Last Team Standing (18 page)

The
Philadelphia Record
said, “Several board chairmen expressed indignation at Selective Service headquarters' plans to proceed with drafting fathers. They said that instead they will take as many from war plants as they can before inducting a single father. ‘And we will disregard the War Manpower Commission's manning table plans to do it,' they added.”

Military planners were aghast. During the three months ending September 30, the Army had requested 585,000 men but only 447,000 were inducted, a 24-percent shortfall. Generals in the
field were complaining about the shortage. The war, the planners said, could not be won without fathers. The Army's deputy chief of staff, Lt. Gen. Joseph McNarney, warned gravely of the consequences of “ignoring the considered judgment of our military leaders, arrived at after careful and prolonged study.”

Once again, Congress got involved. Texas Representative Paul Kilday and Montana Senator Burton Wheeler reintroduced their bills to delay the induction of fathers. Kilday's called for a permanent delay, Wheeler's a temporary one.

Public opposition to the Father Draft was still strong. If anything, opponents had more ammunition than they'd had back in July. Italy had surrendered since then. Wasn't the end of the war, in Europe at least, imminent? And couldn't the Axis Powers be bombed into submission anyway? It seemed to opponents of the Father Draft that the military simply wanted too many men. To them the drafting of fathers also represented the superfluous and dangerous crossing of a threshold—into “total war.”

Hershey, who was well liked by many in Congress (and was a nimble politician himself), worked behind the scenes to help draft legislation that would simultaneously kick-start the Father Draft and pacify its opponents. In December, both houses passed a bill requiring local draft boards to call pre-Pearl fathers, but only after all eligible nonfathers in their jurisdiction had been called. It was called the “Take Fathers Last” bill, but in actuality it merely codified what had been Hershey's position all along: fathers would be drafted last, but fathers would be drafted.

The bill also included a provision separating Selective Service from the War Manpower Commission, thereby removing Lewis Hershey from the supervision of Paul McNutt. Other than ending what Hershey called his “bondage time,” the bill didn't change a thing.

“What kind of legislation is that?” a bemused President Roosevelt asked. “The answer, of course,” wrote historian George Q. Flynn, “was political legislation.” Although he considered the bill rather silly, Roosevelt signed it. The Father Draft would finally
begin on December 10, 1943. By then, of course, the NFL season would nearly be over. The long and largely pointless debate had saved pro football for 1943.

To the Steagles, however, the issue was irrelevant. They weren't just playing football. They were also doing essential war work.

W
HEN THE
B
ROOKLYN
D
ODGERS
finally got around to hiring Pete Cawthon to be their head football coach in June 1943, there actually were no Brooklyn Dodgers: the team had no players under contract. Off to a late start, with the cream of the sparse crop of available talent already harvested by other teams, Cawthon resorted to desperate measures. Like many wartime employers, he took out half-page advertisements in major newspapers, seeking employees—the last and perhaps only “help wanted” ads ever placed by an NFL team looking for players.

Lew Jones nearly spit out his coffee when he saw one of the ads in a Dallas paper one morning in July. Jones had played for Cawthon at Texas Tech and was still fiercely loyal to his old coach. Jones, who was 31 and hadn't played football for nearly ten years, telephoned Cawthon immediately.

“I'm out of shape,” he said. “And I'm thirty pounds overweight. But if you want me, I'll take the weight off and come to Brooklyn to help out.”

Cawthon let out a whoop of joy. “Do I
want
you! Man, those are the sweetest words I've heard in years. If I have you, I'll have one good guard I can depend on. Get that blubber off and get up here the first minute you can.”

Jones quickly recruited several other former Red Raiders to join him in Brooklyn: G.L. “Country” Webb, Bill Davis, Floy “Pete” Owens. The Dodgers training camp turned into a veritable Texas Tech reunion.

It's surprising that Cawthon managed to cobble together a team at all. Less surprising is the fact that it wasn't a very good one. The Texas Tech bunch was old and flabby and, apart from a handful of veterans (Pug Manders, Bruiser Kinard, Dean
McAdams), the rest of the team consisted of untested and untalented rookies.

“We simply do not have enough experienced players,” Cawthon moaned. It didn't help matters that on the first day of camp McAdams tripped over his helmet and tore a muscle in his left shoulder.

When the Dodgers came to Philadelphia to play the Steagles, the two teams already had a feud going. Back in July, Brooklyn general manager Dennis Shea had called the Steagles a “town team” for requiring its players to work war jobs.

“We're not going to operate with any part-time players who work at other jobs during the week,” Shea sniped. “It labels us as Humpty Dumpty outfits. We're still going to charge big league prices so we ought to have big league teams.” For good measure, Shea added that “there was no good reason for the Philadelphia-Pittsburgh combine” in the first place.

Shea's words were the 1943 equivalent of billboard material. They grated on the Steagles, who were busting their butts five or six days a week in defense factories and five nights a week on the practice field. They certainly didn't consider themselves “part-time players,” and they were determined to show the Dodgers just what a “town team” could do.

The weather was perfect, but on the night of Saturday, October 2, barely 11,000 fans came to Shibe Park in Philadelphia to watch the Steagles take flight for the first time in a regular season contest. The game had not been as heavily promoted as the Inquirer-sponsored exhibition game against the Bears, but the main reason for the low turnout was competition. Earlier that afternoon, 30,000 fans had packed Franklin Field to watch Penn rout Yale, 41-7. (Penn led the nation in college football attendance in 1943.) Then there were the baseball A's, who had played a doubleheader against the Indians earlier in the day at Shibe Park, losing their 103rd and 104th games of the season. With all that going on, it's not surprising that so few Philadelphians were willing to shell out $3.50 for a reserved seat to watch a team that was only half theirs. The Steagles' opponent was a factor, too: The Dodgers,
who had been shut out by Detroit 27-0 a week earlier, were not exactly a big draw.

Roy Zimmerman was still the Steagles starting quarterback. He had not thrown the ball particularly well during training camp—in the two exhibition games he completed just five passes for 35 yards—but Greasy Neale thought Zimmerman had taken to the T formation “like a cat takes to milk.” Zimmerman executed the complicated running plays like a magician, faking handoffs with a legerdemain that befuddled opposing defenses. Besides, with the way the front line was blocking and the backs were running—the Steagles had racked up more than 500 rushing yards in the two exhibition games—it was clear that passing was not to be the team's primary offensive weapon.

Understandably, Allie Sherman was disappointed by Neale's decision. But Sherman, who aspired to be a head coach one day, took advantage of his time on the sidelines by becoming Neale's de facto assistant. Sherman shadowed Neale constantly, studying his every move. Neale encouraged his young protégé. He recognized that Sherman was “a serious student of the game” and that he “had real possibilities as a coach.”

At 8:45 p.m., Zimmerman kicked off and the Birds of Steel took wing.

About four minutes into the game, the Steagles had the ball on their own 20-yard line. Rookie halfback Johnny Butler took a handoff from Zimmerman, sliced through a yawning hole in the line, and ran 69 yards to the Brooklyn 11.

Butler had been drafted by the Steelers in 1941 but spurned the team to take a job with Western Union in Charleston, South Carolina. He was convinced to join the Steagles by Eagles center Ray Graves, who had been Butler's roommate at the University of Tennessee. Butler had explosive speed; he could shoot through holes in the blink of an eye. He had so impressed Neale in training camp that he earned a starting position at left halfback. Only problem was, he was due to report for his Army physical in six days.

Butler's run set up a 22-yard field goal by Zimmerman. Later in the first quarter Zimmerman recovered a Dodgers fumble on the Brooklyn 17. Butler carried the ball into the end zone from the ten, dragging a Brooklyn tackler with him the last two yards. Zimmerman kicked the extra point to give the Steagles a 10-0 lead. Early in the second quarter, Zimmerman completed a nice 40-yard pass to myopic end Tony Bova. Three plays later, pre-Pearl father Ernie Steele bulled his way into the end zone from the Brooklyn ten, culminating a lovely 78-yard drive. The score was 17-0 and the sparse crowd was roaring itself hoarse.

The rest of the game was scoreless, but the Steagles dominated until the final gun. Especially magnificent was the performance of the three Eagles and two Steelers who made up the front line: left tackle Vic Sears, left guard Elbie Schultz, center Ray Graves, right guard Eddie Michaels, and right tackle Ted Doyle. (Equally impressive were their respective substitutes: Bucko Kilroy, Gordon Paschka, Al Wukits, Ed Conti, and Al Wistert.) The Steagles' linemen simply manhandled their Brooklyn counterparts. On offense they opened holes that the running backs sailed through for more than 200 total rushing yards. On defense they were even more spectacular. They completely shut down the Dodgers' running game, continually tackling Brooklyn ball carriers before they even reached the line of scrimmage. In fact, it was one of the most impressive defensive performances in NFL history. The Dodgers were held to -33 (yes, minus 33) yards rushing—still the third lowest total ever recorded. The Steagles also intercepted three Brooklyn passes and allowed the Dodgers to get inside the Phil-Pitt 40-yard line only twice. Not bad for a Humpty Dumpty outfit.

It wasn't a flawless performance. Zimmerman, who'd injured his groin running into an unyielding turnstile at Parkside Field the night before, played in great pain and completed just three of 12 passes, and the Steagles fumbled four times. But the team's overall performance was astounding, even considering the competition. Louis Effrat of the
New York Times
said the Steagles were
“superb” against the Dodgers, operating with “smoothness, speed and general efficiency.” New York Giants head coach Steve Owen, whose team the Steagles would play next, watched the game from the press box at Shibe Park. He left Philadelphia “deeply impressed.”

The Steagles were less impressive a week later against the Giants. They had two punts blocked and three passes intercepted. They fumbled ten times, setting an NFL record that still stands.

And they still won.

S
HIBE
P
ARK, THE HOME OF BASEBALL'S
P
HILLIES AND
A
'S,
was a tough place to watch football. Unlike Forbes Field, it was poorly suited to the gridiron's geometrics. With goalposts erected along the first base line and in front of the left field fence, the grandstands were close to the end zones and far from the sidelines. Kickoffs sometimes sailed into the upper deck. After the baseball season, temporary bleachers were erected along the sideline in the outfield. The bleachers brought spectators much closer to the action, but they were rickety, uncovered, and uncomfortable.

“Shibe Park discouraged football fans,” writes Bruce Kuklick in his history of the ballpark,
To Every Thing a Season.
“Indeed, many Eagles patrons went to Shibe Park as much for the masculine thrill of braving the winter outside as for witnessing the team.”

Due to the scheduling vagaries resulting from NFL teams sharing ballparks with baseball teams, the New York Giants' game against the Steagles at Shibe Park on October 9 was their first of the season. (The Detroit Lions, by contrast, had already played three games.) The late start was just fine with Giants head coach Steve Owen. The big Oklahoman had an ace up his sleeve and he wanted to keep it there as long as possible. The ace was named Bill Paschal.

Like Allie Sherman, William Avner Paschal, Jr., likely would not have played pro football if not for the war. Paschal was a football and track star at Tech High in Atlanta. In his senior year he hurt his knee when he fell out of the top bunk of a bunk bed. He
still earned a scholarship to Georgia Tech, but played only three minutes before reinjuring the knee. After an operation to remove cartilage, Paschal dropped out of college and went to work as a switchman for the Central of Georgia Railway.

In the summer of 1943, he bumped into his old college coach, Bill Alexander, who wired Grantland Rice in New York, asking him to pass Paschal's name along to Giants coach Steve Owen.

“With what I've got left,” Owen told Rice, “I'll take a chance…. I can pretty near use anybody now.”

When Paschal showed up at the Giants training camp at Bear Mountain, New York, Owen could hardly believe his eyes.

“The kid is one of the best running backs I've seen in years,” Stout Steve gushed about his six-foot, 190-pound diamond in the rough. “He is not only a fast, quick starter, but he runs hard and drives on through.” And the best part was that, because of his knee, Paschal was 4-F.

After their convincing win over Brooklyn, Greasy Neale and Walt Kiesling worried that the Steagles might be overconfident going into the Giants game. It seemed an unwarranted concern. Since joining the league ten years earlier, Philadelphia and Pittsburgh were a combined 7-31-1 against New York. The Eagles hadn't beaten the Giants in five years. Greasy Neale was 0-4 against them since coming to Philadelphia in 1941, a record that profoundly embarrassed him, since he and Steve Owen were close friends. In 1921, Neale tried to persuade Owen to play for him at Washington and Jefferson. Owen declined, but the two young men—Neale was 30, Owen 23—struck up a friendship that endured over the decades. When Lex Thompson bought an NFL franchise in 1940, it was Steve Owen who urged him to hire Greasy Neale.