Heart of a Mule

Excerpt from

The Cleveland Browns

Drafted

I was drafted into the NFL on the Monday after OSU's last game against Michigan. I was the third of eight Buckeye players to be drafted from that great Buckeye team in 1958. The Browns chose me behind Rich Kreitling, an end from the University of Illinois. The gentleman in charge of the Browns' draft choices was talent scout Dick Gallagher, an old friend of Hank Critchfield's. Dick LeBeau was the Browns' next pick.

I was out of town on a short vacation and didn't even know that the draft was being held. I learned the results four days later. The atmosphere then was quite different from what it is today. Now the NFL draft hyped for at least a week ahead of time and then televised nationwide. Of course, today a player's position in the draft means a lot of money. The difference being drafted then and now means millions of dollars. Money was not our incentive in the 1950s. My first salary was $600 a month, and I was glad to get it. I couldn't believe they were willing to pay me anything to play for a team that I loved so much. But all players and coaches in pro ball played for the challenge and fun of it. They had off-season jobs to survive.

I often joke that I had to take a cut in pay to leave Ohio State. The truth is, I never even asked how much money I would make with the Browns. Paul Brown sent me a contract, and I signed it and sent it back. I think my contract also called for a $750 signing bonus to purchase a car. There were some rumors that Paul took the bonus back if you made the team; if you got cut, you got to keep it. In any event, I made the team and he let me keep the bonus.

Good-bye, College Diploma

I got picked for a few all-star bowl games at the end of the college season. That December and January I played in the Blue-Gray, North-South, and the Senior Bowl games. When I accepted $500 for playing in the Senior Bowl, I lost my scholarship at Ohio State. I didn't learn that I had lost it until two weeks into the quarter. I used the money to pay off some loans and a few other expenses and left school. I never took time to cancel my courses; I just left. So I received sixteen hours of failing grades.

Good-bye, college diploma.

Like Mark Twain said, “I never let my schooling get in the way of my education.” I went back to Wooster and started working for a construction company to stay in shape, make a little money, and prepare for the Browns' training camp. I also joined the U.S. Air Force Reserves and spent two months in basic training at Lackland Air Force Training Base.

That summer I was one of six players selected to represent the Browns. We were to play for the College All-Stars in their annual summer game in Chicago against the defending NFL champions, the Colts. It was the Baltimore Colts who had defeated the New York Giants the previous December in what many people describe as “The Greatest Football Game Ever Played.” You can imagine how excited we were to be going up against them.

The College All-Star Game, 1959

Upon arrival in Chicago, all the college all-stars were handed rule sheets for the week by Coach Otto Graham. We were to practice two weeks on the campus of Northwestern University, then play the game at historic Soldier's Field.

After looking over the rules and expectations of Coach Graham, I didn't double-check curfew time. I thought it said 11 p.m. What it really said was: In your rooms at 10:30 p.m., lights out at 11 p.m. The first night I came into the hotel lobby at 10:45 and got a milkshake in the coffee shop where the coaches were all seated. I waved at them, they waved back, and I went to my room.

The next day, after a long, hot, hard practice, Coach Graham called the names of three guys to stick around and do extra drills for missing curfew. Wooten, O'Brien, and Schafrath. All Browns. He made us all leapfrog for 100 yards, then turn around and log-roll over one another, then run like a bear on all fours for the next 100 yards, and then sprint 100 yards. Then we had to do 'em over again until we got sick.

The same three guys had their names called the next day. We were on our backs gasping for air, and Wooten says, “Schaf, what time is curfew?” I said, “I think eleven o'clock.” John said, “I thought so, too. Let's check this thing out.” Needless to say, we didn't miss curfew again.

In Chicago, I had a pretty good game going. I was alternating playing guard and center because of a few injuries we had on our line. At 220 pounds, I was sometimes playing across from Big Daddy Lipscomb, who weighed close to 300 pounds. Boy, was he big and fast! He could pick two or three of us up at one time and sort us out until he found the ball carrier. At the beginning of the third quarter, while protecting our punter, I got hit by an elbow in the face, which cracked my cheekbone near the eye socket. I also had a head concussion, so off I went to the hospital for a night of rest. Four of my teammates were also hospitalized.

The next morning I checked myself out of the hospital at 8 a.m. and decided to drive to the Browns training camp in Hiram. I called and said, “I'm on my way. I'll be there soon.” I got confused and drove the wrong direction. A couple of hours later I called the camp again. I said, “I'm almost in St. Louis. I'm changing directions and coming back.” When I arrived at the Ohio line, Paul Brown had a Highway Patrol car waiting for me, and they drove me the rest of the way to Hiram. I rested for a week before the doctors said it was okay to start practice.

Paul Brown's Test

I passed Paul Brown's mental test. Paul had exceptionally high standards for his players. Each year, on opening day of camp at Hiram College, everyone had to take an IQ test. It was a tough four-hour military-type test. Flunk it and you had a bus ticket home the next morning. No plane tickets in those days.

Paul would never reveal your grade. He did confide in those close to him that Frank Ryan, with an IQ of 156, scored the highest in Browns history followed by Chuck Noll and Paul Wiggin.

Paul used it in many ways to check the learning capabilities of his players and their character. This helped to alert him on how to teach and prevent problems. He wanted to treat all players the same, and he felt the test was a useful tool for doing just that. He also placed great emphasis on character, behavior, class, and intelligence—all necessary championship ingredients. His test today would be called a “psychological” or “personality” test.

Today the players' union does not permit testing of veteran players—only free agents and rookies. Before they sign a contract, they are asked to take the test.

A player must be given results of the test if he wants to know.

According to Paul's son, Mike Brown, the idea for the test came from what the armed services administered during both WWI and WWII. Personally, I never knew or cared to know my results. I'd be surprised if I was more than average.

The next test was my physical. It was very basic, and I passed. However, a potential problem loomed for me with the weigh-in. Paul wanted his tackles to weigh at least 240 pounds and I was only about 220. I had the answer: For the weigh-in, I had the construction company I worked for in Wooster make me a twenty-five-pound iron jock strap. It was held up by suspenders under my T-shirt. Paul Brown was looking at the scales and couldn't believe his eyes. The scales said I weighed 252! He said, “My goodness, you don't look that heavy, Schaf. Get back on the scales.” Then he discovered the iron jock. He said, “Schafrath, anybody that would go to those extremes to weigh 250 pounds, I'm going to give you a chance to play. Just make sure you gain twenty-five to thirty pounds by the end of the season.” I did gain the weight and more.

I was the first guy on the Browns to lift weights, but Paul Brown didn't believe in weights. He liked his players lean. No NFL coach asked you to lift weights. They thought it would make you too tight and muscle-bound. That was before 1960. I visited a boxing gym where Jimmy Bivins, a great old-time Hall of Fame boxer, trained in Cleveland. They worked with me on how to lift weights properly, and I gained that fifty pounds in six months. Because of my experience with them, I built my own gym in my garage. Dad helped me build barbells out of tractor axles and other farm equipment.

Paul Brown's Rules of Fair Play

At the beginning of camp, Paul Brown handed out notebooks to each player and made us write down every assignment for every player and every play. He insisted we commit to memory a lot of pigskin platitudes. Example: The punt is the only play in football that continually gains fifty yards. Paul said his goal was to prove that the same ideas that won for him in high school and college could win in the pros.

Paul always had rules. In high school, you could not date during the football season. In college and Browns training camp, and on pre-game night, lights out at 11 p.m. And he had fines for everything. Late to practice, late to meetings, late for bed check, smoking, or drinking in public. Having sex after Tuesday, but I'm not sure that he ever enforced that one! But he made sure that every wife knew about the rule. Also, there was a fine for not giving your best effort or for making a mental mistake.

Who Was Coach Brown?

Paul Brown was unique. He easily could have been president of General Motors or Harvard. He was a genius at organization. He introduced the word “organization” and taught it to the NFL. His life was about football even from his early years, when the Massillon Pro Tigers football team featuring Knute Rockne, was always battling cross town rival Canton Pro Bulldogs and Jim Thorpe.

Paul played quarterback for Massillon High School (1924–26), whose strongest rival was always Canton McKinley. He went on to play college football at Miami University in Ohio. While there, he also participated on the track team. He coached at Severn Prep School in 1930–31. In 1932, he returned to his alma mater, where he coached for eight years, winning 95 percent of the games. He also coached their reserve team, winning nearly every game.

In 1941 and 1942, he was the head coach at Ohio State. His 1942 Buckeyes were the first ever National Championship team in Ohio State University history. He also coached at Great Lakes Naval Base during WWII in 1944–45.

In 1946, Coach Brown was the first coach and part-owner of the new Cleveland Browns. He was their leader for the next seventeen years, winning nearly 80 percent of the games. He captured four AAFC and three NFL titles and made thirteen post-season appearances. In the ensuing forty years without him, the Browns have close to a 50/50 win-loss record and one championship victory in 1964, and that with almost all of his former players.

Paul Brown's amazing coaching record: 296 wins, 75 losses, 15 ties. Today, he is a member of the Pro Football Hall of Fame.

Brown's greatest gift was his uncanny ability to evaluate talent and to find it in unlikely places. He said, “I want high-grade, intelligent men. I want them strong and lean. There's no place on my team for ‘Big Butches' who talk hard and drink hard. I pick my men for good attitudes. I want players who love to win—nobody phlegmatic.”

Paul was the first coach to make the sport a full-time business. His coaches and scouts were striving for player perfection. A grading system for players was established. His teams were well-prepared, disciplined, exciting, and competitive. His team was the best in football in every level of the game. Other teams began imitating his example, and the game became better because of it. His teams were always at the top or close to it, but after 1957 he could never quite get over the hump to win another championship.

Paul and the Press

Paul wanted to have absolute control. Then he had no one to blame but himself. And he wasn't afraid to take the blame, either. He told one sportswriter after we lost, “I set the defense, I set the offense, I call the plays. Don't blame the players, blame me.”

Paul's advice on what players should say to the press: “When you win, say three things. Be short, positive, and compliment the other team. If you lose, say the same three things, but with fewer words.”

The press more or less reacted like the players. They had great respect for him. Paul never criticized a reporter. In fact, he went to great lengths to teach them the technical strategies on both offense and defense, believing the press should be informed so the media could write and talk intelligently about football. Some knew the plays as well as the players. They traveled with us and wrote positive or constructive articles.

Paul's Wisdom

On Saturdays before games we'd go out on the field, stretch, jog, loosen up, and get a good feel of the game turf. One time in Philadelphia, Paul looks up as we're all coming out of the dugout. There's about twenty workers leaning on their shovels and brooms watching us. It was snowing, and they were supposed to be cleaning the stadium before the game. They're all shouting at us, “Hey, you guys are gonna lose! You bums are gonna lose!” Paul looked at them and said to his team, “Come here, men.” We all gathered around him for some worldly knowledge. He said, “Men, I want to give you one word of advice. Never listen to a guy that's leaning on a shovel or broom. He is a loser!” Paul could say more in a few words than anyone I ever knew.

Paul Brown Discipline

No one ever gave excuses or talked back to Paul Brown. Veterans warned everyone immediately—keep your mouth shut except for “No, Sir” and “Yes, Sir.”

One time our offensive end dropped a sure touchdown pass, and we lost the game by three points. We're watching game film as a team on the first day back to practice. Coach Brown is operating the film projector, going over and over each play. He comes to the dropped pass and asks, “What happened? How could you drop it?” The end says, “It hit me on the wrist. Coach.”

Paul stops the projector, turns on the lights, and says to end, “The ball hit you on the wrist?”

“Yes, Coach.”

“Which wrist?”

“The right one.”

“Where on the wrist?”

“Here, Coach.”

“Oh, the right wrist right here.” He holds the end's arm up high so we could all see it. Then he says, “Now point to where on the wrist.” The end points. “How far would you say that is to your palm?” “About two inches.” Coach to quarterback: “For this week's game, make sure you throw the passes two inches higher so this end can catch it.” At the end of the season, that end was traded.

Paul once fined a player for not being on the field for an extra point. He said, “But Coach, I thought I was supposed to be in for field goals only!”

(Despite being a strong disciplinarian, he told his players to call him “Paul” or “Coach.” Players never called him Mr. Brown.)

Tithing

Paul was one of the first coaches to have prayer before and after games. He even had a team priest. I still remember Father Connelly traveling with the team. He was a big man, could have played tackle. Father Connelly was at every home and away game. One time Paul went to the Catholic church with him and us players. I'll never forget it because they had three collections during the mass. Paul gave money the first two times, but when the basket came around the third time, I heard him whisper to Father, “What are they going to do now, rob us?” Father started laughing out loud uncontrollably.

Be Careful Who You Associate With

One Wednesday shortly after practice during my rookie season, Paul Brown saw me in the dressing room laughing and talking to Bob Gain and a few other old-timers. They were telling me about a place they usually stopped to have snacks and brews on their way home. Paul pulled me aside before he left and said, “Schaf, I don't mean to interfere with your personal life, but let me give you a suggestion. Stay away from Bob Gain and his small circle of friends. They don't always go to the best places, and they sometimes associate with questionable people.” I was about to say, “Coach, is there anybody you would recommend?” And he added, “I'd like to recommend a real solid type of guy that would be more your type—Walt Michaels.” I said, “Okay. Thanks, Coach.” So Walt and I agreed to stop at the place he usually stopped on his way home. We parked our cars on a side street, and I followed him through a back door of a bar/restaurant. Lo and behold, sitting at a table is Bob Gain and all the guys Paul had talked about! Walt sat down with them, so I did, too! I was thinking, boy, do they all have Coach fooled. What would he do if he knew the truth? Maybe he did.

Paul Brown's Sayings

The worst thing you can do to an opponent is to beat him.

Do a better job each game or I promise you someone else will be in your chair, and soon.

Are you ready? It's your game, win or lose!

On the field or on the bus, you're a Cleveland Brown.

Players nursed on mother's milk at birth have more stamina.

It takes three things to make the Browns a team: Reading, Writing, and Route 71 from Columbus.

It takes one sentence to explain a win; it takes a book to explain a loss.

We'll be as good a football team as the class of people we are.

Don't be afraid to tell your player who is out-of-line or breaking rules that he owes it to his team and school to straighten himself out. You win with everyone pulling together. Never ever allow one player to pull the whole team down.

Preparation is key to winning.

Character is the difference in a close game.

You run on your own fuel—it comes from within.

Four words of advice: Just Show Up Ready.

Morrie Kono

Morrie Kono came to the Browns in 1948, immediately after being discharged from the army. He signed a deal in one minute to be the Browns' equipment manager. Never asked Paul what his salary was—just needed a job to eat. Morrie did it all. He opened and locked up the training camp facility every day. He worked like a full-time mom for thirty-three men. He took care of the players' laundry. He packed all the uniforms and equipment for every game. He was Paul Brown's appointed spy and detective and enforcer. He answered the clubhouse pay phone and, sometimes, he lied to protect the guilty! He got lunches for the players and coaches at the local diner. He even rode the blocking sled for the offensive line and held the tackling dummies for the defense. At Christmas time, Morrie always put up a tree in the locker room and decorated it with jock straps, socks, and used tape.

Paul Brown was always afraid that someone might have a wire or tape hidden in the pipes or heating vents to listen to us in the locker room. He had Morrie tape every peephole, every crack in the wall, and every vent before practices and games. Nobody could get an edge on him. He always whispered everything in the dressing room. He was well aware of the scruples of some of the opposing coaches.

Just before every game Paul allowed Morrie to perform for us in our dressing room. With only five minutes before we were to go onto the field, Paul would leave the room to meet with the other coaches, and Morrie would jump up in front of the team and mock Paul Brown. He was realistic in his enactment as he walked around the room whispering with both hands cupped around his mouth, “Okay, men, here are the first four plays.” Then he'd hold one finger in the air. First play: “Bobby Mitchell around left end.” He'd run to the left, stop, and shake his head like there was no gain.

Then, with two fingers to his lips. Second play: “Pass to Leroy Bolden.” Leroy was the smallest guy on the team, and Morrie would drop back and pretend to throw the ball down at the ground because Leroy was so short. Again, he'd shake his head in disappointment. For the third play, he's holding up three fingers. “Jim Brown up the middle.” After a few quick steps he stops and shakes his head like nothing good happened. Then he'd put up four fingers. He'd drop back and pretend to punt the ball. It was a riot—a perfect parody of Paul. Then the coaches would enter the room. We'd say a prayer and head down the long tunnel toward the crowd and onto the field.

Until 1965, we always practiced in Cleveland's Old League Park, a real relic. We played some games there, too. Babe Ruth, Tris Speaker, Ty Cobb, and many other baseball greats also played there. The park was built in 1891 for the Cleveland Indians. In 1946 the Indians moved to the huge Municipal Stadium, which was built by WPA funds in the Depression years of 1934–35. By the 1950s, the Old League locker room was kinda like an old dungeon with crumbling cement walls. Water buckets were used to catch raindrops that leaked every place. There was a six-inch-deep trough about a foot wide around the outside base of the meeting rooms in case of heavy rains or if you needed to wash the place out. We had our team meetings there during the regular season. The room had twenty-five lockers for thirty-three players and cab members. There were four showers, one toilet, one urinal, one sink, and one trainer's table. Coaches and meeting rooms were on the visitor's side. One pay phone outside. Rats would sometimes eat our chin straps or the ear pads of the helmets.

This one day it was raining cats and dogs, lots of thunder and lightning. We're all sitting here in the dungeon having our meeting when all of a sudden the lights blinked and went out. Paul Brown yells, “Morrie, fix it!” Morrie says, “Okay, Coach.” He runs out the door. Across the street are two bars. It's 9:30 in the morning and four winos are already sitting there. Morrie says, “Anybody want to make five bucks?” Two of them follow him back to the park. Morrie's got a flashlight and a light fuse for them. We're sitting in the dark waiting. Water is running in the drains and the whole trough is full. These two guys both step into the water and put the fuse in the electric box. The lights come on and Paul says, “Great job, Morrie!” These guys walk out with their five bucks!

Once when we were practicing at League Park, Paul thought he saw someone (a spy) on a school roof nearby. So he said, “Morrie, check it out!” So Morrie ran over to the schoolhouse and climbed the fire escape to the roof. A janitor was cleaning and sharpening some tools. Morrie told him, “The coach said you're not to watch us practice. Now, go back inside to finish the things you're doing.” Paul knew that opposing coaches paid spies to watch the Browns practice.

Another time we were practicing at Hiram College. It's 8 a.m. The players were on the field and Paul spots a parked car about one hundred feet past the far end of the field. Paul says, “Morrie, check it out. It must be a spy.” Morrie runs to where the car is parked and sees a guy sound asleep. Morrie knocks on the window and wakes him to ask what's he doing here. The guys says, “I'm a salesman from Chicago, and I arrived early for a ten o'clock appointment and thought I'd get some shut-eye.” Morrie says, “You'd better move your car, sir, to another place. The coach doesn't want you to watch practice!”

Another day at Hiram, Paul sees a guy on a pole close to the practice field. “Morrie, go check it out; it's probably a spy.” Morrie runs to the pole, talks to the guy—he's an electrician fixing the line. Morrie tells him, apologetically, “The coach doesn't want you taking any pictures of our practice,” and runs back. Paul asked what happened. Morrie said, “It's okay, Coach, he's an electrician working on loose wires.” Paul says, “Oh really? I've heard that old chestnut before.”

Morrie lived the Paul Brown doctrine and made sure the players did, too. He never complained. He loved his job. His nickname was “Fix It.” Morrie died shortly after his retirement in 1990. He set a high standard for future managers to follow.

Leo Murphy

Our trainer was Leo Murphy. Leo carried both a black satchel bag and a box with a handle. He could fix anything. He was like a traveling druggist, medical doctor, and psychiatrist all rolled into one. He always had tape, tools, smelling salts, and bandages as well as all kinds of pills, turpentine and tar, and, of course, the famous healing towel. If you were in pain or ill, Leo gave you a pill and you were suddenly all right. It didn't matter what he gave you; you just knew it would fix your problem.

Husband, father, self-made trainer, cigar smoker, distinguished piano player, heart and soul of the Cleveland Browns for nearly forty years, Leo was chief counsel, adviser, masseuse, doctor, nurse, and medicine man for all ailments rolled into one. Born in Buffalo, New York, in the mid-1920s, he was a good high school athlete. He earned a basketball scholarship to attend the University of Notre Dame, where he majored in education. Leo always made light of his basketball career by saying that he sat on the bench so much he was called “the Judge.”

After graduation in 1948, he found a job with the Studebaker Company at South Bend. But Leo's first love was sports and helping people. Soon he found a part-time job with the old Chicago Rockets of the American Football Conference. The team folded after the 1948 season, unable to attract the same level of attention as its competitors, the Bears and the Cardinals.

Through friends and associates, Leo and his wife Betty ended up in New York. He was trainer for both Casey Stengel and the Yankees and Red Stroder and the Giants. In 1959, Wally Bock, trainer of both the Browns and Indians, retired from the Browns to just work for the Tribe. Leo was looking for a way to get out of the Big Apple when he heard of the Browns opening. Paul offered Leo the trainer's job. Leo accepted.

When Leo arrived in Cleveland, he expected to work part-time with Studebaker, but they immediately went on strike. A few weeks later, he was hired by Blepp Combs Sporting Goods Company. He always carried everything he needed for both jobs in his station wagon. Leo retired as Browns trainer in 1989 after nearly forty years. Today he's in the Trainers Hall of Fame in Dallas, Texas.

Fritz Heisler and Eddie Ulinski, Line Coaches

Fritz Heisler molded great offensive lines in the 1940s, '50s, and '60s—the best in pro ball. He was the master doing his thing until the end of Blanton Collier's era in 1971.

Fritz and his trusted friend Coach Eddie Ulinski were two loyal, tough hombres. They spent most of their adult lives coaching and helping the Cleveland Browns. Fritz was a little guy—stood five foot five and weighed about 150 pounds. His players towered over him. He was always standing on his toes in front of linemen looking up into their faces, yelling or talking loudly, with his thick, steel-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose.

Eddie was about six feet tall and 180 pounds. He played tackle for the original Browns in the 1940s. He assisted Fritz with the offensive tackles and doing all the film work so we could study films.

No one could out-work or out-tough these guys. Thanks to them, we were the best offensive line in professional football during the '60s, putting three backs into the NFL Hall of Fame (Mitchell, Brown, and Kelly).

Fritz Heisler's twenty-five-year tenure included some amazing statistics: twenty-one years in post-season games; eight AAFC and four NFL championships; six second-place world championships; and seventeen post-season games, with only one losing season.

Loyalty of Staff

Almost every assistant coach under Paul Brown stayed with him forever. I've mentioned Fritz Heisler and Eddie Ulinski, but Howard Brinker and Dub Jones were also with him. They stayed with the Browns 'til they retired. Each team had five assistants! Paul Brown's assistants stayed with Blanton Collier. It was a very loyal staff. It gave the Browns stability.

At one time there were forty-five assistant coaches and twenty-one head coaches in the NFL who had previously coached or played for Paul Brown.

I'm in the NFL Now

In 1959, during intra-squad practice scrimmage at Hiram College, I was standing on the sidelines as a rookie watching. Behind me, my family and friends were yelling, “We want Schafrath! We want Schafrath!” I strolled over close to Coach Brown and said, “What do you think, Coach?” He said, “I think since they want you so bad, you should go sit with them.”

Nobody ever got real close to Paul. His eyes did the talking. I was always taught to respect a person in authority and the wisdom of older people. Paul was wise and in charge. He wasted few words. All players adapted quickly to everything that he wanted. He was very demanding, very structured, very organized, very disciplined, and very controlling. Practices were to the minute, never over one hour. He had this clock on the practice field that rang every five minutes. It was timed for us to change units. Each day he did the same things—basics and fundamentals. He kept it simple, and I liked that. All work and no horsing around. Football is a game of emotion, and Paul left the mental preparation up to you. If you couldn't prepare and motivate yourself, you weren't around very long. Also, if you weren't a team player, you had a short stay. He insisted on loyalty, remembering your roots, class-act people, and staying out of trouble.

We did everything as a team on and off the field. We even helped teammates move and build their houses.

Paul loved seeing wives and kids come to camp on special family days. And he always wanted you looking good. Think of your image first! He always stressed, “You are what your foundation shows. Your image will reflect the class of players that are on our team.” He wanted you to shine your shoes. In fact, once in a while I would notice that my socks were different colors, and that wasn't good. He made an impression on me, and I shined my shoes more often than I ever had before. I still talk to a lot of people who say they really respected Paul because his guys always showed up in a shirt and tie, and never smoked or drank in front of kids while on public appearances. Paul said daily, “We are to be a good example and represent the Cleveland Browns with pride.” Between Woody and Paul, they helped change my image somewhat. My mom always said, “You can take the boy off the farm, but not the farm out of the boy!”

I never had a new suit until I came to the Browns. All the players would go to Richman Brothers, where they had deals for players wanting a new tailor-made suit. I had no idea what “tailored” meant. First suit—$20. I never asked questions, but I knew Paul had made arrangements. It fit just like it was supposed to. Conveniently, Morrie Kono had a friend (Phil Hertz) who owned Bobbie Brooks, a women's clothing line in Cleveland. All the wives and daughters got great clothing for bargains there. These were perks we really appreciated considering our salaries those days.

Paul gave me a choice the first day of practice: I could play center, left guard, or left offensive tackle. I don't know why I chose tackle. At that time, the defenses were mostly a four-three and nobody was ever over the center. That position didn't sound like there was much action. I later realized the center had more freedom than any of the other linemen. He could be helping a teammate or trapping or racing after linebackers downfield. The center just needed to have twinkle toes so his feet weren't stepped on in all the heavy traffic. When I got out there on the end of the line as a tackle, there was usually the fastest, biggest, meanest guy on the defense. That was war, every play one-on-one, and that's where I wanted to be.

I didn't play much as a regular my first year with the Browns. I was mainly a backup for all line positions—both on offense and defense, and as a starter on all special teams. All teams had one extra lineman. With a total of thirty-three players, there were eleven extras to back up all twenty-two of the opposing positions. Every week in our Tuesday morning meeting, Coach Brown insisted that we all write down every word he had to say about all twenty-two players we were to face for the coming game. A few older veterans didn't do it, but most of us did. Paul certainly wasn't going to catch me not writing everything down. In fact, a few guys who took a lot of notes each Tuesday later became great coaches.

During my first and second year on the Browns, I was locked in all-out battle, competing for the starting left tackle position with Willie Davis (Packers), Jim Marshall (Vikings), Jim Houston (Browns), and Fran O'Brien (Redskins). Lou Groza (Browns) became kicker only. Somehow, I won out and was the starter for the next twelve years. I learned from some outstanding older linemen, including Groza, McCormick, Hickerson, Chuck Noll, and Jim Ray Smith. All were future Hall of Famers or Pro Bowlers. Future NFL coaches from Paul Brown's roster were Chuck Noll, Mike McCormack, John Sandusky, Paul Wiggin, Don Shula, Floyd Peters, Vince Costello, Monte Clark, Ara Parseghian, Alex Agasse, Mac Speedie, Abe Gibron, and a host of others. Later, when I coached with George Allen and the Redskins, I used that same old Browns playbook for reference. Blanton Collier was amazing, too. Anybody who grew up in the Paul Brown/Blanton Collier era knew the techniques to all twenty-two positions. These coaches taught you fundamentals backwards and forwards, and they made you write them and memorize them until they became habit. You were able to teach them, too.

My First Game With the Browns

The first game I started as a Brown was against the Steelers and their All Pro defensive end Ernie Stautner. I had been coached by Lou Groza for weeks that on the first pass play. I was confident and ready. I got down in my stance and listened for the starting count. Stautner was saying some real unpleasant things about my mom and family. I wasn't too worried, though; Groza had showed me a hundred times how to be like a boxer and duck that first blow. When the ball was snapped, I knew Lou had forgotten to tell me one thing: Stautner was left-handed. I ducked the wrong way, and he hit me big time and followed up with seven more hits. Boy, was my bell ringing as I went reeling backwards with each hit. Paul Brown replaced me with Groza for a couple of series so I could recover. I finally went up to Paul and said, “Coach, please let me back in. I want to play in the worse way.” He said, “I know, Schaf. That's why you're not playing.”

My second year I weighed in at 275. I was really confident. I was the biggest guy on the team, offensive or defense, for next five years. I could eat like a mule and get paid for it. During training camp in 1960, Paul wanted to help me gain weight, so he gave me a key to the cafeteria for all-night service. I never abused the privilege. There was no one spying or there to question me if I did.

The Way It Was

From the 1920s through the 1960s, all professional players had an off-season job to support themselves and their families. Full-time off-season jobs could continue during regular season as there was no practice on Mondays and Tuesdays, and practice was over by 2:30 p.m. on Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. No one worked out in off-season. Many excellent players retired early in their career because they could not survive on their football salaries. Records and statistics meant nothing.

During the football season, all the Browns players traveled to and from ball games together. We were required to be dressed in suits, shirts and ties. We traveled on busses, trains or prop-driven planes, with players in front; coaches, officials, sportswriters, and broadcasters to the rear. Different order in the buses—white starters and the head coach rode on the first bus; black players and everyone else rode the second bus.

Salary Negotiations

During my football career, I held construction jobs, helped on the farm, sold insurance, sold swimming pools, helped develop a sports camp, and served in the U.S. Air Force and Air National Guard. I was also a part-time postal carrier. Had public relations jobs with Canada Dry, Cleveland Plumbing Industry, and the Cleveland Police. I often worked several jobs at a time. Both Paul Brown and Art Modell were stubborn in giving me salary raises. They'd say, “Jim Brown doesn't make that kind of money you're asking, Mike McCormick doesn't make that kind of money, Lou Groza doesn't make that kind of money.” I'd say, “Okay, but some new rookies are making more money than any of us. My blocking grades are high. You've got to treat me differently.” They'd both say, “No, no, we can't do that. We'd go broke giving you the kind of money you're asking for.” Boy, were they tough! Most players before 1970 had short careers because they pursued better-paying jobs.

The Thirteenth Check

All players got paid each week during the twelve weeks of the season. But Paul gave thirteen payments. Just in case you had a bill that needed to be paid after the season ended, the thirteenth check paid creditors!

Before the 1970s Paul insisted that nobody knew what anyone else was making. Some players, like myself, were too embarrassed to tell anyone anyway—we weren't making enough to brag. Paul tried to keep wives apart at games, as he didn't want them sharing personal information about things like salaries. Today you can call the league office and get a printout of the whole team's salaries in a matter of minutes.

Even when I became a state senator, I didn't know how much my salary was. Money has never been the number one objective in my life, but I think that once a person proves himself or herself and does well, he or she should be paid fairly. I believe in the incentive plan. Unlike most players, I thought I could play forever and eventually work my way up to being a millionaire. Yeah, right! But, I found out soon—you can't play forever, and not everything in life is fair.

Football Salaries Then and Now

1. Team Budget 1964: For players, coaches, and front-office personnel. Total cost—less than $1 million

2. Team Budget 2004: For players, coaches, and front-office personnel. Total cost—approximately $75 million

3. Average salaries for players in 1964: $22,000

4. Average salaries for players in 2004: $1.285 million

5. One good player's salary today would equal the entire payroll of half of the NFL teams in the 1960s.

Helmet Experiments

For most of my professional career I never had a helmet that fit me right. The helmets were constantly changing. All players had some problems. During the 1950s and '60s it was a constant experiment. I started with the leather helmet in high school, went to no face mask to plastic helmet with suspension, then to face mask. At Ohio State it was a single bar. Then with the Browns a double bar, then triple bar, then a bar down the middle of all three bars. Then an air-pocket helmet, then a water-pocket helmet, then back to a suspension-only helmet. The worst was the air and water period. After the defensive end would bang my head a couple of times, I'd start losing air or water from the helmet pockets. The pockets, maybe one hundred of them, were 1” x 1”, and some would just pop after a good head hit. After a half dozen plays, my helmet was half deflated and would become loose. It would start spinning like a top. I'd come to the sidelines, where they'd pump me up with air or water. If the damage was too bad, they would throw me another helmet. By half time I was sometimes using one hand to hold my helmet on straight while using the other arm or shoulder to block.

Head Slaps

I can't be more sincere when I say this—unless you played the offensive line position in 1950s and '60s, you can't begin to understand how vicious the head slap was. Most defensive linemen would tape their hands until they were twice as big as normal. Some of us thought that, at times, there was something hard under the tape, too. When they first popped you, your helmet would rattle for two or three seconds. Boy, would it sting. Your head and helmet were ringing all the time. You couldn't defend against it because the rules said that the offensive lineman couldn't have his hands extended like he can today. You had to be kidding me—just stick my head out and say “hit me”? It didn't make much sense.

From the head slaps, I developed three herniated disks in my neck area—real bad! My last couple years in the league I could feel the sting from nerve burns sometimes from my neck to my toes. Over the past thirty-plus years since retiring, the burns have weakened, but every once in awhile I still have a bad pinch. When I played in the later years of my career, I'd wear a neck collar to try and cushion the blows. Sometimes while running, I would suddenly fall to the ground paralyzed for a second from the nerve burn. In the late 1970s, the vicious head slap was finally outlawed.

The NFL Players Association did a survey about neck and head problems a few years ago. I haven't seen the results, but it was all about the effects of head concussions, head slaps, and artificial playing surfaces on players. I always say getting hit in the head for twenty years had one positive: It prepared me to be a state senator.

Hall of Famer Ernie Stautner of the Steelers was probably the greatest headhunter of all times. He was like blocking a Coke machine, and his fists felt like barbells when he hit you. He drove me crazy! He'd smile or complain to the official to keep watching me so I wouldn't hold. Besides Stautner, I faced three other Hall of Famers each year: Robustelli, Bethea, and Atkins. I know they're all there thanks to my performance against them. All Pros I played against were Lamar Lundy (Rams), George Andrie (Cowboys), Ordell Brasse (Colts), Ben Davidson (Raiders), Luke Owens (Cardinals), Jim Marshall (Vikings), and Lyle Alzado (Broncos).

A couple years ago when Doug Atkins came to a Browns reunion, I asked him how big he actually was when he played. He said he was six foot seven, 290 pounds. At the University of Tennessee, he played basketball and high-jumped seven feet in a track meet. If you tried to cut him, he'd fly right over you. You had to try to stay up in his face as long as you could. I asked him to name the toughest guy he ever played against. He said, “Nobody!” I thought maybe he'd say me. I always welcomed help from Ernie Green on pass protection when playing against Doug or any of those other great ends. Ernie was an outstanding team player and an All Pro—kinda like having a coach on the field with you. Ernie and I still laugh about Doug Atkins. I'd be saying, “Ernie, I need help. You're going to help me right? You take inside and I'll take outside, right? Huh, Ernie?” “Okay, Schaf.” I finally came up with a three-step plan on how to block Atkins on a pass play. (1) Hit him as hard as I could in his chest with my helmet and right fist; (2) Throw a hip, knee, and shoe at his groin area as I hit him with my left fist; (3) Try to grab hold of one of his ankles as he was jumping over me.

It was the same thing for Monte Clark, our right tackle, when he was playing across from Deacon Jones, Willie Davis, Gino Marchetti, or Carl Eller. Of course, John Wooten and Gene Hickerson, our guards, would always be calling for help, too. Our center, John Morrow, would be helping the one who yelled the loudest. Each of us would always argue we had the toughest guy.

Browns Tradition for Rookies

During training camp each summer, at dinner time, or immediately before meetings, a veteran would call out a rookie's name. The rookie had to stand, state his name, put his hand over his heart, and sing his college fight song. Depending on how good the applause was, he was either rewarded with a beverage at a local pub or forced to do some stupid task like sing it again or carry a veteran's playbook for a few days. I always sang “Fight the Team Across the Field.” I still love the words.

What's Pain?

Everyone played football with a lot of pain. In the early days you played or no pay. I remember one time our offensive end, Gern Nagler, came to the sidelines. He had a broken nose. Paul Brown said, “Hey Nagler, what are you doing here?” Gern's nose was bent flat to his cheek and bleeding. He says, “My nose, Coach. I think it's broke. ” Coach says, “A broken nose? You're here because of a broken nose?” Gern says, “But Coach, it won't stop bleeding!” Paul quickly summoned Leo Murphy, who wrapped tape around Gern's nose and helmet five or six times, then sent him back onto the field. He played the rest of the first half. They repaired him at halftime, and he was okay.

One time John Morrow had his fibula bone sticking out of the calf area of his sock. In the huddle it looked bad and was bleeding. We kept saying, “John, get the heck off the field! You're crazy. You need medical help.” He said, “Nope, I'm not getting out of here until we score!”

Otto Graham had his face smashed into a bench in the second quarter. It took forty stitches to sew him up at halftime. He played the second half, and the Browns won!

Gary Collins played with cracked ribs. He could hardly breathe or bend over to get in stance, but he still played.

Players played with broken bones, jaws, cheekbones, ribs, fingers, toes. Dislocated shoulders, hips, elbows, knees. The trainers knew how to jerk them back into place, glue them, tape them, and numb them so they'd be playing the next series. If they were shaken up mentally, trainers put smelling salts to the nose. If the salts didn't open your head and clean the cobwebs from a good hit, then you were probably dead!

We were battling the Pittsburgh Steelers when I received a knee to the helmet. I saw stars and laid on the ground in a daze. Time out was called by the officials. Leo Murphy and our physician Vic Ippolito ran onto the field. I remember smelling some kind of powerful stuff Leo had stuffed into my nose. He was saying, “Are you okay, Schaf? Can you hear me? How many fingers?” Finally, I got to my knees, then he and Doc helped me stand up. In a couple of minutes I was fine. Doc said, “Feel good enough to continue?” “Sure do, I'm ready to go.” Then I turned to Doc. “Hey, Leo.” “Yeah, Schaf. What?” “How's the crowd taking it?” They both said, “He sounds normal. Go get 'em, Mule!”

Giving It My All and Getting Some in Return

The first couple years, Paul criticized my performance a lot, but I kept working hard and tried not to get too discouraged. Any coach that isn't on you to get better is usually not interested in you. One time, this guy who played for the Redskins said in the paper, “I can't wait to play over that Schafrath.” I did some good things against him during the game, and Paul stopped the film a few times on the following Tuesday and said, “Hey Schaf, that's the guy who couldn't wait to get a piece of you!” He always came up with a word to encourage me, too.

Paul stuck with me. Eddie Ulinski and Fritz Heisler would call me once in awhile the night before a practice and say, “Schaf, I just want to warn you. Paul's going to be singling you out today. You didn't look too good on some plays.” Then they'd add, “You should be okay, though. You're just learning and doing a lot of good things.”

It wasn't like you had a real ongoing, friendly relationship with Paul. He kept you at a distance and worried to death. It was a fear that he would embarrass you in front of your teammates. If he did, you just took it like a man because he did it with everybody except his staff, Jim Brown and Lou Groza, who were exempt. As we watched film together, he'd go back and forth over a play four or five times, and if he felt like saying something, he would: “Boy, that's a good blow there,” or “You're killing us.” If you were the one “killing us” too often, you were gone.

A lot of your fears were that he would not say anything. He'd tell you he was going to look at your notebook, and if you didn't have everything written down, there was going to be a $50 fine. If you didn't have your notebook in your locker, it would cost another $50. If you were one minute late, it would cost you $50 and an additional $50 for every fifteen minutes. If you were late for anything, fines. Everybody was always early. I was never fined. I only know one guy who was. At the football events, it was called “Paul Brown's Time.” You were always in your seat at least fifteen minutes early.

Just when you are thinking, “I don't know if this guy even likes me,” the human side of Paul would surface. He'd say something nice to you about your performance, and you'd feel like a million bucks. He knew the right time to do that. With Woody and Blanton, it was almost daily. With Paul, it might take a week or so. He'd suddenly be aware that there was a little tension going on and he'd say something. Of course, he got rid of the players he didn't like. If he was going to cut you, he never told you directly. He'd call two or three names out at a team meeting and tell them to pick up an envelope in the morning. One guy would be cut—the other two would be okay. Nobody ever knew who was to be cut.

History and Integration

To understand what a thrill it was for me to play for the Cleveland Browns, you've got to know a bit about football history.

Football was big in Ohio almost from the beginning. In 1903, football officially migrated to Ohio from Pennsylvania, and many city athletic clubs quickly sprung up across the Buckeye State. Ohio's first pro team was the Massillon Tigers, based in a city twenty miles east of my hometown. Their arch rival quickly became next-door neighbor the Canton Bulldogs. Both recruited All-Americans from colleges and even college coaches who played under fictitious names on Sundays. It's no surprise that the Professional National Football Hall of Fame is located in Canton.

Early football was not for sissies. Each team had about fifteen players and few, if any, time-outs. There was no forward passing, and most of the offensive plays consisted of a “flying wedge,” players locked together arm in arm while attacking. The ball carrier was not “down” until he could no longer move and yelled, “I give up.” There seldom was an off sides call, and players did not wear much in the way of pads and helmets. You could block an opponent in the back, below the knees, or spear him with your head. Quarterbacks were fair game—no protection from any kind of hit. Players never left the field until the game was over or until they were carried off. My heroes were greats like Greasy Neale and Knute Rockne of the University of Notre Dame; Red Grange, a three-time All-American from Illinois; and Bronko Nagurski, an All-American from Minnesota at two positions, fullback and tackle. All played for the Massillon and Canton teams. My love for the legendary Fighting Irish seven mules and four horsemen lead to my being nicknamed “Mule.”

For hours as a youngster, I practiced the popular but difficult dropkick for making extra points. The use of a spotting tee for placekicks replaced the dropkick in the mid-1940s. It resurfaced temporarily in 2005, when Doug Flutie of the New England Patriots successfully dropkicked an extra point after a touchdown in their last regular season game.

The first black person I ever saw was during a Hot Stove League baseball game in Wooster when I was ten years of age. Soon after, my family met his family at our church. And a short while later, I had a black teammate on our high school football team. As a kid, I loved reading stories about blacks and Indians. They were my heroes. Jim Thorpe was my favorite Indian. Jack Johnson was my favorite black.

The first known black professional football player, Charles W. Follis, the “Black Cyclone,” was from my hometown of Wooster. He helped organize Wooster High School's first football team in 1899. That's the same team would play on fifty years later. Now there's a stadium in Wooster name Follis Field.

When Follis turned pro in 1904, he played for an athletic club in Shelby, Ohio. His roommate was none other than Branch Rickey. Mr. Rickey later served as general manager of the Brooklyn Dodgers and integrated major league baseball when he signed Jackie Robinson in 1947.

In 1946, the Browns had three outstanding black players: Bill Willis, Marion Motley, and Horace Gillum. Willis and Motley are NFL Hall of Famers. They helped lead Cleveland to ten straight championship seasons. The Browns were one of the first NFL teams that offered blacks the opportunity to play since the early 1920s. Paul Brown didn't care what color a guy's skin was as long as he could run, catch, block, or tackle.

When I started playing football in 1951, there were few blacks playing with or against whites in any sport. I played against two really great black athletes in high school, Warner Harper at Orrville and Jim Roseboro of Ashland. Roseboro later became a good halfback for the 1954–55 Buckeyes. At Ohio State, I had several outstanding black teammates and team leaders: NFL Hall of Fame, Jim Parker, Leo Brown and Don Clark (both team captains), Bill Cummings, Aurelius Thomas, Ernie Wright, Jim Marshall, Bertho Arnold, and Phil Robinson.

Unbelievable as it seems, during the 1950s and '60s there were still many separate race rules in cities with regards to buses, restaurants, and hotels. In 1963, former Browns teammate and Hall of Famer Bobby Mitchell was the first black athlete to play football for the Washington Redskins.

Today, high school, college, and professional teams are loaded with great black stars. It's hard to imagine a time when they were a rarity.

Paul Brown and Woody Hayes always stressed team first. Winners played together. But sometimes the rules of society didn't work in our favor. We had outside resistance to whites and blacks eating or sleeping together. Some blacks had to stay with local black families. Early on, teams had even numbers of white and black players so everyone would have a roommate of the same color.

I figured that my teammates had to work equally as hard as I did to make the team. Nobody had given them anything—they earned it.