The two (ultimate) Hall of Famers were bundled into a pile some distance behind the line of scrimmage. One was groveling and the other was gasping to catch his breath. They had been dumped there in a single burst, an explosive pass rush.
The pass rusher, mixed into the pile up, chortled into the faces of his two immobilized opponents.
“Put that in your bleeping book,” said Alex Karras to Jerry Kramer, the guard charged with protecting Bart Starr.
Karras arose, and tippy-toed, returned to the defensive line to set up for the next play.
The Lions and Packers played bitterly contested football games back in the 1960s. As bitter and as vicious as they are today, six decades later. And with more open anger.
The Packers, led by Starr, the quarterback, and Kramer, the right guard, dominated pro football as unrivaled champions. They won five NFL titles and two Super Bowls under the nonpareil coaching guidance of Vince Lombardi.
And for a while in those Sixties, the Lions were almost as good. But never quite that good.
Kramer had written the top-selling “Instant Replay” with Dick Schaap in 1968. And the following September, the Lions, featuring Karras, defeated the Packers, 23-17, in Green Bay.
It was in the fourth quarter (my memory says) when Karras pounded over Kramer to sack Starr. The play saved the victory. And in the locker room, as I recall, Karras told me what he had said to Kramer.
Left out
There has been something missing — as exemplified by that play — for a half-century or so. Starr made the Pro Football Hall of Fame as soon as he was eligible, in the regular media vote. Kramer as eventually elected by the special Seniors’ Committee.
Alex was left out. Left out shamefully, in my version.
He was rejected year after year. Sitting on those Hall of Fame committees, I heard Alex vilified by some of my contemporaries. I heard him scoffed at and belittled. I heard him criticized as unworthy at the five-member Seniors’ Committee meetings, once by Chuck Noll, Hall of Fame coach of four Steelers championship teams.
Then, Alex was ignored, perhaps blackballed by goody-goodies for his lack of repentance following his 1963 suspension for his affiliation with the Lindell AC. In today’s terms, with the NFL empire linked with sportsbooks and casinos, it would be a minor gambling incident.
Paul Hornung, suspended in the same edict by Commissioner Pete Rozelle, was contrite. Hornung, very deservedly, was elected as a Hall of Famer soon after serving the eligibility term.
Instead of apologizing, Alex turned to comedy — as a second strength after nailing quarterbacks. He delivered opinions, a forbidden pastime today among NFL performers, except Tom Brady.
“Quarterbacks,” he muttered in distain long ago when journalists were permitted passengers on team airplane charters. “They’re all milk drinkers.”
Fran Tarkenton. John Unitas. Starr. Milt Plum. Karras hated all quarterbacks. He particularly disliked his own. His teammates, Plum and Karl Sweetan.
And poor, Milt Plum was atop of the enemy’s list.
There was a game against the Packers in ’62. Up there, in Green Bay before a hostile audience, against Kramer and Starr and Hornung and Lombardi. First place was at stake against the Lombardi’s reigning NFL champions.
It was a game that has existed in infamy for 59 years in the Lions’ infamous history.
The Lions had this one cinched 7-6 with time running out. The smart play was punt, pin the Packers back. Instead, Plum gambled with a pass — supposedly called by Coach George Wilson — with Terry Barr the target. Terry slipped. Herb Adderley intercepted. He ran the seized football far into Lions’ territory.
And Hornung kicked a 26-yard field goal.
Green Bay won, 9-7, on Paul’s three field goals before the adoring Cheeseheads.
In the closed locker room, middle linebacker Joe Schmidt was allegedly restrained for attacking Plum. Karras was alleged to have thrown his helmet at Plum’s head.
Alleged?
“I missed him by this much,” Karras would tell me through the seasons.
His hands were fixed six inches apart.
Chasing the Pack
The Lions spent the rest of the ’62 season pursuing the Packers. They played every Sunday in anger. Despite the monumental victory over Starr and Kramer and Lombardi on Thanksgiving at Tiger Stadium, the yearning Lions could never quite catch Green Bay.
The Packers carried on to win NFL title No. 2 — four seasons before the first Super Bowl — in a dynasty decade of seven titles, including the first two Super Bowls.
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The anger and yearning remained, cemented into the Lions’ team character. Karras agonized on the Lions the entire decade — nine denied seasons, one inactive via suspension.
The defense openly criticized the embattled offense.
There was a day in 1966 after practice when Alex berated Harry Gilmer in an open critique in the locker room.
“They have to get rid of him,” Karras said for public consumption. “He can’t coach. We’ll never win with him.”
The defense was in revolt against the coaching staff and the offense.
Gilmer saw this newspaper the next day.
When I started to talk to Karras in the locker room at Tiger Stadium, Gilmer approached.
“Out!” Harry said in his twang.
He escorted me to the door, my upper arm grasped in his fist.
It turned into a joke.
At the end of the ’66 season, Gilmer got the ziggy from owner William Clay Ford. Ziggy — Schmidt’s wonderful Detroit-only word for a firing. And Schmidt, an eventual Hall of Famer, became Gilmer’s replacement as head coach.
Schmidt inherited the great decision — it seems to continue forever — whether to start Plum or Karl Sweetan at quarterback. Joe was in a quandary.
He settled on Plum — his nemesis during his playing days — and then turned to Sweetan.
Sweetan was the flamboyant quarterback. He skittered around. He dodged the pass rushers. He’d often restyle when it was underway. He threw deep. Sometimes he connected. Sometimes he won.
We were on a Lions chartered aircraft returning from a road game when Alex and I discussed the issue of quarterbacks.
Specifically, Karl Sweetan.
“They should put a cape on him,” Alex said. “Like they put on bullfighters.”
Karras pummeled opposing right guards despite extremely poor vision. Off the field, he wore thick horn-rimmed eyeglasses. One Sunday he was beating up on the right guard of the Bears.
“Alex,” said the Bears’ lineman, “take it easy. You’re beating me up.”
“Huh?” said Karras.
“This is your brother, Ted,” said the Chicago right guard.
In 1968, Alex starred in the motion picture version of George Plimpton’s magnificent book, “Paper Lion.” He was geared for his second career as Alex The Actor. Released by the Lions in 1970, Alex gained acclaim with the Monday Night Football crew, then in Hollywood punching out a horse in “Blazing Saddles.”
He always remained tied to Detroit, his friendship with the McInerneys — auto dealers Hoot, Tom and Jack. Alex returned for a tribute to Plimpton in 2003. It was at a party at Tom McInerney’s house that I made a vow to Alex’s wife, actress Susan Clark, that as an elector for the Pro Football Hall of Fame, I’d do my damnedest to get Alex elected.
Last year, Alex was finally elected, most deserving of 10 relics who had slipped through the cracks. I had long been retired as a selector, just issuer of an occasional hint. The enshrinement had to be postponed as a casualty of COVID-19.
On Saturday, Karras will be inducted into Canton, a decade after his death, Class of 2020.
Finally — he will be joined with Starr and Kramer. And all those other Hall of Famers who had been waiting for him.
A bunch of them milk drinkers!
Jerry Green is a retired Detroit News sports reporter.