Browns Town 1964

Excerpt from

PREPARING FOR THE COLTS

A few days before the Browns were to meet the Baltimore Colts in the title game, Art Modell ran into Colts owner Carroll Rosenbloom.

“I hope you don't embarrass us,” Modell said.

“We'll try not to,” said the Colts owner.

Modell was livid. He was just trying to be gracious to one of the league's veteran owners.

“The guy looked at me as if there was no doubt his team would win,” Modell said. “In fact, his attitude was that if they wanted to embarrass us, they could.”

Maybe Modell was right. Or maybe he was just hyper and reading too much into the exchange. Why should Rosenbloom be polite to a young upstart such as Modell if Rosenbloom really believed that his team would blow out the Browns? This much was certain: No one outside northern Ohio gave the Browns much chance. Even many of those who were Browns fans and/or admirers of the team and Blanton Collier had their doubts.

“Art told me that in his private moments, he worried the team might get beaten by 20 points,” said Kevin Byrne, former Browns vice president of public relations. Modell wasn't alone.

As Bob August wrote in the Cleveland Press, “I think I hear a ticking, I think it comes from the Colts and they will explode and win a title at the Stadium.”

“It wasn't that I lacked respect for the Browns,” August said thirty years later. “It's just that the Colts appeared to be the superior team.”

The New York Times saw it that way, too. Arthur Daley wrote, “Nothing ruffles Johnny Unitas. If the Browns blitz him, that will just give him room to manipulate. . . . The Colts just have too many weapons for the Browns . . . so this Grandstand Quarterback picks Baltimore to win. The choice is made without hesitation.”

Tom Melody wrote in the Akron Beacon Journal, “It is unreasonable to imagine the Browns emerging triumphant.” The story ran under the headline: “Browns Fans Face Long, ‘Colt' Afternoon.” Melody believed that the quarterbacks would settle the issue. While he conceded that when Frank Ryan was hot he was as good as anyone in the league, he had every reason to wonder if Ryan would be on top of his game, and every reason to believe Unitas would be in his usual All-Pro form. The difference, wrote Melody, was that Ryan had nineteen interceptions in the regular season. Unitas had “a mere six.”

Only Chuck Heaton of the Cleveland Plain Dealer picked the Browns to win. But he was just staying with his preseason choice, the only notable sportswriter in the country to insist that the Browns would be playing for the title. During the 1964 season, Heaton had picked the Browns to win every single week.

The Browns' march to greatness was his story, and he had every reason to stick to it. Before the championship game, he wrote, “There seems to be a feeling about town that young coach Don Shula has assembled a squad of supermen. They are believed to be capable of running the Browns right into Lake Erie.” Heaton told the Browns fans to keep the faith, and once again predicted the team would beat Baltimore.

But most other sportswriters followed the lead of Sports Illustrated's Ed Shrake, who wrote, “It is yawningly conceded that the Eastern Conference champion Cleveland will be playing merely for the dubious pleasure of being thrashed by Baltimore on December 27. There are at least three teams in the West that are superior to any in the East. To be realistic about it, the championship game of 1964 has already been played. Baltimore won it in October by beating Green Bay for the second time.”

There was every reason for Sports Illustrated to support the Colts. The magazine had held a coronation for the team four games into the regular season, when it ran this story about the Colts: “The Making of a New Pro Dynasty.”

Just to prove that we haven't just invented Rushing to Judgment in the 1990s, consider how Sports Illustrated hyped the Colts. Their record was 3-1 when the Dynasty story ran. The previous season, the Colts were 8-6. Yes, Baltimore was the NFL champion in 1958 and 1959, but from 1960 to 1963, the Colts' record was 29-25.

Granted, there were reasons to love the Colts early in 1964. Reasons like Unitas, who was the best quarterback of his era, and maybe any era.

The last time the two teams played, Baltimore crushed the Browns, 36–14. Jim Brown had his worst day as a pro with only 14 yards rushing in 11 carries. That game was played in 1962 during the waning days of Paul Brown's regime.

Jimmy Orr and Raymond Berry were two top wide receivers. John Mackey was one of the best tight ends of his time. And all three of these men had Unitas throwing them the ball.

Lenny Moore had a monster season at running back, setting an NFL record with 19 touchdowns.

The defensive line was strong. Gino Marchetti was talked out of retirement—he owned a chain of hamburger joints named Gino's in Maryland—and returned to anchor the defensive line along with Ordell Braase. Marchetti was thirty-seven, three years older than head coach Don Shula.

Yes, Shula was a reason to like the Colts, too. Only thirty-four and already proclaimed a genius, Shula had played for the Browns and Paul Brown from 1951 to 1955. He played another season for Baltimore, and was released by Washington in 1957, deemed too slow to be a defensive back. He spent two years as an assistant to Blanton Collier at Kentucky. Two weeks before the game, Collier said, “Don Shula knows a lot more about coaching than his years would indicate. I never knew a player with as fine a football mind. He always thought about coaching, even when he was playing. So I'd say he's had the experience of a man in the profession for ten years.”

So the Colts had the Player of the Year in Unitas and the Coach of the Year in Shula, at least according to the sportswriters who did the voting for the Associated Press during the final week of the regular season.

Browns fans were upset. They couldn't understand how anyone but Jim Brown could be the MVP. They also thought Collier deserved more than three of the twenty-nine Coach of the Year votes. Unitas outpolled Jim Brown, 32–8.

But the Colts had a 12-2 record, and their second loss came after they had already wrapped up the Western Conference title. (Despite the Colts' superior record, the game would be held in Cleveland because the home field for the title game alternated between Eastern and Western Conference champions.) They set an NFL record by scoring 54 touchdowns. They not only led the NFL in scoring, but their defense allowed the fewest points.

“What I remember about going against the Colts was that they had all these great names,” Paul Warfield said. “Now when I think about it, it seems like the Colts team has more players in the Hall of Fame than we do from our roster.”

Warfield, Lou Groza, Leroy Kelly, and Jim Brown are the only members of the 1964 Browns in the Hall of Fame. But Groza was purely a kicker by then, and Kelly played only on special teams.

The Colts had six: Unitas, Mackey, Moore, Marchetti, Raymond Berry, and Jim Parker.

So those are the facts.

The greatest area of concern was the Browns' defense.

They had allowed 293 points, which was the fifth fewest in the league. That's not too bad. But the Browns' “Bend but don't break” approach meant that no NFL defense coughed up more total yards. The Browns allowed 20 more first downs than any other team in the league.

The Browns' defense also had the fewest quarterback sacks in the league, yet gave up the most first downs on the ground. This is a real contradiction; if a team isn't rushing the passer to create quarterback sacks, it should be sitting back a bit, stopping the running attack.

Statistics showed that the Browns did neither.

There seemed no way they could keep the Colts out of the end zone, and the only hope was that Cleveland's offense would simply outscore Baltimore, winning one of those 42–35 games.

“Going into the game, Baltimore thought they could do anything they wanted with us,” recalled defensive lineman Dick Modzelewski. “They figured they could run when they needed to, and then throw against us at will. During those two weeks of practice, we kept reading, ‘You're gonna lose, you're gonna lose.' A team in that position can either go along with that and say, ‘Yeah, we're gonna lose, all right.' Or a team can pull together and show the world how wrong it can be. We got tired of hearing it and simply said, ‘We're gonna win this damn game and shut everyone up.' ”

Or as Warfield said, “While the Colts had all these great players in the primes of their careers, we also knew that any team with Jim Brown can beat anyone. Then there was Blanton Collier; we knew that no one could prepare a team for a game like Blanton, and he had two weeks to do it.”

When you talk to the Browns players now, they will tell you that the Colts were anywhere from 14 to 17 point favorites. To them, it seemed that way.

But the spot was only seven points. The Colts were supposed to win by a touchdown.

Here is how the world was for NFL coaches in 1964:

Before the title game, the Browns and Colts exchanged five game films. Remember, this was before videotape and VCRs. It was when there was one NFL game a week on television, and that was Sunday afternoon. Teams such as the Browns and Colts would have paid no attention to each other, since they were not scheduled to play during the regular season.

Grainy black and white game films were the key scouting tools. Shula and Collier each picked out five of their team's game films, and then made a trade. Sure, Collier called his NFL friends who had played the Colts and picked their brains. Shula did the same, asking advice and insights from his friends who had watched the Browns.

But in the end, the game plans would come from those five films.

You give Blanton Collier a film projector, a quart of ice cream, and some time, and he'll come up with a Picasso of a game plan. That's what Collier did in those first few days after his team beat the New York Giants to earn the right to play the Colts. He holed up in his den at his Aurora home. He sat in his favorite chair, a quart of vanilla ice cream in his lap. In one hand, he held a spoon; in the other, he had the switch to play and replay the film of the Colts.

Collier's wife, Forman, noticed that after the first night of solitary study, her husband was in a very good mood. Collier was not one to act as if coaching a football team was a matter of life and death. He really did put his family first. He never completely forgave himself for the ordeal his wife endured from the angry boosters during his final days at Kentucky.

But Forman Collier loved her husband and she really did like football—although for the life of her, she would never understand why the game made people so crazy. She could look at her husband. He was right in the middle of the swirl, taking the heat from fans and owners—yet he never lost his head. She knew better than to ask many questions when her husband was watching those films over and over, but she also knew that things were going well. He was intense but not worried. Yes, one night she kissed him good night and awoke the next morning to find him still in the study, still going over those films, an empty ice cream carton nearby. He had been awake all night, but he wasn't tired at all. He was in a good mood. She made him biscuits and gravy for breakfast.

The more Collier watched the Colts, the more he was convinced his team would win. Baltimore was a good team. They had some great players. On certain Sundays, they could even be a great team.

But they weren't unbeatable. They weren't the next pro dynasty. In certain spots, they were very vulnerable.

“I hated it when people said my team couldn't do something,” Collier said. “And so did my players. The more we prepared for the Colts, the more we became convinced that they couldn't beat us. It was the feeling of confidence.”

Collier, his coaches, and his assistants knew exactly what the Colts and everyone else had forgotten—in 1964, the Browns had the best team in football.

Yes, Unitas was a better quarterback, but when Frank Ryan was right, he could pass with Unitas or anyone else.

Lenny Moore may have scored 19 touchdowns, but there has never been a runner to compare with Jim Brown.

Raymond Berry and Jimmy Orr were fine receivers, but so were Paul Warfield and Gary Collins.

The Colts had a great defensive line with Gino Marchetti and Ordell Braase, but Collier believed that his offensive line was very underrated, that it was the best in all of football. He just knew that his linemen could contain Baltimore's pass rush.

Defense was where the game would be decided—defense, especially in the secondary.

Collier stared at films of each Colts player, breaking down their strengths and weaknesses. Never forget that it was Collier who invented this technique, an individual scouting report featuring a player's every tendency. He did it at the request of Paul Brown, and Collier's technique was the norm by 1964. Yes, Don Shula was doing the same thing; he had learned it from Collier. But at the age of thirty-four, Shula was no Collier.

Armed with his notes and film reels, Collier and his assistants began tutoring individual players.

In the final weeks of the regular season, Collier began talking to his team about Zero Defects. Its origin was the U.S. Defense Department, which had designed an “error-free plan” to cut down on the malfunction of missiles. The authors of the plan insisted to Defense Department employees: DO IT RIGHT THE FIRST TIME.

Collier seized those phrases.

ZERO DEFECTS.

DO IT RIGHT THE FIRST TIME.

That had been his approach to football ever since he began working for Paul Brown. It was Paul Brown's philosophy, only now Collier had something else besides Xs and Os to put on the blackboard.

ZERO DEFECTS.

DO IT RIGHT THE FIRST TIME.

That was what it would take to beat the Baltimore Colts.

The softest spot in the Browns' offensive line was supposed to be right tackle, where Monte Clark was matched up against Gino Marchetti. The assumption was that Marchetti would simply toss Clark aside and live in the Browns' backfield all afternoon. After all, Marchetti was a Hall of Fame caliber end, while Clark was a journeyman tackle.

“Gino rushed the passer on every single down,” Clark said. “I mean, every time, he was coming at the quarterback. He could be physically punishing, but he didn't just run you over. Sometimes he went around you. He was quicker than he looked. But most of all, he was relentless.”

Marchetti was thirty-seven years old, but still had surprising speed for a man who was 6 4 and 245 pounds. Usually, Marchetti was taller than the opposing offensive tackle, but not this time; Clark was 6 6 , 255 pounds.

As Clark watched films of Marchetti, he noticed two things:

1. Marchetti usually began with a head-and-shoulders fake. He made it appear that he was going to rush right with the fake, then cut back to the left.

2. Just as he delivered the fake, he'd smack your helmet. The idea was to get you off balance. Between the fakes and the slaps, you could lose your footing—and then you'd lose Marchetti.

Clark's strategy was simple.

JUST STAND THERE.

Let Marchetti fake away.

DON'T MOVE.

And when Marchetti went for the helmet slap, he ran into trouble with Clark. Remember that Clark was two inches taller than Marchetti. The defensive end liked to whack down on a tackle's head, using his hand like a hammer to the helmet. But if Clark just stood there, if he didn't bend or bite on the fakes, Marchetti had to swing up to hit him, and that created a very soft blow to the head.

Clark was an outstanding student at Southern California and would later coach in the NFL. In 1964, he was twenty-seven and already knew the value of film study and preparation. For two weeks, he lived with Gino Marchetti, both on the screen and in his head. He knew Marchetti's fakes from watching the films. He pictured how he'd react, how he'd use his height to frustrate one of the greatest defensive ends to ever play the game.

By game time, Clark was ready. He knew what he'd do, and he planned to DO IT RIGHT THE FIRST TIME.

Dick Schafrath was the Browns' left offensive tackle.

His man was Ordell Braase, the Colts' star defensive end.

Think about this: Ordell Braase was only 6 3 and 230 pounds.

“The man was tough and he was quick,” Schafrath said. “I was stronger [6 3 , 240 pounds], so I didn't worry too much about him on running plays. I knew that I could take him, one-on-one. But passing plays, where I had to back up—especially at the Stadium in December where I knew the turf would be wet and I could slip—that worried me. I was fast, but Braase was just as quick.”

Schafrath found that he couldn't study film during the practices and meetings, so he stopped over at Collier's home for a few nights, sitting up in the study with the coach.

Collier ate his ice cream. He ran film of Braase over and over.

“He's left-handed,” Collier said. “Remember that.”

Most linemen (like everyone else) are right-handed, which meant their first moves were usually to their right. Not Braase. He went left. Sometimes, it looked like he'd go right, but he almost always went left. Don't go for the fake to the right.

Schafrath had never played against Braase. Like Marchetti, Braase liked to head-slap, which was a legal play in 1964. Whack, bang the helmet, stagger the lineman, shove him out of the way and sack the quarterback.

Remember, the head-slap would come from the left.

“My way of dealing with that was to punch him under his chest pad,” Schafrath said.

Because Schafrath was an inch taller than Braase, the defensive end had to reach up for the head-slap. That made his chest vulnerable.

“Just as you felt him hit your head, you dug your fist into his chest,” Schafrath said. “Listen, those slaps would get your head spinning. So you had to lock on to him, and I did that with the punch. Then he couldn't get around me.”

And if Schafrath hit Braase just right, he could knock some of the wind out of the Colts star.

“I got him with my right hand,” Schafrath said. “It was an inside punch, starting at his waist and going right up into his chest. I saw myself doing that as I watched the films, and come game time, it worked just as I thought it would.”

Veteran defensive tackle Dick Modzelewski was matched up against Colts offensive guard Alex Sandusky. These two warriors had been dueling for years. There were no secrets, and usually Modzelewski held his own against Sandusky. Modzelewski didn't need films to see Sandusky's moves. All he had to do was close his eyes and the reel began in his head. Collier knew this as well.

So he asked Modzelewski to do more than just prepare for Sandusky. He wanted Modzelewski to help young Jim Kanicki find a way to handle Jim Parker.

A perennial All-Pro selection, Parker was huge for this era, 6 4 and 275 pounds. He was a left guard, and he had opened holes all year for Lenny Moore. Usually, Parker had a size advantage, as he was the largest left guard in the NFL.

Or as Gary Collins said, “Parker's arm is bigger than my chest.”

Kanicki was 6 4 , 270 pounds—almost the same as Parker. But Kanicki had just turned twenty-three. He had played little in college, and this was his first year as a starter in the pros. Collier did not plan to start Kanicki, but veteran Bob Gain had been injured all season.

The Colts believed that Parker would overpower Kanicki. Then they could establish their running attack. Once that happened, Unitas would have all day to throw.

Collier didn't ask Modzelewski or Kanicki to sack Unitas. He just wanted them TO HOLD YOUR GROUND.

He told them to PLAY THE RUN.

If they could hold the middle, then Paul Wiggin and Bill Glass could unload from the defensive ends, putting pressure on Unitas.

Modzelewski and Kanicki spent hours together, watching films of Parker. There were no secret moves.

“The key was that Jim was just as big and strong as Parker, and Parker was not used to facing someone with that size,” Modzelewski said. “If we could get Jim to match him physically—and give Jim the confidence to do that—Parker could be in for a real surprise.”

Sports Illustrated wrote, “It is unreasonable to assume that Kanicki would be able to defeat an all-pro like Jim Parker.”

The manager of a grocery store spotted Kanicki stocking up in the meat department. He told the young lineman, “I just read a story that said the Colts were gonna run at you every time they needed five yards.”

Kanicki was a nice farm kid from Michigan. His teammates wanted him to get meaner. If Kanicki was in the right frame of mind, Modzelewski was convinced the kid lineman could engage Parker in a wrestling match, stand him straight up, and maybe even throw him down. Modzelewski knew this much: Parker would not be able to go right through his protégé.

“I told Jim that it was good how everyone thought we were the underdogs,” said Modzelewski. “I told him that it would work to his advantage that everyone thought Parker would kill him, because he and I knew better. We were going to surprise some people. A lot of guys underestimated Jim, they didn't know how determined he was to become a damn good football player. And on that Sunday, he let it be known.”

Another regular visitor to Collier's study was Bernie Parrish.

Raymond Berry and Jimmy Orr and John Mackey were maybe the three best receivers in the league.

Mackey was a great tight end, but the Browns were sure they could control him. Jim Houston would handle most of the coverage; Houston was a linebacker, but many Browns believed he was the team's second best athlete (in terms of combining speed and strength) after Jim Brown.

Yes, Houston would handle Mackey. The more film Collier and Parrish watched, the more they were convinced of that. In situations where Houston couldn't cover Mackey, Ross Fichtner would—and Fichtner was tougher than a bucket of rusty nails. As it turned out, Fichtner covered Mackey more than Houston, and shut him down.

But what about Orr? What about Berry?

Collier knew that they were both savvy receivers, but not quick. They ran precision patterns, and they seemed to catch the ball at just the right moment.

“They were timing plays,” Parrish said. “Sometimes, Unitas threw the ball even before those guys looked back at the quarterback. They'd run their pattern, turn—and the ball would be there. It was all scripted, a timing play.”

The more films Parrish watched, the more he wondered something.

“All of those guys who covered Orr and Berry kept dropping off and giving them a lot of room,” he said. “Why? It's one thing if the receiver is fast and was going to beat you deep. Then you had better give him room, or he'd beat your ass but good. But that wasn't Orr or Berry. They weren't going to just run past you. Yet teams kept playing them that way.”

As they watched the films, Parrish kept saying, “Let's smother these guys. Let's get right up on them, right at the line of scrimmage, and bump them a little. Let's screw up their timing.”

That became the plan.

Walter Beach would cover Berry, Parrish would take Orr.

Safeties Ross Fichtner and Larry Benz would have to cover deep, in case Berry or Orr broke away from the cornerbacks.

This was a major change in strategy for the Browns. Defensive coordinator Howard Brinker believed in the Bend, Don't Break defense. He would give up short yardage plays, especially passes, to prevent a bomb that turns a game around. That meant the cornerbacks usually played off the receivers, giving up those short passes that Orr and Berry loved.

According to Parrish, he argued with Brinker the morning of the game about this strategy, and Brinker still wasn't sure it was the best tactic. Collier knew that the way to upset Unitas (and buy more time for his pass rush) was to cover Unitas's primary receiver. Make him take another look for the open man—this would give the defense a chance to harass him.

Parrish called it “clamping.”

In an interview the night before the game, Unitas said on TV that he expected the Browns' secondary to play back because they didn't have the speed to cover the Colts' receivers.

Safety Ross Fichtner saw that. So did Parrish.

They agreed. They had to clamp 'em.

Walter Beach liked the idea. He could handle Berry, he was sure. He had watched films for two weeks. Most receivers gave you one fake, then made their moves. Berry usually used two fakes, sometimes three. Beach believed he was quicker and stronger than Berry.

As Beach watched the films, he noticed something else: Berry could fake with his head, his shoulders, his feet, even his eyes. But not his waist. Wherever Berry's waist went, so went Berry.

Yes, Beach said, he could play Berry tight.

Clamping would work, he agreed.

And clamping became the heart of the defense that was the first to shut out the Colts in thirty-one games.

As for the Browns' offense, they knew they'd score.

They knew that the only way to really cover Paul Warfield and Gary Collins was to double-team them, and the Colts couldn't double-team both of them. They both were too quick to be shut down by clamping.

Collins or Warfield, one of them was going to have a big day.

Then there was Jim Brown. No one would stop him. He led the league with 1,446 yards rushing, an average of 103 yards per game.

If Clark and Schafrath handled Marchetti and Braase, Ryan would have plenty of time to throw. While Unitas deserved all the headlines, the facts were that in 1964 it was Frank Ryan who led the NFL in touchdown passes with 25.

In fact, eleven days before the game, Ryan told reporters, “We have more offense than the Colts.”

“Our offense had great practices,” Schafrath said. “Gary Collins kept telling me, ‘We're going to win.' He was telling me that a couple of times every day. Finally, I said, ‘Gary, just shut up about it. If we are going to win, we're going to have a big party after the game.' Gary told me to book the band and buy the drinks, because he had no doubt—we'd win.”

Two days before the game, Blanton Collier was talking with Hal Lebovitz.

“Hal, we have covered everything,” he said. “We are prepared. We are going to win.”

Lebovitz remembered thinking how rare it was for any coach to say that, especially a man who was as careful about details as Collier.

“At that point, I sensed something special was about to happen,” said Lebovitz.