FOOTBALL CAMPFIRE STORIES
Lambert, Tatum, and Alzado
“What have I done?”
“What have I gotten myself into?” I thought, “No one can save me now…”
He was drooling all over himself, foaming at the mouth as he snarled.
“I’ve never seen something so.. violent. So… lost in itself.” I thought again.
He grimaced; I screamed.. Internally, of course.
“I can’t show this… this thing weakness! I am the MAN! I am the… he’s snarling again..”
“Well…I can’t just stand here forever. I’m going to have to say it…HIKE!”
BOOM!!!
It went black.
–
Camping is fun, hiking, fishing, telling ghost stories around the campfire. If you gathered a bunch of football players around a campfire, they wouldn't tell tales of Bigfoot, snipe hunting, or escaped convicts with a hook for a hand. They would tell campfire stories of football folklore. These are the tales that would keep them up at night, leave them looking over their shoulders, trying to act like they don't hear footsteps in the dark. A vampire roaming the field, a mercenary for hire, and a madman throwing helmets at players and throwing hands at Muhammad Ali. These are the men, the myths, the legends.
Count Dracula in Cleats
Jack Lambert
It was September 4, 1983. A young rookie quarterback named John Elway rode his Broncos into Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The young gunslinger finessed his way out of Baltimore and made his home in Denver. He had threatened to quit his life as a football star and play baseball if the Colts came knocking on his door. He wasn’t bluffing, and he won that standoff. Now he was ready to kick off his career, but what the California kid didn’t know was that on Sundays during the fall, Pittsburgh became Transylvania. Three Rivers Stadium might not have been a castle on a hill, but it was home to something…evil. As the young gunslinger stepped foot onto the Astroturf there was a chill. Pregame jitters? No, something wicked this way comes. As the gunslinger took his place under center, hands ready over the holsters, he saw it. The dark heart of Transylvania. Beyond the line of scrimmage stood Count Dracula in cleats. He wore a helmet and giant shoulder pads instead of a cloak, but was still decked out in black. The scariest figure our young gunslinger had ever laid eyes on. As he stood there, staring at the shadowy menace, he tried to maintain his composure and not soil his jockstrap. The sinister glare and protruding fangs had thrown him for a loop. “He had no (front) teeth, and he was slobbering all over himself.” The kid contemplated laying down his guns. “I’m thinking ‘you can have your money back, just get me out of here. Let me go be an accountant.’ I can’t tell you how badly I wanted out of there.” With the fear of God put in him, the gunslinger misfired. He missed again, and again, and again. One of eight. Had it not been for the quick legs of Sammy Winder, he may have never made it out. Elway found out first hand, the legends were true. Within the walls of Three Rivers, lay a treasure. A bounty of Lombardi Trophies, sealed away behind a steel curtain in the seventies, and guarded by a snarling vampire.
His black and gold uniform was often stained with red. There was a toll to pay when stepping onto the field with him, and it would be paid in blood. They said he was from Buzzard’s Breath, Wyoming, that he was so mean he didn’t even like himself, and if it were up to him all quarterbacks would be forced to wear dresses like the sissies they are. When the practice field was unplayable, the Steelers held practice in the parking lot. Even on the hard unforgiving surface he was diving to make plays, picking bits of asphalt out of his skin. He was everywhere on the field, relentless and brutal, he made everyone feel his wrath. The toothless brood was known by another name, Smilin’ Jack. Not that the jack-o-lantern faced linebacker ever smiled. One man who did see him smile, without being caught in his crosshairs, was referee Norm Schachter. You don't tug on Superman's cape, you don't kill John Wick's dog, and you don't screw with the Pittsburgh Steelers. Cliff Harris found this out the hard way. He found out the Lambert way. During Super Bowl X, Pittsburgh’s Roy Gerela missed a 33-yard field goal. He was suffering from cracked ribs, it was the third quarter, and his team needed the points trailing 10-7. Dallas safety “Captain Crash” Cliff Harris took the opportunity to thank Gerela. He got right up in the kicker’s face, “Nice going, that really helped us,” he patronized as he patted Gerela on the head. The next thing Harris knew, strong hands were grabbing him by his shoulder pads and whirling him around. Pittsburgh’s enforcer was not amused, and would not stand by as his teammate was harassed. He grabbed Harris from behind and threw him to the ground! When Harris looked up he was being stared down by an already pissed off Jack Lambert. Not a single player on the Dallas Cowboys came to Harris’ defense. He made his bed, let him lie in it. When Schachter went to break up the fracas he saw Smilin’ Jack, smiling back at him. Not even a penalty was called. He had reminded everyone who the true intimidators were, and the Steelers completed their conquest for a second world title.
The Assassin
Jack Tatum
It was August 12, 1978. A Patriot by the name of Darryl Stingley had just finished negotiating a contract to be among the highest paid receivers in the NFL. But the ink was not yet dry, as a matter of fact, the contract had not yet been signed. The dynamic young man from Chicago would first have to venture coast to coast. He would compete in a preseason exhibition against the Oakland Raiders, then return to the New England area to finalize the deal. His heart was full of joy, and soon his pockets would be full of cash, but poor Stingley would never put pen to paper. In the Oakland Coliseum, in the heat of a meaningless battle, Stingley’s life would change forever. A pass was discharged his way. As he stretched out to reign in the errant ball, The Assassin struck. He lined up his shot and took it. A shoulder pad battered Stingley in the head, his spinal cord was compressed. The collision broke his fourth and fifth cervical vertebrae. With one fell swoop of his shoulder, The Assassin had made Stingley a quadriplegic. A twenty-six year old man, struck down in the prime of his life. In the hospital Stingley was visited by Patriots and Raiders alike. Stingley lived to be fifty-five before his death in 2007, brought on by complications of his condition. He never heard from the man that ended his career. The Assassin never apologized to anyone.
The Oakland Raiders of the 1970’s were already an intimidating bunch of outlaws and renegades. The resident bad boys of the NFL were headed up by the vaunted Soul Patrol secondary consisting of Willie Brown, George Atkinson, and “Dr. Death” Skip Thomas. The last thing that group needed was Jack Tatum. The Assassin. They said that while some DBs covered receivers, Tatum buried them. As he nearly buried poor Darryl Stingley. During one of the most violent bygone eras of sport, he was the most violent player. They didn’t call him The Assassin for nothing, pushing up daisies was in the back of every receiver’s mind. He hit his targets so hard he would send their helmets flying off of their heads. He separated you from the ground, your helmet, and your senses. It wasn’t just receivers that were on the receiving end. Earl Campbell, The Tyler Rose, was the largest running back in the NFL in 1979. He was just a shade under six-feet tall, weighed over 230 pounds of pure unstoppable force. His thighs were the size of tree trunks. He was the bowling ball that kept the Houston Oilers offense rolling, the quintessential downhill runner. He never strayed east or west, he only ran north and south, like a train. Then The Assassin traveled to Houston. As the southbound Campbell came roaring to the endzone, The Assassin took aim. FIRE! He threw himself into Campbell with all his might, and knocked the train off the tracks. The two collided like two rams charging into each other. Campbell, who never ventured side to side, staggered to his right. He fell into the endzone like King Kong falling off the tower. Both players were knocked out. The Houston Oilers traded for Tatum four months later. Nobody had ever hit Earl Campbell that hard. Nobody but The Assassin.
Darth Raider
Lyle Alzado aka 3 Mile Lyle
"The Autumn Wind is a pirate. Blustering in from sea, With a rollicking song, he sweeps along, Swaggering boisterously. His face is weather beaten. He wears a hooded sash, With a silver hat about his head, And a bristling black mustache. He growls as he storms the country, A villain big and bold. And the trees all shake and quiver and quake, As he robs them of their gold. The Autumn Wind is a Raider, Pillaging just for fun. He'll knock you 'round and upside down, And laugh when he's conquered and won." Legend has it that John Facenda was talking about Lyle Alzado. Darth Raider himself. Alzado was also given the name 3 Mile Lyle, likening his unwavering temper to the 3 Mile Island meltdown of 1979. A temper so volcanic it made the Hulk look like a toddler throwing a fit. He was a burning man walking through a desert of gunpowder. Chris Ward knew this better than any. One time, in a fit of rage, Alzado ripped Ward’s helmet off and threw it at him as hard as he could!
Alzado was always fighting, and jawing. He’d say, “I’ll kill you out in the parking lot in front of your family!” “I’ll kill you and everything you love, I’ll beat you so bad your family won’t speak to you!” “I’ll tear your neck off and spit down your throat!” He was full of rage and steroids, and he feared no man. Not even the greatest boxer of all time. 3 Mile Lyle was so certifiable that he mortgaged his house to get a fight with Muhammed Ali. Not on a football field, or in the streets, but in Ali’s own domain, a boxing match. Alzado believed nobody was capable of kicking his ass, not even the champ. He claimed he’d give Ali all the hell he could handle, and he went the distance. A game with Alzado was likely to resemble a boxing match at times, or a prison riot. Throwing punches, pounding heads into the ground, stomping some poor schmuck into submission. He approached every football game with the same blind fury and reckless abandon as his adolescent brawls in the streets of Brooklyn. “This game isn’t fun, this game is a war,” he said. At least when Alzado was involved, it was a war. It’s what Darth Raider lived for. The Autumn Wind was a harbinger of war.
