GRANGE SCORES ON FORWARD IN FINAL QUARTER
Spartans Then Yield a Safety.
Virginia McCaskey has spent nearly a century watching pro football. She has been riveted by title games. She also has endured her share of stinkers.
The playoff tiebreaker for the 1932 NFL championship was uniquely both.
Literally.
That year, when the NFL was as old as a seventh grader, the Bears played the Spartans of Portsmouth, Ohio, in an add-on game for the title.
In the throes of the Great Depression, to ensure paying customers showed up in subfreezing temperatures on Dec. 18, the game was played at Chicago Stadium — yes, indoors — atop 8 inches of dirt spread over concrete.
Almost nine decades later, McCaskey didn’t hesitate when asked for her lasting memory of the Bears’ 9-0 victory.
“Just the odor,” she said with a laugh during an interview in March. “It was almost overwhelming because the circus had just left town.”
Yes, “dirt” belonged in quotations that night. Picture 9-year-old Ginny Halas, daughter of Bears founder George Halas, longing to watch elephants parade around the Stadium instead of smelling what they had left behind.
And that’s just a sniff of all the quirks that color one of the most influential games in NFL history.
Not only was the 1932 championship the league’s first playoff game, it spawned several changes that helped revolutionize the sport and accelerate its ascent to the juggernaut it is today. As the league celebrates its 100th season this year, there is hardly a more vibrant, novel example of its growth than that indoor title game played on a 60yard field.
That much is evident after a recent day downtown with the microfilm machines on the third floor of the Harold Washington Library. With Twitter and high-definition TV biding their time to take hold of pro football, no fewer than four Chicago newspapers were there to cover that prehistoric Super Bowl.
Their accounts are a portal to when the NFL was fighting for a place in the national sports consciousness. When punts were the most exciting play pro football had to offer. And when gate receipts were more important than any final score.
“The Bears and Spartans had quite an evening of it, prospecting in the soil strewn out for them by the Stadium redshirts,” Marvin McCarthy wrote in the Chicago Daily Times on Dec. 20, two days after the game.
McCarthy explained how the Stadium kept its own supply of dirt and repeatedly reused it as a costsaving measure. Over time, the soil collected an aggregation of sticks, cigar butts, an occasional elephant tusk tip and whatever the circus animals dropped out of their hind ends.
He wrote: “The ball players spent a goodly part of their time picking up these relics and tossing them resoundingly against the white sideboards of the enclosed arena. Thus, it can’t truthfully be said that the evening was totally devoid of a bang.”
‘Sent the dope bucket spinning.’
In its 100th season, the NFL is a $15 billion behemoth with a cultural footprint extending from Soldier Field to the White House to overseas.
In 1932, it was merely a clumsy, rambunctious cub hoping to secure its next meal.
George Halas, the Bears owner and manager (Ralph Jones coached that year), entered the season “surrounded with IOUs,” he wrote in his autobiography, “Halas by Halas.”
He used notes for $1,000 to postpone payments to Bronko Nagurski and Red Grange. Nowadays, checks like the one for Khalil Mack’s $34 million signing bonus clear just fine.
By 1932, as the Depression strangled the country, the league had contracted to eight teams from 22 in 1926. There were no divisions and playoffs were unprecedented. The firstplace team was the champion. When the Bears (6-1-6) and Spartans (6-1-4) tied in the standings after tying both their meetings, Halas and other league officials sought a playoff for the financial windfall. (Schedules weren’t always uniform as the league strove to organize.)
In fact, before Halas mentioned a single detail about the game in his autobiography, he wrote: “The game was a financial success — a capacity house of 11,108.”
Would that many paying
customers have showed up to Wrigley Field?
The previous Sunday, only 5,000 saw the Bears beat the Packers 9-0 on the North Side. About four 4 inches of snow fell the day before and continued through the game, with a wind chill of about 11 degrees. Halas angled to move the game indoors, having at least experienced football in the Stadium during a 1930 exhibition against the Chicago Cardinals.
Cubs President William Veeck Sr. released Halas from his pledge to play all home games at Wrigley. Meanwhile, the Spartans agreed to play on the road, knowing their share of the gate in Chicago would be greater than elsewhere.
The move to the Stadium was reported by Chicago newspapers Dec. 16, two days before kickoff.
Howard Roberts of the Chicago Daily News wrote:
“…even the hardy pro-gridders whom even last week’s heavy snow could not daunt, balked at playing on an icy field in sub-zero weather and in comparative privacy.”
The venue change prompted X’s and O’s to foxtrot through the minds of Chicago football scribes.
If you think this year’s Bears offense has been tough to watch, consider the 1932 team scored in double digits in only five of 14 games — and still was the NFL’s highest-scoring team.
Instead of a regulationsized field of 120 yards long and 50 yards wide, the Stadium accommodated only 80 by 45. And that included the two 10-yard end zones.
“Indoor Grid to Spur Scoring” read the headline in the Chicago American’s game preview.
Wilfrid Smith of the Chicago Tribune concurred, writing: “Touchdowns may be more frequent, which should be satisfactory to the customers, and certainly there’s sufficient room for Bronko Nagurski to crack a few ribs.”
Observers expected the Stadium’s ceiling to accommodate punts, which was crucial to fan interest. Open-field returns were among football’s main attractions before the forward pass took hold.
Writers also celebrated that the ball would be spotted true to normal rules to start each possession. In the 1930 exhibition, confusion reigned when the ball was moved back 20 yards before each drive to simulate a regulation field.
“We think it better,”
Halas said, per the Daily Times, “than tangling up the customers with a lot of bosh about borrowing 20 yards down at one end of the field, paying it back down at the other.”
With those details ironed out, the championship would be contested. Where there was no game on the schedule, suddenly the biggest was set for 8:15 p.m. Excitement and curiosity swelled, creating the spectacle for which Halas and the NFL had hoped.
“Removal of the game from the frozen tundras of the north side into the cozy confines of the big red arena on W. Madison street sent the dope bucket spinning,” Roberts wrote in the Dec. 16 Daily News.
“The Bears, with their heavier line, ranked favorite to humble the Spartans on a frozen, slippery field. But all such estimates must be revised now that the Ohio team will have firm footing and comfortable temperature in which to open its bag of tricks.”
The ‘noble experiment.’
George Halas, the businessman, had a problem.
Spartans quarterback Dutch Clark, one of 17 inaugural inductees into the Pro Football Hall of Fame, had not accounted for this extra game. He doubled as the basketball coach at his alma mater, Colorado College, and the school refused his request for leave.
It was the 1932 equivalent of Tom Brady missing the Super Bowl for a modeling side gig.
Halas explained his dilemma, with some 1930s wordplay, in the Daily Times two days before the game.
“If we tell the fans Dutch is coming and he doesn’t, then we’re in Dutch,” Halas reportedly said.
“If we don’t advertise it and Clark does show up, we lose the ‘draw’ of a good drawing card. If Clark comes in, our gate receipts go up. If he doesn’t, our chance of whipping Portsmouth is much better. What’s your answer?”
But fans turned out anyway to witness what the Daily News dubbed a “noble experiment.”
The layout was like a modern indoor game, although today’s Arena League uses eight players per side. The 1932 championship was 11-on-11, which, along with the unreliable footing, undermined the anticipated scoring splurge.
Defenders could simultaneously crowd the line of scrimmage and defend passes because of the narrow boundaries. The teams combined for 28 passes, and there were more interceptions (eight) than completions (five).
For those who didn’t make it to the Stadium, the game was broadcast in Chicago on WBBM radio, courtesy of Charles Denby 5cent cigars.
In Portsmouth, a small industrial town just across the Ohio River from Kentucky, a man named L.T. Henderson read a play-byplay account to people inside Selby Auditorium downtown. Descriptions were wired from the Stadium to Henderson via Western Union, the Portsmouth Daily Times reported.
It’s too bad the game was 75 years before the advent of Twitter.
Imagine the commentary and quips, the GIFs and memes.
There was so much material.
Like how both teams agreed to ban field goals — including drop kicks, of course — because the field was so short.
Or how every punt and kick except for one landed in the end zone.
When a play finished near a side wall, the possessing team could move it 15 yards toward the center of the field for the price of one down.
Johnny Doehring, the Bears’ designated long passer, fired one first-half throw that skipped off a defender’s hands and into the crowd.
“The customers dropped hastily in their seats and ducked,” McCarthy wrote. He quoted an assistant head linesman saying: “They better get that guy outa there.” Doehring was pulled and did not return.
Even with Clark absent, four future Hall of Famers played — Grange, Nagurski, Bill Hewitt and George Trafton.
So did a handful of guys on the 1930s all-name team: Mule Wilson, Ace Gutowski, Father Lumpkin and Tiny Engebretsen. Count Red Grange among them too.
“When the old Galloping Ghost made one spurt in the first period on an end run he was knocked out cold,” wrote Lou Diamond in his game story for the Daily Times.
Grange sat out until the fourth quarter, when he asked his way back into the game and caught the winning touchdown.
So much for the concussion protocol.
The championship was decided on fourth-and-goal from the Spartans 2-yard line. Nagurski described the pass in Halas’ autobiography, saying he took a couple of steps forward to plunge through the line, but he backed up “a couple of steps” when there was no way through.
Diamond wrote in the next day’s Daily Times: “It was here that the Nag brought in a bit of strategy and fooled the boys. Instead of bucking the line, Bronko shot a short pass to Red, who was waiting for the ball with open arms.”
Spartans coach Potsy Clark (no relation to Dutch) disputed the pass, insisting Nagurski was not 5 yards behind the line of scrimmage when he threw it, which was required at the time.
Multiple accounts supported Clark’s claim. And, well, Al Riveron wasn’t yet at his post to rule on the controversy.
The touchdown stood. “Perhaps the officials figured that three yards out of five ought to be about right in a 100-yard game played on a 60-yard field,” McCarthy wrote.
The next morning, Chicago’s newspapers and major out-of-town publications, such as the New York Times, told of the Bears’ first championship in 11 years.
Even though it wasn’t front-page news.
The front of the Tribune screamed about a potential $10 billion loss for the United States involving wartime loans to European countries.
There was a 10-word reference to Smith’s sportssection story on the Bears championship, and the font required a magnifying glass.
In the New York Times, the account of the NFL championship competed for space with stories about racquetball, squash and fencing.
Regardless of story placement, however, many scribes did the Bears justice.
“That old and well-established firm of Nagurski and Grange was still doing business at its old stand last night,” Jim Gallagher wrote in the Chicago American.
“And as a result the Chicago Bears are the world’s professional football champions today.”
Forward progress.
The game left a lasting impression on thousands who saw pro football up close for the first time and appreciated the protection from the winter weather. Tribune columnist Arch Ward watched with two college coaches — Colgate’s Andy Kerr and Northwestern’s Dick Hanley.
“Both thought it was high class entertainment, but neither would admit that the champion Bears could whip a championship college team,” Ward wrote.
Colgate had been undefeated and unscored upon.
“My Colgate team handles the ball better than either the Bears or the Spartans, and I think we would worry either club with our forward passes,” Kerr reportedly said, “but I don’t believe we would be able to make much headway with running plays.”
The quality of pro football compared to college might have been debatable, but the popularity of each was not. College football predated the NFL by 50 years and was well established. The pro game needed a jump-start. Scores were too low. To that end, the indoor championship game provided some ideas.
At the NFL meetings the following February, owners made several major rule and structure changes.
The league expanded to 10 teams and divided into two divisions, with the winner of each to play for the championship. This lasted from 1933 until 1966 as a precursor to the Super Bowl. Passing would be permitted anywhere behind the line of scrimmage instead of 5 yards back. Halas wrote in his autobiography: “Potsy Clark’s attitude was common: ‘Nagurski will pass from anywhere so why not make it legal?’ ” In 1934, they shrunk the ball to encourage passing.
The first form of hashmarks was established. Following an out-of-bounds play, the ball would be placed back toward the center of the field, and the loss-of-down consequence was eliminated.
Finally, goal posts were restored to the goal line to increase the offense’s fieldgoal range and boost scoring. The impact of those changes was slowly but steadily transformational; the trend toward offense continues to this day. Fans at the Stadium that night might find today’s game dizzying.
Virginia McCaskey marvels for another reason.
Years ago, when she inherited a cousin’s box of ticket stubs, one from the 1932 indoor game stood out.
“His ticket was a dollar and a quarter for a second balcony seat,” McCaskey said. “I took it to one of the Super Bowl games to show Pete Rozelle (the late NFL commissioner). By that time, the Super Bowl tickets were up to $100.”
$100 One hundred dollars for a Super Bowl ticket. Imagine that.