn’t look as if he believed it,” the AP noted. “And the record
book so far has given no hint that Baugh ever will wear out. Like the Wash-
ington Monument, he may be here to stay.”
His teammates felt the same way. “My locker was next to Sammy Baugh’s
for six years,” Tereshinski recalled.

He was a tremendous guy. The first time I saw him, I walked into Griffith Sta-
dium when he was punting the ball down the field to Dick Todd. Dick was 50
yards away and never had to move to field those punts, not at all. I never saw
such accuracy in a punter. Then he backed Dick up five yards and hit him
again, and another five yards, and maybe Dick had to move a yard either way
to catch the ball. On broken pass plays in practice, when the routes weren’t
run correctly, Sam would punt the ball down to the players. He was a coach on
the field. He would call pass patterns and tell receivers where to go, changing
them right on the field.

Harry Gilmer, an all-American who would sign with the Redskins in

1948 as Sam’s potential successor, had similar memories. “He could be very
innovative, especially when he had [Dick] Todd around,” Gilmer told the
sportswriter Whit Canning years later. “Those two had been together so
long they had developed that rapport where each knew instinctively what

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the other was thinking. Many times, Sam would throw to a spot and Todd
would suddenly arrive to catch the ball—to the complete surprise of the
defenders. Sam was kind of ahead of his time in many ways.”
Gilmer was one of many players from Sam’s era who were as awed by his
abilities as were his fans—perhaps more so, because they understood the
mechanics of what he could do, not to mention his dedication to perfection.
Gilmer also liked the man from Texas. “Sam pretty much adopted me
right off,” he recalled. “Actually, he could get along with anybody, and usu-
ally did. He was a straight-shooter—anything you asked him, he told you
exactly what he thought, no matter what. But he was also one of the most
entertaining people I’ve ever known.”
During the season, Sam hung out with Todd, a fellow West Texan, and
Bullet Bill Dudley, the team’s best running back in the late 1940s. Young
Gilmer became the fourth musketeer, and after a while, he and Sam shared
an apartment in D.C, since neither had their wives with them.
“He could start telling stories, and you’d get up on the edge of your seat—
and two hours later he’d still be telling stories and you’d still be sitting
like that. And he and Todd together could keep a crowd going for hours,”
Gilmer recalled.
Sam and his teammates managed to put together a decent season in ’48,
finishing second in the division with a record of 7-5. In those days, the sec-
ond-place team received shares for finishing second, and one of the Red-
skins called a team meeting to determine how to divide the money.
Gilmer recalled that some of the Redskins were in favor of cutting out
several players who had gotten hurt or who hadn’t played much, and then
dividing the shares among themselves.
“Sam sat there and listened to this for awhile,” Gilmer recalled, “then
suddenly he gets up out of his chair and looks around and says, ‘What the
hell are we talking about here? Those guys are our teammates, and they’re
just as much a part of this team as any of the rest of us. They just had some
bad luck, and we didn’t!’” That pretty much settled it, Gilmer recalled.
Everyone on the team received an equal share.

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 CHAPTER

21

1948–1952
lastyearswiththeredskins

H
arry Gilmer was one of two quarterbacks Marshall signed for the
1948 season, the other being Charley Conerly from Ole Miss. Shortly
after Sam returned to Double Mountain following the ’47 season, he
got a call from the owner.
“I just wanted to let you know that we’re going to sign Harry Gilmer out
of Alabama,” Marshall said.
“Fine,” Sam told him.
“And also, that because of the bonuses these kids are getting today, we’re
going to have to pay him more than we’re paying you.”
“Well,” Sam said. “So?”
The conversation was typically Sam. His only concern about money had
nothing to do with his ego. He was interested only in making enough to pay
off the ranch.
The rookie Gilmer may have been an all-American in college, but he soon
realized he had a lot to learn from the veteran. “The first thing I learned,” he
said, “was that I wasn’t going to be the quarterback of the Washington Red-
skins anytime soon.”
The second thing he learned was that Sam was happy to impart whatever
knowledge he could to the man slated to replace him in the lineup. “It was
amazing just to stand around and watch him,” Gilmer said. “From that time

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forward, I stayed in pro football a pretty long time—as a player, coach or in

some capacity. I saw a lot of passers come and go, and Sam was as good as
any I ever saw.”
As Gilmer recalled, Sam wasn’t all that fast, but he had quick feet. Stand-
ing in the pocket, looking downfield for a receiver, he could take a couple of
quick steps and evade rushers bearing down on him.
“I was with the Redskins for the rest of the time that Sam was there,
and I really can’t remember ever seeing him sacked,” Gilmer said. “I sup-
pose he was, but I don’t recall it. That was always a big important thing with
him, because he felt that every time he got sacked, he let the team down.
He was an expert at getting rid of the ball if he had to—but he usually got
it delivered.”
Gilmer never did replace Sam. He suffered a leg injury in his rookie sea-
son and never completely recovered. Conerly, the other quarterback Mar-
shall signed to replace the Texan, was traded to the Giants, whom he led as
a star quarterback for the next fourteen seasons.
Sam kept coming back for “one more year.” When he was on, he was still
the best in the league, but there were signs that he was wearing out, that his
attention was more and more directed toward home and the ranch. A cache
of letters from that time suggests that his heart was back in Texas.
On November 18, 1947, he wrote his sons Todd and David:

Mother wrote me about you bringing in wood and helping her do things
around the house. I think that’s awful nice of you, and I’m awful proud of you.
I bet both of you boys are going to be fine cowboys sometime. I hope you will
help me feed the cows this winter like you did at times last winter.
Daddy gets awful lonesome and misses his boys lots and lots. I wish I could
be at home and wrestle you every nite. Maybe you are getting so big now I
won’t be able to throw you.

On July 14, 1948, he wrote to Mona from the Harrington Motel on Hol-
lywood’s Sunset Strip. Some of the Redskins had bit parts in Triple Threat,
a Columbia Pictures production:

We are working on the picture, but I don’t have much to do with it. I’m glad
because I may get home earlier than I planned.
I don’t think I am going to enjoy football at all this year. I’m going to miss
being home more than ever. It’s nice to get away from the boys if you are with
them all the time as you are, but I am really going to get homesick. . . .

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Give Todd, David and Bruce a hug for me. It’s not good to be away from a
family you love.
Be sweet,
Sam

“Honey, I wish we were together,” he wrote to Mona from Washington’s

Hotel Roosevelt in September 1948. “You tell the boys I think of them every
day, and I wish I could be home with them.” He added a postscript: “Honey
I want you to fix the house even though it costs more than you intended to
spend on it. I’m glad Owen got enough pipe to reach the new tower. I hope
the water is softer than the other well.”
Meanwhile, Sam had a job in Washington. A scouting report that Joe
Tereshinski saved from an Eagles-Redskins game on October 17, 1948,
included a rundown on each Eagle starter, offense and defense, plays the
Redskins would be counting on against the Eagles’ defense, and a pep talk
introduction:

HEADS UP REDSKINS!!!!
The Philadelphia Eagles—Eastern Championship Winners of 1947, and
picked to repeat in 1948—are coming to Washington Sunday, flying high and
wide. They have always been a tough team for the Redskins to beat. We have
not beaten them in Washington for the last four years. Let’s make this our
year!! we can’t afford to lose this one—Our fans, and the coaches feel confident
that you can and will beat the Eagles. what do you say, gang, let’s be ready!!
The Eagles have several outstanding men—great competitors and stars in
their own right. Men like Steve Van Buren who for the past 3 or 4 years has
broken all ground gaining records. His specialty is off tackle and end runs. He
must be shoulder-tackled and will cut back at every opportunity. We must be
on him at every minute. Pritchard is very fast and is particularly dangerous on
punt returns and kick-offs, and at present is their leading ground-gainer. He
likes to run the ends and 48 turn. He is also a good pass receiver. We agree that
they are great ball players. “The Cardinals stopped them—the Rams stopped
them—so can the redskins”. Thompson is a steady field general and if not
rushed is an excellent passer. go get him “j’s”!!! Pihos is a very good pro end,
and does everything well. They like to pass to both him and Armstrong #80
who is their favorite pass receiver on long passes.
The Eagles have a fast well-balanced ball club. They should have beaten
the Cardinals, and were tied in the last seconds of the game by the Rams.
Against the Giants they controlled the ball most all of the game. Their squad

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is in A-1 shape and will be ready to put out 100% against the Redskins. we
can beat the eagles if we think!!! and make up our minds right now to hustle,
block, tackle, and carry out our assignments, and play our defenses the way
they are set up.
sunday is our day!!!! let’s go now!!!

The Eagles, who would go on to win the NFL championship, beat the Red-
skins 48–0.
Two weeks later, Dan Sandifer became the second Washington Red-
skin to intercept four passes in a game, returning two for touchdowns in a
victory over the Boston Yankees. The Washington Post didn’t mention the
interception record in its game story and didn’t get to Sandifer at all until
the sixth paragraph. The reason could be that the Redskins scored a team-
record fifty-nine points that day as Sam threw four touchdown passes and
amassed a then-NFL-record 446 passing yards. The Post led off its story of
the game with: “The Boston Yankees lost a Baugh game yesterday at Griffith
Stadium.”
In late November 1948, Sam received a letter on Big Chief tablet paper,
written in pencil in all capital letters:

dear daddy
when are you coming home? we miss you.
it is cold today. david and i brought in five loads of wood. we have been
helping mother clean the yard.
come home soon.
love,
todd

Todd sent his dad another letter a few days later:

dear daddy
i miss you. the cows are fine. the barn is full of hay.
todd

The Redskins finished the ’48 season with a record of 7-5, good for sec-
ond place in the division. By the time the next season rolled around, Sam
was getting tired of the grind. The glamour—and the riches—that would
come to characterize the game were still decades away, as illustrated by
a letter Sam wrote from training camp at Occidental College on August
10, 1949:

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I am homesick now and I know it will be worse after a few weeks. I’m going to
miss you boys an awful lot. Still, I guess it’s worth $15,000. We can certainly
use the dough later. I hope we can get some money saved up because this will
probably be my last playing season.

Still at Occidental five days later, the homesickness hadn’t lessened:

I miss you darling, and I miss the boys and our home. Maybe it’s not very
fancy, but I am perfectly happy with you, the boys and our ranch. This football
is exciting but the season is too long.
Remind Owen to keep rat poison out at the barn and lots of it.

He was still concerned about the mundane in a letter to Mona the next
month:

Dearest Mona,
I went down & paid Dr. Amundson $635.00 today. I presume it won’t bounce
...
The Cardinals beat us 38–7. They really tore our line apart the 2nd half.
It was 14–7 at half time, but we couldn’t stop them after that. I completed 16
passes 1 for the TD, but we were never in the game after the 1st half.
I looked at some Pontiac Station Wagons today—they are awful nice. I can
buy one for list price, but we’d have to sell our car at home. I’d like to trade ours
in on a new one but I don’t know what it would bring. They tell me I’d probably
get more for it at home.

Like most aging players, Sam was hobbled by injuries and an inability to
bounce back quickly. In early September, he wrote Mona that he probably
wouldn’t be able to play in the Redskins’ opener:

Dearest Mona,
We have just arrived in Wash. And are getting ready to go to the annual
Touchdown Luncheon welcoming the Redskins back to Wash . . .
The weather is cool here, and you can feel fall in the air. I hope it stays cool
...
I hurt my ribs in the game but there’s nothing serious, just painful. I don’t
think I can play next Sunday against Green Bay.

In a letter to Mona dated October 5, 1949, from his usual room at the
Hotel Roosevelt, Sam confided to his wife that his career was winding down:

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Dearest Mona,
I have been laying in bed listening to the first game of the world series. It
was a good game, but I had a difficult time keeping my eyes open.
The Redskins won Mon. nite but we received lots of injuries—some of
them quite serious. I hope some of the boys recover in time for the Giant game
Sunday. “Turk” was relieved of being line coach—he was replaced by Herman
Ball. It was quite a popular move as far as the boys were concerned. They like
Herman, but detest Turk.
I am getting awful tired and old for football—seems I can’t get rested. I
suppose it’s for young men, and you couldn’t exactly call me a freshman at
this time. . . .
Be sweet and remember I love you. Tell the boys I’ll be awful glad to see
them.
Sam

It was getting harder and harder to be away from home for such long
stretches of time. “Honey, I want you to know how much I love you, but I’m
not so good when it comes to writing or talking,” he wrote toward the end
of November. “I guess Thanksgiving is a good time to check up and see how
many things we have to be thankful for. We have many things, but you are
the best—I am glad you’re my wife and I want to tell you I’ve enjoyed every
year we’ve had together. I have loved you so much, but I love you now more
than I ever have.”
He also mentioned in his Thanksgiving-week letter that he would be
attending a Press Club father-daughter banquet at which President Tru-
man and his daughter, Margaret Truman, would be the special guests. “Mr.
Marshall made me promise to accept so I guess I’ll be there,” he wrote Mona.
“Kinda like to see a President anyway.”
As a family man approaching middle age, Sam probably was tired of being
treated like a juvenile as well. A mimeographed letter that Redskins gen-
eral manager Richard McCann sent to players near the end of Sam’s career
included a list of what to bring to training camp at Occidental College:

Two suits, or one suit and a sport coat with slacks;

One pair of old slacks, or dungarees, and sweater or jacket;
One pair of dress shoes;
One pair of old shores [shoes] or loafers;
Four dress or convertible sports shirts;
A necktie or two;
Six changes of underwear;

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Toilet articles;
Pajamas, robe and slippers if you desire.

The ridiculously patronizing letter continues:

The club has strict rules about wearing suit coats and ties while in pub-
lic places such as hotel lobbies, railroad stations, airport terminals, and so
forth. But around the training camp you may dress for comfort and most of
the player [sic] wear a regulation Redskins’ T-shirt, which will be issued to
you, and old slacks. Sam Baugh, for instance, wears a T-shirt, dungarees and
loafers in camp . . .
Throughout your stay in California (about 40 days), you will have few
occasions to dress up. These will be: dinner given by the Los Angeles Times
for players participating in their great charity game; dinner given by Eagle
Rock and Highland Park citizens. . . . And, of course, six Sundays if you are a
church-goer.
Traveling on trains, the Redskins use private cars and you may dress for
comfort once aboard the train. However, in hotels I once again remind you
of the club’s strict rules on coats and ties. The day of the turtle-neck is past.
You’re in the big leagues . . .

The second page of the letter included a list of answers to frequently asked
questions:

Clothes:
When boarding or leaving trains or buses, or while in hotel lobbies and
dining rooms, your wearing apparel must include a necktie and a suit jacket
or sport coat . . .
Meals:
Special menus are prepared for group meals by the Redskins’ dietician.
There are no substitutes, and no seconds, for your stomach’s sake.
Laundry:
You may charge your laundry but you will be billed for it at the end of the
trip and the charges deducted from your first pay envelope.
Phones at Occidental:
OUTGOING CALLS: They are to be made on pay phones available in the
basement of Swan Hall.
INCOMING CALLS: They will be received at the phone booth in the patio
of the Student Union Building. If you expect a call, stand by there. No personal
calls may be received over phones in Swan Hall, or the dressing room.

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Smoking:
The club has strict rules about smoking in or around the dressing room or
practice field . . .
Ash-trays are plentiful in your rooms. Be sure to use them . . . not the floor.
Remember: It’s somebody’s mother or wife who has to clean up.

Maybe Sam was trying to escape the strict regimen when, toward the
end of his career, he moved into Washington’s Shoreham Hotel. The Shore-
ham, right off Connecticut Avenue and overlooking Rock Creek Park, was
a swank place, although when Sam took up occupancy, it left a bit to be
desired.
“I was a rookie in Sammy Baugh’s last season in football,” defensive back
Dick Alban recalled.

When we got back to Washington after training camp and after playing the
exhibition games across the country on the way back from the West Coast,
I didn’t have any place to stay. I had one suitcase full of stuff and that was it.

Sam invited the rookie to stay with him at the Shoreham until Alban’s wife
arrived and the couple could find an apartment. As Alban remembered:

We went to the Shoreham and went in the back entrance. I wondered why we
didn’t go in the front door. We walked up two flights of stairs, down the hall,
and into a suite of rooms that was huge. There had to be seven or eight rooms
in that suite. Outside, in the front of the building, there was a big sign that said
“Condemned.”
The hotel was closed. But Sammy still stayed there. He was friends with
the manager of the hotel. You wouldn’t think that a veteran and a star like that
would help a rookie. But that was Sammy.

It wasn’t getting any easier for the aging veteran. “I’m so sore from Sun-
day’s game,” he wrote after playing the Eagles. “I don’t think I’ll ever loosen
up again.”

S ammy was still in there pitching in 1949, although the results were less
than spectacular. Despite a midseason coaching change, the Redskins
finished the season at 4-7-1, topping only the New York Bulldogs, who were
playing their one and only season in the NFL.
As a new decade debuted, the four-year-old All-America Conference

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folded. Over George Marshall’s vociferous objection, the NFL picked up

three teams from the defunct league—the Cleveland Browns, the San Fran-
cisco 49ers, and the Baltimore Colts.
Shortly after the ’49 season ended, Sam flirted with becoming the head
football coach at Baylor University. He was considered the top candidate
among three contenders for the job, which opened up when Bob Woodruff
resigned the $12,000-a-year position to take a $17,000-a-year job as athletic
director and head football coach at the University of Florida. “It would be
a good job and be very nice,” Sam told the Associated Press, “but I believe I
should stay with Washington.” George Preston Marshall said Sam told him
he wanted to play as long as he could.

T
 he 1950 Redskins drafted a pint-sized quarterback from the College
of the Pacific, Eddie LeBaron, as another potential replacement for
their aging quarterback. LeBaron showed promise in a couple of exhibition
games, but as a reserve officer in the Marine Corps, he was called to active
duty when the Korean conflict exploded into full-scale war.
In a letter dated August 14, 1950, Sam recounted a busy Saturday at the
Occidental training camp. After a morning workout, the team toured Para-
mount Studios. “We saw Bob Hope and had a few pictures taken with him,”
Sam wrote. “He was working on a picture called ‘The Lemon-Drop Kid.’ He
told me his oil wells in Scurry County was making him rich—as though he
hasn’t been rich for years.”
He wrote home a few days later:

Well I’m still sore and stiff—guess I’ll stay that way. We haven’t had any rough
stuff yet. Have our first scrimmage Saturday. I am rooming with Nick Sebek,
a qb from Indiana U.
Honey, we are going to stay at the Stoneleigh Hotel in Dallas. Don’t know
where it is. Never heard of it.
How are you and the boys doing? I know it’s awful early to start complain-
ing, but I wouldn’t care if they cut me—if we couldn’t use the money so easily . . .
Has Owen gotten someone to plough the fields? Did we ever get any rain
from the cloudy weather after I left? I was hoping we would get a good soaking
rain before it was over.

When the season opened, Sam and center DeMao were the only veterans
left from the 1945 championship team. Although Washington fans weren’t
expecting much from the inexperienced team, Marshall and his new coach,

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Herman Ball, were heartened when the Redskins won all five of their exhi-
bition games. Sam, meanwhile, had received some news from Mona, and he
responded in a letter dated September 16:

Dearest Mona,
Well I guess we are going to have a little girl to go with our 4 boys. I know you
are disappointed—not that I can blame you—it will be an awful lot of work for
you to have another baby. Still, I think a girl would be wonderful—or another
little boy would be ok by me.
It’s really getting to be quite a rainy country around Rotan—I am glad—I
hope it rains all winter. It will be fine for the grass.
Honey, I moved to the Roosevelt Hotel today. The Annapolis was too noisy
for a guy who has lived in the country for 10 years . . .
We have all our land leased for oil. I wish we didn’t. I’m sure we could get
more for a lease now than we did at the time we leased. . . .
I am going to buy a Pontiac station wagon. It is all steel—no wood on it at
all. 3 seats. The back ones are removable.

The next day the Redskins won their first regular-season game. “This
brand-new edition of the Redskins still relies mightily on the good right arm
of Sammy Baugh,” the Washington Post reported. “It was the ageless Mr.
Baugh who pitched three of the five touchdowns as the Redskins crushed
the Baltimore Colts, 38–14, in the National Football League home opener
for both in Memorial Stadium before an estimated crowd of 26,000.”
Sam was not so impressed:

Dearest Mona,
We won the game yesterday, but we didn’t look very good. I hope we start
clicking again next week. Our running attack was not up to par.
Honey, tell Owen to get the oats planted soon, so they will have time to root
down before winter. I certainly hope the wet weather lasts. We need lots of
moisture to make up for the dry years when the grass didn’t grow.
Mr. Marshall was telling Gib Sandifer how nice and small you looked in
Dallas. He thinks you have done a wonderful job with the boys—and didn’t
understand how a woman who has 4 sons can look so young and pretty. I agree
with him to the fullest, and, of course, I could tell him of your other fine points
but I’ll keep that to myself.

After their opening-game victory over the Colts, Sam and the Redskins
dropped the next three games in a row, giving up eighty-two points in the

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process. The team’s inexperience was showing, and a raft of injuries com-
pounded the problem. The defense couldn’t stop anybody, and quarter-
backs Baugh and Gilmer were forced to run for their lives. At a dinner for
FBI agents, Sam managed to make a joke about his sieve-like offensive line.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “this is the most protection I’ve had all year.”
Sam was getting discouraged, as evidenced by an October 2 letter on sta-
tionery from the Hotel Edison in New York:

Dearest Mona,
I am in New York today for a TV show. It is the Joe DiMaggio Show and I
got $250.00 plus expenses. I will be back in Washington tonight.
We lost to Pittsburgh yesterday, 26 to 7. Our line has looked bad the last
three games and there is no explanation for it. I got my arm hurt yesterday and
I don’t know how long I will be out. It’s quite painful when I bend the elbow.
I’m afraid there are some pieces of chip bone to be removed, maybe not.
Honey, I think it is a good idea to have a garage built. You have my vote on
all the improvements to the house you want. I know another baby will really
put a hardship on you—it’s a lot of work. I hope you will be able to take care of
things gracefully. I don’t know of any other person, including my mother and
yours, who has, or can, be as good a mother and wife as you. I’m proud of you
and happy you are my wife. Someday our little boys will realize what a won-
derful woman their mother is . . .

The fifth game of the ’50 season was at Griffith Stadium against the Car-
dinals, who weren’t going anywhere either. The local papers noted that the
Redskins might be able to halt their skid against the Cards, something Mar-
shall was desperate to see happen. The Redskins had lost two straight at
home, and he knew attendance would begin to dwindle if the team kept los-
ing. He also wanted to impress some 5,000 fans from North Carolina who
would be making the trip north to see their Tarheel hero, Charlie “Choo
Choo” Justice, an all-American and Heisman Trophy runner-up who had
broken every record on the books at North Carolina. Given that the Red-
skins were the southern team in the NFL, Marshall wanted to hold on to his
growing fan base below the Mason-Dixon Line. (This was also the reason he
continued refusing to sign black players.)
The roof caved in early on the Redskins. Injuries decimated the sec-
ondary, forcing Coach Ball to use Pete Stout, a 200-pound linebacker, as a
defensive back. The Cardinals picked on him immediately, with their fast-
est receiver running wild. The score at halftime was 28–0, Cardinals.
The Redskins, angry and frustrated, shuffled into the locker room.

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Marshall, his raccoon coat flying, charged in right behind then and immedi-
ately began yelling at Stout, accusing him of dogging it and cursing him. As
soon as the owner uttered the obscenity, the tough linebacker from Texas,
who also had played at TCU, leaped to his feet and grabbed Marshall by the
throat with one hand. Glaring into Marshall’s eyes, he reminded the man
that he was playing out of position and that he was doing the best he could.
The locker room was deathly silent; no one could believe what he was
seeing. Neither Sam nor any other Redskin, including coaches, came to
Marshall’s defense. Finally, Stout released his grip.
The owner was completely unruffled. Acting as though he had planned
the whole incident—and the old thespian might have—he stepped up on a
footlocker and made a speech. “That’s the kind of fight I expect of you, all of
you,” he shouted, staring into the eyes of the befuddled players around the
room. “Now let’s go out there in the second half and fight like you do in the
locker room!”
They almost did, scoring four touchdowns. Unfortunately, the Cardinals
added a touchdown and a field goal to take the game, 38–28. (Stout, by the
way, was released at the end of the season.)
Over the next four Sundays, Sam and the Redskins lost to the Eagles,
the Giants, the Eagles again, and the Browns, surrendering an average of
twenty-eight points a game. That made eight consecutive defeats, a record
for the Redskins. The next Sunday, they defeated the hapless Colts.
Sam already was looking toward season’s end. He wrote to Mona on
November 28:

Dearest Mona,
There are only two more games then I’ll be leaving here . . .
I received a letter from a Mr. M. T. McLaughlin, concerning the Texas Tech
coaching position. I couldn’t give him any answer at that time. I don’t know
what Mr. Marshall intends to do—he wants me to play and coach the backfield
next year. He said I wouldn’t have to play but very little—in case Harry got
hurt. I don’t know what would be best for me to do—but I do know $13,000.00
would be very useful next year. I can’t make that coaching unless I leave the
ranch 12 months out of the year. If I stay here it will only take up my time dur-
ing the playing season.
Honey, I’ll be happy to get home again. I miss those boys a lot, and I think
I’ll try to be a better father to them. I fuss at them too much. I hope you are
feeling ok—and have shaken off sniffles . . . Be sweet darling. I’ll see you soon.
Love you,
Sam

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The Redskins managed to beat the Steelers 24–7, and then met the
Browns in a Washington snowstorm for their season finale. Some thirty
thousand fans showed up despite the snow, in part because it was the day
of Marshall’s annual Santa Claus extravaganza, in part because the Browns
were still in the running for the American Conference title.
Santa may have been a hit, but Sam and the Redskins were not. The
Browns shellacked them 45–21, and the Redskins, with a record of 3-9, fin-
ished dead last in the conference. It was the worst season ever for a Wash-
ington team.

H erman Ball came back as the Redskins coach in 1951. Dick Todd was
an assistant. He had retired from the Redskins two years earlier and
had been a backfield coach at Texas A&M, his alma mater. Sam came back
as well; he decided not to pursue the Texas Tech possibility.
The Redskins’ train left Washington on July 15, a full month earlier than
usual, and picked up team members as it made its way westward across the
country. The reason for the early start was an exhibition schedule of seven
games instead of the usual five or six. After two preseason contests on the
West Coast, the team would swing through Amarillo, Birmingham, Shreve-
port, and Kansas City en route to the season opener in Detroit.
The players grumbled. They cursed Marshall. It wasn’t so much the long
train rides—they rode first-class in sleeper cars and dined well—but they
hated not being paid to play. And they didn’t like all the incidental expenses
they incurred on the road. But though they weren’t getting paid, they knew
as well as Marshall did that it was important to win exhibition games. How
well they performed in the six preseason games would determine how many
season tickets the Redskins sold.
At Occidental, the squad held a team meeting and nominated Sam, Al
DeMao, and Bill Dudley to present the team’s grievances to Marshall. The
players wanted just twenty-five dollars a game. The trio trooped into Mar-
shall’s Occidental office and found the owner and general manager going
over some papers. Sam, the elder statesman, had been elected spokesman.
He cleared his throat.
“Mr. Marshall,” he said, “we’re here as a players’ committee to talk to you
about . . .” That was as far as he got.
“Committees! Unions!” he erupted. “I don’t know them! I don’t recognize
them! He stormed out of the office.
The players looked at each other. “Now there’s a gentleman for you,” Sam
muttered. “Won’t even listen to what we have to say.”

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Sam turned to McCann. “Hang tight,” the general manager said. He went
looking for Marshall.
He came back a few minutes later with a glowering owner, who agreed
to at least hear them out. Sam went through the team’s list of grievances. If
not exhibition-game pay, he concluded, maybe they would settle for a little
“chawin’ tabacca money.”
Marshall didn’t hesitate. “We’re not going to give you a thing,” he replied
quietly. The emissaries trooped out of his presence.
After practice that day, Marshall drove his Cadillac onto the field,
stepped out, and asked his players to gather around.
“I understand you’ve been doing a lot of complaining,” he said. “You
think the Bears and the Lions are getting exhibition pay. I tell you they are
not. And you’re not going to get it either. And you’re not going to get any
expense money.
“If any of you don’t like it”—he paused dramatically and pointed toward
the stadium gate—“that’s the way out of here.”
With that, he stepped into his car and was driven away, leaving behind an
angry, sullen group of young men.
“I don’t know what he would have done if we didn’t go on with practice,”
DeMao recalled. “But no one made a move to leave, and we started practic-
ing, and we were back to where we had been.”
The Redskins played their first two exhibition games on the West Coast,
losing both by large margins, and then headed to Amarillo and Birmingham.
Coincidentally, each of the three emissaries had arranged with Marshall to
skip the Amarillo game and rejoin the team in Birmingham. When the rest
of the team discovered the three were missing, they jumped to the conclu-
sion that their esteemed teammates had sold out in exchange for the week
off. When Baugh, DeMao, and Dudley reported to the Vulcan Motel in Bir-
mingham, they were greeted with a sheet-sized sign draped over the bal-
cony: “Welcome Back, Committee.”
It took pretty much the whole exhibition season for the three commit-
teemen to convince their teammates that they had not sold out, that each
had independently arranged the week off before signing his contract.
Harmony was restored before the season opener, but harmony didn’t
guarantee victory, as Coach Ball had suspected in August. “The team so
far appears to me to be a disappointment,” he wrote the home office. “I had
hoped we would have a fair one, but it looks like we have a rinky-dink set
of backs to play defense with. So you had better light all the candles . . . and
‘enjoy the lull before the storm.’”
The storm blew in as soon as the regular season began. Detroit devastated

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the Skins 35–17. The Giants beat them 35–14. The team traveled to Cleve-
land, where they were humiliated by the Browns 45–0. That was enough for
Marshall. He fired Ball and replaced him with the backfield coach and fan
favorite Dick Todd. Under Todd, the Redskins won five games and lost four;
their overall record of 5-7 left them six full games behind the conference
champion, Cleveland.

I n 1952, the Redskins were finally ready to make a change at quarterback.

The last time someone other than the tall Texan had held the starting job
for an entire season, the franchise had been located in Boston. At TCU, five-
foot-seven-inch Davey O’Brien, an eventual Heisman Trophy winner, had
replaced Sam; in Washington, five-foot-seven-inch Eddie LeBaron was set
to take the reins. The Californian would go on to have a stellar career with
the Redskins, despite playing on mediocre teams.
Todd was back as head coach, but not for long. He had been a great ath-
lete, but he didn’t know how to handle people. Defensive back Billy Cox
recalled him ripping into his players in the dressing room before a game
with the Chicago Cardinals. Finishing his rant, he started to walk toward
the door, ready to lead his team onto the field. Suddenly, he noticed that
none of his players were following. He turned back around. “What do you
guys think you’re doing?” he yelled.
“I don’t know if we’ve got any energy left,” Sam told his old friend and for-
mer teammate. “You worked us all week like it was the first week of camp,
we’re all tired and you’re giving us a hard time.” (That’s how Cox remem-
bered the quote for publication; knowing Sam, it was no doubt saltier
than that.)
The coach and his quarterback stared at each other. Todd was so angry
he could hardly speak. “Do you guys intend to play or what?” he finally said.
Nobody said anything. Sam looked into the faces of his teammates.
“Guys, you want to play?” he drawled.
Realizing that Sam himself intended to play, they stood up and followed
their leader onto the field.
After two preseason losses to the Rams and 49ers, it was Todd who
walked out—in the middle of a game—and headed back to West Texas.
“He just got upset about something, but he never said anything to us,”
LeBaron recalled. “Just sent us out to the field for the second half, and then
went home. And he never came back.”
None of the Redskins minded, although they wondered what Marshall
was thinking when he quickly hired Earl Louis “Curly” Lambeau, an NFL

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legend. A Green Bay native, Lambeau had founded, played for, and coached
the Packers. In fact, he had controlled the Packers from 1919, two years
before the team joined the NFL, until 1950, when he lost control of the team
and was forced to resign. Before joining the Redskins, he had been head
coach of the Chicago Cardinals for two years, finishing fifth in the Ameri-
can Conference in 1950 and last in 1951.
He had coached in the NFL for thirty-one consecutive seasons, longer
even than George Halas, and had won six world championships, and yet fans
and sportswriters wondered why Marshall ever imagined he and the Green
Bay legend could get along. If there was anyone in the NFL as arrogant and
temperamental as the Redskins’ owner, it was the Packers’ founder. He was
known as a tough disciplinarian, the type of coach most players preferred,
but he also could be abusive and unreasonable.
Lambeau expected LeBaron to take over from Sam, but not just yet.
LeBaron was in no hurry. He realized he had the privilege of understudying
a legend.
“The guy was in his sixteenth NFL season,” he recalled, “and he was
amazing. He was the best thrower I ever saw. He was very fluid, and he could
throw overhand, sidearm, off balance, and hit a guy on the run wherever he
wanted to. It was incredible—here was this guy winding down at the end of
his career, and he was phenomenal.”
Despite injuries to key players during the exhibition season—includ-
ing Charlie Justice—and the loss of three starters to the military draft, the
Redskins got off to a good start in their season opener with the Cardinals in
Chicago.
At one point in the first half, Sam completed eleven straight passes,
despite blitzes time and again by the frustrated Cardinals. Just as they got
to the Redskin quarterback, he would get the ball off. They would pound him
into the ground, but then all they could do was turn and watch the ball settle
into the arms of a receiver downfield. It was uncanny—and for the Cardi-
nals, infuriating.
Don Joyce, Chicago’s 250-pound tackle, couldn’t take it anymore. On the
tenth pass, he barreled into Sam and slammed the skinny quarterback into
the turf. The venerable Sam got up slowly.
On the eleventh pass, Joyce hit him again—a little late, Sam believed. The
veteran quarterback got to his feet, and then, for the first time in his career,
threw a punch. It landed squarely on the big tackle’s nose. Joyce moved in
and started swinging, but officials separated the two men before additional
punches landed. Both were ejected. It was the first and only time in Sam’s
long career that he was ever thrown out of a game.

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The Redskins went on to defeat the Cards 23–7, but the opening vic-
tory, unfortunately, was one of the few high points of Sam’s last season. He
spent more time coaching than playing throughout the year as Gilmer and
LeBaron took over quarterbacking duties in loss after loss.
Dropping eight of their next nine games, the Redskins were disorganized
and depressed. Morale was low. Lambeau didn’t help the situation when he
berated players in the dressing room, accusing several of dogging it. Once he
blasted LeBaron in front of the whole team, blaming the gritty little quarter-
back for a miscall that cost the Redskins a close game.
Marshall, too, was angry and frustrated. One Sunday afternoon after
yet another close loss, the team sat on the locker room benches, not say-
ing much as they stripped off their soggy equipment and shuffled to the
showers. One of the Redskins cracked a joke, and those sitting around him
laughed—just as the owner strode into the room.
“What’s so funny?” he snarled. “I didn’t see anything funny today. If I
catch anyone so much as smirking after a bad game, it’ll be a $50 fine.” He
started to walk out and then had a second thought. “For you, Baugh,” he said,
“it’ll be a hundred.”
“Next to an explanation of why the Redskins fold in the fourth quarter,
the biggest mystery concerning the local pros this year has been sparing
use of Sammy Baugh,” Jack Walsh of the Washington Post wrote toward the
end of November. Walsh noted that after Sam’s spectacular start against
the Cardinals, he hurt his hand and played sparingly for the next few games,
but even when the hand was healed, he stayed on the bench, “seeing full-
time action only as backfield coach and classroom tutor to Eddie LeBaron,
heir apparent.”
Walsh couldn’t get a straight answer from the Redskins. “I have no objec-
tion to Baugh playing,” Marshall told him. “The fact that he hasn’t been has
been through no design of mine. The decision is up to Curly Lambeau.” “You
can’t order a 38-year-old man to get out there and play,” Lambeau said, “If
Sam feels that he’s ready, all he has to do is tell me.” Sam said he was ready
to go—“but I just can’t walk on the field on my own.”
In one game toward the end of the long losing streak, Marshall rang up
running back Andy Davis, who was handling the sideline phone while out
with an injury. “Give me Sam,” the owner demanded. Davis handed the
phone to player-coach Baugh.
“Put Brito in as defensive end,” Marshall commanded. Sam tapped Brito
and sent him in. When Lambeau saw number 80 running onto the field, he
wheeled and strode to the bench.
“Who put him in?” he demanded to know.

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“I did,” Sam said. “Mr. Marshall’s on the line and he . . .”

“Marshall’s not running this team. I am,” Lambeau muttered and ripped
the phone lines loose. The veteran coach would hang on to his job for one
more season.
The Redskins finally won again in their eleventh game. LeBaron threw
four touchdown passes to Bones Taylor as Washington topped the Giants
27–17.

A nd then it was over. The last game of the season was meaningless as
far as the standings were concerned, but it was a big game neverthe-
less. It was George Marshall’s Santa Claus Day and, more importantly, the
last time Slingin’ Sammy Baugh would ever appear in a Redskins uniform.
Some 22,000 fans trooped into Griffith Stadium to bid farewell to the great-
est Redskin of them all.
“The Redskins aren’t just losing a player today,” the Post’s Walsh noted.
“Sammy Baugh is an institution—in Washington and in football. . . . Aside
from Babe Ruth, it’s doubtful if another athlete of Baugh’s stature ever won
so much genuine personal popularity.”
Walsh talked to Wayne Millner, the outstanding receiver who caught
crucial passes in the ’37 championship game. “Baugh was the greatest
passer of them all,” he said. “All you had to do with Sam pitching was make
your fake, take two steps and the ball was always right there.” Millner talked
about his friend’s punting, his defensive prowess.

I remember that title game in 1937 for one thing above all—Baugh stopping
Bronko Nagurski. A few times Bronko got in the clear and Sam was the only
man between him and our goal. But Sammy made the tackles.
I was just looking at some movies of a 1945 game with the Giants. Even
after eight seasons, my boy Baugh was still looking good as a pass intercepter.
He grabbed one near our goal and ran 80 yards or so before he finally was
brought down. And at midfield he pulled a fake that made Mel Hein look silly.

He talked about how Sam never criticized his teammates when they made
a mistake.

I recall one vital Bears game when I was all alone in the end zone but dropped
a perfect pass from Sam. When we got back in the huddle, Baugh said, “For-
get that one, Wayne. Anybody can drop one.” Two plays later, he threw me

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another and that time it meant six points. Sam was always that way with a guy
who missed a tackle or block. “Get ’im next time,” was all he’d ever say.

LeBaron told the Post the same thing: “He’s been wonderful to me. More
than just teaching me the tricks of the trade, many a time Sammy picked me
up when I felt low. Remember that third-down pass call in the 49er game
when my throw was intercepted and we lost our one-point lead and the ball
game? Baugh just told me to forget it, he once did the same thing himself.”
Shirley Povich, the Post sportswriter whose illustrious career had
evolved in tandem with Sam’s, noted that in his sixteen years with the Red-
skins, the tall Texan “had never learned how to act like a big shot.” He also
recalled Sam’s definition of a forward passer’s greatest asset: “two big, fast
ends, each with a nice pair of hands.”
“Without a doubt, Baugh is the most popular man in football,” full-
back George Buksar told the Post. “Guess the only exception is Don Joyce,
that clown from the Chicago Cards who took the poke at Sammy in our
opening game.”
According to Walsh, Sam was the only player who ever asked to have his
salary cut. He did it twice. “After all Baugh did for the Redskins and for pro
football, Marshall never would have cut him voluntarily,” Walsh wrote. “But
Sam is the kind of guy who felt that he was getting more for his past reputa-
tion than his current performance. He didn’t approve of that.”
Marshall told the Post reporter he wasn’t surprised. “Baugh not only has
been a great athlete,” the owner said. “His approach to professional sport
always has been intelligent. He never was gouging. Sam seemed to sense
that what was good for the business office was good for him in the long run.”
Sam may have had other ideas about his dealings with Marshall and the
front office, but, as the owner noted, the two never had any serious difficul-
ties over salary or anything else.
His biggest problem with his star quarterback, Marshall told Walsh, was
getting him to cart off all the trophies, plaques, and other awards he had
accumulated through the years. “Finally I had to have a serious talk with
him and sort it out, making him save the things he really should save,” Mar-
shall said. “About the only way I could do it was to impress upon him that
he owed it to those children of his. . . . They should have tangible evidence
of the greatness of their father—particularly those four boys of his. Yes, and
the baby girl, too. Baugh’s name will live forever in football.”
Walsh calculated that the Redskins had paid Sam more than $200,000
during his sixteen years with the team. “From movie and personal

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appearances, advertising testimonials and sale of sporting goods with his

name, he may have equaled that amount.” (“Half went to Texas, half to
taxes,” Sam liked to say.) “With all the fame and wealth he has acquired,”
Walsh concluded, “Sammy Baugh hasn’t changed a bit. That’s why, even
if all his football records are broken, another one like Baugh may never
come along.”
A Post photograph that ran on game day shows a smiling Sam at his
locker about to don the burgundy-colored number 33 jersey for the last
time. He was still a slender guy, still dark haired, his long arms lacking the
striated musculature of modern athletes.
Those arms are perhaps a clue to his popularity. Despite his immense
athletic talents and his record-setting accomplishments, Sam was an aver-
age guy who happened to do things uncommonly well. Fans knew and didn’t
begrudge the fact that he made a decent salary; they also knew that, like most
professional athletes of his era, he was a workingman who breathed the same
air as everyone else. Long before the distorting effect of immense money and
acclaim in professional sports, Sam was accessible, approachable. As Joe
Tereshinski remarked, “You’d never know he was Sammy Baugh.”
Also in that photo, Sam is wearing a pair of flimsy shoulder pads that
look as though they belonged to a kid playing in a Pop Warner league. He
liked them because they allowed him freedom of movement to pass, but he
also had to wear them on defense when he lowered his shoulder to bring
down Bronko Nagurski and other punishing ball carriers who had gotten up
a full head of steam by the time they got to him in the secondary.
The Redskins calculated that in his sixteen seasons with the team, Sam
wore out sixty pairs of shoes, thirty pairs of pants, one hundred jerseys, and
seven helmets, and yet he never changed shoulder pads. He was so famil-
iar with the tattered remnants he draped across his shoulders Sunday after
Sunday that he gave them a name. He called them Blue Jays.

H is last Sunday with the Redskins was anticlimactic. Fans gave him
a standing ovation when he ambled onto the field, and the Redskins
Band played “Auld Lang Syne,” but LeBaron started the game. Sam came on
for a series of plays in the first quarter—three plays that netted six yards.
With the score tied 14–14 at halftime, Santa Claus made his appearance in
a Brink’s truck.
Sam had thrown a total of thirty-three passes all season. When the
Eagles game ended in victory for the Redskins, 27–21, he still had thrown
thirty-three. Fans never got to see him sling one more trademark throw.

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His last play as a Redskin was to hold the ball for George Buksar’s extra-
point attempt with eighteen seconds left in the game. The kick was blocked.
After the final whistle, he was mobbed by about five hundred autograph
seekers and spent nearly forty minutes signing programs. Finally, a couple
of husky fans hoisted him onto their shoulders and ferried him to the dress-
ing room, where he spent another several minutes posing for photographers.
When he got to his locker, Tereshinski was waiting for him. “I’ve got
the game ball. It’s for you, if you want it,” he told Sam. Sam seemed embar-
rassed. “Well, you got it, it’s yours,” he told Tereshinski, who insisted that
Sam take it. “I’d be very happy to have it—and I sure appreciate it,” he said.
After a shower and some handshaking among teammates, Sam and
Bones Taylor climbed into Sam’s station wagon and headed for home. “It
was dark then,” the Post’s Jack Walsh reported.

W hen it was over, Samuel Adrian Baugh held thirteen NFL records
at three positions—quarterback, punter, and defensive back. More
than half a century later, his career punting average of 45.1 yards would still
rank second all-time in NFL history. He would rank second in NFL history
in season completion percentage (70.3), most seasons (four) leading the
league in yards gained passing, and most seasons (seven) leading the league
in completion percentage.
Sam had gained more than 23,000 yards with his passes, more than thir-
teen miles. Twice he had thrown six touchdown passes in a game. Against
the Giants in 1948, he threw for 446 yards. During six seasons—1937, 1940,
1943, 1945, 1947, and 1949—he was the top passer in the NFL.
“Well, we had somehow got into the habit of associating Mr. Sammy
Baugh with the various bronze warriors posted along our diagonal thor-
oughfares, and with those Vikings—or whatever they are—that stand guard
over the interior archways in Union Station,” the Post editorialized on
December 18.

That is to say, Mr. Baugh seemed one of the few fixed points of reference amid
the unceasing flux that constitutes the life of this great Capital. . . . He seemed
to us both ageless and indestructible, and we took for granted that he would
still be here when the children of our children’s children were taken out to the
stadium to see for themselves how far and how surely a pass could be thrown.
But now Mr. Baugh has gone permanently home to Texas. If we see him
again, it will be as one of the nameless who cannot stay with us even for the
brief time required in this hot-house climate for the making or remaking of

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a celebrity. We are thus sadly reminded that Mr. Baugh, for all his amazing
durability, is but human and mortal like the rest of us; that though he might
longer resist the inexorable march of years, even he could not resist forever . . .
Let us be careful, of course, not to turn our lament for his passing into an
elegy. In that less strenuous world into which Mr. Baugh has now transferred
himself, he will, despite the 16 years he has given us, be counted a young man,
ahead of whom a long and useful life lies waiting. Still, this does not change
the fact that we shall never again have opportunity to see one of those won-
derful passes; and for that reason Washington—especially in the autumn
months—will seem a duller and sadder place.

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 CHAPTER

22

A RANCHER
COACHING COWBOYS
baughathardin-simmonsuniversity

F
or the first dozen or so years of Sam’s life as a Texas rancher, he and his
fellow stockmen faced a plague almost biblical in its intensity and its
consequences. They were in a constant fight for the lives of their ani-
mals and for the economic life of their ranching operations. Their tiny
and torturous foe was called the screwworm.
Screwworms aren’t worms at all. They are fly larvae that take hold in
the open wounds of livestock and other animals. They feed on live flesh and
weaken the animal until it dies. They can destroy whole herds, drive stock-
men out of business. “We’d have to ride the pastures all the time looking for
wormies,” recalled Sam’s neighbor, E. B. “Sonny” Nichols.
Sam and Sonny and their fellow ranchers finally got some relief in the
early 1950s when agricultural researchers developed a screwworm-eradi-
cation program that brought the scourge under control. But the end of one
Job-like vexation only made way for another.
When Sam got back to the ranch for good in the spring of 1953, he faced a
foe even more relentless than screwworms, a foe more implacable than the
Chicago Bears’ defensive line. It was Mother Nature. She had decided that
Texas west of the ninety-eighth meridian no longer needed rain.
“Each new generation tends to forget—until it confronts the sobering
reality—that dryness has always been the normal condition in the western

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half of the state,” Elmer Kelton, an acclaimed western novelist from San
Angelo, once wrote. “Wet years have been the exception.”
For seven years in the 1950s, Mother Nature reverted to form. For many
West Texans, it was the longest drought in memory, and it left its mark upon
their lives and the local culture almost as deeply as the Great Depression
had done two decades earlier.
During prolonged dry spells in earlier decades, livestock would literally
starve, but by the time Sam started ranching, better roads meant that stock-
men could haul in feed or ship their livestock off to market. Still, a num-
ber of ranchers went under in the 1950s—largely because, as Sonny Nichols
pointed out, “it cost more to haul a cow off than you could get out of it.”
For Sam, for West Texas stockmen, and for dryland farmers in general,
it was hard to make a living. What made it even harder for Sam was that
the Baugh family had grown during the period when he spent six months
of each year with the Redskins, away from home. Gary was twelve in 1953;
David, ten; and Bruce, seven. The youngest son, Stephen, was four, and the
baby of the family, Frances, was two.
Sam’s mother, who was divorced, and Mona’s mother, a widow, also
lived on the ranch, which was the main reason that Mona had to oversee
an expansion of the house in the late 1940s—a dormitory-style bedroom for
the children and rooms in the original part of the house for the two older
women. Both, by the way, were a great help to Mona, particularly while Sam
was away, and both had their specialties. As David Baugh recalled, Sam’s
mother (Mom) tended a garden and did much of the cooking, while Mona’s
mother (Momo) washed dishes, sewed the children’s clothes, and “tried to
instill values in us kids.”
There were Bible lessons at home, and the family went to church on Sun-
day. There was no Presbyterian church, so Mona’s mother and Mona went
to the Methodist church in Rotan, while Sam’s mother attended the Baptist
church. The two churches were close to each other, and with the windows
open in the summer, David recalled, each Sunday-morning service was a
battle of the choirs. Sam would go from time to time.
Mona, with Owen Brazee’s help, managed the ranch and raised the kids
while Sam was away. David remembered his mother’s warnings while his
father was back East: “If you boys don’t quit doing what you’re doing, I’m
gonna tell your daddy, and he’s coming home pretty quick.”
“Course, he didn’t want to come home and start beating our butts,”
David said.
Although by every indication the Baugh marriage was a good one, Sam’s
career and Mona’s ranching duties tested the relationship. Toward the end

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of her life, she told a daughter-in-law: “I had two good years of marriage out
of all the years Sam and I have been together.” She had in mind those years
before the children came along and before Sam bought the ranch.
“Mona was the buffer between Sam and the real world,” the daughter-
in-law said. Sam lived in a world of games and celebrity; Mona built addi-
tions to the ranch house as the family continued to grow. She cooked for the
cowboys, helped Owen Brazee with the cattle. And as the children got older,
she was the one who hauled them into town for their football and basketball
games or other activities, three or four time a week.
Sam coming home when the season was over was a relief for Mona, but
it also required a bit of getting used to. He disrupted the routine that Mona
and the children had established. The children were used to their mother
being both manager and disciplinarian, and “Buddy,” as his niece Ellen
Stevenson recalled, was naturally easygoing. When Sam came home, his
daughter, Frances, recalled, Mona would have the children go to him when-
ever they wanted something. His response was invariably, “Well, what does
your mother say?”
He also was partial to his little girl. Once, when two of the boys were
roughhousing and bothering Sam, he told them, “If Frances had come along
before you two little farts, you wouldn’t even be here.”

“H
 e was pretty conservative with his money,” recalled Sonny Nichols,
who first met Sam in the 1940s. “Everything he bought, he paid for.”
Still, times were hard during the drought years, and that was the main
reason Sam still had his eye on coaching. He didn’t want to move away from
the ranch and from his family, not even during football season. Nor did he
want to give up ranching, despite the hard times, but he needed extra income.
The ideal situation presented itself in the spring of ’52, while he was still
with the Redskins. Murray Evans, the coach at Hardin-Simmons Univer-
sity, a small Southern Baptist school in Abilene, seventy miles south of the
ranch, invited Sam to be an associate coach during spring training, which
lasted about twenty days. He was to work with the quarterbacks.
“I won’t be on salary,” he told the Associated Press. “Hardin Simmons is
near my home. It’s a West Texas school, and I like that.” He added: “I’m with
the Redskins. That’s my primary obligation.”
Evans called him again in the spring of ’53, after Sam had retired. “I got to
thinking about it, and I realized I really wasn’t ready to get out of football—
and I had always kind of thought about coaching anyway,” he told Whit
Canning. “So they hired me as an assistant coach.”

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Not only did he enjoy coaching, but also he had an inventive football
mind. “I called plays in college and all the time in pro ball,” he told the sports
columnist Frank Luksa. “The quarterback did in those days. We didn’t get
much help from the sideline. When someone asks me what’s the best thing
I got out of football, the most satisfying thing was beating the defense. I
enjoyed that part of it.”
He would need all the inventiveness he could muster while coaching
at Hardin-Simmons. In 1955, the school—enrollment 1,400—decided it
wanted to play with the big boys, and its president and its athletic director
approached Sam. On February 2, 1955, “the gangling guy from Sweetwater,”
as the Associated Press called him, signed a five-year contract to coach the
Cowboys, “an aggregation sometimes strong and always colorful.”

HSU officials said they thought it was Baugh’s great love of football, not any
financial gain, that brought about his decision to take the job. Only pressure
from the athletic committee persuaded him, Baugh said, adding that he had
been offered better salaried coaching jobs in the past.

The fact that he could spend most of his time at the ranch was probably
the deciding factor. “It was a pretty good deal, really,” Sam recalled. “It was
only an hour and 10 minutes from the ranch, so I could be the head coach
and still commute, and I could keep an eye on things at the ranch.”
He hired his old Redskins buddy Wayne Millner as an assistant coach.
The two men shared an apartment in Abilene during football season, and
Sam headed home to the ranch whenever he could.
Shortly after Sam was hired, Hardin-Simmons president Evan Reiff
called him in and explained that the athletic program was running a defi-
cit. One way to fix that problem, Reiff explained, was for Sam to schedule
nonconference games with Southwest Conference schools and with foot-
ball powerhouses around the country, schools that would pay large sums of
money for Hardin-Simmons to play them. They would all be away games
for the Cowboys, who could expect to win about as often as the Washington
Generals beat the Harlem Globetrotters.
Sam did as he was instructed. He scheduled Baylor, Tulsa, and Cincin-
nati the first year. The next year, he scheduled Southwest Conference pow-
erhouse Arkansas, as well as Wichita State, George Washington University,
and the College of the Pacific. In 1958, he scheduled seven away games and
only three home games. Opponents included Baylor, Tulsa, Ole Miss, and
LSU, the eventual national champion.
One of three small denominational schools in Abilene—along with

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the Church of Christ–run Abilene Christian College (now Abilene Chris-

tian University) and the Methodist-sponsored McMurry College (now
McMurry University)—Hardin-Simmons at the time was a member of the
Border Conference. Competing against Arizona State, Arizona, New Mex-
ico, New Mexico A&M (now New Mexico State), Texas Western (now the
University of Texas–El Paso), and their archrival, Texas Tech, the Cow-
boys more than held their own. They won several conference champion-
ships, and the Southwest Conference considered inviting them to join. In
1956, the year Texas Tech became a member of the Southwest Conference,
the Cowboys beat the Red Raiders 41–14 in the last game of the year. Still,
the jump from small-college powerhouse to matching up with the likes
of LSU and Ole Miss was a formidable challenge—for a rookie coach or
anyone else.
Almost every Saturday during the fall, Sam and his Cowboys would pile
onto a chartered bus or climb aboard a Braniff Airways plane and head off
to a distant stadium, where, for the money, they were expected to be sac-
rificial lambs for bigger, stronger football powers. “The money may have
been great, but the won-loss records suffered,” said Jimmie Keeling, who
coached the Cowboys decades later.
In Sam’s head-coaching debut, the Cowboys lost 35–7 to a good Baylor
team that would eventually defeat second-ranked Tennessee in the Sugar
Bowl. They lost the next game to the Tulsa Golden Hurricane 41–7 before
finally winning a game, defeating New Mexico A&M 39–0. They beat North
Texas State Teachers College 30–19 and West Texas State Teachers Col-
lege before losing badly to Arizona State, 69–14. They beat Texas Western
23–21, lost to Cincinnati 55–20, and beat Trinity 14–6.
In the final game of the season, against Texas Tech, Sam and his players
were well aware of the 61–19 mauling the Red Raiders had administered the
year before. Although the Cowboys came into the game with a losing record,
they still were in contention for the Border Conference championship; they
had to defeat the Red Raiders to stay in the running.
It didn’t happen. Trailing 16–14 late in the fourth quarter, Cowboys
backup quarterback John Lyle tossed a screen pass to fullback K. Y. Owens,
who rumbled fifty-three yards for the apparent winning touchdown. Back
upfield, though, a red flag rested atop the grass. The Cowboys were offside,
the referee ruled, thus nullifying the play.
The Cowboys were 5-5 in ’55, and Sam’s quarterback, Ken Ford, ranked
sixth in the nation in passing.
Sam, not surprisingly, believed in the forward pass. “His offense was
light years ahead of everybody else,” recalled his son David, a football coach

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himself. “It was a pro attack, the same offense he had mastered under Dutch
Meyer at TCU.”
“We could move the ball against anybody,” Pete Hart recalled. Hart, Sam’s
fullback, had grown up in Swenson, Texas, a West Texas town so small it
was said to have “two stores, two whores and two blacksmith shops.” Hart
had known Sam since he was a kid. His grandfather owned a ranch near
Sam’s, and Pete had worked cattle with him. In later years, Sam would say
that the two toughest guys he ever coached, college or pros, were Walt Gar-
rison, the rodeo bull rider who played at Oklahoma State and later became
an all-pro running back for the Dallas Cowboys, and Hart, an undersized
fullback on offense and cornerback on defense.
Sam, even more than his team, was a draw on the road. People paid to see
the legendary quarterback. During pregame warm-ups, he would take off
his boots, his tie, and his little snap-brim hat, pull on some coaching shoes,
and go out on the field and throw passes to his receivers. Before an HSU
game against Ole Miss one year, Coach Johnny Vaught called his quarter-
back over and had him stand and watch the greatest passer who ever lived.
In 1956, he brought his Cowboys into Washington’s Griffith Stadium for
the team’s third game of the year and put on a passing exhibition of his own
before the matchup with George Washington.
“The former Mr. Redskin has delighted crowds at the Cowboys’ games
this season against Arkansas and Wichita with his informal passing shows,”
the Washington Post reported.
The West Texans suffered a disappointing 13–7 loss to GWU, although
later in the year, the Cowboys upset the nationally ranked College of the
Pacific 20–19. The final game of the ’56 season, as usual, was with Texas
Tech. After trailing 14–0, the Cowboys unleashed a high-flying offen-
sive attack that scored forty-one unanswered points, and the Red Raiders
departed the Border Conference for the Southwest Conference on an igno-
minious note. Hardin-Simmons finished the year with a record of 4-6.
In 1957, quarterback Ford, under Sam’s tutelage, completed 105 of 205
passes for 1,254 yards, making him the most prolific passer in the nation.
The Cowboys finished the season with a record of 4-5-1 and third place in
the Border Conference.
Ford was also a punter, and he and Sam would stage punting duels after
practice. Hart recalled watching them kick back and forth to each other,
both of them able to kick the ball seventy yards in the air. “For Sam, it was
always a perfect spiral, with the ball hitting the ground so it would roll end
over end,” Hart remembered.
Sam was a good coach, his former players recall, although he treated

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football as a game, not as a holy crusade. “He didn’t have lectures and meet-
ings at all,” Hart recalled. “He did his coaching on the field. We scrimmaged
a lot, and Sam loved to get in the huddle and call the plays.” They called him
“Sam,” Hart remembered. “The boys loved him.”
Before practice during the week, the players would dispatch a freshman
to the field house to see whether the golf clubs Sam kept in the back of his
pickup truck were missing. If the clubs weren’t there, that meant practice
would be starting a bit later than usual and players could lounge around the
dorm a bit longer.
His players still tell stories about him, including the time chapel—the
name for regular devotionals on campus—was being held on a weekday
morning in Rose Field House, where the coaches had their offices.
Chapel was being held in the field house because the on-campus church
building where it usually was held had burned. As Hart recalled, he was
lying on his bed in his dorm room one morning and happened to look out the
window and see smoke pouring from the steepled structure. He turned on
KRBC-AM radio about the same time and heard a local disc jockey named
Slim Willet (best known as the man who wrote the country hit “Don’t Let
the Stars Get in Your Eyes”) announce that the chapel was burning. Hart’s
first thought was that he and his fellow students would no longer have to go
to required chapel every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
That didn’t happen. The college moved the services to Rose Field House,
the basketball arena where all the coaches had their offices. In the middle
of the chapel sermon one morning, students heard a loud voice from one
of the offices exclaim, “How in the hell can you keep the goddamn double-
six in your hand!” It was their gloriously profane head football coach, of
course, whose outburst over a game of dominoes shocked the assembled
Baptists. Chapel was dismissed. “Hey Coach,” Hart and his teammates
joked that afternoon, “we want you to play dominoes every day during
chapel—and lose.”
“He probably didn’t worry about some of the things coaching that other
coaches worry about,” said Coach Keeling, who met Sam in the 1950s.
“You always got to have some rules,” Sam told an oral historian in 1971.
“I’ve always thought the fewer rules you had, the better off you were. But you
had to have some rules.” The interviewer asked him about players with long
hair. “I wouldn’t put in a rule I couldn’t live with,” he said. “I don’t believe in
making trouble for yourself.”
Keeling, who coached the Cowboys years after the school had dropped
football for decades and then revived it, remembered meeting Sam at Har-
din-Simmons. “He was playing dominoes with some guys, and he had a big

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tape can to spit in,” Keeling recalled. “He was relaxed. I remember later that
day he went out and started throwing and catching with some guys. He was
just Sam. Sam was country.”
Years later, Sam called his stint at Hardin-Simmons “the best goddamn
job I ever had.”
Sam’s most memorable game was in 1958 when the Cowboys boarded
a plane and flew to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, where, outmanned and out-
weighed, they were slated to be raw meat for the LSU Tigers, who would go
on to be national champions that year. The Cowboys, who had lost to Baylor
the week before, 14–7, were nineteen-point underdogs. About the only simi-
larity between the two teams were their school colors: both wore purple
and gold.
Tiger Stadium was one of the toughest places in the nation for visiting
teams to play because of the ceaseless roar raised by howling Tigers fans.
Hart recalled coming out of the dressing room and having to jog past a cir-
cus trailer, and inside that trailer was a fearsome Bengal tiger. “It was a
beautiful night for football,” he recalled more than a half century later. “We
stayed right with ’em.”
As Sam recalled, about the only advantage the Cowboys had on that
steamy evening in Baton Rouge was that the defending national champions
wouldn’t be all that worried about “little ol’ Hardin-Simmons.”
“We knew they were going to run over us,” Sam said in an interview years
later, recalling that LSU boasted two of the best running backs in the nation,
Billy Cannon and Johnny Robinson, “so we prepared to keep from losing, to
keep the ball away from them.” To do this, “the scheme was to pass for eight
yards on first down, then try to run twice for a first down against a fearsome
defense known as the ‘Chinese Bandits.’”
The Cowboys couldn’t throw shorter passes on first down, Sam recalled,
because his offense usually couldn’t gain the couple of yards needed on sec-
ond and third downs.
The scheme worked pretty well once the Cowboys got the ball. Unfor-
tunately, the Tigers had it first. On LSU’s first series, quarterback Warren
Rabb—whose father had died after a long illness that morning—ran in a
quarterback keeper for a touchdown from the two after a sixty-five-yard
drive. The next time the Tigers got the ball, backup quarterback Durel
Matherne scored from the four.
After the kickoff, the Cowboys took over on their own five. Relying on
the pass, they put together a ninety-five-yard scoring drive, the longest of
the year against the vaunted “Chinese Bandits.” The Cowboys missed the
extra point.

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With less than two minutes to play before the half, Hardin-Simmons
punted, but the play was called back because the Cowboys’ upback, accord-
ing to the rules of the time, was too close to the line of scrimmage. On the
do-over, the Cowboys’ center snapped the ball over the head of the punter,
and the Tigers recovered on the Cowboys eleven. On the next play, Cannon
powered his way into the end zone.
The 20–6 halftime score was in jeopardy throughout the second half as
the Cowboys controlled the ball and stayed in Tigers territory for most of
the thirty minutes. Once, the Cowboys drove to the two. Hart, exhausted,
came out for a breather, and his replacement lost a fumble. On the next
Cowboys series, Hardin-Simmons advanced to the Tigers eleven before a
fourth-down pass fell incomplete.
Even though the game ended 20–6, the big bad Tigers knew they had
been in a war. The Cowboys ran eighty-six plays, compared to fifty-nine
for LSU. Cowboys quarterbacks completed nineteen passes in thirty-four
attempts for 201 yards. LSU coach Paul Dietzel noted that the Cowboys
outgained his Tigers 328 yards to 292. “I’m not sure we ever did stop them,”
he said.
Years later, Sam recalled that during the off-season, he got a call from
one of the LSU assistants. “I just thought you’d like to know we’ve been
looking at the film from last year’s games, and you controlled the ball on us
better than anyone else we played,” the coach said. “I thought you ought to
tell your boys.”
“I was never prouder,” Sam said.
Despite the LSU loss, 1958 turned out to be a good year for Sam and his
Cowboys. Playing not only LSU, but also Baylor, Ole Miss, and nationally
ranked Arkansas, Hardin-Simmons compiled a 6-4 regular-season record
and won the Border Conference championship. In the 1959 Sun Bowl, the
Cowboys lost to the Cowboys of the University of Wyoming 14–6.
Sam coached the Cowboys for one more year, posting the worst record
of his tenure at the Abilene school. “Sam was one of the finest persons I’ve
ever known,” Hart said. “The only thing I’ll ever criticize him for is I think
he knew he was leaving that last year and he wasn’t much into recruiting.”
The Cowboys were 3-7 in 1959 and finished in next-to-last place in the
Border Conference. Sam resigned at the end of the year to take a position in
one of the unlikeliest places imaginable for a country boy from West Texas.

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23

BACK TO THE PROS

coachingthetitansandtheoilers

“I
stayed in that Manhattan hotel right in the middle of New York, and I
was miserable the whole time,” Sam once told an oral historian. “That’s
just not a life, as far as I’m concerned.”
The reason Sam was in New York in 1960 and not home on the West
Texas range was because of a telephone call he received after the 1959 sea-
son from the man who had been the Redskins’ radio announcer during
Sam’s playing days and who also owned 25 percent of the team.
Harry Wismer, a native of Port Huron, Michigan, was short, volatile, and
fast talking, the opposite of Sam in almost every way. He had been a mul-
tisport star in high school and had played football at both the University
of Florida and Michigan State University before severely injuring a knee
in a game against the University of Michigan. He then began broadcasting
Michigan State sports on the school radio station, and in 1934 was hired as
the public-address announcer for the Detroit Lions. He also owned stock in
the Lions, thanks to his first wife, a daughter of the Ford family. (He later
was married to the widow of Abner “Longie” Zwillman, an early Prohibition
gangster who was known as the “Al Capone of New Jersey.”)
Wismer was a go-getter, whatever his other faults. In the late 1940s,
he was the announcer for a number of 16 mm college football films. He
would add the commentary a day or so after the games were over, spic-

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ing up the faux play-by-play with crowd noise, referee whistles, and other
sound effects.
After George Preston Marshall discovered Wismer doing a radio sports
show in Detroit, he hired him to broadcast Redskins games.
“Wismer took considerable license with his job as the Redskins an-
nouncer, often criticizing the team’s head coach, as well as any players
whose play made Wismer, the part owner, unhappy,” the former Washing-
ton Post reporter Morris Siegel wrote in Regardie’s Magazine. “To this day, I
am sure that he helped cost several coaches—whom he harshly rebuked on
the air—their jobs.
“About the lone exception to his free advice,” Siegel recalled, “was leg-
endary quarterback Sammy Baugh, who was error-proof as far as Wis-
mer was concerned. It was never Baugh’s fault when he was intercepted.
(Remember, these were the days before television, and Wismer’s word was
gospel.) Baugh’s receivers either ran the wrong route or dropped a perfect
pass, he would tell his listeners.”
Siegel recalled that Wismer also broadcast Notre Dame games on Sat-
urdays, and was involved in an early effort to expand football into prime-
time network television. ABC would broadcast a replay on Sunday nights of
the previous day’s Notre Dame games, which were cut down to seventy-five
minutes by editing out time between plays, halftime, and uneventful plays.
Seventeen years later, ABC’s Monday Night Football took Wismer’s idea and
made it work.
“Between the Irish and the Redskins, he must have set some kind of
world record for name-dropping,” Siegel wrote.

A slightly paraphrased imitation of Wismer’s penchant for introducing every

celebrity, near-celebrity and friend of his at the game goes like this: “Baugh
fades to pass, he looks—and sitting there in his box watching the Redskins
game is General So-and-So, along with Vice Admiral and Mrs. Whatchacal-
lem. Also in their box is Paul Cadillac and his lovely wife. Paul is the chairman
of the board of General Motors.”
Only after Wismer had finished rattling off the names would he allow
Baugh to complete his pass. Coincidentally, most of the people whom Wismer
would introduce, whether they happened to be in the ballpark that day or not,
were associated with firms that sponsored Redskins games.

Although he was a vice president of the Redskins and a 25 percent owner,

Wismer eventually ran afoul of Marshall. The loud-mouthed announcer got
a little too free with his advice about how the team ought to be run, which

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irritated the Redskins’ potentate, particularly after Wismer began criticiz-

ing him for not signing black players. Marshall bought him out.
After more than twenty years as a broadcaster and publicist, Wismer
hooked up with Lamar Hunt, the fabulously wealthy Dallas oilman who had
been rebuffed by the NFL when he sought a franchise for his hometown.
In 1959, Hunt responded by forming the American Football League, which
competed directly with the NFL for players and fans.
Wismer became president of the New York Titans, one of the six origi-
nal AFL franchises. The league began play in 1960, with the Titans, Boston,
Buffalo, and Houston in the East Division, and Dallas, Denver, Los Angeles,
and Oakland in the West.

W hereas Sam had respected “Mr. Marshall” without necessarily lik-

ing him, he found Wismer almost unbearable. “Harry was one of
those guys who seemed to go out of his way to be his own worst enemy,”
Sam recalled.

Frequently, you’d see Harry doing things an ordinary man doesn’t need to
be doing.
He was always big-doggin’ it. He was the kind of guy who would walk into
a restaurant and yell at somebody on the other side of the room, just so every-
one would turn around and look at him.

Striving to be known as a convivial man about town, he invariably greeted

friends and strangers alike with a hearty “congratulations!” “I always say
congratulations,” he told the New York Times. “It makes people feel good.
Congratulations can mean anything. It rings a note. It’s wonderful, and it’s a
great opening line. Congratulations.”
No doubt that was his first word when he called Sam, who was raising
cattle, rearing kids, and roping calves at small-town rodeos throughout
West Texas when he got Wismer’s call from the Big Apple.
He was calling to offer Sam $28,000 a year to come to New York and
coach his new team. Sam was agreeable to the offer, mainly because the
money sounded good, but he also knew Wismer. The West Texan insisted
that he get his money up front. The Titans’ owner agreed.
Despite the money, Sam knew almost from the beginning that taking the
job was a mistake. The day Wismer introduced his new coach to the media,
he had a three-piece western swing band play “The Yellow Rose of Texas”

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while Sam, no doubt recalling an earlier egomaniacal owner, stood off to the
side in a cowboy hat and bandana. “Going up to New York,” he said in later
years, “was the dumbest thing I ever did.”
Wismer squabbled with everyone, eventually failed to meet his payroll,
and got to where he would deal with his coach only through intermediaries.
“That was one of those things that was just a bad deal from the start,” Sam
told Whit Canning. “In the beginning we all thought Harry owned the team,
but actually he had no one backing him up. We started losing money fast,
and he couldn’t cover it.”
The Titans played in the Polo Grounds, by then a rat-infested dump. “It
was two steps down to the dressing room at the Polo Grounds . . . and the
water on the floor was up to the top step after one of those games,” recalled
a reporter who covered the Titans. “The Polo Grounds had been closed for
two years since the New York Giants baseball team went west, and good-
ness knows what was in that water.”
Don Maynard, who had played at Yankee Stadium when he was with the
Giants, compared playing in the Polo Grounds to “going from the Taj Mahal
to the Kings Inn Motel in Paris, Texas—and if you’ve ever been there, then
you know, it’s not good.”
In one of the first Titans games, Sam led his team into the locker room
and encountered two young men making a powerful racket beating on
trash-can lids. “What the hell are y’all doing?” he asked. One of the guys told
him: “Mr. Wismer came down here and told us to beat on these lids to scare
the rats out.”
Wismer would announce a paid attendance at games of thirty thousand;
maybe ten thousand, at best, would be rattling around in the huge former
home of the dearly departed New York Giants. A reporter named Warren
Pack wrote that half the fans who attended the Titans’ first game came “dis-
guised as empty seats.”
A reporter asked Sam about not having playbooks for the team. “If you’re
gonna have a playbook, the first thing you gotta have is paper,” Sam told him.
Wismer was insufferable. “He was always coming into the dressing room
trying to give us a pep talk that nobody ever listened to,” Sam recalled. “It
was embarrassing just to be around him, and before long a lot of people
started hating him.”
Despite the hardships, Sam gave the challenge his best shot. “We’re going
to have a real team,” he told the New York Times in the spring of 1960. “We’ll
start training up in New Hampshire with about 70 boys, none of whose
names, probably, are known to the general public. But what’s in a name?

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Give me boys like we have signed, most of them 200 pounds and over and
most of them quick, and I’ll have a football team.”
The first player to sign a contract was Don Maynard, a rail-thin Texan
from Colorado City who had played for the Giants and then spent a year
in the Canadian Football League. Sam had seen the free-agent flanker play
at Texas Western, had coached him in the Senior Bowl in Mobile, and was
impressed with his speed and pass-catching ability.
Maynard, who wore long sideburns and boots and who would go on to
be an all-pro with the New York Jets, the successor team to the Titans, was
almost as colorful as his coach. “When the AFL was founded, I was the first
player signed by the Titans,” he recalled. “I remember Sammy saying, ‘I
know who I want to sign. He beat me three years in college.’ I was excited to
play for Sammy, because I knew he wanted to throw the ball.”
Maynard recalled Hardin-Simmons beating Texas Western in 1955, and
the Miners turning the tables the next year. During his third year, Maynard
and the Miners played the Cowboys in Abilene and were leading 21–20 late
in the game. “Then they line up to kick a field goal,” he recalled forty-four
years later, “and the kick hits the left tackle in the butt, goes up in the air,
lands on the crossbar and falls over and they win, 23–21.”
Maynard was thrilled to play for Sam. Even if the Giants had called him
back, he said, he would have stayed with the Titans because of Sam. “As far
as I’m concerned, Baugh isn’t just one of the greatest quarterbacks to ever
play the game, he’s also one of the greatest coaches,” Maynard said years
later. “It’s like my Titans teammate Larry Granthan once said about him: he
could draw up better plays in the dirt than most coaches could on a black-
board. Both on and off the field, he was one of the fairest people in the world,
and I consider it a great thrill and honor to be able to say that I played for
him, from Alabama to New York City.”
Maynard and the Titans had the makings of a pretty good team. “I don’t
mean to give the impression that the Titans, in their first year, will be the
greatest football team ever organized,” Sam told the Times. “We’ll have to
build and experiment and change. But we’ll have a football team at the start
that’ll be worth watching.”
Ten weeks later, twenty-six young men arrived on the campus of the
University of New Hampshire in Durham, New Hampshire, after a seven-
and-a-half-hour bus ride from New York City. They were the first of 103
players the new team had invited to training camp. Only thirty-three would
make the team.
“It’s better this way,” said Sam, who also rode the bus north. “Some of
these boys will be eating dirt from the first day, but they won’t quit. Then

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you have to tell them, and some go away and cry.” The upstart Titans got no
respect, Maynard recalled. “To reporters, the Titans were a joke, Wismer
was just a drunk, Sammy was just a faded star and I was still just the world’s
greatest fumbler,” he recalled. “Well, we’d see about that.”
Sam’s Titans made their debut at the Polo Grounds on September
11, 1960. They beat Buffalo in the rain, 27–3, before a crowd of 10,250
(5,727 paid).
The team was moderately successful that maiden year, playing what
Maynard described as “runnin’, gunnin’, and high-flyin’ football, the likes of
which you couldn’t find anywhere else.” It was, of course, Sam Baugh’s kind
of football.
Quarterback Al Dorow turned out to be a real find—although he was Wis-
mer’s find, not Sam’s, who wanted to go with his former Hardin-Simmons
passing wizard, Ken “Model T” Ford. Wismer insisted that Sam play Dorow,
who had starred at Wismer’s alma mater, Michigan State. Dorow threw for
a league-high twenty-six touchdowns.
Sam also had two superb receivers in Maynard and Art Powell, both of
whom would have fine careers in the NFL. Powell, a tight end out of San
Jose State, had been released by the Eagles after he refused to play an exhi-
bition game in the segregated South.
“Sammy Baugh didn’t care about any of that nonsense,” Maynard
recalled. “He intended to give Art Powell a fair shake. For one, Sammy was
the kind of guy who would buy the whole bar a round, who judged a player
only by what he could do in that space between the two sidelines. What did
any of that other stuff matter? It might have mattered to some blue-blood
owner up in the nation’s capital, but it didn’t matter to Vince Lombardi, and
it sure as heck didn’t matter to Sammy Baugh.”
Sam and Maynard were cut from the same cloth—the same southwest-
ern cloth, that is—and the two men remained lifelong friends. “Coach and
I both shared what some New Yorkers might call ‘a cowboy image’—not
the most popular look in Manhattan in 1960,” Maynard recalled. “I never
thought about shopping for new clothes on Fifth Avenue, and I’m sure
Coach Baugh didn’t either. Sammy had worn cowboy boots and Levi’s way
back when he was a Redskins player. I had dressed the way I had since mid-
dle school, before I even knew who Sammy Baugh was.”
The team finished the season with a record of 7-7, but the crowds never
got better. On Thanksgiving Day, for example, the Titans defeated the Dallas
Texans 41–35 in a wild offensive battle that featured Dorow—Dick Young
of the New York Daily News labeled him “the hairless wower”—completing
twenty-one of thirty-five passes for 301 yards and Maynard catching ten of

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them for 179 yards. A crowd of 14,344 watched the “piping-hot Turkey Day
football feast, stuffed with 76 juicy points” (Young again).
Sam was able to joke about the team’s dismal box-office situation. When
a reporter asked him about disgruntled fans after a loss, he said, “I’m not
worried about them. I think we’ve got ’em outnumbered.”
“They didn’t introduce us before the game,” Sam’s linebacker, Larry
Grantham, once joked. “They just let us wander through the stands until we
had met everyone.”
Another time, the team bus was making its way through New York City
traffic on its way to the Polo Grounds when a grocery sack full of garbage
came flying through an open window. Sam laughed. “Well,” he said, “it
coulda been shit.”
Just when Sam and his Titans thought things couldn’t get any worse,
they did. Paychecks began to bounce. On payday, one of Wismer’s facto-
tums would hand out checks at practice. Immediately, the players would
rush off the field, climb into their cars and, still in football gear, race to the
bank. Only one branch of a bank called Irving Trust would cash the Titans
checks, and only one teller at that branch. She would check off each transac-
tion until the money ran out, so the last players in line often trudged out the
front door with their pockets empty.
For press releases, someone would go to stores that sold mimeograph
machines, ask to test the equipment, and run off the releases—without buy-
ing, of course. After one game, players had to dry themselves off with their
jerseys, because the laundryman hadn’t been paid.
Grantham, an all-pro after the Titans became the Jets, recalled the play-
ers delivering an ultimatum to Wismer before a game against Buffalo: either
we get paid or we don’t practice.
“He told us we could practice on our own, but if we did, the coaches
wouldn’t coach,” Grantham recalled. “So I coached the defense, and guard
Bob Mischak coached the offense. We went up to Buffalo on our own, so did
the coaches, and we won. The next week, Lamar Hunt showed up, sat at a
table in our locker room, asked each guy how much his paycheck was and
wrote a personal check for the amount. That’s how much he knew the AFL
needed a New York team.”
With morale abysmal toward the end of the season, the Wismer Bonus
Rule went into effect. As Sam recalled, Wismer walked into the dressing
room one day after practice and announced that if the Titans won the last
three games on the schedule, he would reward every player with a $2,000
bonus. Since many of them hadn’t been paid in weeks, the announcement
got their attention.

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“Well, we won the first two,” Sam recalled,

and then went out and played the [San Diego] Chargers in the last game of the
year. We could both score, and it got to be one of those real see-saw games—
we’d score, and then they’d score. Harry was pacing up and down the sideline
looking more worried every minute.
And all through the game, people were joking with each other on the
bench—pointing at Harry and saying, “Look—we got him scared to death!”
Finally, they beat us [50–43]—and you never saw an owner so relieved his
team had lost.

T
 hings got only worse in ’61, and as the season wore on, Sam found it
increasingly difficult to hide his frustration with Wismer’s shoddy
operation. When the AFL owners were about to meet late in the 1961 sea-
son to determine whether Wismer should be relieved of his franchise, the
coach’s sentiments were obvious. “I wish I had a vote,” he told reporters.
With a week to go in the season—the Titans would again finish 7-7—
the feud between owner and coach flared into public view. Charging that
Sam had violated the “loyalty clause” in his contract, Wismer announced
he intended to demote him to assistant backfield coach for the 1962 sea-
son. “He’s rapping me publicly all the time,” Wismer said. “I’m paying him
$28,000 to be disloyal; that’s a fine situation, isn’t it?”
With a year to go on his three-year contract, Sam told reporters he hoped
Wismer would fire him, but he would not quit. Dick Young of the New York
Daily News told him of Wismer’s plan. “Well, that would be just wonder-
ful,” he said. “I’d like to be an assistant at these prices. I’m not being disloyal;
all I’m doing is telling the truth. I told him we couldn’t win any champion-
ship without signing some draft choices.” Young asked him again whether
he was going to quit. “I’ve never quit a job in my life,” he said, “and I’m not
going to quit now.”
The two men had been feuding all fall, but it flared up anew when Sam
heard Wismer claim he intended to offer the Syracuse all-American Ernie
Davis a $25,000 bonus and a three-year contract for $100,000 if Davis would
sign with the Titans. Although the Buffalo Bills had the rights to Davis in the
AFL draft, Wismer claimed the Bills had given him permission to negotiate
with the star halfback. The Bills denied it.
“Sure, I’d like to have Davis,” Sam said.

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He’s a great ballplayer. But while they’re fooling around with Davis, 20 other
boys who can help us are getting away. A bunch we wanted to sign already
have been signed by somebody else.
I’m a little tired of all this Davis talk, especially since we don’t even own
the rights to him anyway.

Ironically, George Preston Marshall, pressured by the Kennedy adminis-

tration to sign a black player, drafted Davis, the 1961 Heisman Trophy win-
ner, as the overall number one pick and then traded him to the Cleveland
Browns for running back Bobby Mitchell and the Browns’ first pick. Mitch-
ell thus became the Redskins’ first black player, while Davis was expected to
team with fearsome running back Jim Brown to give the Browns the most
explosive backfield in the history of the NFL. Tragically, Davis died of leu-
kemia at age twenty-three.
Meanwhile, Wismer kept telling reporters that he and general manager
Steve Sebo “have been working night and day for 10 days” trying to sign
Titan draft choices.
Sam wasn’t through voicing his frustrations. He told reporters that Wis-
mer had overestimated the Titans from the start of the season. “Two weeks
before we went to camp,” he said,

all the coaches got a letter from Wismer telling us of all the great boys he had
signed and telling the coaches that we should be able to win the championship
with them. We could tell, within 30 days at camp, that we had been lied to right
there. He hadn’t helped us on offense at all and on defense he had got us only
one good boy—Danard Paulson. He even made the statement that we could
beat the Giants by three touchdowns. That turned my stomach. The Giants
would run us right off the field.

Sam was gone before the end of the year, replaced by his old pal Clyde
“Bulldog” Turner. Since his three-year contract still had a year to run, Wis-
mer agreed to keep him on as a “kicking consultant” for the same salary he
received as coach. Turner said he had “the greatest respect” for his prede-
cessor and would be happy to have him on his staff. “I don’t know how he’d
feel about that though,” he added.
In the fall of 1962, Wismer was unable to meet his payroll, so the AFL
assumed the costs of running the Titans until the end of the season. The
next spring, a five-man syndicate headed by David A. “Sonny” Werblin
purchased the franchise for $1 million, renamed the team the “Jets,” and
hired a new coach and general manager, Weeb Ewbank. Two years later, the

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team signed a young quarterback from the University of Alabama named

Joe Namath—for an unprecedented $427,000—and on January 12, 1969,
“Broadway Joe” led the Jets to a stunning Super Bowl victory over the Bal-
timore Colts. (In later years, Sam said Namath was the best passer he had
ever seen.)
That victory was the catalyst in the merger of the NFL and the upstart
AFL, and Wismer, for all his shortcomings, had been a prime mover. He
didn’t live to savor the success.
Sam recalled the last time he saw the man. In 1964, he was head coach of
the Houston Oilers, who were in New York to play the Jets. Wismer called
him to ask whether he could sit on the bench with the Oilers. Sam said sure
and got him a pass.
Burdened by his financial losses and legal entanglements, Wismer
seemed like a different person, friends told the New York Times. “He was
still a familiar figure in midtown restaurants and hotels, but his reverses
seemed to many to have taken a great zest from him.”
“So he came down and sat with us, and it seemed like it really meant
something to him,” Sam told Whit Canning. “But at halftime, he went up to
the press box to go visit some people. About the middle of the third quarter
he came back down, and he had blood all over his mouth and running down
his shirt. He went up there big-doggin’ it again, and somebody cold-cocked
him. There were just so many people who disliked Harry, and I really felt
sorry for him.”
Wismer died in 1967 at age fifty-six. He still owed Sam $10,000.
Sam, at least, got to go home to Texas. “I was always glad to get out of a
city,” he often said. “I never did stay a damn day longer than I had to.”
David Baugh remembered the last Titan game his father coached. They
were playing the Dallas Texans, in Dallas, and the plan was for David and
his older brother Todd to drive in from West Texas, pick up their dad, and
bring him home. That was how it worked out, although what David remem-
bers from his vantage point on the Titans’ bench was one particular play.
The Texans punted to the Titans, and the Titans deep man let the ball hit
the ground and roll. As a gaggle of Texans gathered around the ball, waiting
for it to stop rolling, a giant Titan barreled into the unsuspecting players and
knocked them to the ground like bowling pins. Benches emptied immedi-
ately, with players cussing, throwing punches, and grappling with each other.
David remembered his dad yelling, “You crazy bastard!” at the lineman
who had ignited the riot, and wading into the melee trying to get his Titans
back to the bench. Somehow, it seemed a fitting end to what had been a mis-
adventure from the beginning.

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O n September 7, 1963, Sam was inducted into the Professional Foot-

ball Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio, one of seventeen charter mem-
bers, a group that included George Halas, Bronko Nagurski, Red Grange,
Jim Thorpe, Curly Lambeau, and others. Only Halas and Sam were elected
unanimously.
His Hall of Fame profile described him as a “premier passer” who trans-
formed the way the game was played. “Obviously, such a change could not
be totally brought about by one individual. But Baugh was the catalyst that
changed the game. No one had seen a passer who could throw with such
accuracy.”
Sam, with great reluctance, left the ranch and flew to Canton, where,
during induction ceremonies at Fawcett Stadium, Harry Stuhldreher
described him as “the originator, the founder of the flying circus found in
the Southwestern part of the United States at Texas Christian University.”
Stuhldreher also noted that of Sam’s many records, the one of which he was
most proud was his interceptions as a defensive back.
Sam, looking dapper in a suit and striped tie, told the stadium crowd that
those who should be honored were “the owners who stayed with it back in
those days when they weren’t making money, losing money with pro teams.
They still loved the game and thought enough of it to stay there and lose
their money until the game became what it is today.”
He also paid his respects to George Preston Marshall, “one of the finest
men I’ve ever been in contact with.” Marshall was in Georgetown Hospital
in Washington, D.C., that day, and Sam wished him a full recovery.

F lying back home to Texas, Sam may well have thought that his football
days were over. Calves and rain and rodeoing were on his mind, not to
mention the fortunes of his five kids, a couple of whom were grown. Not
long afterward, though, he got a call from Bud Adams, the Houston oilman
who owned the Houston Oilers of the AFL, offering him a job as an assistant
coach. With kids in college and ranching perennially precarious, Sam said
yes. A year later, head coach Pop Ivy quit shortly before the season began,
and Sam took over, although he said later he didn’t really want the job.
Sam coached the Oilers for the ’64 season, and that was it. That season
was the last year he had to leave the ranch, had to deal with nosy reporters,
had to fly around the country in airplanes he didn’t trust to begin with. Fly-
ing through a storm one night after an Oilers game, this most irreligious of

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men told the Lord that if he got down out of the lightning-splintered sky, he
would never fly again. And he never did.
Meanwhile, it was an inauspicious year for a team that had won the
first three AFL title games. Maybe Ivy had known something, but Sam fell
into a quarterback controversy that sparked rumblings of dissension the
whole year.
After the ’63 season, the Oilers had drafted Don Trull, a superb passer
from Baylor, and Adams wanted him in the lineup immediately. Sam con-
sidered Trull the team’s quarterback of the future. His starter, meanwhile,
was the ageless George Blanda, who was not only one of the best quarter-
backs in pro football but also, at forty-seven, still productive on the field.
He recalled Blanda leading the Oilers to what looked like sure victory
one Sunday afternoon against the Denver Broncos, and then the Oilers’
punter decided to run with the ball late in the game instead of kicking it.
He was tackled behind the line of scrimmage, and the Broncos managed to
push him close enough to kick the game-winning field goal.
“The newspapers jumped all over Blanda, even though it wasn’t his fault,
and I think Mr. Adams may have instigated it because he wanted Trull in
there,” Sam told Whit Canning.
The next Sunday against the Kansas City Chiefs, Sam started the rookie,
who could get nothing going. With the Oilers trailing 21–0, Blanda took over
in the second half and threw five touchdown passes.
Although the Oilers won that game, they finished the season 4-10,
and Sam was done as head coach. A head-coaching job, he told reporters,
demanded his full-time attention, which he could not afford to give and still
operate his first love, his 6,335-acre ranch. He said the team’s poor record
had nothing to do with his decision and that he would be happy to stay on
the staff as long as he could spend more time on his ranch.
And that is exactly what he did. He came back in ’65 as an assistant to his
old Redskins buddy Bones Taylor, who had served for three years as Sam’s
assistant. “A lot of people may think I came to Houston (from San Diego)
to cut Sam’s throat,” Taylor told the Washington Post. “They couldn’t be
more wrong. I’ve learned a lot from Sam. What he wants to be is an assistant
coach. I had to be sure of this before I took the job.” The Post had caught up
with both Sam and Taylor at the Touchdown Club in Washington. The Oil-
ers were in town for an exhibition game in nearby Alexandria, Virginia, with
the New York Jets.
While people said a lot of nice things about him, “Baugh squirmed in
his seat, bit at the end of his cigar, occasionally surveyed the smoke curling
upward toward the ceiling, but, always, he smiled,” Bill Gildea of the Post

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observed. “The legend wore a seersucker jacket that hung loosely on his
lean frame. At 178, he is still near his playing weight. Only his hair is thinner
on top, and there are touches of gray at the sides.”
Sam stayed on as Taylor’s assistant for a year, did some part-time coach-
ing with the University of Tulsa and Oklahoma State, and helped his old
friend Harry Gilmer with the Detroit Lions. By the end of the 1960s, Sam
was done with the game. He settled on the ranch for good.

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 CHAPTER

24

RANCHING, RODEOING,
AND GOLFING
saminretirement

I
t is a Sunday afternoon on the outskirts of a small West Texas town.
Cars, pickups, and horse trailers are parked in the dry dirt around a ram-
shackle outdoor rodeo arena, where a few spectators lounge atop weath-
ered bleachers watching cowboys compete in rudimentary rodeo events.
Others have backed their pickups near the arena fence and set up lawn
chairs in the truck beds. The spectators—kids, wives and girlfriends, old
cowboys—are eating hot dogs, drinking Cokes. Others have cans of beer on
ice in Styrofoam coolers. Some are wearing shorts and T-shirts; others are
dressed like the cowboys themselves.
The contestants are real cowboys, everyday wranglers on ranches in the
area. Several of them, in sweat-stained hats and battered boots, perch atop
the fence and watch the action, shouting out encouragement now and then
to their buddies. The sun is high overhead in the bright blue sky.
At one end of the small arena, a Jersey calf darts out of a roping chute,
pursued by a cowboy atop a galloping quarter horse. The rider leans over the
horse’s neck, one hand on the reins, the other twirling a lariat as he homes
in on the calf. Within seconds, the loop flies out and settles around the calf’s
neck, tightening as the frightened animal continues to run a few more steps.
The horse stops as soon as the cowboy throws the loop, the rope between
the saddle horn and the calf snaps taut, and the animal slams to the dirt.

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The cowboy bounds out of the saddle and runs toward the calf while mov-
ing hand over hand down the rope. The horse, eyes focused on the action in
front of him, takes a step or two backward to keep the rope clothesline tight.
When the cowboy ducks under the rope and gets to the calf, he reaches
under the animal, lifts it up, and drops it on his back, a maneuver the cow-
boys call flanking. Crouching beside the animal, he wraps a short length
of rope called a pigging string around three of the calf ’s legs and cinches
it with a half hitch. He then springs to his feet, hands held high to show a
judge on horseback that he is done. The judge dips a small flag as a signal to
a timer to stop his watch.
A good roper in Sam’s time got it done in ten seconds or less. “It all looks
pretty easy on TV, but it’s really damn difficult to do,” said David Baugh, a
high school football coach who became a full-time rancher when he retired.
“You have to practice a thousand times.”
He should know. From the early 1940s until the late 1950s, one of the
best ropers in West Texas was David Baugh’s father. As David recalled,
Sam didn’t know anything about ranching, much less about rodeoing, when
he first moved to the Double Mountain Ranch. After helping out with the
branding one year, he decided he wanted to be able to drag calves with the
best of them. He built himself an arena near the house, and by the next
branding, he could.
Felix McKnight of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram wrote that Sam made
his rodeo debut in 1940 at Floydada. According to McKnight, Sam “met up
with an unruly calf and used up 19 seconds, which was slightly out of the
money.” “Shucks, out here on the ranch I’ve cut that time in half,” Sam told
McKnight. “But it was different in that arena.” Sam said he would enter the
rodeo at Spur in June and then the famed Stamford Rodeo during the July 4
weekend.
Owen Brazee, the cowboy who managed the ranch when Sam was in D.C.,
went along with him to his first few rodeos, showing him how to enter, how
to take care of his horse, how to take advantage of little tricks of the trade. It
wasn’t long before he was competing with the best.
By then, George Preston Marshall’s faux cowboy was the real McCoy.
Back straight, shoulders squared, he looked as if he had been born on a
horse. He loved riding, his friend Bob O’Day recalled. Some mornings, on
days he didn’t have much ranch work to do, he would head out on horseback,
ride all morning, come back in for lunch, and then head out again.
The Star-Telegram’s McKnight reported that Sam had hooked up with
a fellow Sweetwater resident, Larrupin’ Lew Jenkins, a ranch boy who had
quit riding herd to become a boxer. He and Sam were thinking about raising

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thoroughbreds together. Larrupin’ Lew, by the way, whose impressive reti-

nue of nicknames included “Lashing Lew,” the “Sweet Swatter from Sweet-
water,” the “Sweetwater Socker,” and “Sweetwater Lew,” became light-
weight champion of the world in July 1940. Sam was among the guests
when the Sweetwater Chamber of Commerce sponsored a welcome-home
banquet for yet another hometown sports hero.
The Redskins knew Sam was rodeoing. Marshall hated it, fearing that he
would lose his most valuable player to injury, but he never demanded that
Sam stop. Although rodeoing helped him stay in shape during the off-sea-
son, Sam himself got scared one year when he hurt his knee at a small-town
rodeo while he was still playing football. He stayed away from roping for a
while, but he enjoyed it too much to give it up completely.
“To offset the remote possibility that Mr. George (Wet Wash) Marshall,
the rather easily excited owner of the Washington football club, should
become alarmed over Sam’s innocent hobby of wrestling with bawling
calves,” McKnight wrote, “the Slinger insists that he will not branch out
into other rodeo pastimes—such as bulldogging steers, mounting unbroken
broncs and riding wild steers with a surcingle.”
He enjoyed the competition—competition with others and with him-
self to be the best he could. Just as in football and baseball—and later, golf—
he learned everything he could about the sport, worked at it and practiced
incessantly. Sitting around his apartment in Washington with his Redskin
buddies, he would have a lariat dangling between the fingers of his right
hand, and while he talked and told yarns, he roped the back of a nearby
chair. Back on the ranch, he would go to “ropin’s” almost every weekend,
where he and other cowboys practiced for upcoming rodeos. “He loved any
kind of competition,” David Baugh said. “He loved the cowboy life.”
His ability to focus on the task at hand, whether kicking a football or
roping a calf, was key to his success, but it could get wearisome to those
around him. Mona would want him to pay attention to something around
the house or maybe take a vacation, but Sam would be wrapped up in his lat-
est obsession.
During his roping days, Sonny Nichols, before he joined the Marines at
eighteen in 1945, traipsed all over West Texas with Sam, following the rodeo
to Pampa, Clarendon, Seymour, Snyder, Stamford, Aspermont, all the way
to Amarillo. Fourteen years younger, Nichols looked up to Sam. They would
load up Bluebonnet, Sam’s favorite roping mare, in the back of a pickup
with sideboards, and off they would go almost every weekend. “He didn’t
talk much football,” Nichols recalled. “Mainly we talked about ranching and
rodeoing and horses.”

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David Baugh and his brothers traveled with their dad too. The most
memorable trip for David was one to a rodeo at Spur in the early 1950s. They
rode with their dad in the cab of a pickup, Bluebonnet in a trailer behind
them. She was called Bluebonnet because she had a bluish-gray tinge at
birth and gradually turned white as she got older. “That ol’ mare, I mean
you could rope on her, you could ride her,” Brazee recalled. “She sure was a
good horse.”
At Spur that night, Sam and the boys slept in the back of the pickup. They
had two old army mattresses and an old canvas tarp with a hole in the center
for the broomstick that held it up. “There’s a storm comin,’ so do not knock
this stick down,” Sam warned the youngsters.
“Well, all we heard was, ‘knock this stick down,’” David recalled, laugh-
ing. “We got to scuffling and wrestling, and we knocked the stick down. The
water poured in, got the mattresses sopping wet.”
Sam won his share of belt buckles, trophies, and prize money. One year
he won the calf-roping contest at the Fourth of July rodeo in nearby Stam-
ford, and the next year the rodeo honchos wouldn’t let him compete; the
rationale for their ruling was that he was a professional athlete. He was,
indeed, an athlete, and the raw skills that made him a success on the base-
ball diamond and the gridiron translated to the rodeo arena.
Sam rodeoed throughout the 1950s until his battered knees began to
give out and he couldn’t get out of the saddle as fast as he needed to. After a
while, he had to give up riding altogether.
By the late 1960s, when the only seasons that mattered were the grow-
ing season and the calving season, Sam had been ranching for almost three
decades. By then, he had become part of the land he loved and respected,
harsh and unyielding as it was. He loved the work: watching over a new
batch of calves every winter (Herefords for the first several years and then
Brangus), branding, cutting herds, keeping the fences up, checking the
windmill, and finally hauling his cattle to market.
“You get a piece of land and you try to improve it,” he once said.

What you want to do is leave it better than you find it. It hurts you when you
see that damn grass on your land die out and go to nothing. It tears you up . . .
We know we’re not going to have a good year every year—maybe one good
year in five. But we’re doing something we like, and that’s what by God counts.

He also discovered that he had a knack for training horses—horses to ride,

to rope off of, to herd cattle. “He did it for the pure joy of it,” David Baugh
said. “It was sort of like coaching.”

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He loved ranch people, their strength of will, their independence and

self-sufficiency. “I work the cattle myself, with two other fellows about my
own age,” he told a Washington Post reporter in 1978. “You can’t get help,
and if you do and it’s not experienced they can get hurt. We neighbors pool
our labor on one another’s place in the busier seasons.”
His operating philosophy was, in essence, his philosophy of life. “I never
want to hurt anyone,” he told the reporter.

Sometimes a harsh word might. When I say something, I expect to be believed

by the other fellow. When he says something, I expect to believe him.
If he agrees to pay me so much a pound for the cattle, that’s good enough for
me. The fellow doesn’t need a contract. But if he wants one, that’s all right, too.
I didn’t find it that way with some people in New York and other places
up that way. That’s why I couldn’t live there. [Perhaps he was thinking of the
money Harry Wismer owed him.]
I don’t care about money—although it’s nice to have when you need it—if
I can just earn a living and do what I wanted to do. And I do.

B y the late ’60s, the Baugh children were grown and on their own. The
oldest son, Todd, played football at Rice, went to law school, and then
became a state district judge in Billings, Montana. David also played foot-
ball, at Texas Tech, and then coached in small towns throughout West
Texas. Bruce (who died in 2006) worked as a computer expert for the State
of Texas, and Stephen worked for an oil company in Midland. Frances
became a physical education teacher in Lubbock.
Sam and Mona stayed on the ranch, both still active, but the old competi-
tor needed a new challenge. He got serious about golf. He never took any les-
sons; he learned on his own. He became an exceptional golfer, his old friend
Bob O’Day recalled. “He had a great touch, a good short game,” O’Day said.
“He was a great putter.”
As Sam got older and could leave some of his ranching chores to a ranch
foreman and later to David, he began making the 100-mile round trip to
Snyder to play golf on the scruffy little mesquite-lined course at Western
Texas College. Four or five times a week, Sam would show up in his pickup
to knock a ball around the nine-hole course with O’Day, an administrator
at the junior college. When he made a particularly difficult putt, he warbled
“Hail to the Redskins”—“the whole thing,” O’Day recalled.
Sam and O’Day often teamed up against Rick Kahlich, the course’s head

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pro. The threesome didn’t play for big money, but the losing team had to pay
a price until it reversed the outcome. Sam, if he lost, had to wear a baseball
cap that featured the name “Sammy Sue” in hot-pink lettering. O’Day was
“Bobby Sue,” and Kahlich, “Ricky Sue.” “Sam hated to wear that cap,” O’Day
recalled, laughing.
“He did everything fast,” David Baugh recalled. “He’d hit a golf ball, hop
into his cart, and speed off to the next hole. Sometimes he forgot the guys he
was playing with and have to circle back to pick them up.”
He drove the same way. For years he drove a maroon pickup to Snyder
to play golf, and then graduated to a maroon Buick. One day he was driving
the Buick to Snyder with the windows up, the air conditioner on full blast,
and a country-and-western station blaring on the radio. As always, he had
a chaw of Levi Garrett tobacco in his mouth, but he had forgotten the Folg-
ers Coffee tin he used for spitting. As he drove that day, he spotted an empty
beer can on the shoulder. Sam stopped, backed up, and retrieved the can as
a makeshift spittoon.
“He was one of the few people I ever saw who could chew tobacco, spit in
a cup, listen to the radio, turn around and talk to you—and still drive,” said
his old friend O’Day.
The needle was probably flirting with the century mark on the odom-
eter as Sam, running late, sped down the lonely stretch of West Texas high-
way. He didn’t happen to notice the state trooper, who spotted not only the
speeding Cadillac but also a driver with a beer can at his lips. The trooper,
siren wailing and lights flashing, swung in behind Sam. Sam didn’t notice.
He pulled into the golf-course parking lot at Western Texas College with
the trooper on his tail, who then blocked Sam in when he swung his car into
a parking slot. Sam never saw him until he decided to adjust how he had
parked and backed right into the patrol car.
Sam’s golfing buddies were watching the whole ridiculous farce. “Throw
his ass in jail!” they shouted at the patrolman. Sam was able to convince him
that he wasn’t drinking, that he was just late for his golf game. Eventually,
the trooper shook his head, threw up his hands, and drove away.
Sam always drove too fast and often got tickets, which he promptly
stashed away in the glove compartment. Once the sheriff drove out from
Rotan and knocked on the front door of the ranch house. “Sam, I’ve come
out here to arrest you,” he said.
“Aw hell, what for?” Sam said, laughing. He thought the sheriff was jok-
ing. When Sam realized he was at least semiserious, he wrote out a check
for his unpaid fines, and the lawman went on his way.
Sam played golf deep into his eighties and had four holes in one over his

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lifetime. He played regularly on the Western Texas course, but also in small
towns throughout West Texas and even in Las Vegas, where he once won
$10,000 at a tournament. He helped raise thousands of dollars for charity
at what would come to be called the Slingin’ Sammy Baugh Classic at the
Sammy Baugh Golf Course in Snyder.
“You can’t believe the number of things Sam signed for fund-raisers,”
O’Day said. He also provided college scholarships for students at Western
Texas College. “There’s no telling how many people Sam helped right out
of his own pocket,” David Baugh recalled. “He never asked for anything in
return and didn’t expect anything in return. As far as he was concerned, it
was just a deal between himself and whoever he was helping. It wasn’t any-
body else’s business.”

L ike the evening sun setting over Double Mountain, Sam’s illustrious
football career gradually faded into the past. Although he enjoyed
watching football on television every fall weekend, he didn’t spend a whole
lot of time reliving old memories. In fact, he hardly talked about the past
unless someone asked him.
“Goddamnit, I don’t give one hot damn for this stuff about being some old
football star,” he told a magazine writer in 1980.
Old teammates began to pass on—Bones Taylor in 1992, Bill Millner in
1996, Andy Farkas in 2002. One day in June 1997, an official with the Pro Foot-
ball Hall of Fame called to tell him that Don Hutson had died. Sam thanked
him and hung up the telephone. He sat down in the recliner in his den, and for
a few moments he thought about Hutson, the gazelle-like Green Bay Packers
receiver who was one of the greatest players in pro football history. Then,
he thought about some of the others—Grange, Thorpe, Nagurski, Halas, and
Lambeau who, along with Sam, were among the original inductees.
“I had already seen on television that Hutson had died,” Sam told a
reporter not long afterward. “But when he said, ‘You know, Sam, you’re the
last survivor,’ I was shocked. I knew a lot of the others had died, but I sure
didn’t know I was the last. You know, it feels kind of strange.”
When the reporter asked him how it felt to be the sole survivor, he leaned
forward, slapped his thigh, and said with a laugh: “Well, in this case, last is a
hell of a lot better than first.”
Shirley Povich, the legendary Washington Post sports editor who sang
Sam’s praises throughout his long career, died in 1998 at age ninety-one.
The man who constructed the Slingin’ Sammy legend, the imperious
George Preston Marshall, had died in 1969 at age seventy-two. His flamboy-

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ant wife, Corinne Griffith, died in 1979; she may have been either eighty or
eighty-one, no one knew for sure. (She and Marshall had divorced in 1962.)
The author of four books, she spearheaded a national campaign in the 1960s
to eliminate the federal income tax, which she called legalized thievery.
It took a long time for Marshall’s Redskins to recover from Sam’s depar-
ture. As Arthur Daley of the New York Times put it in 1961, “They swept
the town like a devouring flame, the hottest thing in the Capital since the
White House was set afire in the War of 1812. But when Sammy Baugh’s arm
cooled off, so did the appeal of the football team. It has yet to be regained.”
The Redskins regularly begged Sam to come to Washington for a Sammy
Baugh Day and to retire his jersey number, but he always refused. He didn’t
like to fly, didn’t want to wander far from home.
He was content. He played dominoes with friends, puttered around the
ranch, and spent a lot of time reading, particularly books about the Indians
that once inhabited the Double Mountain area. His idea of eating out was
lunch at the Dairy Queen in Rotan.
“You know, somebody’s always asking me to come hand out a goddamn
trophy here or give a speech there or wear some lousy tuxedo to a banquet,”
he told a reporter in 1980. “Well, I’ve just had enough of it. I’ve traveled so
much all my life, I just don’t give a damn about going anywhere. You just get
enough of it after a while.”
Fans didn’t forget though. He was still getting stacks of mail every day
a half century after he retired. The mail would be addressed to Slingin’
Sammy Baugh, Rotan, Texas—no address, no zip code.
His daughter or one of his four daughters-in-law would spread every-
thing on a table, and Sam would sign whatever people sent him. People
always wanted him to sign “Slingin’ Sammy Baugh,” but instead he would
scribble “Sam Baugh” because it was quicker. His helpers made sure every
item was signed and returned to sender.
He never asked for money, never gave a thought to cashing in on the
lucrative sports memorabilia craze that began to develop in the 1970s. He
was frequently invited to card shows and was offered as much as $20,000
to sign his name for two hours in Dallas and Fort Worth, but he said no. “I
wouldn’t trust any sumbitch that claimed he was going to pay me that much
money to sign my name,” he told a reporter.
Larry Dluhy, who traded in sports memorabilia at his shop in Houston,
corralled Sam for an autograph show one weekend in the late 1990s. Dluhy
knew Bob Lilly, an all-American lineman at TCU in the 1960s who went
on to a Hall of Fame career with the Dallas Cowboys. Lilly and Sam were
friends as well.

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Dluhy called Sam and told him Lilly had agreed to appear at an autograph
show in Dallas. Dluhy promised Sam that he would drive the 275 miles to
the ranch, drive him to Dallas, and have him back before dark.
“You know I don’t do shows,” Sam told him a few days before the event,
“but if Lilly’s doing it, I guess I will too.”
Dluhy was excited—until the telephone calls started. “What if we have
a flat?” Sam wanted to know. “I’ve got a spare,” Dluhy explained patiently.
Sam called back several times with similar concerns. Each time Dluhy had
an answer.
He called one more time. “I just can’t do it,” he told Dluhy. “I’m sorry.”
Dluhy said he understood.
The last night he spent away from home was in 1993 when a friend drove
him to Fort Worth so that TCU could retire his jersey. Over the years, he
was inducted into five Halls of Fame—College Football (1951), Texas Sports
(1954), Pro Football (1963), Cotton Bowl (1999), and Hardin-Simmons
(2000).
He kept a few trophies in a small trophy case at the house. In 1998, when
a visiting reporter asked him which were the most valuable to him, he
reached into the back of the case and retrieved a framed $10 bill and a cer-
tificate for his first hole in one.
Sam never flew after his two-year coaching career with the Oilers ended
following the 1965 season. “I had four bad experiences on planes,” he once
recalled. “The last one came my last year with the Oilers. We had a bad flight
to Oakland, and I said, ‘God, if you just get me through this flight, when the
season’s over, I’ll never fly again.’ And I haven’t. And I hate trains almost as
much as airplanes.”
For more than thirty years, executives from the Pro Football Hall of
Fame tried to lure Sam back to Canton for the annual induction ceremo-
nies. They offered to bring him by plane, train, or automobile.
“Back then, it didn’t seem like such a big deal,” he said about his
enshrinement.

It was the first year, and there was only one building. I don’t remember there
being a particularly big turnout. I appreciate it more now than I did then. I’d
really like to go back and see it now because I’ve heard so much about it, but
I’ll never do it.
They invited me for a long time, but I think they finally gave up. I haven’t
been back since the year they inducted me. Shoot, I haven’t even been back
to Washington since my career ended. I mean, damn, why would I want to
leave here?

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“A m I afraid of death?” he asked, repeating a question a reporter put

to him in 1980.

Oh, hell, I don’t know. I never think about dying, really. Not dying. Now every
so often I think about the way I’m slowing down. You know, I feel myself about
a step and a half slower than I used to be. Especially in those branding pens,
when I need to move fast. I guarantee you that’s when I know I’m a little worse
off. But the way I look at it, I don’t have to move as fast now. The only game I’m
playing is golf, where that son-of-a-bitching ball doesn’t move until I hit it.

Ten years later, he lost his beloved Mona. She had inherited her father’s
bad heart, David Baugh said, and died from complications of a stroke. Sam
and Mona, high school sweethearts, had been married fifty-two years.
Her death marked the beginning of the end for Sam as well, even though
he would live for another eighteen years. Sam stayed by himself on the
ranch after Mona’s passing, but David, retired from teaching and coach-
ing, took over running the place. He and his wife, Jean, built a house about
a mile away.
Jean fixed lunch for him every day, usually a peanut-butter-and-jelly
sandwich. He also watched a lot of television, regardless of what was on.
David found him one morning eating cereal in front of the TV. “Whatcha
you watching, Sam?” his son asked. “Aw, I don’t know,” Sam said, “some kind
of little blue sons-uh-bitches.” Sam wasn’t familiar with the Smurfs.
Sam’s children worried that he allowed people to take advantage of him.
Fans would show up to meet a living legend, and Sam would invite them to
stay for a few days. Often they would, and when they left, Sam made them
peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches to take with them on the road. David
suspects a lot of memorabilia went with them when they left.
Others came simply to be in the presence of a legend; all they wanted was
the pleasure of his company. Cowboy Lanza, who lived in McKinney, Texas,
and got to be friend, remembered staying up half the night playing domi-
noes. The two men sat across the kitchen table from each other, slapped
down dominoes, and gambled with Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.
Every so often, treasure hunters, professional and amateur, stopped by
the ranch house and told him they were sure there was gold and silver on
Double Mountain. They asked for permission to dig in his mountain. “All I
tell them is that if they strike it rich, I get a cut,” he said in 1998. “If there’s
four of them, I get a fifth. If there’s five of them, I get a sixth. I get a kick out of

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 = R A NCHING, RODEOING, A ND GOLFING =

them. You know what? I don’t think there’s any damn gold or silver in those
mountains. The only sumbitch getting rich is the guy who makes the maps.”
People asked him why he didn’t move into town. “Well, why would I want
to move into town?” he asked. “I can walk out any door of my house, step off
the porch and pee any damn place I want to. I couldn’t do that in town.”
His companion was his old dog PeeWee, a mutt who once cost Sam hun-
dreds of dollars when he got hold of Sam’s money clip and chewed through
several hundred-dollar bills. Sam laughed—and kept on buying an extra
hamburger to go whenever he ate lunch at the Dairy Queen in Rotan. A
burger for PeeWee.
As the century approached its end, memories of a glorious career and a
life well lived began to fade. Alzheimer’s disease and dementia began to rav-
age his once-agile mind. Age and a broken hip robbed him of his remaining
mobility.
In 2005, the Baugh children moved their father into the Kent County
Nursing Home and Health Clinic in the small town of Jayton, about thirty
miles away. Toward the end of his life, visitors were likely to find him sleep-
ing in his room, a gaunt and gray old man with a burgundy and gold Redskin
blanket draped across his knees.
Samuel Adrian Baugh, the greatest quarterback who ever lived, died
December 17, 2008. He was ninety-four.
Newspapers across the nation marked his passing. Many noted that he
was the last surviving member of the Pro Football Hall of Fame’s inaugu-
ral class. The Chicago Tribune quoted the Bears’ founder, George Halas:
“Sammy Baugh said Sid [Luckman] was the greatest passer of all time. ‘No,’
replied Sid. ‘Sammy was the greatest.’”
“He was one of the greatest ever to play the game of football and one
of the greatest the Redskins ever had,” said the Redskins’ owner, Daniel
Snyder.
“To this day Baugh remains, even in Washington, that purest of legends,
the player who exists only in the retelling of his deeds from parents to chil-
dren,” wrote Tom Boswell of the Washington Post. “We may not know his face
when we see it in a photo: ears and nose prominent, cheeks slightly sunken,
deep lines in his face before 40 and a middle-distance gaze in his dark eyes as
focused as any hawk,” Boswell wrote. “But, as long as people know the Red-
skins, they will know Sammy Baugh. He’s the Texan who branded them.”
“New York had Joe DiMaggio. Boston had Ted Williams. And Washing-
ton, D.C. Well, we had Sammy Baugh, the greatest football player ever to pull
on a jersey,” wrote the political commentator Pat Buchanan, who grew up in
the Washington area.

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 = SLINGIN’ SA M =

In a conversation with Michael Wilbon of the Washington Post, Steve

Sabol, the president of NFL Films, recalled the first NFL game he attended:

I was 9 years old and my father [Ed Sabol, the founder of NFL Films] took me
to Shibe Park in Philadelphia to see the Eagles play the Redskins. It was 1951.
My dad said: “See the man wearing Number 33? That’s Sammy Baugh.” That’s
all he said.
It was like pointing out the Empire State Building, the Washington Monu-
ment or Niagara Falls. “That’s Sammy Baugh.” That’s all that needed to be said
to anyone who followed pro football in the 1940s and early 1950s.

“None of that mattered all that much to Sam,” David Baugh said. “He told
me once that he’d like to be remembered as ‘a pretty good cowboy.’”

T
 he Baugh family held Sam’s funeral at the First Baptist Church of
Rotan, where a saddle and chaps were draped over his coffin. Those
who came to remember Sam watched a highlight video at the start of the
service; a number of football luminaries attended.
On a cold, windy West Texas morning, a hearse took his body to the cem-
etery entrance. In a nearby pasture, about a dozen Brangus cattle stood at
the fence, almost as if they had come to bid farewell. Two of Sam’s friends,
one wearing a referee’s uniform and the other dressed as a cowboy, stood
with hats doffed and heads bowed.
Pallbearers loaded the coffin onto a wagon drawn by two horses. Walking
slowly, they carried him the rest of the way to the grave site. They laid Sam
to rest beside Edmonia.

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 NOTES

INTRODUCTION

1 He was our idol: Canning, Sam Baugh, 28.

1 He was our leader: Joe Tereshinksi, interview by the author, 2008.
1 I loved Sam Baugh: Bob O’Day, interview by the author, 2009.
2 He was never obscene: Ellen Stevenson, telephone interview by the author, 2009.
2 Sam’s son David recalled: David Baugh, interview by the author, Aug. 22, 2008.
4 He really had a rifle: Dan Jenkins, telephone interview by the author, 2006.
6 Who is this man Sammy Baugh: David Broder, “Little Lord Landrys,” Washington
Post, Dec. 19, 1979.
7 He was so much fun: Jeanne McNeill, interview by the author, 2007.
9 Dear Sammy: Warren Buffett to Sam Baugh, 2007 (used with permission).

CHAPTER 1

10 He had two great days: Tips, Football—Texas Style, 232.

11 The Baugh family tree was compiled by Sam Baugh’s grandson, William Baugh.
11 A profile of William Baugh: “The History of Gwinnett County Georgia” is cited in a
Baugh family history compiled by Brant A. Baugh, Lubbock, Texas, 2002.
12 I wouldn’t put in a rule: Sammy Baugh, oral-history interview, Aug. 16, 1998, South-
west Collection, Texas Tech University.
13 A local historian described: Hazel Potter, “William Baugh Family History” (unpub-
lished family history), cited in the family history compiled by Brant A. Baugh.

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 = N O T E S T O PA G E S 1 3 – 2 6 =

13 We had a few dairy cows: Canning, Sam Baugh, 19.

13 Everything you could gamble on: Kevin Sherrington, “Sammy Baugh, 1914–2008;
Baugh Dies at 94; Rancher Puts His stamp on NFL History with His Arm,” Dallas
Morning News, Dec. 18, 2008.
14 If he had a dollar: Nell Baugh Kendrick, interview by the author, 2009.
14 But I remember dragging: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.
15 I just played by myself: Ibid.
15 I’ve often tried to think: Ibid.
15 The coach, after the season: Ibid.
16 A lot of times: Ibid.
16 the sorriest team Temple: Ibid.
16 He called me in his office: Ibid.
17 Didn’t make a damn bit: Frank Luksa, “Slingin’ Sammy Last Link.”
17 I don’t recall what happened: Charles Burton, Dallas Morning News, Feb. 19, 1961.
17 Bill was a hell of: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.
17 My daddy got bumped: Canning, Sam Baugh, 21.
18 I could understand the baseball: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.
19 I grew up knowing: Burton, Dallas Morning News, Feb. 19, 1961.
19 Do you know who that is: Ellen Kendrick, interview by the author, 2009.
19 He was just as friendly: David Baugh, interview by the author, 2011.
20 There’s been some stuff: Canning, Sam Baugh, 21.
20 the finest running back: Sweetwater Reporter, Dec. 13, 1932.
20 Our big game that year: Canning, Sam Baugh, 21.
21 Twenty-four husky Sweetwater lads: Sweetwater Reporter, Nov. 24, 1932.
21 The way those boys fought: Sweetwater Reporter, Dec. 13, 1932.
21 I had played baseball: Cope, “Life for Two Tough Texans.”
22 Boys, I found y’all: O’Day interview.
22 I told him I didn’t have: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.
22 So I went back and told: Tips, Football—Texas Style, 232.
22 He was a character: John Knowles, interview by the author, 2011.
23 I was going to TCU: Ray Glass, “Ranch Replaces Gridiron as Baugh’s Playing Field,”
Lubbock Avalanche-Journal, May 3, 1981.
23 But when I asked Uncle Billy: Ibid.
23 I finally decided: Ibid.

CHAPTER 2

24 I think he was one: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.

24 You could relate to him: Knowles interview.
25 bitten by the Football bug: Moore, TCU, 22.
26 It was a delightful: Ibid.
26 Abstain from all intoxicants: Ibid., 23.
26 I hunted them up: Cohane, “The Saturday Fox,” in Great College Football
Coaches, 140.

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 = N O T E S T O PA G E S 2 6 – 4 2 =

26 I’ve been at TCU many years: Ibid., 138.

27 Dutch was dressed: Cashion, Pigskin Pulpit, 97.
27 He had perfect control: Frank X. Tolbert, “How Dutch Got Cigarette Habit,”
Dallas Morning News, May 15, 1956.
27 he resembled a cat: Cohane, Great College Football Coaches, 139.
27 Stop that drop-the-handkerchief: Ibid.
28 After one victory: Ibid.
28 There was no air conditioning: Cashion, Pigskin Pulpit, 98.
28 Undoubtedly he can throw a football: Fort Worth Star-Telegram.
29 By that time, all the coaches: Ibid.
29 Anybody can throw a forward pass: Shirley Povich, Washington Post, Sept. 5, 1938.
29 He was like hundreds: Ibid.
30 They said I had my ends: Cohane, Great College Football Coaches, 139.
31 Short. Safe. Sure: Dan Daly, “Unfathomable; Others Have Redefined Professional
Football, but Baugh’s Impact on the Games Evolution Is Something Very Few Can
Appreciate,” Washington Times, Dec. 19, 2008.
31 Back in those days: Canning, Sam Baugh, 24.
32 I could kick it: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.
33 Many of TCU’s students: Works Progress Administration, WPA Guide to Texas,
259.
33 Boasting itself the Southwest’s No. 1: “National Affairs: Superlative Century,”
Time, June 8, 1936.
33 one of the state’s most hospitable: Works Progress Administration, WPA Guide to
Texas, 259.
33 Nobody had any money: Holst, Famous Football Players, 24.
34 What they’d do, they’d let you: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.
34 It seemed to me: Holst, Famous Football Players, 25.
34 He put up his hand: Knowles interview.
34 Despite those tough times: Ibid.
35 class entertainments in which quartets: Moore, TCU, 115.
35 The problem was: Ibid., 106.
35 TCU has won the conference: Ibid., 98.

CHAPTER 3

40 It would be hard to exaggerate: Gary Cartwright, “0:00 to Go; Time Has Run
Out on the Southwest Conference, but What a Time It Was,” Sports Illustrated,
Oct. 30, 1995.
40 the largest crowd: Canning, Sam Baugh, 30.
40 I knew what he could do: Tips, Football—Texas Style, 233.
41 So here he had cost us: Canning, Sam Baugh, 32.
41 He was kind of a quiet guy: Knowles interview.
42 When we took the ball: Ibid.
42 Joe was a great guy: Ibid., 34.

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 = N O T E S T O PA G E S 4 4 – 5 4 =

CHAPTER 4

44 a lizard-legged little bundle: Bill Cunningham, Boston Post, quoted in Canning, Sam
Baugh, 37.
44 SMU’s broken-field kid: Tips, Football—Texas Style, 51.
45 Night football: Flem Hall, Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Oct. 15, 1935.
46 The next Saturday: Hall, Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Nov. 13, 1935.
46 Everybody wanted to beat Texas: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.
46 Baugh was standing on: Hall, Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Nov. 17, 1935.
46 I am interested in: Hall, Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Nov. 23, 1935.
46 the flaming and furious Frogs: Hall, Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Nov. 18, 1935.
46 There never was a doubt: Associated Press, Nov. 23, 1935.
47 Sam wasn’t merely a thrower: Ibid.
47 in the grip of a football frenzy: “Rose Bowl Bid, Conference Title at Stake in T.C.U.-
S.M.U. Game,” New York Times, Nov. 30, 1935.
48 John Knowles recalled many years later: Knowles interview.
48 Nearly three-quarters of a century: Billy Sansing, interview by the author, July 9,
2009.
48 Halfback Wilson recalled years later: Bill Sullivan, “Legends of the SWC; A Tribute
to the Southwest Conference Game of the Century,” Houston Chronicle, July 30,
1995.
48 Wayne Connor was a kid: Tom Dodge, telephone interview by the author, July 15,
2009.
49 took in hand entertainment features: Hope Ridings Miller, “Washingtonian Gath-
ers Fame, Fortune in Texas,” Washington Post, Aug. 11, 1937.
49 It was Wilson’s day: “So. Methodist Sets Back T.C.U. with Late Aerial,” New York
Times, Dec. 1, 1935.
50 At halftime, the TCU band: Canning, Sam Baugh, 41.
50 In the SMU locker room: Sullivan, “Legends of the SWC.”
50 Knowles remembered that he had been: Knowles interview.
50 Now while that long ball: Tips, Football—Texas Style, 71.
51 The two guys closest to me: Canning, Sam Baugh, 41.
51 He said he had one regret: Sullivan, “Legends of the SWC.”
51 What I really remember: Ibid.
52 He merely lifted his arm: Quoted in Canning, Sam Baugh, 37.
52 The football writer Wilton Hazard: Sullivan, Pro Football’s All-Time Greats.
52 He was throwing those balls: Canning, Sam Baugh, 71.
52 I think the real problem: Ibid., 43.
52 I learned a good coaching lesson: Jenkins, Texas Christian University Football
Vault, 58.
52 The thing that galled us: Canning, Sam Baugh, 43.
53 TCU had headed west: Ibid., 37.
53 On Saturday, the TCU Horned Frogs: Hall, Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Dec. 7, 1935.
54 a thrill-a-minute display: Quoted in Canning, Sam Baugh, 45.

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 = N O T E S T O PA G E S 5 4 – 7 5 =

54 It must have been fun: Greatest Moments, 9.

54 Frog boosters collected: Canning, Sam Baugh, 45.
54 The whole thing was just amazing: Ibid.
55 The Fort Worth Star-Telegram ran a photo: Hall, “Horned Frogs Arrive in Crescent
City,” Forth Worth Star-Telegram, Dec. 30, 1935.
55 The New Orleans Picayune reported: New Orleans Picayune, Dec. 30, 1935.
55 I’ve never seen a rain like that: Knowles interview.
55 There was standing water: Canning, Sam Baugh, 46.
56 An old friend also gave him: New Orleans Morning Tribune, Jan. 2, 1936.
56 Sam played a good part: Hall, Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Jan. 2, 1936.
56 I’ll never forget that: Canning, Sam Baugh, 46.
57 Boy! Boy! Give me five: Tips, Football—Texas Style, 234.
57 Texas may run dry of oil: New Orleans Item, Jan. 2, 1936.
57 Back then, Sam recalled: Carlton Stowers.
57 A Fort Worth sports writer: David Ramsey, “Baugh Just Another Big Country
Rancher,” Abilene Reporter-News, Feb. 21, 1983.
58 He is a junior: New Orleans Morning Tribune, Jan. 2, 1936.

CHAPTER 5

59 Whether having a shampoo: Jack Walsh, Washington Post, quoted in Whittingham,

Hail Redskins, 20.
59 with a trick back seat: Associated Press, Aug. 8, 1935.
61 It was at the Walker Theater: Whittingham, Hail Redskins, 21.
61 apply theatrical principles to advertising: Haggerty, “Hail to the Redskins,” 9.
66 Big League Football: Loverro, Hail Victory, 9.
67 not only a treat: Whittingham, Hail Redskins, 10.

CHAPTER 6

68 I wouldn’t marry George: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 1.

69 George was a delegate: Ibid., 6–7.
69 The whole thing was so overdone: Bob Curran, Pro Football’s Rag Days (1969),
quoted in Richman, “Cliff Battles.”
69 Gentlemen, you know far more: WashingtonPost.com, The Redskins Book, 15.
70 They are bad for business: Dent, Monster of the Midway, 109.
70 In later years: WashingtonPost.com, Redskins Book, 17.
71 Marshall was a loud: Quoted in Loverro, Hail Victory, 15.
71 The remarkable William Henry: Jackson, “Wicarhpi Isnala ‘Lone Star.’”
73 as we already: Qureshi and Grissom, “Secret Letters of the Washington Redskins,”
10.
74 The man who made Marshall’s year: William Gildea, “In the Beginning,” in The
Redskins Book, 7.
75 Occasional snowflakes: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 17.

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75 Halfway up 21’s homespun stairway: Ibid., 18.

76 Coached by a great coach: Ibid., 21.
76 the stickiest, clammiest mud: Arthur J. Daley, “Boston Conquers Giants in Rain,
Fog and Mud to Win Eastern Title,” New York Times, Dec. 7, 1936.
76 On nearly every play: Ibid.
77 george stop guess what: Dent, Monster of the Midway, 195.
77 I’m licked, he told them: Haggerty, “Hail to the Redskins,” 28.
77 has this crazy idea: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 19.
78 Will you tell her: Ibid., 20.
78 We’ll make much more: Loverro, Hail Victory, 13.
79 Arthur Daley of the New York Times: Daley, New York Times, Dec. 8, 1936.
79 a very dull game: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 23.
79 I rather like the idea of Newark: Arthur J. Daley, “National Football League’s Title
Match Will Be Played at the Polo Grounds,” New York Times, Dec. 8, 1936.

CHAPTER 7

81 Just put me in there: Ed Prell, “Frog Bombers Triumph over Porkers,” Fort Worth
Star-Telegram, Oct. 3, 1936.
81 In fact, as the minutes wore on: Hall, Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Oct. 3, 1936.
81 Although it would be Arkansas’s only loss: Canning, Sam Baugh, 50.
82 I told him I really thought: Ibid.
82 He ran right past me: Ibid.
82 feet seem to fly: Hall, Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Sept. 26, 1936.
82 I have a peculiar habit: Ibid.
82 What burned Baylor more: Hall, Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Nov. 3, 1936.
83 They should handicap Baugh: Jinx Tucker, Waco Times-Herald, quoted by Hall,
Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Nov. 3, 1936.
83 the hip-hip and hooraying: Flem Hall, Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Nov. 7, 1936.
83 He wanted to play football: Canning, Sam Baugh, 21.
83 Gentlemen, he announced: Rives, “Slingin’ Sam vs. Father Time,” 92.
84 The only way Baugh: Canning, Sam Baugh, 53.
84 Coach Dutch Meyer: Associated Press, “Texas Christian Routs Centenary,” Nov. 15,
1936.
84 By bombing the Owls: Hall, Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Dec. 5, 1936.
84 How can you expect a team: Canning, Sam Baugh, 54.
85 Comparing the results gained: Hall, Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Nov. 27, 1936.
85 the first time since Sammy: Hall, Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Dec. 1, 1936.
85 It was more than a shame: Canning, Sam Baugh, 56.
86 Baugh did it almost single-handedly: Quoted in ibid.
86 Santa Clara was the best team: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.
86 Dutch said we were gonna: Canning, Sam Baugh, 56.
87 One night, we were sitting in this bar: Ibid.
88 They looked like two peas: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.
89 They were real scrappy: Canning, Sam Baugh, 56.

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 = N O T E S T O PA G E S 9 1 – 1 0 6 =

CHAPTER 8

91 The North Texas metropolis: The Handbook of Texas, s.v. “Texas Centennial.”
91 Visitors to the Centennial: “National Affairs: Superlative Century,” Time, June 8,
1936.
91 Go to Dallas for education: Hope Ridings Miller, “Washingtonian Gathers Fame,
Fortune in Texas,” Washington Post, Aug. 11, 1937.
91 took in hand entertainment features: Ibid.
92 turned into a $1,000-a-day producer: Ibid.
92 The list of stars: Ibid.
93 How about a show, too: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 24–25.
93 I discussed the show: Ibid.
94 Of course, my show: Ibid., 25–26.
94 I picked a number: Ibid., 26.
94 They stomped and sang all the way: Ibid., 27–28.
94 Billy Rose and Amon Carter: Ibid., 35.
95 I was asleep at 11 a.m.: Ibid., 33–35.
95 Resplendent in his first dinner jacket: Ibid., 34.
96 Humphrey was so proud: “Robert L. Humphrey Dies; Scouted Sammy Baugh,”
Washington Post, Jan. 9, 1976.
97 I didn’t have any idea: Povich, “Tales of Redskins Alarm Chicago,” Washington
Post, Dec. 10, 1937.
98 Pro football was not something: Canning, Sam Baugh, 65.
98 What size do you wear: Povich, All Those Mornings, 146.
99 Ah guess Ah gotta: Ibid.
100 As soon as I saw: David Ramsey, “Baugh Just Another West Texas Rancher,”
Abilene Reporter-News, Feb. 21, 1983.
100 I hit one off him: Ibid.
101 Marshall, an astute businessman: Lewis F. Atchison, “Club Owner Wires News
from Texas,” Washington Post, June 5, 1937.
101 But I told Mr. Rickey: Frank Luksa, “Baugh Relives Memory of Minor League
Fling,” Dallas Morning News, Mar. 17, 1998.
102 Their scouts gave me: Povich, “Ace Passer, Marshall in Salary Spat,” Washington
Post, Aug. 29, 1937.
102 Big league clubs sign up: Povich, “An Open Letter to Sammy Baugh,” Washington
Post, Aug. 29, 1937.
104 Tonight’s game was rated: Associated Press, “85,000 See Big Battle in Chicago,”
Sept. 2, 1937.
104 He’ll do until some supernatural: Povich, “Dorais Praises Baugh After Big Game,”
Washington Post, Sept. 3, 1937.
105 I wouldn’t say that Baugh: Povich, “Who’s Sammy Baugh? Asks Marshall,” Wash-
ington Post, Sept. 4, 1937.
106 Even at the expense of: Ibid.
106 But where would Baugh get: Ibid.
106 Through Joe Carr: “Cards Back Marshall in Baugh Fuss,” Washington Post, Sept 4,
1937.

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 = N O T E S T O PA G E S 1 0 7 – 1 2 2 =

107 I talked with the rest: Cope, “Life for Two Tough Texans.”
107 I didn’t have any money: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.
107 I talked to Dutch: Ibid.
107 Slingin’ Sammy Baugh tore off: “Baugh Due Here Today; Terms O.K.,”
Washington Post, Sept. 8, 1937.
108 At three o’clock in the morning: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 42.

CHAPTER 9

109 It’s about time: “Baugh Due Here Today; Terms O.K.,” Washington Post, Sept. 8,
1937.
110 Baugh put on a show: Povich, “3,000 See Baugh Give Sensational Passing Exhibi-
tion in Pro Debut,” Washington Post, Sept. 10, 1937.
111 All that matters is how it feels: Dan Daly, “Unfathomable,” Washington Times,
Dec. 20, 2008.
111 Look, Sammy, Wayne Millner: William Gildea, “I Thought It Was Fun, I Played
Cause I Liked It,” Washington Post, Sept. 18, 1977.
112 but the envelope of Slingin’ Sammy: Povich, Washington Post, Dec. 16, 1937.
112 I wrote it in just about: Haggerty, “Hail to the Redskins,” 46.
112 Hail to the Redskins: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 39.
113 We were told how we of the District: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 45.
113 It is a lasting tribute: Haggerty, “Hail to the Redskins,” 44.
114 With what I’m paying Baugh: Povich, “Marshall: Impresario of the Redskins,”
Washington Post, Sept. 2, 1986.
114 The great night arrived: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 47.
114 All right, you guys: WashingtonPost.com, Redskins Book, 12.
115 We ascended the long ramp: Ibid., 47–48.
116 The Giants kicked off: Details of the game are taken from the following sources:
Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 47–50; Haggerty, “Hail to the Redskins,” 44;
Whittingham, Hail Redskins, 52; Loverro, Hail Victory, 18; WashingtonPost.com,
Redskins Book, 12–13; Povich, Washington Post, Sept. 17, 1937.
117 If there was any doubt: Povich, Washington Post, Dec. 16, 1937.
117 As for the near 25,000 crowd: Bill Dismer, Jr., Washington Evening Star, quoted in
Loverro, Hail Victory, 18.
118 Throughout the first half: Kingsley Childs, “Baugh’s Brilliant Passing Aids as Red-
skins Top Dodgers, 11 to 7,” New York Times, Oct. 4, 1937.
120 I just can’t get over: Haggerty, “Hail to the Redskins,” 44.
120 I think just about everyone: Ibid., 45.
120 This was the exact moment: Bealle, The Redskins, 38.
120 Slingin’ Sam is the hottest thing: Allison Danzig, “That Man From Texas,” New York
Times, Dec. 14, 1937.
121 The Indians have come: Bill Corum, New York Journal, quoted in Griffith, Life with
the Redskins, 61.
121 Now they had a home: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 61.
122 I can’t believe it: Ibid., 62.

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122 I don’t think the Redskins: Haggerty, “Hail to the Redskins,” 47.
124 I waited for the wild jungle call: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 64.
124 Follow that patrol car: Ibid., 67.

CHAPTER 10

126 Get off the field: Dent, Monster of the Midway, 187.
126 Don’t you dare: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 74–75.
126 Please see that these selections: Loverro, Hail Victory, 20.
127 A passer had to learn: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.
127 if you lost two good ones: Ibid.
127 I want you to hit: Dent, Monster of the Midway, 210.
128 The only way to stop Nagurski: Ibid., 121.
128 smashing, driving: Quoted in ibid., 60.
128 When the Bronk hits you: Ibid., 87.
129 The beautiful white snow: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 70.
129 It was colder: Robert Ruark, in WashingtonPost.com, Redskins Book, 24.
130 We’re gonna trick ’em: Dent, Monster of the Midway, 211.
130 The Times found it notable: Arthur Daley, “Redskins Defeat Bears on Icy Chicago
Gridiron to Take National Pro Title,” New York Times, Dec. 13, 1937.
131 That sonofabitch ran: Dent, Monster of the Midway, 212.
131 Every time you hit that icy field: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.
132 the score was Chicago 14: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 71.
133 It was amazing the way: Daley, “Redskins Defeat Bears,” New York Times,
Dec. 13, 1937.
133 Baugh threw passes: Ibid.
134 Coach Flaherty was the first: Povich, Washington Post, Dec. 16, 1937.
134 The team arose as one: Robert Ruark, in WashingtonPost.com, Redskins Book, 24.
134 He had fastened himself: Ibid.
134 You’re a fine fella: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.
135 What the heck, anyone: Povich, Washington Post, Dec. 13, 1937, 15.
135 There are a lot of other: Allison Danzig, “That Man from Texas,” New York Times,
Dec. 14, 1937.
135 All season, the fellow: Povich, Washington Post, Dec. 16, 1937.
135 is the greatest passer: Associated Press, “Visiting Fans from Washington Shower
Acclaim on the Redskins,” Dec. 13, 1937.
136 put Sweetwater on the map: Dallas Morning News, Dec. 21, 1937.
136 all the adulation: Flem Hall, “Baugh Honored by Sweetwater Fans,” Fort Worth
Star-Telegram, Dec. 21, 1937.
136 It’s hard to get up: Ibid.
136 That Hall of Fame ring: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.

CHAPTER 11

138 It wasn’t just the money: Haggerty, “Hail to the Redskins,” 62.

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138 Hell, if I had known: Canning, Sam Baugh, 71.

138 One year’s football at $13,000: Associated Press, “Sammy Baugh to Sign 3-Year
Contract With Redskin Eleven,” Jan. 19, 1938.
139 The professional football racket: “Ace Passer Will Accept Coach’s Job,” Washington
Post, Feb. 13, 1938.
140 Marshall comes across with: “Sam Baugh Reports to St. Louis Florida Camp,”
Washington Post, Mar. 8, 1938.
140 I had a good time: David Ramsey, “Baugh Just Another West Texas Rancher,”
Abilene Reporter-News, Feb. 21, 1983.
140 One guy that really tried: McClain, “The Last Gunslinger,” Houston Chronicle, July
26, 1998.
141 That bird with No. 21: John Kieran, “From the Backfield to the Infield,” New York
Times, Mar. 22, 1938.
141 I’ve still never felt such pain: McClain, “The Last Gunslinger,” Houston Chronicle,
July 26, 1998.
141 Baugh hasn’t looked like Lou Gehrig: Kieran, “From the Backfield to the Infield,”
New York Times, Mar. 22, 1938.
142 I never saw a worse bunch: Povich, “Baugh Might Surprise and Make Good,”
Washington Post, Apr. 3, 1938.
143 Frisch has given me: Povich, Washington Post, Apr. 4, 1938.
143 He’s offering me the same: “Houston or Columbus! That’s the Choice Baugh Has to
Make,” Washington Post, Apr. 5, 1938.
143 I probably will play: Charles Burton, “Sweetwater’s No. 1 Citizen Weds His No. 1
Fan,” Dallas Morning News, Apr. 10, 1938.
143 The United Press reported: United Press International, “Baugh Marries Edmonia
Smith in Sweetwater,” Apr. 10, 1938.
144 apparently happily resigned: Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Apr. 11, 1938.
144 We’ll be home in January: Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Apr. 11, 1938.
145 As far as his value: Povich, Washington Post, July 10, 1938.
145 was definitely a big-league: Canning, Sam Baugh, 63.
145 Anyway, I had problems: Don Pierson, “Sammy Baugh: 1914–2008; NFL’s ‘Greatest
Player,’” Chicago Tribune, Dec. 18, 2008.
145 We will pay Baugh: Povich, Washington Post, July 22, 1938.
145 football’s greatest forward passer: Jack Munhall, “Passer Gets Highest Wage in Pro
Grid,” Washington Post, Aug. 3, 1938.
145 but the biggest part of my worries: Povich, Washington Post, July 22, 1938.
146 Just a night’s work: Povich, Washington Post, Oct. 29, 1989.
146 Ghostwriting was not: Ibid.
146 Baugh couldn’t be bothered: Los Angeles Times, Oct. 10, 1988.
147 Right now, I want to refute: Slingin’ Sammy Baugh, “Nobody’s Sacred in Pro
League, Discovers Baugh, Told to Run,” Washington Post, Aug. 15, 1938.

CHAPTER 12

148 In one short season: Quoted in Whittingham, Hail Redskins, 58.

148 The fact that fans: Ibid.

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149 You fellows are acting too much like: Povich, “Coach Ray Flaherty Hits
‘Overconfidence’ in Hot Speech in Redskins’ Dressing Room,” Washington Post,
Aug. 30, 1938.
150 for he had treated them: Povich, “Sammy May Be Out for Three Weeks,”
Washington Post, ept. 12, 1938.
151 We received nothing for playing: “Marshall Accused of ‘Chiseling,’” Washington
Post, Nov. 1, 1938.
152 This is to advise that: Qureshi and Grissom, “Secret Letters of the Washington
Redskins,” 10.
153 Owners, as columnists: “Sports of the Times; NFL’s Labor Pioneer Remains
Unknown,” William C. Rhoden, Oct. 12, 1994.
153 Marshall traded him: “The Eccentric Mr. Marshall; Owners Brought Redskins to
Town and Made Them a D.C. Institution,” Dan Daly, Washington Times, Sept. 6,
2001, p. E10.
153 Satin pants which weigh less: Washington Post, Aug. 28, 1938.
154 a bruising battle: Povich, “Baugh Is Stopped; Fists Fly in Game,” Washington Post,
Nov. 14, 1938.
154 That’s too bad, girlies: Quoted in WashingtonPost.com, Redskins Book, 28.
154 On the way back to Washington: Povich, All Those Mornings, 103.
155 Whizzer White justified: Povich, “Redskins Beat Pirates, 15–0, to Stay in Race,”
Washington Post, Nov. 28, 1938.
155 everything seems to be going: Vidmer, Washington Post, Dec. 2, 1938.
156 Caught in the fury: Povich, “Win Right to Meet Packers in Play-Off,” Washington
Post, Dec. 5, 1938.
156 In the middle of the fourth: Kieran, New York Times, Dec. 5, 1938.
156 I’m mad and don’t let anybody: Richman, Redskins Encyclopedia, 16.
157 Passers took a terrible beating: Whittingham, Hail Redskins, 59.
157 From the first time he: Quoted in Canning, Sam Baugh, 70.
159 Halloran told me he could: Richman, Redskins Encyclopedia, 17.
159 As we passed through: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 89.
160 men, women, children, newsboys: Ibid., 90.
160 I was sitting on: Povich, in WashingtonPost.com, Redskins Book, 18.

CHAPTER 13

161 the most ultramodern: Quoted in WashingtonPost.com, Redskins Book, 26.

162 Baugh, starting the final: Jack Munhall, “Performance of Baugh Elates Flaherty,”
Washington Post, Sept. 16, 1940.
162 I think he will get out: Quoted in WashingtonPost.com, Redskins Book, 26.
162 Dick Todd is the greatest: Quoted in ibid., 27.
162 No one’s going to beat: Whittingham, Hail Redskins, 200.
163 It was worse: National Football League Creative Staff, First Fifty Years, 166.
163 Just remember, he muttered: Dent, Monster of the Midway, 227.
164 They fold up when: Ibid., 228.
164 I never played against: Quoted in WashingtonPost.com, Redskins Book, 28.
164 We could sell: Ibid.

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164 Plainclothes detectives: Al Hailey, “Fans Failing To Get Seats Disgruntled,”

Washington Post, Dec. 3, 1940.
164 There were more red feathers: “Washington Massacre,” Time, Dec. 16, 1940.
165 congratulations: Dent, Monster of the Midway, 228.
165 Senators, Congressmen, Big Shots: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 104.
165 in a very modest sort of way: Ibid.
165 Only three weeks ago: “Washington Massacre,” Time, Dec. 16, 1940.
166 The Post advertised: WashingtonPost.com, Redskins Book, 29.
167 The Bears are a team: Whittingham, Hail Redskins, 205.
167 When I saw the type: Quoted in WashingtonPost.com, Redskins Book, 29.
168 it might have been: Daley, New York Times, Dec. 8, 1940.
168 What happened after that: “Washington Massacre,” Time, Dec. 16, 1940.
168 McChesney playing with a broken hand: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 107.
168 I remember saying: Canning, Sam Baugh, 75.
168 Well, fellows, he said: “73–0 Rout of Redskins Is Recalled,” Washington Post,
Sept. 2, 1941.
169 the most ill-advised announcement: Considine, Washington Post, Dec. 9, 1940.
169 I’m going down to those kids: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 107.
169 What she didn’t say: Considine, Washington Post, Dec. 9, 1940.
169 Well, after one of those: Cope, “Life for Two Tough Texans.”
170 We were only ahead: Don Pierson, “73–0: It’s Indelibly Etched in History,”
Chicago Tribune, Dec. 9, 1990.
170 Some of these elder players: Povich, All Those Mornings, 73.
170 The Bears visited on Washington: Povich, Washington Post, Dec. 7, 1990.
170 That T-formation is really: Povich, All Those Mornings, 75.
170 That was the most humiliating: Merrell W. Whittlesey, “Irate in Dressing Room;
Changes to Be Made, He Says,” Washington Post, Dec. 9, 1940.
171 I don’t know whether: Cope, “Life for Two Tough Texans.”
171 Everywhere he went: Canning, Sam Baugh, 74.
171 Those guys out there today: Whittlesey, “Irate in Dressing Room,” Washington Post,
Dec. 9, 1940.
172 Yeah, it would have been: Quoted in WashingtonPost.com, Redskins Book, 29.
172 My locker was close: Quoted in ibid.
172 In 1999, he told a reporter: Associated Press, “Baugh Has Doubts About 73–0 Loss,”
Nov. 28, 1999.
172 I don’t think he was saying: David Baugh interview, Aug. 11, 2011.
172 Was he drunk: Associated Press, “Baugh Has Doubts About 73–0 Loss,”
Nov. 28, 1999.
172 An NFL spokesman: Ibid.

CHAPTER 14

173 He looks like he invented: Bob Sterling, “For a Guy Who Never Wore Boots, Baugh
Became Quite a Cowboy,” United Press International, Dec. 20, 1959.
173 I thought at first: Carlton Stowers, “Sammy Still Slingin’,” Dallas Morning News,
Nov. 6, 1977.

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174 Ah, shit on celebrity: Tuttle, “Better Than Sonny?”

174 Sammy Baugh? Baugh: Sterling, “For a Guy Who Never Wore Boots,” United Press
International, Dec. 20, 1959.
175 I can truthfully say: Elston Brooks, Fort Worth Star-Telegram, June 9, 1974.
175 Lord, he was tickled: Ibid.
175 The first day at the studio: McClain, “The Last Gunslinger,” Houston Chronicle,
July 13, 1998.
176 One day, we couldn’t film: Ibid.
176 I always ate lunch: Ibid.
178 Gosh, Sam, he murmured: Sterling, “For a Guy Who Never Wore Boots,” United
Press International, Dec. 20, 1959.
178 He cringed, but we howled: Dennis Tuttle, interview by the author, 2006.

CHAPTER 15

180 That’s when I first saw: Canning, Sam Baugh, 101.

181 the oldest thing under heaven: Skip Hollandsworth, Westward, Dallas Times
Herald, Nov. 9, 1980.
181 Sam’s mountain and the acreage: Historical details of the ranch are from “Sammy
Baugh’s Ranch Includes One of Famed Double Mountains,” Fort Worth Star-
Telegram, Apr. 3, 1949.
182 The first calf crop we brought in: Canning, Sam Baugh, 103.
182 He may have been a big-time: Ibid.
182 He sometimes wondered why she: Ibid.
182 They just sort of stared: Hollandsworth, Westward, Dallas Times Herald, Nov. 9, 1980.
183 He didn’t know much: Viola Brazee, interview by the author, 2009.
183 Not many from her background: Owen Brazee, interview by the author, 2009.
183 The year we moved out here: Reid, “Legends of the Fall.”

CHAPTER 16

184 Wee Willie had played college ball: Whittingham, Hail Redskins, 121.
184 Don Looney, a former Horned Frog: Canning, Sam Baugh, 75.
185 You drunk son of a bitch: Sam Baugh, ESPN interview.
185 A couple of years later: David Baugh, interview by the author, Aug. 3, 2010.
186 I played that game for more: Canning, Sam Baugh, 21.
186 I never bet on another thing: David Baugh interview.
186 After the ’40 championship game: WashingtonPost.com, Redskins Book, 30.
186 He had a brilliant football mind: Ibid.
187 He’d be in his tent: Riffenburgh, NFL Encyclopedia, 15.
187 Young Sammy may not know it: Washington Post, Oct. 20, 1941.
188 He remembered that day: Lynn “Buddy” Watwood, telephone interview by the
author, 2010.
188 The first word about the catastrophe: Richard E. Goldstein, “Football Sunday, Dec.
7, 1941: Suddenly The Games Didn’t Matter,” New York Times, Dec. 7, 1980.

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189 Attention please: Ibid.

189 Watwood remembered that: Watwood interview.
189 The first, as Shirley Povich recalled: Povich, “At Redskins-Eagles Game, Crowd Was
Kept Unaware That War Had Begun,” Washington Post, Dec. 7, 1991.
189 The resident commissioner: Ibid.
189 Then the city’s five newspapers: Ibid.
189 Not relayed over: Goldstein, “Football Sunday, Dec. 7, 1941,” New York Times, Dec.
7, 1980.
190 For a few moments: Povich, “At Redskins-Eagles Game,” Washington Post, Dec. 7,
1991.
190 I’m leaving. I’ve just had word: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 112.
190 Something’s wrong, said Baxter: Povich, “At Redskins-Eagles Game,” Washington
Post, Dec. 7, 1991.
190 Povich was still angry: Ibid.
191 After all, there were still: Ibid.
191 We beat the Eagles: McClain, “The Last Gunslinger,” Houston Chronicle, July 26,
1998.
191 The United States of America: Edward T. Folliard, “Hawaii Attacked Without
Warning With Heavy Loss; Philippines Are Bombed,” Washington Post, Dec. 8,
1941.
192 I don’t know what is going: Goldstein, “Football Sunday, Dec. 7, 1941,” New York
Times, Dec. 7, 1980.

CHAPTER 17

193 No sport faces: Steve Snider, “Pro Grid Draft ‘Joke’ As War Ends Gold Era,” United
Press International, Dec. 12, 1941
194 Some did not return: Goldstein, “Football Sunday, Dec. 7, 1941,” New York Times,
Dec. 7, 1980.
195 drew criticism in some quarters: Rives, “Slingin’ Sam vs. Father Time,” 41.
195 A week later, the Redskins: Whittingham, Hail Redskins, 160.
196 In the first half, the Redskins: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 116.
196 If the Bears want to get tough: Quoted in WashingtonPost.com, Redskins Book, 30.
197 The Bears say that Sammy Baugh: Ibid.
197 The Post reported that Flaherty: Ibid., 31.
197 Ah wouldn’t say they’re meaner: Quoted in ibid.
197 December 6, 1942, was a cold, crisp day: Whittingham, Hail Redskins, 164.
197 Curly Lambeau, sitting with George: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 117.
198 In the stands, a wire-service photographer: Ibid., 118, 119.
198 the greatest play I ever saw: Ibid., 118.
198 Ninety-nine per cent of pro-football: Ibid., 119.
198 That kick turned out to be: Loverro, Hail Victory, 26.
199 Every time assistant coach Luke: Dent, Monster of the Midway, 245.
199 The Bears were very angry: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 120.

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200 People went crazy: Watwood interview.

200 By way of supplying a final: Daley, New York Times, quoted in Whittingham, Hail
Redskins, 25.
200 Everyone respected him: Loverro, Hail Victory, 26.
200 Those are all keen, earnest: Rice, “Rice Lauds Play of Sam Baugh, ’42’s Top Athlete,”
Stars and Stripes, Dec. 23, 1942.
201 Commissioner Layden called for: Ted Meier, “Layden Seeking ‘Full Facts’ in Sam’s
Case,” Associated Press, Dec. 28, 1942.

CHAPTER 18

202 My training had been: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 123.
203 We were playing somebody: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.
203 I didn’t like something: Ibid.
203 Helmets, maybe even shoulder pads: Dent, Monster of the Midway, 233.
203 The 4-Fs carried on: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 124–125.
204 another of Sammy Baugh’s untouchable: Quoted in WashingtonPost.com, Redskins
Book, 32.
204 I was passable: Sam Baugh, ESPN interview.
205 If Baugh wasn’t the Babe Ruth: Povich, quoted in WashingtonPost.com, Redskins
Book, 32.
205 I think you’d better tell her: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 128–130.
206 On December 8, 1943, readers: Ibid., 131-134.
206 Reports that a betting coup: Quoted in ibid., 134.
207 The whole thing is a gross libel: Ibid.
207 I’d like to bring some: Ibid., 135.
207 Now gentlemen, here is: Ibid.
207 And you wrote the story: Ibid., 136.
207 Some sportswriters said: Rives, “Slingin’ Sam vs. Father Time,” 41.
207 We fellows on the team: Ibid., 92.
208 nothing more than the chance: Flaherty, quoted in WashingtonPost.com, Redskins
Book, 32.
208 I’m so sorry you were unable: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 137.
208 I just want to say: Whittingham, Hail Redskins, 209.
209 a one-man field day: “Sport: One-Man Air Raid,” Time, Dec. 27, 1943.
209 Buddy Watwood, who saw: Watwood interview.
209 Bill Patten was a ball boy: Patten, interview by the author, 2010.
210 I ain’t as worried about: Quoted in Dent, Monster of the Midway, 283.
210 The Bears are a bunch: Ibid.
211 If there was a tougher Redskin: Ken Denlinger, “Redskins Anthology: Numbering
the Epochs,” Washington Post, Dec. 21, 1986.
211 My god, it’s Marshall: Whittingham, Hail Redskins, 209.
212 Do you know where you are: Quoted in WashingtonPost.com, Redskins Book, 33.

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CHAPTER 19

213 conjecture, consternation: “Baugh Says He’ll Follow Draft Ruling,” Washington
Post, Sept. 22, 1944.
213 Oh, yes sir, he said: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 144–145.
214 The reserve team’s name: Al Costello, “Baugh Here, Filchock to Start Game,” Wash-
ington Post, Oct. 22, 1944.
214 His average of .673: Ibid.
215 I figured I only could go: Whittingham, Hail Redskins, 60.
215 T formation kindergarten: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 141.
215 Coach Shaughnessy explained: Ibid.
215 When I switched from: Whittingham, Hail Redskins, 60.
216 Why, that’s the easiest position: Rives, “Slingin’ Sam vs. Father Time,” 92.
216 I had to block: Dave Brady, “Sammy Baugh; Giant Figure of Redskin Lore,” Wash-
ington Post, Sept. 20, 1978.
216 Why, we had over 20 plays: Rives, “Slingin’ Sam vs. Father Time,” 92.
216 You use a rocker step: Daly, “Unfathomable,” Washington Times, Dec. 19, 2008.
217 I could play it in top hat: Whittingham, Hail Redskins, 214.
217 General Dwight D. Eisenhower: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 160.
218 I’d come from a very disciplined: Denlinger, “Redskins Anthology,” Washington
Post, Dec. 21, 1986.
218 Be sure you don’t even: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 162.
219 but Texas blood and guts: Bealle, The Redskins, 84.
219 Out there, he told the Post’s: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.
219 Good morning! It’s nine o’clock: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 167–168.
219 They’re peddling hot coffee: Povich, Washington Post, quoted in Whittingham, Hail
Redskins, 217.
220 Everyone expected Sam to punt: Quoted in Luksa, “Slingin’ Sammy Last Link.”
220 I couldn’t throw very hard: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.
220 Wayne would have gone the rest: WashingtonPost.com, Redskins Book, 35.
220 Marshall came into the locker room: Loverro, Hail Victory, 29.
221 Sam blew on his fingers: Ibid.

CHAPTER 20

222 If you play long enough: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.
223 I kind of figure it: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 178.
223 Marshall could promote the game: Quoted in Riffenburgh, NFL Encyclopedia, 16.
223 Mr. Marshall would have loved: Tereshinski, quoted in Loverro, Hail Victory, 32.
223 Tereshinski recalled the sight: Tereshinski interview.
224 Goddamn it, Sam: Cope, “Life for Two Tough Texans.”
224 Ray didn’t let anybody: WashingtonPost.com, Redskins Book, 36.
224 Turk was a great football player: Quoted in Loverro, Hail Victory, 32.
224 I’ve got to celebrate: Griffith, Life with the Redskins, 208.
224 Mrs. Samuel Adrian Baugh: Ibid.

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225 The tip-off was the number of times: Haggerty, “Hail to the Redskins,” 86.
226 That was the easiest game: Loverro, Hail Victory, 33.
226 At that time of the night: Ibid.
226 He was actually: David Baugh interview, Aug. 11, 2011.
226 They are suffering from: Povich, in WashingtonPost.com, Redskins Book, 36.
226 the thin man from Texas: Associated Press, “Redskins Broken, But Baugh Unbent,”
Dec. 16, 1947.
227 Sammy would still have all: Quoted in Loverro, Hail Victory, 42.
227 Is Baugh beginning to feel tired: Associated Press, “Redskins Broken,” Dec. 16, 1947.
227 My locker was next to Sammy Baugh’s: Quoted in Loverro, Hail Victory, 43.
227 He could be very innovative: Canning, Sam Baugh, 83.
228 Sam pretty much adopted me: Ibid., 85.
228 He could start telling stories: Ibid.
228 Sam sat there and listened: Ibid., 87.

CHAPTER 21

229 I just wanted to let you know: Canning, Sam Baugh, 83.
229 The first thing I learned: Ibid.
229 It was amazing just to stand around: Ibid.
230 I was with the Redskins: Ibid.
230 Sam kept coming back: Haggerty, “Hail to the Redskins,” 87.
230 A cache of letters: Unless otherwise noted, the letters from Sam Baugh to his wife
and children are in the possession of Samu Qureshi; they are reproduced with the
permission of the Baugh family.
231 A scouting report: Tereshinski showed me the scouting report during our
interview.
234 Two suits, or one suit: Qureshi and Grissom, “Secret Letters of the Washington
Redskins,” 25.
236 I was a rookie in: Loverro, Hail Victory, 44.
237 It would be a good job: Associated Press, “Baugh Turns Down Post at Baylor to
Remain with Redskins’ Eleven,” Jan. 14, 1950.
238 This brand-new edition: Povich, Washington Post, Sept. 18, 1950.
239 Gentlemen, he said: Haggerty, “Hail Redskins,” 89.
240 That’s the kind of fight: Ibid., 90.
241 Mr. Marshall, he said: Loverro, Hail Victory, 40.
242 I don’t know what he: Ibid., 41.
242 Welcome Back, Committee: Haggerty, “Hail Redskins,” 104.
242 The team so far appears to me: Qureshi and Grissom, “Secret Letters of the
Washington Redskins.”
243 What do you guys think: Doug Fernandes, “Friends with a Legend,” Sarasota
Herald-Tribune, Dec. 21, 2008.
243 He just got upset about: Canning, Sam Baugh, 87.
244 The guy was in his sixteenth: Ibid.
244 At one point in the first half: Haggerty, “Hail Redskins,” 106.

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245 What’s so funny: Ibid.

245 Next to an explanation of: Jack Walsh, “Why Baugh Rides Bench Still a Puzzle,”
Washington Post, Nov. 29, 1952.
245 Give me Sam: Haggerty, “Hail Redskins,” 106.
246 The Redskins aren’t just losing: Walsh, “Lean Texan Has Been Mr. Football Around
Here for 16 Years,” Washington Post, Dec. 14, 1952.
247 He’s been wonderful to me: Ibid.
247 had never learned how to: Povich, Washington Post, Dec. 14, 1952.
247 Without a doubt, Baugh: Walsh, “Lean Texan Has Been Mr. Football,” Washington
Post, Dec. 14, 1952.
247 From movie and personal appearances: Ibid.
248 You’d never know: Tereshinski interview.
249 I’ve got the game ball: Walsh, “Baugh Passes from Scene without Pass,” Washington
Post, Dec.15, 1952.
249 It was dark then: Ibid.
249 Well, we had somehow got: “Hail and Farewell,” Washington Post, Dec. 18, 1952.

CHAPTER 22

251 We’d have to ride: E. B. “Sonny” Nichols, interview by author, 2009.

251 Each new generation tends: Kelton, Time It Never Rained, ix.
252 it cost more to haul: Nichols interview.
252 if you boys don’t quit: David Baugh interview, July 18, 2009.
253 I had two good years of marriage: Judy Baugh, interview by the author, Aug. 8, 2010.
253 Well, what does your mother: Canning, Sam Baugh, 105.
253 If Frances had come along: David Baugh interview, Aug. 11, 2011.
253 He was pretty conservative: Nichols interview.
253 I won’t be on salary: Associated Press, “Hardin-Simmons ‘Hires’ Baugh as Nonpaid
‘Associate’ Coach,” Feb. 13, 1952.
253 I got to thinking: Canning, Sam Baugh, 93.
254 I called plays in college: Luksa, “Slingin’ Sammy Last Link.”
254 the gangling guy from Sweetwater: Associated Press, “Sammy Baugh Accepts
Hardin-Simmons Grid Job,” Feb. 3, 1955.
254 It was a pretty good deal: Canning, Sam Baugh, 93.
255 The money may have been great: Jimmie Keeling, interview by author, 2009.
255 His offense was light-years ahead: David Baugh interview.
256 We could move the ball against: Pete Hart, interview by the author, 2010.
256 The former Mr. Redskin: Bob Alden, “Sammy Baugh Will Throw Again in Griffith
Stadium,” Washington Post, Oct. 2, 1956.
256 For Sam, it was always: Hart interview.
257 Hey Coach: Ibid.
257 He probably didn’t worry: Keeling interview.
257 You always got to have: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.
257 He was playing dominoes: Keeling interview.
258 the best goddamn job: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.

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258 It was a beautiful night: Hart interview.

258 little ol’ Hardin-Simmons: Marty Mule, “Rabb Played through Tears as LSU
Marched,” Daily Alexandria (LA) Town Talk, Sept. 26, 2008.
258 We knew they were going to run: Ibid.
259 I’m not sure we ever: Ibid.
259 I just thought you’d like to know: Ibid.
259 Sam was one of the finest: Hart interview.

CHAPTER 23

260 I stayed in that Manhattan hotel: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.
261 Wismer took considerable license: Morris Siegel, “The Fix Is In,” 85.
262 Harry was one of those guys: Canning, Sam Baugh, 97.
262 I always say congratulations: “Harry Wismer, 56, Promoter, Dead,” New York
Times, Dec. 5, 1967.
263 Going up to New York: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.
263 That was one of those things: Canning, Sam Baugh, 97.
263 It was two steps down: Steve Jacobson, “Early Years of Titans Were Less Than
Titanic,” Newsday, Nov. 29, 1998.
263 going from the Taj Mahal: Maynard and Shepatin, You Can’t Catch Sunshine, 125.
263 What the hell are y’all: David Baugh interview.
263 disguised as empty seats: Quoted in Jacobson, “Early Years of Titans,” Newsday,
Nov. 29, 1998.
263 If you’re gonna have a playbook: David Baugh interview, July 18, 2009.
263 He was always coming into: Canning, Sam Baugh, 97.
263 We’re going to have a real team: New York Times, Apr. 26, 1960.
264 When the AFL was founded: Ted Dunham, “West Texas Football Legend Remem-
bers 1962 NFL Title Upset,” Associated Press, Jan. 13, 1999.
264 Then they line up: Ibid.
264 As far as I’m concerned: Maynard and Shepatin, You Can’t Catch Sunshine, 130.
264 I don’t mean to give the impression: New York Times, Apr. 26, 1960.
264 It’s better this way: Ibid.
265 To reporters, the Titans: Maynard and Shepatin, You Can’t Catch Sunshine, 124.
265 runnin’, gunnin’, and high-flyin’: Ibid., 126.
265 Sammy Baugh didn’t care: Ibid., 122.
265 Coach and I both shared: Ibid., 128.
265 the hairless wower: Dick Young, New York Daily News.
266 Well, he said: David Baugh interview, July 18, 2009.
266 After one game, players had to: Newsday, Oct. 29, 1998.
266 He told us we could practice: Dave Anderson, “Blue and Gold, Then Green and
White as the Titans Became the Jets,” New York Times, Oct. 14, 2007.
267 Well, we won the first two: Canning, Sam Baugh, 92.
267 I wish I had a vote: Anderson, “Blue and Gold,” New York Times, Oct. 14, 2007.
267 He’s rapping me publicly: Associated Press, “Wismer Will Demote Baugh,”
Dec. 12, 1961.

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 = N O T E S T O PA G E S 2 6 7 – 2 7 9 =

267 Well, that would be just wonderful: Ibid.

267 Sure, I’d like to have Davis: Ibid.
268 Two weeks before we went to camp: Ibid.
268 the greatest respect: New York Times, Dec. 18, 1961.
269 He was still a familiar figure: “Harry Wismer, 56, Promoter, Dead,” New York
Times, Dec. 5, 1967.
269 So he came down and sat: Canning, Sam Baugh, 98.
269 I was always glad: Baugh oral history, Texas Tech.
269 David Baugh remembered: David Baugh interview, July 18, 2009.
270 the originator, the founder: “Baugh’s Enshrinement Speech,” available at http://
www.profootballhof.com/history/release.aspx?release_id=3003.
271 The newspapers jumped all over: Canning, Sam Baugh, 98.
271 A head-coaching job: United Press International, “Baugh Quits Oilers for Ranch
Life,” Dec. 19, 1964.
271 A lot of people may think: William Gildea, “Step Down Gives Baugh 6 Months on
the Ranch,” Washington Post, Aug. 8, 1965.

CHAPTER 24

274 It all looks pretty easy: David Baugh interview, July 18, 2009.
274 met up with an unruly calf: Felix R. McKnight, “It’s Slingin’ Samuel, the Rodeo
Man, These Days!” Fort Worth Star-Telegram, June 9, 1940.
274 He loved riding: O’Day interview.
275 To offset the remote possibility: McKnight, “It’s Slingin’ Samuel, Fort Worth Star-
Telegram, June 9, 1940.
275 He loved any kind of competition: David Baugh interview, Aug. 22, 2008.
275 He didn’t talk much football: Nichols interview.
276 That ol’ mare: Owen Brazee interview.
276 Well, all we heard: David Baugh interview, Aug. 10, 2008.
276 You get a piece of land: Hollandsworth, Westward, Dallas Times Herald, Nov. 9,
1980.
276 He did it for the pure joy: David Baugh interview, Aug. 10, 2008.
277 I work the cattle myself: Dave Brady, “Sammy Baugh; Giant Figure of Redskin
Lore,” Washington Post, Sept. 20, 1978.
277 He had a great touch: O’Day interview.
278 He did everything fast: David Baugh interview, Aug. 22, 2008.
278 He was one of the few people: O’Day interview.
278 Sam, I’ve come out here: David Baugh interview, Aug. 11, 2011.
279 You can’t believe the number: O’Day interview.
279 There’s no telling how many: Abilene Reporter-News, Dec. 23, 2008.
279 Goddamnit, I don’t give: Hollandsworth, Westward, Dallas Times Herald,
Nov. 9, 1980.
279 I had already seen: McClain, “The Last Gunslinger,” Houston Chronicle,
July 26, 1998.

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 = N O T E S T O PA G E S 2 8 0 – 2 8 4 =

280 They swept the town like: Daley, “Historic Occasion,” New York Times,
Sept. 29, 1961.
280 You know, somebody’s always: Hollandsworth, Westward, Dallas Times Herald,
Nov. 9, 1980.
280 I wouldn’t trust any: McClain, “The Last Gunslinger,” Houston Chronicle, July 26,
1998.
280 Larry Dluhy, who traded: Larry Dluhy, telephone interview by the author, 2010.
281 In 1998, when a visiting reporter: McClain, “The Last Gunslinger,” Houston Chroni-
cle, July 26, 1998.
281 I had four bad experiences: Ibid.
281 Back then, it didn’t seem like: Ibid.
282 Am I afraid of death: Hollandsworth, Westward, Dallas Times Herald, Nov. 9, 1980.
282 All I tell them: McClain, “The Last Gunslinger,” Houston Chronicle, July 26, 1998.
283 Well, why would I want to move: Ibid.
283 Sammy Baugh said Sid: Don Pierson, “Sammy Baugh: 1914–2008; NFL’s ‘Greatest
Player,’” Chicago Tribune, Dec. 18, 2008.
283 He was one of the greatest: Joe Holley and Bart Barnes, “The First of the Gunsling-
ers: Quarterback Led Redskins to Two Titles, Football Into Modern Era,” Wash-
ington Post, Dec. 18, 2008.
283 To this day Baugh remains: Thomas Boswell, “Rock of the Redskins, Arm of the
NFL,” Washington Post, Dec. 18, 2008.
283 New York had Joe DiMaggio: Patrick Buchanan, “Washington’s Sammy Baugh Was
Quite a Player,” Salisbury (MD) Daily Times, Jan. 9, 2009.
284 I was 9 years old and: Michael Wilbon, “Getting In a Word for Slingin’ Sammy,”
Washington Post, Dec. 19, 2008.
284 None of that mattered: David Baugh interview, July 18, 2009.

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THIS PAGE INTENTIONALLY LEFT BLANK
 BIBLIOGRAPHY

INTERVIEWS

Baugh, David. Interviews by the author, Aug. 10, 2008; Aug. 22, 2008; July 18, 2009;
Aug. 3, 2010; Aug. 27, 2010; Aug. 11, 2011; and Aug. 18, 2011. Double Mountain Ranch,
near Rotan, Texas.
Baugh, Judy. Interviews by the author, July 17, 2009; Aug. 8, 2010; Aug. 27, 2010; and
Aug. 11, 2011.
Baugh, Sammy. Interview for an oral-history project, Southwest Collection, Texas Tech
University, Aug. 16, 1998.
Baugh, Todd. Telephone interview by author, March 28, 2010, Billings, Montana.
Brazee, Owen. Interview by the author, July 19, 2009, Clairemont, Texas.
Brazee, Viola. Interview by the author, July 19, 2009, Hobbs, Texas.
Buffett, Warren. E-mail interview by the author, Aug. 14, 2010, Omaha, Nebraska.
Campbell, Dave. Interview by the author, Jan. 17, 2006, Waco, Texas.
Cashion, Ty. Interview by the author, April 24, 2010, Austin, Texas.
Cope, Myron. “A Life for Two Tough Texans.” Sports Illustrated, Oct. 20, 1969.
Dluhy, Larry. Telephone interview by the author, Sept. 5, 2010, Houston, Texas.
Dodge, Tom. Telephone interview by the author, July 15, 2009, Midlothian, Texas.
Duvall, Robert. Interview by the author, June 17, 2006, The Plains, Virginia.
Gildea, Bill. Interview by the author, Feb. 4, 2009, Chevy Chase, Maryland.
Hart, Bill. Telephone interview by author, June 14, 2009, Baird, Texas.
Hart, Pete. Telephone interview by the author, Aug. 7, 2010, Abilene, Texas.

307

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 = SLINGIN’ SA M =

Holst, Don. Telephone interview by the author, Sept. 17, 2009, Chadron, Nebraska.
Jenkins, Dan. Telephone interview by the author, Jan. 25, 2007, Forth Worth, Texas.
Keeling, Jimmie. Interview by the author, July 18, 2009, Abilene, Texas.
Kendrick, Ellen. Interview by the author, July 19, 2009, Garland, Texas.
Kendrick, Nell Baugh. Interview by the author, July 16, 2009, Garland, Texas.
Knowles, John. Interview by the author, Aug. 11, 2011. Denton, Texas.
Lane, Eddie. Telephone interview by the author, Sept. 6, 2009, Fort Worth, Texas.
McNeill, Jeanne. Interview by the author, Jan. 14, 2007, Washington, D.C.
Nichols, E. B. “Sonny.” Interview by the author, July 18, 2009, Aspermont, Texas.
O’Day, Bob. Interview by the author, July 17, 2009, Snyder, Texas.
Patten, Bill. Telephone interview by the author, Apr. 17, 2010, Burke, Virginia.
Qureshi, Samu. Interview by the author, Feb. 15, 2009, Bethesda, Maryland.
Rhome, Jerry. Telephone interview by the author, July 20, 2010, Atlanta, Georgia.
Sansing, Billy. Interview by the author, July 9, 2009, San Antonio, Texas.
Stevenson, Ellen. Telephone interview by the author, July 24, 2009, Garland, Texas.
Tereshinksi, Joe. Interview by the author, Feb. 4, 2008, Chevy Chase, Maryland.
Tuttle, Dennis. Interview by the author, Mar. 3, 2006, Bethesda, Maryland.
Watwood, L. M. “Buddy.” Telephone interview by the author, Feb. 7, 2010, Lakewood,
Colorado.

PUBLICATIONS

Bealle, Morris A. The Redskins, 1937–1958: A Complete and Colorful History of Ameri-
ca’s Most Colorful Sports Aggregation—the Washington Redskins. Washington, D.C.:
Columbia, 1959.
Boswell, Tom, et al. Redskins: A History of Washington’s Team. Washington, D.C.:
Washington Post Books, n.d.
Canning, Whit. Sam Baugh: Best There Ever Was. Indianapolis: Masters Press, 1997.
Cashion, Ty. Pigskin Pulpit: A Social History of Texas High School Football Coaches.
Austin: Texas State Historical Association, 1998.
Cohane, Tim. “The Saturday Fox.” In Great College Coaches of the Twenties and Thirties.
New York: Arlington House, 1973.
Cope, Myron. “A Life for Two Tough Texans.” Sports Illustrated, Oct. 20, 1969.
Dent, Jim. Monster of the Midway: Bronko Nagurski, the 1943 Chicago Bears, and the
Greatest Comeback Ever. New York: St. Martin’s, 2003.
Griffith, Corinne. My Life with the Redskins. New York: Barnes, 1947.
Haggerty, James J. “Hail to the Redskins”: The Story of the Washington Redskins. Wash-
ington, D.C.: Seven Seas, 1974.
Heidenry, John. The Gashouse Gang: How Dizzy Dean, Leo Durocher, Branch Rickey, Pep-
per Martin, and Their Colorful, Come-from-Behind Ball Club Won the World Series—
and America’s Heart—during the Great Depression. New York: PublicAffairs, 2007.
Holst, Don. Famous Football Players in Their Fourth Quarter. Chadron, Nebraska: Don
Holst Art and Books, 2008.
Jackson, Rob. “Wicarhpi Isnala ‘Lone Star.’” Coffin Corner 26, no. 1 (2004).

308

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 = BIBLIOGR A PH Y =

Jenkins, Dan. Texas Christian University Football Vault: The History of the Horned Frogs.
Atlanta: Whitman, 2008.
Kelton, Elmer. The Time It Never Rained. New York: Doubleday, 1973; reprint, Fort
Worth: Texas Christian Univ. Press, 1984.
Loverro, Joe. Hail Victory: An Oral History of the Washington Redskins. Hoboken, N.J.:
Wiley, 2006.
Luksa, Frank. “Slingin’ Sammy Last Link to Long-Ago Pro Football Era.” ESPN.com,
Dec. 18, 2008. http://sports.espn.go.com/nfl /columns/story?columnist=luksa
_frank&id=3776948.
Maynard, Don, and Matthew Shepatin. You Can’t Catch Sunshine. Chicago: Triumph
Books, 2010.
Moore, Jerome Aaron. TCU: A Hundred Years of History. Fort Worth: Texas Christian
Univ. Press, 1974.
Morrow, Merlin. Hardin-Simmons Athletics: The First Century. Abilene, Tex.: Hardin-
Simmons Univ., 1997.
Neft, David S., Richard M. Cohen, and Rick Korch. The Football Encyclopedia: The
Complete History of Professional Football from 1892 to the Present. New York: St.
Martin’s, 1994.
National Football League Creative Staff. The First Fifty Years: A Celebration of the
National Football League in Its Fiftieth Season. New York: Ridge Press/Benjamin
Company, 1969.
Poole, Gary Andrew. The Galloping Ghost: Red Grange, an American Football Legend.
New York: Houghton Mifflin, 2008.
Povich, Shirley. All Those Mornings . . . at the “Post”: The Twentieth Century in Sports
from Famed “Washington Post” Columnist Shirley Povich. Edited by Lynn Povich,
Maury Povich, David Povich, and George Solomon. New York: PublicAffairs, 2005.
Qureshi, Samu, and Valerie Grissom. “The Secret Letters of the Washington Redskins.”
Washington Post Magazine, Aug. 2, 2009.
Reid, Jan. “Legends of the Fall.” Texas Monthly, Nov. 1997.
Richman, Michael. “Cliff Battles.” Coffin Corner 26, no. 2 (2004).
———. The Redskins Encyclopedia. Philadelphia: Temple Univ. Press, 2007.
Riffenburgh, Beau. The Official NFL Encyclopedia. New York: New American Library,
1986.
Rives, Bill. “Slingin’ Sam vs. Father Time.” Sport, Sept. 1948.
Siegel, Morris. “The Fix Is In; Past Post Gambling.” Regardie’s Magazine, June 1991.
Stratton, W. K. Chasing the Rodeo: On Wild Rides and Big Dreams, Broken Hearts and
Broken Bones, and One Man’s Search for the West. New York: Harcourt, 2005.
Sullivan, George. Pro Football’s All-Time Greats: The Immortals in Pro Football’s Hall of
Fame. New York: Putnam, 1968.
Tips, Kern. Football—Texas Style: An Illustrated History of the Southwest Conference.
New York: Doubleday, 1964.
Tuttle, Dennis. “Better Than Sonny?” Washingtonian, Jan. 1995.
WashingtonPost.com. The Redskins Book. http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv
/sports/redskins/longterm/book/toc.htm.

309

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Whittingham, Richard. Hail Redskins: A Celebration of the Greatest Players, Teams, and
Coaches. Chicago: Triumph Books, 2001.
Wills, Garry. Reagan’s America: Innocents at Home. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1987.
Works Progress Administration. The WPA Guide to Texas. 1940. Reprint, Austin: Texas
Monthly Press, 1986.

310

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 INDEX

Abilene Christian College, 255 Association, 64; founding of, 62–63.

Adams, Bud, 270, 271 See also National Football League
Adams, Nathan, 91 Anderson, Hunk, 163
Add-Ran College. See Texas Christian Anderson, Ken, 5
University Andes, Peter, 141
African Americans, and football, 70–71, Arizona Razorbacks, vs. TCU, 80–81
239, 268. See also Negro League; and Augsterfer, Ray, 7
specific players Averill, Earl, 141
Aguirre, Joe, 187, 190, 191, 221, 223
Akron Awnings, 73 Bagarus, Steve, 220
Alban, Dick, 236 Baker, Roy, 134
Aldrich, Ki, 83–84, 186, 196, 217 Bale, Red, 38
All-American Football Conference Ball, Herman, 223, 237, 239, 241, 242, 243
(AAFC), 222, 236–237, 241 Baltimore Colts, ix, 4, 237, 269; vs. Wash-
all-stars game, football: 1936, 103; 1937, ington Redskins, 238
101, 103–104; 1938, 149–150 Barber, Red, 167, 172, 186–187
American Association, 143 baseball, 21–23, 64, 100, 101–103, 138–143.
American Basketball League (ABL), 64 See also Major League Baseball; and spe-
American Football League, 262, 266, 268, cific teams
269, 271 Basrak, Mike, 97
American League, 114 Battles, Cliff “Gip,” xvii, 5, 66, 69, 72, 76,
American Professional Football 77, 103, 111–112, 118, 119, 120, 122, 129,

311

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130, 132, 134, 135, 139, 149, 155, 162; and career, 3, 5–6, 8; and NFL draft, 96–97;
Marshall, 137–138 and NFL investigation, 201; and NFL
Baugh, Bobby Blake, 13 records, 5, 6, 162, 204–205, 210, 218,
Baugh, Bruce, 252, 277 232, 249; nickname, 29, 43; and Pampa
Baugh, Darcus Mitchell, 11 Roadrunners, 99–101; passing, 31–32,
Baugh, David, 2, 16, 19, 172, 226, 252, 255– 110–111; and Peyton Manning, x–xii;
256, 269, 274, 275, 276, 277, 282, 284 and Povich, 146–147; Professional
Baugh, Edmonia “Mona,” 2, 143–144, 181– Football Hall of Fame, 6, 270, 281–
182, 204, 224, 230–231, 232–234, 238– 282; punting, 31–32; and Rochester
240, 252–253, 277, 282 Redwings, 144–145; and rodeo, 274–276;
Baugh, Frances, 252, 277 and St. Louis Cardinals, 101–103, 106–
Baugh, Gary Todd, 187, 252, 277 107, 138–143; at TCU, 5, 32–35, 40–43,
Baugh, James “Jim” Valentine, 13, 14, 17, 19 44–48, 80–89, 98; at Temple High
Baugh, Jean, 282 School, 16–18; and Texas Tech, 240; and
Baugh, John, 11 T formation, 215–216, 217; and Todd,
Baugh, John Pascal, 13 227–228, 230; and University of North
Baugh, Lovic, 12–13 Carolina, 139; and University of Texas,
Baugh, Lucille Harris Purcell, 12, 19–20 22–23; and Washington Post, column
Baugh, Nell. See Kendrick, Nell Baugh in, 146–147; wedding of, 143–144; and
Baugh, Nell Merwyn, 13 Wisner, 262–263, 267–268; and World
Baugh, Sam: all-stars game (1937), 101, War II, 195, 213–214. See also Baugh,
103–104, 107; author and, 2–3; and Sam, and Washington Redskins
baseball, 21–23, 43, 101–103, 138– Baugh, Sam, and Washington Redskins,
143; and basketball, 43; and Baylor, xvi–xvii, 3, 5, 6, 101–103, 105–108,
237; biography, 5, 6; car wreck, 226; 145–146; last game, 246, 248–249; 1937
childhood of, 13–16; coaching, 98, (rookie year), 109–124; 1938 season,
138–139, 237, 240, 253–259, 260– 149–157; 1939 season, 157–160; 1940
272; and Columbus Cardinals, 144; season, 161–172; 1941 season, 186–192;
discovery of, 10–11, 22–23; and Double 1942 season, 193–201; 1943 season,
Mountain Ranch, 180–183, 213–214, 202–212; 1944 season, 214–217; 1945
251–252, 276–277; end of life, 6–7, season, 217–221; 1946 season, 222–224;
8, 279–284; family life of, 232–234, 1947 season, 225–228; 1948 season,
238–240, 252–253; and fans, 209–210; 229–230; 1949 season, 236–237; 1950
and gambling scandal, 206–207; and season, 237–241; 1951 season, 241–243;
golf, 277–279; hall of fame inductions, 1952 season, 243–246; salary of, 138–
281; and Hardin-Simmons University, 139, 143, 229, 247–248
253–259; and high school controversy, Baugh, Stephen, 277
17–18; and Houston Oilers, 270–272; Baugh, William, 11–12
injuries, 141, 142–143, 150–151, 212, 218; Baxter, Norman, 190
in King of the Texas Rangers, 173–178; Baylor University Bears, 237; rivalry with
last college game, 88–89; and Marshall, TCU, 25, 40–41, 45, 82–83
95–96, 98–99, 101–103, 138, 140, 143, Bealle, Morris A., 120
145–146, 247; and Meyer, 28–29, 31–32; Beazley, Johnny, 200
and Mose Sims Oilers, 10, 21–22; at Bell, Bert, 163
Newman High School, 17–19, 19–21; Bell, Cool Papa, 100
and New York Titans, 262–272; NFL Bell, Matty, 50, 52, 84–86

312

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 = INDEX =

Bendix, Vincent, 65 Campbell, Webster, 69

Benton, Jim, 220 Canning, Whit, 1, 54, 87, 182, 183, 227, 253,
Bergman, Arthur J. “Dutch,” 110, 204, 207, 263, 269
208–209, 214, 223 Cannon, Billy, 258, 259
Bible, Dana Xenophon, 23 Carlisle Indian School, 71
Bierman, Bernie, 49 Carr, Joe, 62, 63, 64–65, 78, 106, 148
Big 10, 38 Carter, Amon G., 35, 49, 54–55, 86, 91, 93,
Bland, Admiral W. H. O., 189 94, 108
Blanda, George, 271 Cartwright, Gary, 39–40
Blozis, Al, 188, 194 Casey, Eddie, 73–74
bootsie play, 203 Castiglia, Jim, 225
Border Conference, 255, 256, 259 Centenary College Gents, vs. TCU, 84
Boston, and professional football, 59, 65, Chandler, A. B. “Happy,” 197
120 Chevigny, Jack, 38–39, 44, 83, 84
Boston Braves, 64, 65–67, 68–79; vs. Brook- Chicago Bears, 5, 65, 96, 162–163; all-stars
lyn Dodgers, 66–67; vs. Chicago Bears, game (1936), 103; NFL championships,
67; vs. New York Giants, 67. See also xv–xvii, 129–135, 164–165, 167–172, 196–
Boston Redskins 200, 210–212; and T formation, 215; vs.
Boston Celtics, 64 Boston Braves, 67; vs. Boston Redskins,
Boston Redskins, 60, 71–73; 1936 champi- 72, 75, 125–126; vs. Chicago Cardinals,
onship, 78–79; vs. the Brooklyn Dodgers, 128, 197; vs. New York Giants, 63–64,
73; vs. the Chicago Bears, 72, 73, 125– 126–127; vs. Washington Redskins, 129–
126; vs. the Green Bay Packers, 78–79; 135, 139, 153–154, 163–164, 196–200,
vs. the New York Giants, 72–73, 76–77; 210–212, 226; Western Division title, 164
vs. the Pittsburgh Pirates, 75, 79. See also Chicago Bruins, 64
Boston Braves; Washington Redskins Chicago Cardinals, 67, 97, 104; vs. Chicago
Boston Yankees, 214, 217, 232 Bears, 128, 197; vs. Washington Red-
Boswell, Tom, 3, 283 skins, 118, 217, 225–226, 239–240, 244
Boyd, Sam, 157 Chicago Cubs, 67
Brazee, Owen, 183, 252, 253, 274 Chicago Staleys. See Chicago Bears
Brazee, Viola, 183 Chicago Tribune, 103, 128, 170, 283
Breeskin, Barnet “Barnee,” 112, 113 Cifer, Ed, 187
Brizzolara, Ralph, 211–212 Cincinnati Bengals, 5
Broder, David, 6 Cisco Big Dam Lobos, 15–16
Brooklyn Dodgers, 97, 164, 187; vs. Boston Clark, Addison, 25
Braves, 66–67; vs. Boston Redskins, 73; Clark, Algy, 67
vs. Washington Redskins, 118–119, 161– Clark, Earl “Dutch,” 135
162, 204 Clark, Harry, 168–169
Brooklyn Tigers, 214 Cleveland Browns, 237, 268; vs.
Bryant, Paul “Bear,” 119 Washington Redskins, 241, 243
Buchanan, Pat, 283 Cleveland Indians, 27, 64
Buffalo All-Americans, 66 Cleveland Rams, 119, 218, 219
Buffalo Bills, 267 Cochrane, Ed, 134
Buffet, Warren E., 9 Coleman, Joe, 40, 42
Buivid, Ray “Buzz,” 88, 97 College Football Hall of Fame, 281
Buksar, George, 247 Columbus Panhandlers, 62

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Columbus Redbirds, 143 DiPinna, Constance, 92

Comanche, 179, 180 DiSalle, Michael, 73
Connor, Wayne, 48 Disch, William John, 22–23
Considine, Bob, 169 Dismer, Bill, Jr., 117
Cooper, Mort, 200 Dluhy, Larry, 280–281
Corum, Bill, 121 Dodson, Jack, 20
Cotton Bowl, 46, 82, 87, 97 Donovan, William J., 189
Cotton Bowl Hall of Fame, 281 Dorais, Gus, 104
Cox, Billy, 243 Dorow, Al, 265–266
Crane, Sally, 177 Double Mountain Ranch, xi, 6, 8, 180–
Crass, Bill, 56 183, 213–214, 251–252, 274, 276–277,
Creighton, Miles, 128 282–283
Crisler, Fritz, 49 Doyle, M. Dorland “Larry,” 65
Cunningham, Bill, 49, 52 draft, football, 74, 96–97, 194
draft, military, 193–195, 213–214; and
Daley, Arthur J., 76, 79, 133, 168, 200, 280 professional football, 222
Dallas, Texas: and Fort Worth, rivalry with, Driver, Billy, 26
48–49, 54–55, 91–92, 93; and Texas Cen- drought, 251–252
tennial celebration, 90–91. See also Fair Dudley, Bill, 153, 223, 228, 241
Park; Greater Texas and Pan-American Dufour, Charlie, 57
Exposition Duluth Eskimo, 65
Dallas Texans, vs. New York Titans, 269 Durocher, Leo “The Lip,” 140
Daniel Baker College, vs. TCU, 40
Danowski, Ed, 116, 117 Easley, A. C., 25
Danzig, Allison, 120, 135 Eastern College All-Stars, 161
Davis, Ernie, 267–268 Eastern Division, 70, 72, 73, 77, 79, 115–116,
Dean, Dizzy, 140 118, 119, 162; championships, 122–123,
Dean, Paul “Daffy,” 140 155, 158–160, 196, 205, 226
Decatur Staleys, 62, 63. See also Chicago Eckhardt, Oscar, 23
Bears Edwards, Glenn “Turk,” 66, 71–72, 115, 118,
DeGroot, Dudley, 9, 214–215, 220–221, 120, 122, 131, 135, 174, 187, 196–197, 209,
223, 224 214, 215, 223, 224
DeMao, Al, 153, 211, 217, 220–221, 227, 237, Eisenhower, Gen. Dwight D., 217
241 Elizade, Joaquin, 189
Democratic National Convention (1936), 69 Ellis, Drew, 34
Dennis, J. F., 180 English, Jack, 174–175, 176
Dennis, Raymond, 181 Espy, J. K., 152–153, 191
Denver Broncos, vs. Houston Oilers, 271 Evans, Murray, 253
Depression, 11, 13, 17, 33–34, 37–38, 48, 50, Ewbank, Weeb, 268
64, 65, 67, 69, 70, 89, 92, 97, 138 exhibition games, 151–154, 241–242
Detroit Lions, 4, 153; vs. Washington
Redskins, 151, 204, 242–243 Fair Park (Dallas), 87, 91
Detroit Tigers, 114 Falk, Bibb, 23
Dietz, William Henry “Lone Star,” 71–73 Famiglietti, Gary, 169
Dietzel, Paul, 259 Farkas, Andy, 149, 151, 168, 196, 210
DiMaggio, Joe, 6, 194, 283 Farley, James, 92

314

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 = INDEX =

Favre, Brett, 6 Grafton Leader, 60

Feuer, Cy, 176 Grange, Harold “Red,” 63–64, 120, 145,
Field, Joe J., 26 173, 270
Filchock, Frank, 149, 159, 163, 188, 194, 214, Grant, Babe, 25
216, 217, 220, 224, 227 Grantham, Larry, 264, 266
Finley, Bob, 50 Greater Texas and Pan-American
Fiorino, Al, 215 Exposition, 92–96
Flaherty, Ray “Red,” 74, 97, 103–104, 109– Green, Darrell, 7
110, 111, 114–115, 132, 134, 135, 149–150, Green, Toulas, 181
153, 157, 159, 185, 186–187, 196–197, 202, Green Bay Packers, 101, 244; and all-stars
223, 224 game (1936), 103–104; 1936 champion-
Flaherty, Vincent X., 161, 208; and ship game, 78–79; vs. Boston Redskins,
gambling scandal, 207 78–79; vs. Washington Redskins, 119–
Florence, Fred F., 91 120, 158, 161
Ford, Ken “Model T,” 255, 265 Greenburg, Hank, 194
Fortmann, Danny, 129, 163 Griffith, Clark, 79, 114
Fort Worth: and Dallas, rivalry with, Griffith, Corrine, 68–69, 75–76, 77–78,
48–49, 54, 91–92, 93; and the Depres- 92–96, 108, 114, 123–124, 159–160, 165,
sion, 33–34; and TCU, 25, 32–35. See 169, 191, 196, 197, 198, 203–204, 215, 218;
also Frontier Centennial Exhibition death of, 280; and gambling scandal,
Fort Worth Star-Telegram, 40, 43, 47, 53, 205–208; My Life with the Redskins, 68;
54, 82, 85 and Redskins song, 112–113
Fouts, John, 25 Griffith Stadium, 7, 79, 113–114; Sammy
Francis, Sam, 96 Baugh Day, 225–226
Frankford Yellow Jackets, 64 Guepe, Al, 88
Friedman, Benny, 67 Guepe, Art, 88
Friesell, Red, 169 Gutowsky, Ace, 151
Frisch, Frankie, 140, 141, 142, 143
Fritsch, Ted, 211 Haegg, Gunder, 200
Frog Stadium, 35–36 Haggerty, “Horse,” 64
Frontier Centennial Exhibition, 49, 91–92 “Hail to the Redskins,” 111–113, 121, 277
Fuchs, Emil, 65 Halas, George, 62, 64–65, 70, 77, 103, 127–
128, 168, 169, 199, 270, 283; and Chicago
Gallico, Paul, 49 Bears, xv, 63, 67, 96–97, 154, 167, 194; and
gambling scandal, 205–208 Chicago Bruins, 64; and Marshall, 125–
Gebhardt, George, 92 126, 141, 203–204, 223; and New York
Gehrig, Lou, 64 Yankees, 63; and T formation, 166–167,
George Washington University, 256 170; and World War II, 202
Gibson, Josh, 100 Hale, Chester, 92
Gildea, Bill, 271–272 Hall, Flem, 45, 46, 47, 53, 56, 82, 84, 136
Gilhooly, John, 146 Halloran, Bill, 158, 159, 160
Gilmer, Harry, 227, 228, 229, 239, 245, 272 Harding, Warren G., 62
Gipp, George, 204 Hardin-Simmons Hall of Fame, 281
Goddard, Ed, 97 Hardin-Simmons University Cowboys, xi,
Goldie, Jack, 211 253–259; vs. LSU, 258–259; vs. Texas
golf, 1–2, 277–279 Tech, 255

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Harmon, Tom, 173 Jenkins, Dan, 4, 54

Hart, Pete, 256, 257 Jenkins, Lew, 274–275
Hartman, Bill, 151 Johnson, Jimmie, 158
Haskell Institute, 71 Johnson, Lawrence “Chief,” 72
Hay, Ralph, 62, 63 Johnsos, Luke, 199
Hazzard, Wilton, 52 Jolson, Al, 197
Hein, Mel, 115, 159 Jones, Jesse, 115, 190
Heisman, John, 30 Joyce, Don, 244, 247
Heisman Trophy, 81, 88, 89, 157, 173, 193, Jurgensen, Sonny, 7
200, 204, 239, 243, 268 Justice, Charlie “Choo Choo,” 239
Henderson, Bill, 16–17 Justice, Ed, 5, 74, 123, 132, 159, 160, 199
Henning, Ed, 21
Herber, Arnie, 104, 119 Kahlich, Rick, 277–278
Hewitt, Bill, 118 Kansas City Chiefs, vs. Houston Oilers, 271
Hilliard, Bohn, 39, 42 Karamatic, George, 150, 154
Hogan, Ben, 200 Karcher, Jim, 74
Hoover, J. Edgar, 141, 189 Kavanagh, Ray, 92
Horned Frog, 35 Keeling, Jimmy, 255, 257–258
Hornsby, Rogers, 101 Kelleher, Dorothy, 68
Houston, Sam, 90 Kelly, Edward Major, 207
Houston, Texas, and Texas Centennial cel- Kelton, Elmer, 252
ebration, 90–91 Kendrick, Ellen, 19
Houston Oilers, 269, 270–272; vs. Denver Kendrick, Nell Baugh, 14, 19
Broncos, 271; vs. Kansas City Chiefs, 271 Kieran, John, 141–142, 156
Howard Payne University, vs. TCU, 44–45, Kimbrough, John, 174
80 King of the Texas Rangers, 173–178
Howell, Dixie, 102 Kirby, W. H., 181
Huffman, Vernon, 104 Kline, George, 46
Humble Oil and Refining, 39 Knight, Bill, 18
Humble Radio Network, 39–40 Knowles, John, 22, 24, 34, 41, 48, 55
Humphrey, Robert L., 96 Krause, Max, 111, 130, 150, 208
Hunt, Lamar, 262, 266 Krueger, Al, 188
Hutson, Don, 104, 119, 200, 211, 279
Lambeau, Curly, 119, 197, 202, 223, 243–
“Indian Block,” 71 244, 270; and Marshall, 245–246
International League, 145 Lanza, Cowboy, 282
Ironton Tanks, 73 Lawrence, Jimmy “Squarehead,” 34, 42, 45,
Irwin, Don, 76, 111, 116, 119, 132, 133 47, 48, 50, 51, 53, 56
Isbell, Cecil, 150, 197 Layden, Elmer, 38, 71, 193, 200, 208; and
Isnala, Wicarhpi. See Dietz, William Henry gambling scandal, 205, 206
“Lone Star” LeBaron, Eddie, 237, 244, 245, 246, 247,
Ivy, Pop, 270 248
Lee, Robert E., 179, 181
Jacobs, Jack, 227 Leemans, Alphonse Emil “Tuffy,” 77, 116,
Japan: attack on Pearl Harbor, 190–191; 188
U.S. at war with, 191–192 Leonidoff, Leon, 93–95

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 = INDEX =

Lester, Darrell, 53, 55–56 games, 151–154, 241–242; death of, 279–
Lilly, Bob, 280–281 280; and gambling scandal, 205–208;
Lindsay, Elizabeth, 12 and Greater Texas and Pan-American
Little, Lou, 137 Exposition, 92–96; and Halas, 125–126,
Lombardi, Vince, 265 141, 165, 203–204, 223; and Lambeau,
Long, Huey, 37 245–246; laundry business, 61–62; and
Looney, Don, 184–185 NFL draft (1936), 96–97; and NFL Hall
Los Angeles Rams, 218. See also Cleveland of Fame, 65; and NFL rules, 156–157;
Rams 1940 championship, 164–165, 169–171,
Louis, Joe, 6, 200 172; 1943 championship, 211–212;
Louisiana State University: vs. Hardin- “Palace Big Five,” 64; and Pearl Harbor,
Simmons, 258–259; vs. TCU, 54, 55–57 attack on, 190–191; personality of, 71,
Loyola University, vs. TCU, 45 218, 241–242; and Roosevelt, 69; and
Luckmann, Sid, 163, 170, 197, 199, 212, 217, salaries, 111–112, 152–153, 223; and
218 T formation, 215; and Washington
Luksa, Frank, 254 Redskins, 111, 112, 114, 121–122, 123–
Lummus, Jack, 192, 194 124, 154, 198–199, 220–221; and Wisner,
Lydecker, Howard, 177 261–262; and World War II, 202. See also
Lyle, John, 255 Washington Redskins
Marshall, T. Hill, 60
Major League Baseball, 3, 197 Martin, Pepper, 140
Malone, Charlie, 116, 118, 120, 122, 123, 132, Masonic Home Mighty Mites, 84
157, 168, 172, 174 Masterson, Bernie, 130, 131, 132, 133, 149,
Mandel, Feddy, 202 158, 199
Manders, Jack, 129, 132 Matherne, Durel, 258
Maniaci, Joe, 169 Maynard, Don, 263, 264, 265
Manning, Eli, 6 McAfee, George, 163, 168, 170
Manning, Peyton: and Sammy Baugh, McCann, Dick, 153, 223, 234, 242
x–xii, 6 McCauley, John, 38, 44
Manske, Edgar “Eggs,” 131, 132 McChesney, Bob, 75, 117, 155, 168
Manton, Taldon “Tillie,” 42, 43, 53, 56, 116, McClure, Harold, 42, 50, 51, 84, 85, 86
149 McDonald, Les, 134
Mara, Tim, 202 McKnight, Felix, 274–275
Marion, Marty, 145 McLaughlin, M. T., 240
Marquette University, vs. TCU, 88 McMurry College, 255
Marshall, Blanche Preston, 60 McNabb, Donovan, 6
Marshall, George Preston, 6, 59–67, 164, McNeill, Jeanne, 7
270; and African American players, Medlin, Geneva A., 13
70–71, 239, 268; and basketball, 62, Medwick, Joe “Ducky,” 140
64; and Baugh, 95–96, 98–99, 101–103, Melinkovich, George, 39
105–108, 109, 138, 140, 145–146, 162, Melton, Amos, 1, 43
173, 175, 223, 247; and Boston, leaving, Meyer, Lambert D., 26, 29, 32, 35, 51, 52, 56,
77–79; and Boston Braves, 64, 65–67, 86–87, 88–89, 145
68–79; and Boston Redskins, 60, 65–67, Meyer, Leo Robert “Dutch,” 10, 22–23,
68–69, 71–73, 74–77; and coaches, 223– 24–36, 52, 53, 55, 57; and baseball, 27;
224; early life, 60–61; and exhibition and Baugh, 28–29, 31–32, 107; and TCU

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football, 30–32, 40–41, 47, 80–82, 86–87, New Orleans Item, 57

88, 89 New Orleans Morning Tribune, 56, 58
Mielziner, Joel, 92 New Orleans Picayune, 55
Millner, Wayne, 5, 39, 75, 118, 120, 123, 132, New York Giants, 6, 97, 119, 120, 164; East-
133, 145, 150, 155, 194, 217, 220, 224, 246, ern Division championship games, 122–
254, 279 123, 158–160; and NFL championships,
Mischak, Bo, 266 207–209, 210; vs. the Boston Redskins,
Mississippi State Bulldogs, vs. TCU, 82 72–73; vs. the Chicago Bears, 126–127;
Mitchell, Bobby, 71, 268 vs. the Washington Redskins, 113–117,
Mola, Emilio, 176 122–123, 154–156, 157, 158–160, 187, 196,
Montgomery, Vic, 81 207–209, 210, 217, 243, 246
Moore, Wilbur, 166, 168, 196, 199, 205, New York Jets, 4, 268–269; and Super
210–211 Bowl, 269. See also New York Titans
Morning News, 47 New York Times, 47, 48, 49, 76, 79, 118
Morosco, Walter, 69 New York Titans, 262–272. See also New
Morrison, Ray, 40 York Jets
Mose Sims Oilers, 10, 21–22 New York Yankees, 63, 64, 65, 66
Municipal Stadium, 219 NFL championship games, xv–xvii; 1934,
Murphy, Gabe, 205 126–127; 1936, 78–79; 1937, 125–136, 126,
Murray, Lynn, 94 129–135, 147; 1940, 164–165, 167–172;
Musick, Jim, 66 1941, 192; 1942, 196–200; 1943, 210–212;
Musso, George “Moose,” xvi, 131, 163 1945, 219–221
Mutual Radio Network, 165, 167 NFL Hall of Fame, 65, 66
My Life with the Redskins (Griffith), 68 Nichols, E. B. “Sonny,” 251, 252, 253, 275
Nolting, Ray, 129, 168
Nagurski, Bronko, xv, 67, 128, 129, 131, 132, Nordlinger, Bernie, 71
134, 194, 248, 270 Nori, Reno, 118
Namath, Joe, 4, 6, 269 North Texas State, vs. TCU, 40
National Football League (NFL), 3, 4, 5, Notre Dame, 30, 71; vs. University of Texas,
63, 73, 106, 269; and African American 38–39
players, 71; draft, 74, 96–97, 194; owners, Nowaskey, Bo, 199
70, 103; Players Association, 153; rules,
99, 202–203; salaries, 222–223; and O’Brien, Davey, x, 27, 81, 82, 84, 243; and
World War II, 202–203. See also Ameri- Heisman Trophy, 89, 157
can Professional Football Association; O’Brien, Jay, 65
NFL championship games; NFL Hall of O’Brien, Pat, 189–190
Fame; and specific teams O’Day, Bob, xii, 1, 274, 277
National Geographic Society, 160 Office of Civilian Defense, 193
National League All-Stars, 141 Office of Defense Transportation, 202
National Professional League, 155; and Office of Strategic Services, 189
gambling scandal, 207 Ohio State Journal, 62
National Youth Administration, 74 O’Rourke, Joe, 199
Negro League, 100–101 Osmanski, Bill, 163, 167
New Deal, 37, 74 Owen, “Stout” Steve, 74, 76, 122, 128
Newman High School Mustangs, 17–19, Owens, K. Y., 255
19–21 Ownby Stadium, 53, 85

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Pack, Warren, 263 Purdue University Boilermakers, vs.

Paige, Satchel, 100 Rice, 38
“Palace Big Five,” 64
Palace Laundry, 61, 62 quarterback, 6, 30–31
Pampa Roadrunners, 99–101
passing, 4, 5, 30–32; and Baugh, 29, 31–32, Rabb, Warren, 258
110–111 Radovich, Bill, 153
Patten, Bill, 209 railroad, 13, 14
Patterson, Cissy, 208 Rath, Charlie, 180
Paulson, Danard, 268 Rattlesnake Roundup, 18
Pearl Harbor, attack on, 188–192. See also Ray, Katherine Lucinda “Lucy,” 13
Japan; World War II Reconstruction Finance Corporation, 115,
Pep, Willie, 200 190
Philadelphia Eagles, 71; vs. Washington Reiff, Evan, 254
Redskins, 118, 150–151, 157, 187, 188–191, Rentnor, Pug, 77
214, 217, 218, 231–232, 248. See also Republic Pictures, 173, 174, 175, 180
Steagles Reynaldo, Duncan, 175–176, 177
Phoenix Union High School, 98 Rhoden, William, 153
Pinckert, Erny, 66, 115, 116, 119, 130, 187 Rice, Grantland, 43, 49, 51, 52, 76, 86, 200,
Pittsburgh Pirates, 118, 154; vs. Boston Red- 201
skins, 75. See also Pittsburgh Steelers Rice University Owls, 44; vs. Purdue, 38;
Pittsburgh Steelers, vs. Washington Red- vs. TCU, 42–43, 46–47; vs. University of
skins, 118, 119, 157, 187, 217, 241. See also Texas, 39
Steagles Richmond Arrows, vs. Washington Red-
Plasman, Dick, 133–134 skins, 119
Polo Grounds, 122, 263 Rickey, Branch, 101, 102, 106, 141
Pool, Hamilton, 168 Roach, Walter, 31, 81, 85
Post, Wiley, 50 Robbins, Jack, 81
Povich, Shirley, 7–8, 29, 98, 99, 102–103, Robinson, Jackie, 100
104, 106, 109, 111–112, 117, 134, 135, Robinson, Johnny, 258
142–143, 149–151, 154–156, 159–160, 170, Robinson, R. R., 98
189–190, 195, 204–205, 219, 226, 247; Robinson, Sugar Ray, 200
as Baugh’s ghostwriter, 146–147; death Rochester Jeffersons, 66
of, 279 Rochester Redwings, 144–145
Powell, Art, 265 Rockne, Knute, 25, 30, 39, 71, 104
Powers, Shelly, 46 rodeo, 274–276
Prichard, Ed, 1 Rogers, Henry, Sr., 177
professional football, 117, 120, 174; growth Rogers, Will, 50
of, 62–65, 73, 74, 98, 136, 139; rules, 156– Ronzani, Gene, xvii, 130
157; and TV, 261; and World War II, 193– Rooney, Art, 62, 103, 158
194, 202–204, 222 Roosevelt, Franklin D., 37, 69, 115, 141, 192
Professional Football Hall of Fame, 137, Rose, Billy, 49, 91–92, 93, 94
270, 279, 281–282 Rose Bowl, 51, 53, 87; 1919, 194; 1935, 119
Prohibition, 62 Ruark, Robert, 129, 134
Providence Steamrollers, 64, 66 rugby, 5, 25–26
punting, 4, 6; and Baugh, 31–32, 45, 46 Runyon, Damon, 71, 75, 77

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Russell, Bo, 159 44; Rose Bowl, 51, 53; vs. TCU, 43, 47–53,
Russell, Lloyd, 82–83 84–86; vs. UCLA, 45
Ruth, Babe, 3, 63, 64, 112, 120, 140 Southwest Conference, 23, 26, 31, 35, 38–40,
Rymkus, Lou, 223 44, 46, 48, 51, 54, 254–255, 256; and Cot-
ton Bowl, 87; 1936 championship, 84, 86
Sabol, Steve, 284 Spokane Athletic Round Table, 187
Saenz, Joe, 226 Sport, 216
San Antonio, Texas, and Texas Centennial Sports Illustrated, x–xi, 107, 170
celebration, 90 sportswriters, 3–4, 7–8, 53–54. See also
Sandifer, Dan, 232 specific writers
Sanford, Curtis, 87 Stagg, Amos Alonso, 30, 65
Sanford, Sandy, 168 Stamford Rodeo, 274, 276
San Francisco 49ers, 237 Stanky, Eddie, 146
Sansing, Billy, 48 Stanley, John, 175
Santa Fe Railroad, 13, 17 State Fair of Texas, 91
Scarborough, Dorothy, 18 Statue of Liberty play, 210–212
Schmidt, Francis, 22, 24, 28–29, 85 Steagles, 153, 204; and gambling scandal,
Seago, Ernie “Son,” 56 206–207
Sebo, Steve, 268 Steen, Frank, 38
Seymour, Bob, 205, 221 Stern, Bill, 49
Shakespeare, Bill “The Bard,” 132 Stevenson, Ellen, 2, 253
Shaughnessy, Clark, 166–167, 215 St. Louis Browns, 101
Sheridan, Ney “Red,” 20, 22, 136 St. Louis Cardinals, 101–103, 106–107,
Sherman, Saul “Sollie,” 169, 170 138–143
Shipp, Alex, 181 St. Louis Gunners, 73
Shivers, Robert L., 189 Storck, Carl, 159–160
Short, Hassard, 93–94 Stout, Pete, 239–240
Shuford, Hary, 44, 50 Strong, Ken, 67, 194
Shugart, Clyde, 172, 191, 206 Stuhldreher, Harry, 270
Shugart, Erny, 174 Stydahar, Joe, 129, 154, 163
Siegel, Morris, 261 Sufferidge, Bo, 190–191
Simmons, C. R., 213 Sugar Bowl, 54, 55–58
Sims, Mose, 10, 21–22 Super Bowl, xvi. See also NFL champion-
single-wing formation, 111, 166–167, 215 ship games
Sinkwich, Frank, 200, 204 Sutherland, Jock, 162
Sinkwich, Sam, 200 Sweetwater, Texas, 18, 19–21
Smartt, Joe, 39
Smith, Bruce, 193, 193 Tackitt, A. C., 181
Smith, Edmonia. See Baugh, Edmonia Tamm, Edward A., 189
“Mona” Taylor, Charley, 7
Smith, J. D. “Uncle Jimmy,” 181 Taylor, Hugh “Bones,” 226, 227, 246, 249,
Smith, Riley, xvii, 74, 77, 111, 116, 117, 118, 271, 279
119, 130, 132, 136, 211 Temple High School Wildcats, 16–18
Snyder, Bob, 163 Tereshinski, Joe, 1, 223, 225, 226, 231, 249
Snyder, Daniel, 283 Texas A&M, vs. TCU, 41, 82
Southern Methodist University (SMU), 5, Texas Centennial, 87; celebration, 48,

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90–91. See also Frontier Centennial Tucker, Jinx, 83

Exhibition; Greater Texas and Pan- Tulsa Golden Hurricanes, vs. TCU, 81
American Exposition Turner, Allen, 12
Texas Christian University (TCU), 5, Turner, Clyde “Bulldog,” 163, 168, 169–170,
22–23, 30–32, 32–35, 40–43, 106; and 212, 268
Baylor, rivalry with, 24–25, 41–42, 45, Tuttle, Dennis, 178
82–83; Carter and, 35–36; and Depres- Tyson, Paul, 25
sion, 33–34; football at, in general,
25–26; and Southwest Conference, Unitas, Johnny, ix, 4, 6
35; in Sugar Bowl, 55–58; vs. Arizona, University Interscholastic League, 17
80–81; vs. Arkansas, 40–41; vs. Cente- University of Arkansas, 40–41; vs. UT, 86
nary College, 84; vs. Daniel Baker Col- University of California, Los Angeles
lege, 40; vs. Howard Payne, 44–45, 80; (UCLA), vs. SMU, 45
vs. Loyola, 45; vs. LSU, 54, 55–57; vs. University of North Carolina, 139
Marquette University, 88; vs. Masonic University of Santa Clara, vs. TCU, 43, 53,
Home, 84; vs. Mississippi State, 82; 86
vs. Northwest Texas State, 40; vs. Rice University of Texas, 22–23; vs. Arkansas,
University, 42–43, 46–47; vs. SMU, 43, 86; vs. Notre Dame, 38–39; vs. Rice, 39;
47–53, 84–86; vs. Texas A&M, 41, 82; vs. vs. TCU, 83–84
Texas Tech, 80; vs. Tulsa, 81; vs. Univer-
sity of Santa Clara, 43, 86; vs. University Vaught, Johnny, x–xi, 256
of Texas, 46, 83–84; west coast tours, Vidmer, Richard, 155–156
53–54, 86–87
Texas Historical Association, 69 Waco High School, 25
Texas Intercollegiate Athletic Waco Times-Herald, 3, 83
Association, 26 Wade, Major Wallace, 195
Texas Sports Hall of Fame, 281 Waldorf, Pappy, 49
Texas Tech, 240; vs. Hardin-Simmons, 255; Wallace, Bill, 38, 44
vs. Notre Dame, 39; vs. TCU, 80 Walls, Pete, 117
Texas War of Independence, 90 Walls, William, 56, 84, 87, 88
T formation, 166–167, 170, 187, 215–216 Walsh, Jack, 59, 245, 246, 247–248, 249
Thornton, Robert F., 91 Ward, Arch, 49, 103
Thorpe, Jim, 30, 62, 63, 71, 270 Warmerdam, Cornelius, 200
Tilden, Bill, 6 Warner, Pop, 25, 30, 31, 71, 166
Tinsley, Gaynell, 97, 104 Washington, D.C., 77; and professional
Tips, Kern, 40, 44, 49, 50 football, 120. See also Washington
Todd, Dick, 157–158, 162, 166, 177–178, 187, Redskins
197, 217, 223, 226, 241, 243; and Baugh, Washington Evening Star, 117; and
227–228, 230 gambling scandal, 207
Toppings, Dan, 161, 197 Washington Post, 6, 7, 91–92, 101–102, 194,
Touchdown Club, 225, 271 195; Baugh’s column in, 146–147, 232,
Transylvania College, 26 238, 249–250, 271, 279
Triple Threat, 230 Washington Redskins, 1, 4, 5, 6, 98; and
Truelson, Julius “Judy,” 41, 42 African American players, 70–71,
Trull, Don, 271 239; and Baugh, 101–103, 105–108;
Tucker, Bill, 150 debut year (1937), 109–124; Eastern

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Division championship games, 122–123, Werblin, David A. “Sony,” 268

158–160, 195, 218; exhibition games, West, Sammy, 100
151–154, 241–242; fans, 7–8, 119–120, Western Division, 70, 78, 164
120–122; gambling scandal, 205–208; Western Texas College, 1–2
NFL championships, xv–xvii, 129–135, West Virginia Wesleyan, 66
164–165, 167–172, 196–200, 207–209, Wetzel, J. C. “Iron Man,” 47–48
210–212, 219–221; NFL draft 1936, Whelchel, John, 223
96–97; salaries, 111–112, 152–153, 223; White, Byron “Whizzer,” 150, 154–155
single-wing formation, 215; song, 112– White, George, 52
113, 155–156; T formation, 215–216; vs. White, LeRoy, 152
the Baltimore Colts, 238; vs. Brooklyn Whittingham, Richard, 148
Dodgers, 118–119, 161–162, 204; vs. Widseth, Ed, 97, 116
Chicago Bears, xv–xvii, 129–135, 139, Wilbon, Michael, 284
154, 163–164, 196–200, 210–212; vs. Wilkin, Wilbur Byrne “Wee Willie,” 149,
Chicago Cardinals, 118, 217, 225, 239– 151, 158, 163, 184–186, 197, 204, 206, 223
240, 244; vs. Cleveland Browns, 241, Williams, Joe, 49
243; vs. Detroit Lions, 151, 204, 242– Williams, Ted, 144, 194, 200, 283
243; vs. Green Bay Packers, 119–120, 158; Wilson, Bobby, 44, 45–46, 47, 49, 50, 51
vs. New York Giants, 113–117, 122–123, Wilson, George, 132, 212
155–156, 157, 158–160, 196, 205, 207– Wind, The (Scarborough), 18
209, 217, 243; vs. Philadelphia Eagles, Wisner, Harry, 260–262, 266–267, 268–
118, 150–151, 157, 187, 188–191, 217, 218, 269; and Baugh, 262–263, 267–268; and
231–232, 248; vs. Pittsburgh Steelers, Marshall, 261–262
118, 119, 157, 187, 195–196, 217, 241; vs. Witney, Billy, 176
Richmond Arrows, 119; vs. Steagles, 204. Wolf, Bear, 55, 57
See also Baugh, Sam, and Washington Wolf, Ray, 139
Redskins; Boston Redskins Woodruff, Bob, 237
Washington Redskins Band, 121, 123–124, Woodward, Stanley, 123
156, 158, 167, 220 World Series: 1932, 66–67; 1933, 197
“Washington Redskins March, The,” 112. World War II, 153, 193–194, 202–204, 217.
See also “Hail to the Redskins” See also Japan; Pearl Harbor, attack on
Washington Senators, 6, 79, 114 Wray, Ludlow, 66, 67, 71
Washington State University, 21, 66, 71 Wright, L. C. “Pete,” 98
Washington Times-Herald, and gambling
scandal, 205–208 Youell, Jimmy, 227
Waterfield, Bob, 220, 221 Young, Bill, 150–151, 166
Watwood, Lynn “Buddy,” 188, 189, 200, 209 Young, Dick, 265, 267
WBAP, 55
Weller, Louis “Rabbit,” 72 Zimmerman, Roy, 153, 168, 227

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