Post by TheShadow on Dec 24, 2005 21:42:29 GMT -5
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By Pat Toomay
Special to Page 2
Editor's Note: In Part 1 and Part 2 of his series on the "Birth of the
Raider Nation", Pat Toomay described his relief at being traded from the
winless 1976 Tampa Bay Buccaneers to defending Super Bowl champion Oakland.
The former NFL lineman has been getting acquainted with Raiders royalty,
such as Ken Stabler and Fred Biletnikoff, and is contemplating aiding his
competition, Charlie Philyaw.
At practice the next morning, and for most of the rest of the week, I
watched Charlie Philyaw to see if there was anything useful I could tell him
about his game. Because of his size, it was only natural that he would
emulate John Matuszak's head-up, nose-to-nose, manhandle everything,
no-finesse power game. But Charlie was quicker than John, and not as strong,
so he could afford to be a little less rigid in his approach. As it stood,
Charlie had a hard time adjusting to changes in tactics by offensive
linemen. Cut-blocks were a particular problem for him. Ears pinned back,
he'd blindly charge. Down he'd go. He'd yet to learn the art of
anticipation.
The idea of a coordinated defense also eluded him. If the middle
linebacker called, "Pinch," the end had to charge inside or the 'backer
would get slammed and a big hole would open in the line. Charlie seemed to
regard the call as random noise, rarely heeding it. But that was typical of
a young player. All of these shortcomings could be corrected by experience.
"Just keep working," I told him.
Off the field, Charlie continued to astonish with his intractable
innocence. One episode involved cornerback Skip Thomas. Skip was known as
"Doctor Death," because of his tendency to let himself go to the extent that
he looked like "death warmed over, swallowed down and spit back up," as
tackle Bob Brown once put it. Late one night "Doc" was lounging in his room,
when Charlie knocked at his door. That afternoon, Charlie had stepped in a
hole on his way to practice and sprained his ankle. The trainer had told
Charlie to see the Doc. So here he was. Taking off shoe and sock, Charlie
showed Skip his swollen ankle. "Trainer says to get the whirlpool from you."
Charlie was dead serious. "Doc" slammed the door in his face.
Charlie roomed next to Duane Benson and me, and one of the enduring
images of camp was Charlie trying to feed his tiny pet parakeet. He called
the bird "Lil' mo-fo." Late at night, we could hear him through the walls.
"Time to eat, Lil' mo-fo. Lil' mo-fo, eat the rest of this now ..." And one
time we saw it: Charlie holding a tiny gob of food in his giant fingers,
gently pushing it down the little bird's throat.
Such a naked expression of tenderness, particularly here, in a pro
football training camp, made me worry about Charlie. More than once I found
myself wondering if he would survive in the wider world.
That there was a huge discrepancy between the Raiders' ferocious image
and the actual personalities of players became clearer to me as I got to
know everyone a little better. Certainly, Charlie was one example of it, but
the most dramatic example was Jack Tatum.
At first glance, with his slanty eyes and Fu Manchu mustache, Tatum
appeared fierce, even sinister -- Genghis Khan with an afro. But Jack was
quiet and affable, with an easy laugh. He had a kind of inner calm that was
unusual to find in anyone, much less a professional football player. As I
watched Jack, I began to realize that his reputation for personal
ferociousness had been inaccurately extrapolated from the ferocity of his
hits. What everyone had missed about Jack, I realized, was the importance of
his physiology.
See, Tatum was a knot of muscle. He was 5-foot-11 and weighed 215
pounds. Late in his career, he could weigh as much as 225. Strong safeties,
who must force the run, are often large, but for a free safety, Tatum was an
unprecedented physical specimen. Quite literally, he was a linebacker
roaming the secondary. A linebacker who could turn a blistering 4.38 in the
40. His ferocious hits, then, were not due to any innate ferociousness, but
rather to the laws of physics. All Jack had to do was break on the football.
F = ma. Do the math.
By contrast, the Cowboys' Cliff Harris -- another free safety with a
big-hit reputation -- weighed only 195 pounds and could drop to the high
180s by the end of a season. Cliff, who was my roommate for five years, was
far more ferocious on the field than Jack ever dreamed of being. Cliff had
to be ferocious because his survival depended on it. Meeting a John Riggins
head-on as he rumbled into the secondary with a full head of steam was
annihilation for Cliff unless he could muster every ounce of ferocity he
possessed. In this respect, the game for Cliff was life or death. Triumph or
humiliation.
Tatum, on the other hand, because of his considerable physical gifts,
never approached this level of desperation. Tatum could match a Riggins
almost pound for pound. And he could neutralize a Riggins by simply
accelerating. For Tatum, it was all in his body. He had no need to be
ferocious. And he wasn't. It simply wasn't in him.
Another player who belied the Raiders' ferocious image, although he
seemed to embody it, was Otis Sistrunk. My impression of 'Trunk had been
formed by that "Monday Night" sideline shot over which Alex Karras told us
that Trunk had matriculated "from the University of Mars." There he was with
that Buddha belly. No college. No hair. That menacing scowl. But Otis was
anything but menacing. He had a sweet nature and a huge heart.
I found out about Trunk's heart the last week of preseason, as we got
ready to play the Rams. Things weren't going that well for me, although I'd
avoided facing the fact for weeks. My first hint that my stock with the
Raiders wasn't as high as I thought was the absence of press about the trade
that brought me from Tampa. Nothing about it had appeared in the newspaper.
None of the usual build-up that spelled out the club's expectations of a new
acquisition. It wasn't a good sign. From a PR standpoint, if the club had
nothing invested in me, then they had little to lose if I didn't pan out. I
attributed the lack of publicity to sensitivity about the Wolf-Davis
relationship. That the Bucs might be a Raiders farm team was not something
the club would be eager to draw attention to.
Harder to ignore, however, was my lack of playing time during the
early exhibition games. A few garbage minutes with the rookies was all I
got, and I knew that wasn't going to cut it. I needed to be out there with
the regulars if I was going to make an impression. Yet it wasn't happening.
Nor was it likely to happen. As with most Super Bowl teams, the lineup
seemed set.
But then I caught a break. Sort of. Early in the week of the Rams
game, both Charlie and Tooz turned up lame. As mentioned, Charlie, on his
way to practice, stepped in a hole and sprained his ankle. The next
afternoon, in a tackling drill, Matuszak ripped a hamstring. By Thursday,
when neither had improved, assistant coach Tom Dahms told me that I would be
playing a lot against the Rams, probably the second and fourth quarters.
Although Charlie and Tooz would see action, they would be used sparingly, to
minimize risk of further injury.
I was less than enthusiastic about the opportunity. In fact, it seemed
like my death knell. True, I would be playing at least part of the time with
the regulars. But I also would be playing out of position. While Charlie and
Tooz were left ends, I had played right end my entire career. Switching
sides was no small task when your synapses were wired the other way. For a
right end, playing left end was like shooting a left-handed hook in
basketball. My big chance and, at best, I would look like a fool.
As we trudged out of our meeting that night, I was muttering about the
situation when Otis overheard me and pulled me aside. He told me that he was
comfortable playing left end, as he'd played there earlier in his career.
"I'll switch with you, Pat," he said. "They'll never know the difference."
I gave him a look. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate the offer -- I
did. Very much. In fact, I wondered if I would do the same for 'Trunk if our
situations were reversed. I doubted it. Nevertheless, the suggestion gave me
pause. As a second-year player in Dallas, I had recruited several guys to
take my place on special teams when I was slated to start a preseason game
for an injured veteran. I wanted to be fresh. I didn't want to be dragging
from covering kicks. But it was a bad idea. I had usurped authority, and the
undressing I got from coach Tom Landry was in front of the team. I'd never
forgotten it. But I was with the Raiders now, not the Cowboys. My career was
on the line. There seemed little choice but to take the risk.
Sometimes the smallest sacrifice can have enormous impact, and this
was one of those times. I don't know why Otis did what he did. I do know
that as a longtime Raider, he was hard-wired to the team; on some level, he
might have felt this was what was required for the greater good. Whatever
his reasons, I wanted more than anything to be part of what was going on
here, so I seized the opportunity with a vengeance.
Treating the game as if it were a playoff, I was all over the motley
collection of quarterbacks the Rams put on the field, and everyone was
pleased. T.D., rather than jumping us for switching, as might have been the
case in Dallas, claimed the idea as his own and fought to make the
adjustment permanent. The next week, when I continued to play well, Al Davis
became a convert. "How about this guy?" he said as he walked past a group of
us in the airport. "Every time he gets in, he gets a sack!"
But while my fortunes were taking a dramatic turn for the better,
thanks to Otis, my roommate's luck was running out. It was painful to watch.
The young linebackers were showing promise. Duane was playing less and less.
Finally, during the last week of camp, he got the dreaded call.
"It's a numbers game," Al told Duane during their meeting. "But stay
in shape. If anyone gets hurt, we'll be in touch."
Back in the room, Duane was somber as he packed. I helped him load his
car. "Take 'er easy," he said, as we shook hands in the heat of the El
Rancho parking lot. "Work on those arms, eh?"
I pretended to laugh, as Duane climbed in his car. A honk, a wave, and
he was gone.
Coming attractions: In Part 4, Toomay is charged up for the season
after making the Raiders, but he now has to turn a former Raider's bachelor
pad into a home for his family, drive "The Limo" and get used to rooming
with "The Tooz" before game days.