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 SLINGIN'
SAM

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

 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

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

 SAM BY JOE HOLLEY
FOREWORD BY

Peyton Manning

UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS PRESS AUSTIN

TIN

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

 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
P.O. Box 7819
Austin, TX 78713-7819
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

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

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

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

 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

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

 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

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

 = 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.

XI

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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

XII

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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

XIII

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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.

XIV

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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

XV

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 = SLINGIN’ SA M =

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.

XVI

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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.

XVII

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

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