This little site has been dedicated to the Patriot's inglorious past, just to give everyone perspective. With that in mind, I'm going to digress for a moment to explain something about the Patriot's fans.
So, it's been said that we are arrogant and obnoxious.
Damn right. And to explain why, let me give you a little analogy, if I may.
Do you remember the kid in high school that wore the blue plaid button down shirt, the white socks with the black shoes, the pants that only went down to his calves. Remember him? The guy with the pocket protector and the horn-rimmed glasses? The guy who weighed about a buck-ten? Yeah, him. The guy that got stuffed in his locker all the time.
Well, picture that guy after five years. Picture him after he discovered the beauty of a gym. After he got all new clothes and gained 60 pounds of muscle.
After those five years, lets just say he ran into one of those guys who kept stuffing him into a locker and then proceeded to beat the crap out of him. What do you think he would do then; help him up and shake his hand, or smack him across the mouth and mock him in front of his girlfriend?
The better part of 40 years the Patriots were that guy with the pocket protector until Scott Piolo, Robert Kraft and Bill Belichick showed them where the gym was. Now it's our turn.
As for running up the score, I don't recall any hue and cry when in 1986 when the Chicago Bears send a 700-pound defensive tackle to score a touchdown during the 46-10 Super Bowl route. Do you?
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Of Clowns and Swimming Pools
Back in the early days of the American Football League, the Patriots actually weren't that bad. Don't get me wrong, they never had any money and the stadium situation was embarrassing even by AFL standards, but the on-the-field product was pretty good.
In 1963, the Patriots even went to the league championship game. The blueprint for the team was a wide open passing game led by NFL castoff Babe Parelli and a savage defense featuring defensive end Jim Lee Hunt, Hall-of-Famer Nick Buonoconti and...defensive lineman Larry Eisenhauer.
Of all the oddball characters in the old AFL, few measured up to the Wildman - a nickname he did not earn for his exploits on the football field. He broke through the locker room wall in Buffalo with a head butt. In Kansas City, he walked onto the field wearing only his jock strap and helmet while it was snowing.
The classic story was the Pablo incident. Back in the mid-60s, Boston was a breeding ground for kid's television shows - Sesame Street, Captain Kangaroo, and Boom Town were the most popular. Boom Town feature the pseudo-cowboy named Rex Trailer and his side kick, a middle-aged clown named Pablo. The Boom Town producers made a deal with the Patriots to do a skit on the show. Basically, Pablo would try out for the team and at one point he would break a run and zig zag, Chaplinesque, through the Patriots defense for a touchdown as players were falling down and tripping over each other trying to get the clown. Clowns walking through a bunch of stumbling Patriot defenders would be a common occurance each Saturday night in a couple of years, but back then the Patriots defense was one of the best in the league. The players all agreed to the bit thinking that the kids would find it funny, plus, hell, it was good PR.
So the bit starts and Pablo starts his shifty-legged run as the Patriots, according to the script, are all tripping over each other. When Pablo gets to the 20-yard-line, he passes his last defender on the way to the end zone.
Unfortunately that last defender was Eisenhauer, who snapped. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone "even a clown" getting a free shot at the Patriot's end zone, so he led out a primal scream and took chase.
Pablo, of course, looked back, saw this 255-pound maniac chasing him and ran for his life. He didn't make it as the Wildman jumped on the 110-pound clown and squashed him to the dirt.
"Nobody gets across our goal line. Not even a clown."
Years later, Eisenhauer admitted that he was a little ashamed of the incident, but "I didn't really hurt him. I just jumped on his back. Why give the guy a free touchdown?"
That's Larry Eisenhauer.
So in 1963, the Patriots are about to play the San Diego Chargers for the AFL title. The Patriots were good, but the Chargers were NFL caliber, which in the day was a big deal. Either way, the Pats were going to get a vacation out of the deal since the game was being played in San Diego. Eisenhauer was so happy that he brought he equally large father with him.
The club that the players hung out at was located inside the hotel that they were staying at and Larry and his father were upstairs getting ready to join the team. But first, Larry and his father wanted to take a swim in the pool they found on the second floor. After putting their swim trunks on, both behemoths walked down to the second floor to dive in the pool. Right before jumping in they noticed all of these beautiful women swimming in mermaid outfits. The two men grinned at each other before diving it, "our lucky day."
The players at the bar were enjoying their drinks and watching a great feature of their new club - an aquarium behind the bar where these models, dressed as mermaid, swam. They were enjoying themselves until...
The world's largest mermaids were frolicking in the "pool" until they turned around and saw man of the New England Patriots drinks in hand sitting at the bar and staring at them with disgust.
That's Larry Eisenhauer.
In 1963, the Patriots even went to the league championship game. The blueprint for the team was a wide open passing game led by NFL castoff Babe Parelli and a savage defense featuring defensive end Jim Lee Hunt, Hall-of-Famer Nick Buonoconti and...defensive lineman Larry Eisenhauer.
Of all the oddball characters in the old AFL, few measured up to the Wildman - a nickname he did not earn for his exploits on the football field. He broke through the locker room wall in Buffalo with a head butt. In Kansas City, he walked onto the field wearing only his jock strap and helmet while it was snowing.
The classic story was the Pablo incident. Back in the mid-60s, Boston was a breeding ground for kid's television shows - Sesame Street, Captain Kangaroo, and Boom Town were the most popular. Boom Town feature the pseudo-cowboy named Rex Trailer and his side kick, a middle-aged clown named Pablo. The Boom Town producers made a deal with the Patriots to do a skit on the show. Basically, Pablo would try out for the team and at one point he would break a run and zig zag, Chaplinesque, through the Patriots defense for a touchdown as players were falling down and tripping over each other trying to get the clown. Clowns walking through a bunch of stumbling Patriot defenders would be a common occurance each Saturday night in a couple of years, but back then the Patriots defense was one of the best in the league. The players all agreed to the bit thinking that the kids would find it funny, plus, hell, it was good PR.
So the bit starts and Pablo starts his shifty-legged run as the Patriots, according to the script, are all tripping over each other. When Pablo gets to the 20-yard-line, he passes his last defender on the way to the end zone.
Unfortunately that last defender was Eisenhauer, who snapped. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone "even a clown" getting a free shot at the Patriot's end zone, so he led out a primal scream and took chase.
Pablo, of course, looked back, saw this 255-pound maniac chasing him and ran for his life. He didn't make it as the Wildman jumped on the 110-pound clown and squashed him to the dirt.
"Nobody gets across our goal line. Not even a clown."
Years later, Eisenhauer admitted that he was a little ashamed of the incident, but "I didn't really hurt him. I just jumped on his back. Why give the guy a free touchdown?"
That's Larry Eisenhauer.
So in 1963, the Patriots are about to play the San Diego Chargers for the AFL title. The Patriots were good, but the Chargers were NFL caliber, which in the day was a big deal. Either way, the Pats were going to get a vacation out of the deal since the game was being played in San Diego. Eisenhauer was so happy that he brought he equally large father with him.
The club that the players hung out at was located inside the hotel that they were staying at and Larry and his father were upstairs getting ready to join the team. But first, Larry and his father wanted to take a swim in the pool they found on the second floor. After putting their swim trunks on, both behemoths walked down to the second floor to dive in the pool. Right before jumping in they noticed all of these beautiful women swimming in mermaid outfits. The two men grinned at each other before diving it, "our lucky day."
The players at the bar were enjoying their drinks and watching a great feature of their new club - an aquarium behind the bar where these models, dressed as mermaid, swam. They were enjoying themselves until...
The world's largest mermaids were frolicking in the "pool" until they turned around and saw man of the New England Patriots drinks in hand sitting at the bar and staring at them with disgust.
That's Larry Eisenhauer.
Karma Strikes Back
After Brother Clive's Traveling Freak Show left town midway through the 1970 season, Billy Sullivan and General Manager Upton Bell brought in a guy who was the mirror opposite of Rush.
John Mazur was a two-time AFL champion as offensive coordinator with the Buffalo Bills. He was strict, organized and competent. Bell hated him.
I don't mean hate as a euphemism here. We're talking VooDoo dolls here. On the other hand, Mazur wasn't too keen on Bell either.
It's difficult to tell where the origin of this hate fest was. Mazur was head strong, had a believe of how he wanted things done and also had a strict military background. Bell accidentally released six players when he forgot what day the deadline for resigning veteran players was. Bottom line, it was everything. These two couldn't agree on where to get coffee in the morning.
Then as time went on, the two would do things for the singular purpose of aggrevating the hell out of the other. For example, in 1971, running back Carl Garrett was one of Mazur's favorite players. On top of that, he was one of the few on the team who weren't bad, old, or bad and old. Bell had to trade him because this was the start of his bizarre campaign to get Mazur fired.
In return for the very competent Garrett, Bell got the professional pain-in-the-butt Duane Thomas. Picture Manny Ramirez on a Valium and Quaaludes cocktail. One Thomas's first day, he got into an argument with the coach over whether a two- or three- point stance should be used during a certain play. Thomas finally ended the conversation by saying, "I do what I do, man."
Mazur finally threw him off the field and the team captains started to pool to see if Mazur was going to cut Thomas first or if Thomas was going to get Mazur fired. Call it a draw since Thomas refused to take the physical and the trade was recinded.
By each passing week, the Patriots 1971 season was beginning to resemble the movie "Major League." Despite everything Bell did to try and get Mazur fired, the Patriots actually weren't that bad. Rookie quarterback Jim Plunkett was having a pretty good season. The oft-cut Bob Gladieux and the oft-traded Carl Garrett added some punch to the running game. By week 14, the Pats had actually beaten league luminaries such as the Oakland Raiders and the Miami Dolphins.
But it wasn't enough for Bell, he wanted Mazur's head. During a meeting of the Patriot's board of directors (right after the legos part of the agenda), Bell talked the board into agreeing to fire Mazur if the Patriots didn't win the final regular season game against the Baltimore Colt - or as they were then know, the defending Super Bowl Champion Baltimore Colts - at Baltimore. That certainly seems fair.
At one point in my life, I considered becoming a Buddist because I love the concept of Karma. The Patriots got wind of this little nasty deal and decided to put up a fight. Despite that, they were still trailing 17-14 with about a minute to go. The Patriots did have the ball, but it was on their 12 yard line. There was no overtime back then, so if that Pats got a field goal, it wouldn't matter, they still didn't win. That was the moronic requirement.
It didn't matter. Plunkett stepped behind center at his 12 and looked to his right. That's where he saw single coverage on his old college roommate and then number one receiver, Randy Vataha. Plunkett gave a quick nod. Vataha knew what he wanted and ran a "go" pattern as fast as he could. Jim hit the little receiver in stride down the sidelines and there was no one back there.
Up in the press box, Bell was nice enough to complete the great moment of Zen by screaming at the top of his lungs for Vataha to; first, drop the ball, second, slow down and, third, fall down. None of them happened and Mazur kept his job one more year despite nearly punching Bell after the game.
As with most things Patriots before 2001, this didn't affect anything since both were gone by the end of the 1972 season.
John Mazur was a two-time AFL champion as offensive coordinator with the Buffalo Bills. He was strict, organized and competent. Bell hated him.
I don't mean hate as a euphemism here. We're talking VooDoo dolls here. On the other hand, Mazur wasn't too keen on Bell either.
It's difficult to tell where the origin of this hate fest was. Mazur was head strong, had a believe of how he wanted things done and also had a strict military background. Bell accidentally released six players when he forgot what day the deadline for resigning veteran players was. Bottom line, it was everything. These two couldn't agree on where to get coffee in the morning.
Then as time went on, the two would do things for the singular purpose of aggrevating the hell out of the other. For example, in 1971, running back Carl Garrett was one of Mazur's favorite players. On top of that, he was one of the few on the team who weren't bad, old, or bad and old. Bell had to trade him because this was the start of his bizarre campaign to get Mazur fired.
In return for the very competent Garrett, Bell got the professional pain-in-the-butt Duane Thomas. Picture Manny Ramirez on a Valium and Quaaludes cocktail. One Thomas's first day, he got into an argument with the coach over whether a two- or three- point stance should be used during a certain play. Thomas finally ended the conversation by saying, "I do what I do, man."
Mazur finally threw him off the field and the team captains started to pool to see if Mazur was going to cut Thomas first or if Thomas was going to get Mazur fired. Call it a draw since Thomas refused to take the physical and the trade was recinded.
By each passing week, the Patriots 1971 season was beginning to resemble the movie "Major League." Despite everything Bell did to try and get Mazur fired, the Patriots actually weren't that bad. Rookie quarterback Jim Plunkett was having a pretty good season. The oft-cut Bob Gladieux and the oft-traded Carl Garrett added some punch to the running game. By week 14, the Pats had actually beaten league luminaries such as the Oakland Raiders and the Miami Dolphins.
But it wasn't enough for Bell, he wanted Mazur's head. During a meeting of the Patriot's board of directors (right after the legos part of the agenda), Bell talked the board into agreeing to fire Mazur if the Patriots didn't win the final regular season game against the Baltimore Colt - or as they were then know, the defending Super Bowl Champion Baltimore Colts - at Baltimore. That certainly seems fair.
At one point in my life, I considered becoming a Buddist because I love the concept of Karma. The Patriots got wind of this little nasty deal and decided to put up a fight. Despite that, they were still trailing 17-14 with about a minute to go. The Patriots did have the ball, but it was on their 12 yard line. There was no overtime back then, so if that Pats got a field goal, it wouldn't matter, they still didn't win. That was the moronic requirement.
It didn't matter. Plunkett stepped behind center at his 12 and looked to his right. That's where he saw single coverage on his old college roommate and then number one receiver, Randy Vataha. Plunkett gave a quick nod. Vataha knew what he wanted and ran a "go" pattern as fast as he could. Jim hit the little receiver in stride down the sidelines and there was no one back there.
Up in the press box, Bell was nice enough to complete the great moment of Zen by screaming at the top of his lungs for Vataha to; first, drop the ball, second, slow down and, third, fall down. None of them happened and Mazur kept his job one more year despite nearly punching Bell after the game.
As with most things Patriots before 2001, this didn't affect anything since both were gone by the end of the 1972 season.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
400 Pound Elvis Impersonators.
The following story is pretty much the poster child for Patriot stupidity. It was right here when everyone realized that there's no Curse of the Billy Goat here, the management was just really incompetent. It was right here when the Patriots became the laughing stock of the NFL, a title they would successfully defend against all comers for the next 16 years.
In 1972, Billy Sullivan went on another one of his semi-regular worldwide searches for a new football coach. Not only did the last three searches not go too well, but the Patriots were still paying all three. But this time was going to be different. We're not going to borrow a scout from another franchise to coach the team this time (Phil Bengston), the Pats said. No recruiting in Bellevue now, the Patriots are really serious this time.
At first, they appeared to be serious. Sullivan had been in contact with Penn State's Joe Paterno, Oklahoma's Chuck Fairbanks and just about every other major college coach in the country. Surprising no one, Joe Pa showed his usual good judgement and turned the job down, but to the shock of everyone, Fairbanks accepted.
Fairbanks was a real coach. He was professional and everything. No one had any clue why he would take this Godforsaken job. Well, in a few months, it became clear. It seemed that the University of Oklahoma's athletic department (a.k.a. the football team) was about to get whacked by the NCAA for putting members of the creative writing department in charge of student transcripts. This, by accident, mind you, just happened to benefit the fooball players maintain their eligibility. The Sooners had had enough of these shenanagans and turned to a strict, rule-abiding, diciplinarian to take over their team - Barry Switzer.
Either way, starting in 1973, Chuck Fairbanks was the coach and GM of your New England Patriots. Over the years, some have questioned his coaching ability, but no one has ever questioned his eye for talent and ability to draft and in New England this is no mean feat. This is the same team, whose personnel director, Ed McKeever, suggested that they pick a certain receiver before the 1968 draft. Thankfully, someone on the crack staff figured out that the future Patriot had been dead for six month before they made the pick.
Those days were long gone. In his first year, Fairbanks (with the help of personnel director Bucko Kilroy) picked up guard John Hannah, running back Sam "Bam" Cunningham and wide out Darryl Stingley in the first round, plus they picked up future starting nose tackle "Sugar Bear" Ray Hamilton in the 15th round. In 1974, they nabbed future starting line backers Steve Nelson, Sam Hunt and future starting running back Andy Johnson. In 1975, future pro bowler Russ Francis was added along with soon-to-be local legend, quarterback Steve Grogan. Hall of famer Mike Haynes was brought on in 1976 with future starters center Pete Brock and safety Tim Fox. In 1977, future pro bowler corner back Ray Clayborn and future pro bowl receiver Stanley Morgan were drafted.
This crew quickly started to gel and by 1974, the team was no longer an embarrassment. By 1976, they were not only respectable, they were contenders. Some might go as far as saying they could have won the Super Bowl that year if it wasn't for an absolutely criminal officiating job by Ben Dreith's crew during the first playoff game against Oakland (and I'm not even counting the roughing-the-passer call).
Then...ahem...things started to happen. I have a theory about this. When Fairbanks came on, it appeared that he raised the organizational IQ of the Pats (not hard to do at the time) significantly. They were actually competent. But the Peter Principle come into effect and if you hang around those birds long enough, you're IQ will start to drop. It's difficult to make someone smarter, it's not difficult at all to dumb down a smart guy.
In 1977, Hannah and fellow pro bowl tackle Leon Gray held out of training camp. Fairbanks was finally able to come to an agreement with the shared agent of the two players before the season, but Billy Sullivan vetoed the deal. Gray and Hannah missed up until Week 4 and the Pats missed the playoffs.
1978 started off horribly as Darryl Stingley was crippled by a Jack Tatum hit during a preseason. (God bless ol' Paul Zimmerman. When asked what he thought of Tatum's Hall of Fame chances, Dr. Z said "not while I'm alive. He didn't have to hit Stingley like that." May you live forever Doc.) Swallowing their pain, the Patriots picked up pro-bowler Harold Jackson and started the season with one of the most talented teams in the league. They gained over 3,100 yards on the ground (still an NFL record) and they did it without one back gaining over 800 yards. Outside of the famed Pittsburgh Steelers, that Patriot team was probably the most talented in the league. Many still say that this team was the most talented Patriots team even up until this year (including the Super Bowl winners). They rolled to a 11-4 record with a tough schedule and had already clinched the division when they got ready to play a Monday Night game in Miami. This last win and people could start talking about Pittsburgh and New England in a classic AFC title game.
And here's where my theory kicks in.
Weeks earlier, Billy Sullivan noticed local high school players and high school coaches dropping by Fairbank's office. It actually happened quite often. This puzzled Sullivan. Billy knew Chuck was big on recruiting, but this was a little extreme. Why would so many high school players and coaches be coming by Chuck's office?
Finally, Billy figured out what everyone else seemed to know. Fairbanks accepted a job with the University of Colorado for the 1979 season. He was recruiting...for his new job. Either Fairbanks just thought Sullivan was so stupid he wouldn't notice or my theory took effect, either way Billy was pissed.
So pissed that Billy decided to throw out his trump card, one of his claims-to-fame, the inappropriate-locker-room-confrontation. Before the Miami game, Sullivan outed Fairbanks in front of all his players and threw his head coach out of the locker room, suspending him (couldn't fire him because then Billy would have to pay the rest of the contract). The owner then couldn't even make up his mind on who the new coach should be, so he made coordinators Ron Erhardt and Hank Bullough, co-coaches. When the teams came on the field, the Monday Night Football announcers, Howard Cosell, Don Meredith and Frank Gifford were obviously confused as to why these two guys were wearing headsets and where was Fairbanks? After the Miami game, each co-coach's record was 0 - 1/2 as the Patriots lost 23-3. Sullivan reinstated Fairbanks for the playoffs while initiating legal proceedings against his coach. Oddly enough, the team was uninspired for the playoff game and lost to the upstart Oilers 31-14 at home - and it wasn't that close.
And from here the Patriots returned back to that place they knew so well, laughing stock. With those Patriots in the late 1970s, it was almost like looking at one of those 400 pound Elvis impersonators. The guy's trying, but it just doesn't look right.
In 1972, Billy Sullivan went on another one of his semi-regular worldwide searches for a new football coach. Not only did the last three searches not go too well, but the Patriots were still paying all three. But this time was going to be different. We're not going to borrow a scout from another franchise to coach the team this time (Phil Bengston), the Pats said. No recruiting in Bellevue now, the Patriots are really serious this time.
At first, they appeared to be serious. Sullivan had been in contact with Penn State's Joe Paterno, Oklahoma's Chuck Fairbanks and just about every other major college coach in the country. Surprising no one, Joe Pa showed his usual good judgement and turned the job down, but to the shock of everyone, Fairbanks accepted.
Fairbanks was a real coach. He was professional and everything. No one had any clue why he would take this Godforsaken job. Well, in a few months, it became clear. It seemed that the University of Oklahoma's athletic department (a.k.a. the football team) was about to get whacked by the NCAA for putting members of the creative writing department in charge of student transcripts. This, by accident, mind you, just happened to benefit the fooball players maintain their eligibility. The Sooners had had enough of these shenanagans and turned to a strict, rule-abiding, diciplinarian to take over their team - Barry Switzer.
Either way, starting in 1973, Chuck Fairbanks was the coach and GM of your New England Patriots. Over the years, some have questioned his coaching ability, but no one has ever questioned his eye for talent and ability to draft and in New England this is no mean feat. This is the same team, whose personnel director, Ed McKeever, suggested that they pick a certain receiver before the 1968 draft. Thankfully, someone on the crack staff figured out that the future Patriot had been dead for six month before they made the pick.
Those days were long gone. In his first year, Fairbanks (with the help of personnel director Bucko Kilroy) picked up guard John Hannah, running back Sam "Bam" Cunningham and wide out Darryl Stingley in the first round, plus they picked up future starting nose tackle "Sugar Bear" Ray Hamilton in the 15th round. In 1974, they nabbed future starting line backers Steve Nelson, Sam Hunt and future starting running back Andy Johnson. In 1975, future pro bowler Russ Francis was added along with soon-to-be local legend, quarterback Steve Grogan. Hall of famer Mike Haynes was brought on in 1976 with future starters center Pete Brock and safety Tim Fox. In 1977, future pro bowler corner back Ray Clayborn and future pro bowl receiver Stanley Morgan were drafted.
This crew quickly started to gel and by 1974, the team was no longer an embarrassment. By 1976, they were not only respectable, they were contenders. Some might go as far as saying they could have won the Super Bowl that year if it wasn't for an absolutely criminal officiating job by Ben Dreith's crew during the first playoff game against Oakland (and I'm not even counting the roughing-the-passer call).
Then...ahem...things started to happen. I have a theory about this. When Fairbanks came on, it appeared that he raised the organizational IQ of the Pats (not hard to do at the time) significantly. They were actually competent. But the Peter Principle come into effect and if you hang around those birds long enough, you're IQ will start to drop. It's difficult to make someone smarter, it's not difficult at all to dumb down a smart guy.
In 1977, Hannah and fellow pro bowl tackle Leon Gray held out of training camp. Fairbanks was finally able to come to an agreement with the shared agent of the two players before the season, but Billy Sullivan vetoed the deal. Gray and Hannah missed up until Week 4 and the Pats missed the playoffs.
1978 started off horribly as Darryl Stingley was crippled by a Jack Tatum hit during a preseason. (God bless ol' Paul Zimmerman. When asked what he thought of Tatum's Hall of Fame chances, Dr. Z said "not while I'm alive. He didn't have to hit Stingley like that." May you live forever Doc.) Swallowing their pain, the Patriots picked up pro-bowler Harold Jackson and started the season with one of the most talented teams in the league. They gained over 3,100 yards on the ground (still an NFL record) and they did it without one back gaining over 800 yards. Outside of the famed Pittsburgh Steelers, that Patriot team was probably the most talented in the league. Many still say that this team was the most talented Patriots team even up until this year (including the Super Bowl winners). They rolled to a 11-4 record with a tough schedule and had already clinched the division when they got ready to play a Monday Night game in Miami. This last win and people could start talking about Pittsburgh and New England in a classic AFC title game.
And here's where my theory kicks in.
Weeks earlier, Billy Sullivan noticed local high school players and high school coaches dropping by Fairbank's office. It actually happened quite often. This puzzled Sullivan. Billy knew Chuck was big on recruiting, but this was a little extreme. Why would so many high school players and coaches be coming by Chuck's office?
Finally, Billy figured out what everyone else seemed to know. Fairbanks accepted a job with the University of Colorado for the 1979 season. He was recruiting...for his new job. Either Fairbanks just thought Sullivan was so stupid he wouldn't notice or my theory took effect, either way Billy was pissed.
So pissed that Billy decided to throw out his trump card, one of his claims-to-fame, the inappropriate-locker-room-confrontation. Before the Miami game, Sullivan outed Fairbanks in front of all his players and threw his head coach out of the locker room, suspending him (couldn't fire him because then Billy would have to pay the rest of the contract). The owner then couldn't even make up his mind on who the new coach should be, so he made coordinators Ron Erhardt and Hank Bullough, co-coaches. When the teams came on the field, the Monday Night Football announcers, Howard Cosell, Don Meredith and Frank Gifford were obviously confused as to why these two guys were wearing headsets and where was Fairbanks? After the Miami game, each co-coach's record was 0 - 1/2 as the Patriots lost 23-3. Sullivan reinstated Fairbanks for the playoffs while initiating legal proceedings against his coach. Oddly enough, the team was uninspired for the playoff game and lost to the upstart Oilers 31-14 at home - and it wasn't that close.
And from here the Patriots returned back to that place they knew so well, laughing stock. With those Patriots in the late 1970s, it was almost like looking at one of those 400 pound Elvis impersonators. The guy's trying, but it just doesn't look right.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
There's a Hole Right There.
By the early 1970s, Billy Sullivan had a dream - to build a state-of-the-art Taj Mahal named after a brewery for his beloved New England Patriots.
Coincidentally, that dream occurred around the same time that every stadium in the Boston area evicted the future world champs. The Pats got around in the old AFL days. They played in Fenway Park, BC's Alumni Stadium (which the fans set on fire), Harvard Stadium, BU's Nickerson Field and even one home game in Memphis. It was right around the time that the Patriots had to cross the Mason/Dixon line for a home game that Sullivan had his dream.
He scoured Boston for potential locations, but there was nothing. He then looked at surrounding suburbs and found nothing again. Finally he settled on a leafy burg called Foxboro, located about 30 miles southwest of Boston. In 1971, Billy unveiled his $4,000,000, 60,000 seat palace, called Schaefer Stadium (the one beer to have when your having more than one).
Some cynical fans had complaints. Mostly petty things like the fact that only one road, a small four-lane highway called Route 1, leading to and from the stadium, which led to some minor traffic jams. If the game ended at 4 p.m., you might be back in Boston by midnight.
Another famous whine was about the seats. Only about one-fourth of the seat had backs. The rest had to make due on steel benches. Sullivan was even nice enough to put grooves in them so you didn't fall off, but there's no satisfying some people. Some medical "experts" even said that these seats caused a generation of fans to grow up with spinal problems. You can't have everything.
And if that wasn't enough there were the complaints about the concession area. One half of this section of the stadium was opened to the elements and it just happened to be the side where the wind gusts through and carries the rain with it. Who knew? So this issue caused the occasional three-to-four foot flood? So what if some toddlers were known to get swept away in the torrent. At least it was home.
But I'm getting ahead of myself here. In 1971, the Patriots finally had a franchise quarterback in Jim Plunkett (granted the Offensive Line coach appeared to be a matador in a prior life, but it was a start), and a brand spanking new stadium.
There was only one thing left to do before welcoming the Oakland Raiders to this new local treasure, check the water pressure.
The engineers were concerned about what would happened if everyone was using a toilet at the same time and everyone flushed at the same time. Yes, it was unlikely, but the Patriots always crossed their "I"s and dotted their "T"s. So the Pats send every employee they could find to flush each toilet at the same time to see what would happen.
On the count of three, each Schaefer Stadium bathroom turned into a mini-Cape Canaveral with toilets being launched into the stratosphere. After a night of brainstorming, the brass of the team came up with their only solution before the fans arrived.
"Excuse me, sir, where are the toilets?"
"Ah, yeah, when you walk into the men's room take a sharp left, look down, there's a hole right there..."
Coincidentally, that dream occurred around the same time that every stadium in the Boston area evicted the future world champs. The Pats got around in the old AFL days. They played in Fenway Park, BC's Alumni Stadium (which the fans set on fire), Harvard Stadium, BU's Nickerson Field and even one home game in Memphis. It was right around the time that the Patriots had to cross the Mason/Dixon line for a home game that Sullivan had his dream.
He scoured Boston for potential locations, but there was nothing. He then looked at surrounding suburbs and found nothing again. Finally he settled on a leafy burg called Foxboro, located about 30 miles southwest of Boston. In 1971, Billy unveiled his $4,000,000, 60,000 seat palace, called Schaefer Stadium (the one beer to have when your having more than one).
Some cynical fans had complaints. Mostly petty things like the fact that only one road, a small four-lane highway called Route 1, leading to and from the stadium, which led to some minor traffic jams. If the game ended at 4 p.m., you might be back in Boston by midnight.
Another famous whine was about the seats. Only about one-fourth of the seat had backs. The rest had to make due on steel benches. Sullivan was even nice enough to put grooves in them so you didn't fall off, but there's no satisfying some people. Some medical "experts" even said that these seats caused a generation of fans to grow up with spinal problems. You can't have everything.
And if that wasn't enough there were the complaints about the concession area. One half of this section of the stadium was opened to the elements and it just happened to be the side where the wind gusts through and carries the rain with it. Who knew? So this issue caused the occasional three-to-four foot flood? So what if some toddlers were known to get swept away in the torrent. At least it was home.
But I'm getting ahead of myself here. In 1971, the Patriots finally had a franchise quarterback in Jim Plunkett (granted the Offensive Line coach appeared to be a matador in a prior life, but it was a start), and a brand spanking new stadium.
There was only one thing left to do before welcoming the Oakland Raiders to this new local treasure, check the water pressure.
The engineers were concerned about what would happened if everyone was using a toilet at the same time and everyone flushed at the same time. Yes, it was unlikely, but the Patriots always crossed their "I"s and dotted their "T"s. So the Pats send every employee they could find to flush each toilet at the same time to see what would happen.
On the count of three, each Schaefer Stadium bathroom turned into a mini-Cape Canaveral with toilets being launched into the stratosphere. After a night of brainstorming, the brass of the team came up with their only solution before the fans arrived.
"Excuse me, sir, where are the toilets?"
"Ah, yeah, when you walk into the men's room take a sharp left, look down, there's a hole right there..."
The 12th Man - Literally
Some players today insist that they never watch sports on the news, read the papers or listen to sports radio. Take that for what you will, but back in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s some players had no choice. That’s usually how they found out if they got cut. Head Coach Clive Rush sometimes forgot this piddling little detail.
After camp in both the 1969 and 1970 season, running back Bob Gladieux learned he got cut not from Clive Rush, but from Don Gillis. The first year, it scared him because he was out of a job, but after the Patriot resigned him after the first week’s game, he figured out what was up. There was a clause in his contract that he would get a bonus if he made the roster on opening day. If he signed after the first game, obviously he didn’t make the roster by opening day, now did he?
When this happened again in 1970, Gladieux was a little peeved and decided to take his revenge on the Patriots the best way he knew how – he went on a week-long bender. It’s unclear whether more people claimed to have been at Fenway Park when Ted Williams hit his final home run or to have seen Gladieux roaming the Back Bay during all hours of that week.
Come opening day, Gladieux was still feeling the effects of the booze from the previous Tuesday when his friend asked if he wanted to go to the game. Sure, what the hell. So Gladieux and his buddy picked up a case of beer for the trip and made their way down Route 1 to catch the Patriots shock the young, soon-to-be powerhouse Miami Dolphins. What happened next has become part of Patriot folklore and like many myths almost everyone has a different version of the event. My father certainly has had his share of versions, all of which he denies today (including one where he said the running back was not Gladieux, but former Heisman Trophy winner Joe Bellino). He did say them and I have witnesses.
With that said, the following account may be the closest to being accurate with some literary license taken by the Old Man. According to Dad, Gladieux and his friend were sitting behind them when the game started. After sharing greetings, the four began to enjoy the game.
What those four did not know was the drama that just played out in the Patriots locker room. Running back John Charles refused to sign a new contract (maybe his roster bonus wasn't high enough) and Billy was miffed. So right before the game, as Charles is taping his ankles, Sullivan ran into the locker room and confronted the player (as you will see Billy and locker room confrontations go together like peanut butter and jelly). Charles still refused to sign the contract and Billy cut him on the spot. Take that.
"Um, Mr. Sullivan," Clive Rush said.
"Yeahssss, Clive."
"Now we're short a running back."
Hummmmm, who to get? Who to get? Who to get?
From here, we’ll use Gladieux’s version of the story. Down in the concession area, waiting in line, Gladieux was spotted by a member of the Patriot’s staff. "We can't wait until after week one to screw you out of your roster bonus", the staff member said. "We need to screw you now. Suit up." (Okay, I made the quote up.)
A few minutes later, Gladieux, smelling like a Tennessee brewery, was in full uniform ready to cover second half kick off. For this, Bob had a plan. He was going to run as fast as he could to the sideline as far away from everyone else as possible. Good enough, but there was one glitch. The return man cut to that same sideline and ran into Gladieux, either that or he passed out from the fumes.
Back up in the stands, the three companions were still complaining about the beers when they heard this announcement over the loud speaker.
“On the tackle, Bob Gladieux.”
“Guess we’re not getting those beers,” Gladieux’s buddy signed as his friend was vomiting on the sidelines.
By the way, Gladieux never did get the roster bonus for 1970. He wasn’t on the opening roster - missed it by about 30 minutes.
After camp in both the 1969 and 1970 season, running back Bob Gladieux learned he got cut not from Clive Rush, but from Don Gillis. The first year, it scared him because he was out of a job, but after the Patriot resigned him after the first week’s game, he figured out what was up. There was a clause in his contract that he would get a bonus if he made the roster on opening day. If he signed after the first game, obviously he didn’t make the roster by opening day, now did he?
When this happened again in 1970, Gladieux was a little peeved and decided to take his revenge on the Patriots the best way he knew how – he went on a week-long bender. It’s unclear whether more people claimed to have been at Fenway Park when Ted Williams hit his final home run or to have seen Gladieux roaming the Back Bay during all hours of that week.
Come opening day, Gladieux was still feeling the effects of the booze from the previous Tuesday when his friend asked if he wanted to go to the game. Sure, what the hell. So Gladieux and his buddy picked up a case of beer for the trip and made their way down Route 1 to catch the Patriots shock the young, soon-to-be powerhouse Miami Dolphins. What happened next has become part of Patriot folklore and like many myths almost everyone has a different version of the event. My father certainly has had his share of versions, all of which he denies today (including one where he said the running back was not Gladieux, but former Heisman Trophy winner Joe Bellino). He did say them and I have witnesses.
With that said, the following account may be the closest to being accurate with some literary license taken by the Old Man. According to Dad, Gladieux and his friend were sitting behind them when the game started. After sharing greetings, the four began to enjoy the game.
What those four did not know was the drama that just played out in the Patriots locker room. Running back John Charles refused to sign a new contract (maybe his roster bonus wasn't high enough) and Billy was miffed. So right before the game, as Charles is taping his ankles, Sullivan ran into the locker room and confronted the player (as you will see Billy and locker room confrontations go together like peanut butter and jelly). Charles still refused to sign the contract and Billy cut him on the spot. Take that.
"Um, Mr. Sullivan," Clive Rush said.
"Yeahssss, Clive."
"Now we're short a running back."
Hummmmm, who to get? Who to get? Who to get?
From here, we’ll use Gladieux’s version of the story. Down in the concession area, waiting in line, Gladieux was spotted by a member of the Patriot’s staff. "We can't wait until after week one to screw you out of your roster bonus", the staff member said. "We need to screw you now. Suit up." (Okay, I made the quote up.)
A few minutes later, Gladieux, smelling like a Tennessee brewery, was in full uniform ready to cover second half kick off. For this, Bob had a plan. He was going to run as fast as he could to the sideline as far away from everyone else as possible. Good enough, but there was one glitch. The return man cut to that same sideline and ran into Gladieux, either that or he passed out from the fumes.
Back up in the stands, the three companions were still complaining about the beers when they heard this announcement over the loud speaker.
“On the tackle, Bob Gladieux.”
“Guess we’re not getting those beers,” Gladieux’s buddy signed as his friend was vomiting on the sidelines.
By the way, Gladieux never did get the roster bonus for 1970. He wasn’t on the opening roster - missed it by about 30 minutes.
"Rush" to Glory
Oh, so you’re sooooo much better than all of us – just because you haven’t had a head coach institutionalized. First of all, let’s get the facts straight, he wasn’t institutionalized per se. Technically, he was sent to the hospital for observation…ahem…for eight weeks.
In 1968, Clive Rush was the offensive coordinator for the New York Jets – those Jets, the Joe Namath Jets, the I-Guarantee-It Jets. The title probably is a little gaudy considering Namath called approximately 100 percent of the plays that year, but technically (there are a lot of technicalities in Clive’s life) he was the offensive coordinator.
At about this time, the Patriots were on their first of many nation-wide searches for the best coach available to finally bring the Patriots to glory. After searching the East Coast to the West Coast down the Dixie Highway back home, Billy Sullivan came up with two finalists; Clive Rush and a defensive assistant with the Baltimore Colts, whose name escapes me right now.
Right before Super Bowl III, it appeared that Sullivan had made up his mind and was going with that Colt’s assistant (I wish I could come up with his name. This is going to drive me nuts). Plus, the Colts were going to win, so it would look even better. That assistant was more impressive in the interviews and seemed to have a game plan. Clive…was Clive.
Sullivan decided to offer this Colt’s assistant (Was it Joe? Steve?) the job after the Super Bowl. One problem. The Colts kinda lost. Now, Sullivan has a bit of a problem on his hands, a conundrum, if you will. The Patriots might look foolish if they hire a coach off the losing team, no matter how qualified that coach may be, and the last thing - the absolute last thing - the Patriots would ever want to do is to look foolish. I mean when I think of those Patriots, words like dignity, class, and toxin-free just come leaping off my tongue.
Billy just wasn’t sure what to do, so he made a telephone call to Joe Namath, a man who happens to play for a division rival, I might add, to get a referral regarding ol’ Clive. Broadway Joe, with no other agenda than to help the downtrodden Patriots – no, sir, made his coach sound like the second coming of Vince Lombardi. The decision was a slam dunk now, he was the (non-play calling) offensive coordinator on the Super Bowl champs and his division rival thought the coach would really help their team (wink, wink). What other qualifications could you possibly need?
Early in 1969, Billy called a press conference to announce his big coup. As Clive sat down at the podium, he grabbed the mic to make his opening statement. The wire on the microphone was damaged causing the mic to short out. It’s been a long time since I’ve taken physics class, but electricity always needs to find a home. It needs to be grounded. The electricity in this microphone found a home in Clive, causing him to do a little dance. Thankfully, at this very moment, a Patriot PR guy found something useful to for the very first time, pull out the plug.
Clive was okay; well, as okay as Clive got, and he started his first camp in 1969 ready to bring the Patriots to Valhalla. The press was open minded, but they did note a couple of odd quirks. Like the times he insisted on stripping naked, blasting the air-conditioner in his office and slugging Jack Daniels out of the bottle while conducting interviews with the press. Plus, he tended to forget to tell guys that they got cut. (We’ll get to that later.) But, hell, if he’s a good coach, who cares?
Then, the season started. First of all, in Clive’s defense, the team wasn’t very good to begin with. And he did try to shake things up. His first great innovation was that he was the first coach to play 11 African American players on defense at that same time. He was also the first coach to play 11 bad African American players on defense at the same time. But, never mind that negativity, mister, Clive’s gonna inspire these guys. Know what they need? A nickname. The Black Power defense. There we go. The Black Power defense proceeded to give up 26 points-a-game. I’m pretty sure this isn’t what Stokely Carmichael had in mind.
Clive was also known to be quite innovative during the game. During one contest against the expansion Cincinnati Bengals in 1969, Clive was matched up against his old mentor Paul Brown. Clive had what some would call an obsession with Brown that led to great bursts on brilliance. Take this conversation which took place before a third-down play against the Bengals.
Rush – “Send in the Punt Team.”
Bewildered Assistant – “Huh.”
Rush – “Punt Formations.”
Bewildered Assistant – “I thought it was third down.”
Rush (grinning) – “It is.”
Bewildered Assistant – “Then why are we punting.”
Rush – “’Cause he’ll never expect it. Brown’s made his living getting into people’s heads – reading their minds. Let him read mine. I’ll mess with his. He’ll never expect this.”
Bewildered Assistant – “So we’re gonna fake it?”
Rush - “Nope, punt…Are you listening?
Bewildered Assistant (pupils dilating) – “Yes. Punt.”
Rush – “That’s right. Punt. I got ya, now, Brown, I got ya.”
Say what you will, but the Patriots actually won that game.
Despite the 4 – 10 record that year, there was hope for the future since the man behind the scene pulling the strings was that great judge of talent, General Manager Upton Bell. Upton’s first shocker was when he traded unflappable, talented, but aging Babe Parilli for flappable, talentless, but young Mike Taliaferro (it took me seven years to figure out that his name was pronounced Tolliver). In 1969, Taliaferro unleashed his secret weapon on the AFL – the three-yard drop off pass. By 1970, Bell and Rush felt they needed a little more variety at the position and Bell knew just who he wanted.
In 1969, the Irish-boiled-dinner tough Joe Kapp led the Vikings to Super Bowl IV. At the end of the season, Kapp, who’d been a legend in the Canadian Football League, wanted a raise for his good work. Vikings GM Jim Finks had other ideas. Finks was troubled by the fact that Kapp had only thrown five spirals in the past eight years; that most of his passes looked like a quail just blasted by double-aught buckshot; and that he ran like the Mafia was about to throw him in the river. Instead of Kapp’s raise, he got cut.
This did not send shockwaves throughout the NFL since most of the league already knew what Finks knew. The league might have felt nothing, but Patriots headquarters were located on the San Andreas Fault – they had to have Kapp. Bell had a plan in place to make his dream come true; he would out bid all comers – including the Patriots. Somehow, without any competing bidders, the Patriots made Kapp one of the highest paid players in the league. To the NFL, the reeked of that taboo of the times, free agency, so Commissar Pete Rozelle awarding the Viking two of the Patriot’s first round draft choices as compensation. Kapp would reward the Patriots by tossing a whopping three touchdowns and a scant 17 interceptions. He was out of football the next year.
Midway through the 1970 season, Rush’s little quirks started to concern Sullivan. It concerned him so much that Sullivan placed a call to a local hospital to come and pick Rush up for an “undisclosed medical condition.” Rush would never get another shot as a head coach in the NFL.
Oh, I remember who the Baltimore defensive coach was. Some guy named Chuck Noll. Wonder what happened to him?
In 1968, Clive Rush was the offensive coordinator for the New York Jets – those Jets, the Joe Namath Jets, the I-Guarantee-It Jets. The title probably is a little gaudy considering Namath called approximately 100 percent of the plays that year, but technically (there are a lot of technicalities in Clive’s life) he was the offensive coordinator.
At about this time, the Patriots were on their first of many nation-wide searches for the best coach available to finally bring the Patriots to glory. After searching the East Coast to the West Coast down the Dixie Highway back home, Billy Sullivan came up with two finalists; Clive Rush and a defensive assistant with the Baltimore Colts, whose name escapes me right now.
Right before Super Bowl III, it appeared that Sullivan had made up his mind and was going with that Colt’s assistant (I wish I could come up with his name. This is going to drive me nuts). Plus, the Colts were going to win, so it would look even better. That assistant was more impressive in the interviews and seemed to have a game plan. Clive…was Clive.
Sullivan decided to offer this Colt’s assistant (Was it Joe? Steve?) the job after the Super Bowl. One problem. The Colts kinda lost. Now, Sullivan has a bit of a problem on his hands, a conundrum, if you will. The Patriots might look foolish if they hire a coach off the losing team, no matter how qualified that coach may be, and the last thing - the absolute last thing - the Patriots would ever want to do is to look foolish. I mean when I think of those Patriots, words like dignity, class, and toxin-free just come leaping off my tongue.
Billy just wasn’t sure what to do, so he made a telephone call to Joe Namath, a man who happens to play for a division rival, I might add, to get a referral regarding ol’ Clive. Broadway Joe, with no other agenda than to help the downtrodden Patriots – no, sir, made his coach sound like the second coming of Vince Lombardi. The decision was a slam dunk now, he was the (non-play calling) offensive coordinator on the Super Bowl champs and his division rival thought the coach would really help their team (wink, wink). What other qualifications could you possibly need?
Early in 1969, Billy called a press conference to announce his big coup. As Clive sat down at the podium, he grabbed the mic to make his opening statement. The wire on the microphone was damaged causing the mic to short out. It’s been a long time since I’ve taken physics class, but electricity always needs to find a home. It needs to be grounded. The electricity in this microphone found a home in Clive, causing him to do a little dance. Thankfully, at this very moment, a Patriot PR guy found something useful to for the very first time, pull out the plug.
Clive was okay; well, as okay as Clive got, and he started his first camp in 1969 ready to bring the Patriots to Valhalla. The press was open minded, but they did note a couple of odd quirks. Like the times he insisted on stripping naked, blasting the air-conditioner in his office and slugging Jack Daniels out of the bottle while conducting interviews with the press. Plus, he tended to forget to tell guys that they got cut. (We’ll get to that later.) But, hell, if he’s a good coach, who cares?
Then, the season started. First of all, in Clive’s defense, the team wasn’t very good to begin with. And he did try to shake things up. His first great innovation was that he was the first coach to play 11 African American players on defense at that same time. He was also the first coach to play 11 bad African American players on defense at the same time. But, never mind that negativity, mister, Clive’s gonna inspire these guys. Know what they need? A nickname. The Black Power defense. There we go. The Black Power defense proceeded to give up 26 points-a-game. I’m pretty sure this isn’t what Stokely Carmichael had in mind.
Clive was also known to be quite innovative during the game. During one contest against the expansion Cincinnati Bengals in 1969, Clive was matched up against his old mentor Paul Brown. Clive had what some would call an obsession with Brown that led to great bursts on brilliance. Take this conversation which took place before a third-down play against the Bengals.
Rush – “Send in the Punt Team.”
Bewildered Assistant – “Huh.”
Rush – “Punt Formations.”
Bewildered Assistant – “I thought it was third down.”
Rush (grinning) – “It is.”
Bewildered Assistant – “Then why are we punting.”
Rush – “’Cause he’ll never expect it. Brown’s made his living getting into people’s heads – reading their minds. Let him read mine. I’ll mess with his. He’ll never expect this.”
Bewildered Assistant – “So we’re gonna fake it?”
Rush - “Nope, punt…Are you listening?
Bewildered Assistant (pupils dilating) – “Yes. Punt.”
Rush – “That’s right. Punt. I got ya, now, Brown, I got ya.”
Say what you will, but the Patriots actually won that game.
Despite the 4 – 10 record that year, there was hope for the future since the man behind the scene pulling the strings was that great judge of talent, General Manager Upton Bell. Upton’s first shocker was when he traded unflappable, talented, but aging Babe Parilli for flappable, talentless, but young Mike Taliaferro (it took me seven years to figure out that his name was pronounced Tolliver). In 1969, Taliaferro unleashed his secret weapon on the AFL – the three-yard drop off pass. By 1970, Bell and Rush felt they needed a little more variety at the position and Bell knew just who he wanted.
In 1969, the Irish-boiled-dinner tough Joe Kapp led the Vikings to Super Bowl IV. At the end of the season, Kapp, who’d been a legend in the Canadian Football League, wanted a raise for his good work. Vikings GM Jim Finks had other ideas. Finks was troubled by the fact that Kapp had only thrown five spirals in the past eight years; that most of his passes looked like a quail just blasted by double-aught buckshot; and that he ran like the Mafia was about to throw him in the river. Instead of Kapp’s raise, he got cut.
This did not send shockwaves throughout the NFL since most of the league already knew what Finks knew. The league might have felt nothing, but Patriots headquarters were located on the San Andreas Fault – they had to have Kapp. Bell had a plan in place to make his dream come true; he would out bid all comers – including the Patriots. Somehow, without any competing bidders, the Patriots made Kapp one of the highest paid players in the league. To the NFL, the reeked of that taboo of the times, free agency, so Commissar Pete Rozelle awarding the Viking two of the Patriot’s first round draft choices as compensation. Kapp would reward the Patriots by tossing a whopping three touchdowns and a scant 17 interceptions. He was out of football the next year.
Midway through the 1970 season, Rush’s little quirks started to concern Sullivan. It concerned him so much that Sullivan placed a call to a local hospital to come and pick Rush up for an “undisclosed medical condition.” Rush would never get another shot as a head coach in the NFL.
Oh, I remember who the Baltimore defensive coach was. Some guy named Chuck Noll. Wonder what happened to him?
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