Earl Campbell Read online

  EARL CAMPBELL

  YARDS AFTER CONTACT

  ASHER PRICE

  UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS PRESS

  AUSTIN

  Copyright © 2019 by Asher Price

  All rights reserved

  First edition, 2019

  Requests for permission to reproduce material from this work should be sent to:

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  University of Texas Press

  P.O. Box 7819

  Austin, TX 78713-7819

  utpress.utexas.edu/rp-form

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Price, Asher, author.

  Title: Earl Campbell : yards after contact / Asher Price.

  Description: First edition. | Austin : University of Texas Press, 2019. | Includes bibliographical references and index.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018052872

  ISBN 978-1-4773-1649-8 (cloth : alk. paper)

  ISBN 978-1-4773-1907-9 (library ebook)

  ISBN 978-1-4773-1908-6 (non-library ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Campbell, Earl. | Football players—United States—Biography. | African American football players—Biography.

  Classification: LCC GV939.C36 P75 2019 | DDC 796.332092 [B]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018052872

  doi:10.7560/316498

  For my parents and my brothers

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  PART I: TYLER

  PART II: AUSTIN

  PART III: HOUSTON

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Notes

  Index

  INTRODUCTION

  Even beneath the supernova-bright lights of the Astrodome, Earl Campbell’s eyelids are slipping. It’s late in the fourth quarter of a midseason seesaw game on Monday night, and his Oilers are huddling up on the sandpaper-rough artificial turf, stretched thin over a hard concrete subfloor, far below the arena’s vast roof. The crowd of more than fifty thousand is a frothy sea of shaking powder-blue-and-white pom-poms, and on the sidelines, the big-haired Derrick Dolls strut in their shiny white boots. Facing Don Shula’s storied Miami Dolphins, Earl has already carried the ball nearly thirty times, including on nine of his team’s previous thirteen plays. He has gone for three touchdowns, scoring them with power and speed: on one three-yard run, he lowered his shoulder and lifted a defensive end up into the air as if he were a bull flinging a matador; in another, he rammed into a linebacker with his head, leaving his opponent sprawled out on the Astroturf. “Crunching power,” Howard Cosell, in his staccato Brooklynese, tells the nearly fifty million Americans watching the game on ABC. Each time Campbell scores, the giant Astrodome scoreboard lights up with a rendering of a bull snorting steam out its nostrils. “Earl Campbell had some head-on collisions with our players,” Shula would say after the game. “I think he won them all.”

  But all that impact has left Earl Campbell wobbly.

  “Big fellow, you got one more in you?” Dan Pastorini, Houston’s shaggy-haired, perennially beat-up playboy quarterback, asks him in the huddle.

  With just over a minute left, the Oilers have the ball and a five-point lead. At second-and-eight from their own nineteen-yard line, all they need to ice the game is a first down. Coach Bum Phillips, the lovable cowboy-quipster riding herd on this resurgent Oilers team, has signaled that he wants to go with Campbell, the reliable rookie, once again.

  The play is Toss 38. Pastorini will lateral to a sweeping Campbell, who is to turn upfield behind a leading fullback or pulling guard. It’s a routine sequence, one that is deemed a success if it nets four or five yards. Except Tim Wilson, the Oilers’ fullback and lead blocker, glances at Earl as the huddle breaks. “I swear, his eyes were closed,” Wilson said later. “He looked like he was about to drop. I had to tell him the play, and he barely responded.” Campbell has a foggy look from a night of pounding. “It’s on two,” Wilson tells him, reminding him of the snap count. “Follow me. We’re going right.”

  Act like you’ve been there before goes the old sports chestnut, and Earl Campbell had: only five years earlier, on this very field, announcing himself as the best schoolboy football player in the nation, he had lifted his newly integrated high school football team to the state title. Two years after that, he was back in the same building, leading the University of Texas Longhorns to victory in the Astro-Bluebonnet Bowl.

  Happy hoots and whistles rain down from the frenzied crowd, and on the terraced seating levels the dome feels as if it’s vibrating, a space-age building about to launch itself skyward. A sign hanging from one of the decks says, “Look Out America, Here Comes Houston.” For years, this city’s losing squads had played before half-empty arenas, but now, with Campbell on board, the team is 7–4. The marquee Monday Night Football matchup feels like a coming-out party. “They’ve waited a long time for professional football excellence in Houston, and they’ve got it now,” Cosell nasals out. “An underpublicized team, an underappreciated team.”

  Wilson, squeezing into his stance a couple of yards into the backfield, reaches a hand behind him, lays it against the small of his own back, and flashes an upside-down victory sign—given the timing needed in this football waltz, he wants to make sure Campbell remembers that they’ll start on the second hut. Behind him, dropped into a frozen stance of his own, is Campbell, all of twenty-three years old, his face and full beard bursting with sweat, his massive thighs—each thirty-three inches in circumference, the size of a grown man’s waist—nearly vibrating in anticipation. “We make four sizes of thigh pads,” a Houston equipment manufacturer once observed, “small, medium, large, and Earl Campbell.”

  Pastorini receives the snap, turns over his right shoulder and pitches the ball. Campbell’s eyes suddenly widen—“When that ball got in my hands, that leather, it’s like I turned into a different human being,” he once said. Wilson lands a glancing block in the backfield, just enough to protect Campbell from a loss of five yards. But now five Dolphins, including two speedy cornerbacks, have an angle on the running back. If they can force him out of bounds, they can stop the clock—and maybe give their own offense the ball with one more shot in a high-scoring game.

  But Earl Campbell doesn’t do out of bounds. He possesses what the writer Willie Morris once described as “the quality of potentiality”—that feeling that at any moment he might go the distance. And so, just as the Dolphin defenders appear to close in on their quarry, Campbell, as if he has rockets laced to his cleats, suddenly outstrips them all. Alfred Jackson, a wide receiver who played with Campbell at the University of Texas, once said he could sense when Earl was striking a big play even as he looked to lay a block downfield: “You could always tell when Earl got in the open because the crowd would roar.” Just such a rumble rises out of the Houston crowd now as Campbell sprints down the right sideline past the Derrick Dolls, past the blue-and-white pom-poms, across the Astroturf, all of eighty-one yards for the touchdown.

  He gets to the end zone so fast that it seems like a good minute before his jubilant teammates join him to celebrate—mostly Campbell just stands there, hands on hips, sucking air. After half collecting himself, he staggers to the sideline, where Bum Phillips greets him with a big-lipped kiss on his sweat-beaded cheek.

  “What you’ve seen tonight, ladies and gentlemen,” Cosell says, in his grandiose way, “is a truly great football player in the late moments take total personal command of a game.”

  Back in the locker room, Campbell told reporters that even after he got past the first line of defenders he didn’t think he had the wind to make it all the way down the field. “Then I saw pure sideline, and I decided to keep running until somebody knocked me down,” he said. He had “never been so happy to get in the end zone and get
something out of my hand, that football.” He was so exhausted, he said, that even getting back to the Houston sideline had seemed an impossible chore. “It looked a mile away,” he half joked.

  A few lockers down, Pastorini shook his head. “Don’t you just love him?” he asked. And sure enough, it was the dawn of what came to be known as the Luv Ya Blue period in Houston, an all-around lovefest in which Earl Campbell would lead the once-woebegone Oilers to the brink of two Super Bowls.

  But over in the visitors’ locker room, the play that sealed the game had already fixed itself into the mind of Steve Towle, one of the Dolphin defenders, just as encounters with Earl Campbell stuck with so many would-be tacklers. “My career with the Dolphins defines me,” Towle once said. “When you play sports from eight years old to the NFL level, it defines everything that I do every day, good and bad. It represents how I wake up each morning. I still miss Earl Campbell every time I chase him down the sidelines and it haunts me.”

  This is a story about a person, a place, and a time: Earl Campbell; the Texas that Campbell traveled through; and, chiefly, 1970 to 1985, a period when he came of age and dominated American football. It is the Texas of Dallas’s J. R. Ewing and sixty-four-ounce steaks, of ten-gallon hats and pitch-black oil, of the Astrodome and Congressman “Good Time” Charlie Wilson, of the Chicken Ranch—the tolerated brothel that inspired The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. It is also the Texas of segregation and desegregation, of the trailblazing politician Barbara Jordan, and of urbanization, as the Marlboro Men and their kids left their ranches and moved into the swelling cities. Seen from an age in which the bitter divisions of American society play out on football fields across the country—Trump versus Kaepernick, NFL versus CTE (chronic traumatic encephalopathy)—Campbell is an archetype, a modern John Henry, the heroic and tragic figure of a hard-working, plow-straight-ahead man who worked himself into a broken-down condition by giving it his all—his body an atlas of the brutality of the game. Around Earl Campbell moved a transforming, modernizing Texas, one that loved him and exploited him, just as, no matter where we live, we love and leave behind so many of the athletes who labor not only for money but also for our affection.

  Campbell’s own path, from a small town to big-city lights, mirrors a period of political change in Texas, as Democrats who had so long held control began to see their grip weaken; of demographic change, as hundreds of thousands of Texans began making the same migration as Campbell did, from rural areas to urban and suburban ones; of racial change, during which the long-static balance of whites, African Americans, and Latinos was transformed. (In 2005, Texas became a majority-minority state, one in which people of color outnumber whites.)

  As a story about football, it’s inevitably, too, about race: if you imagine arraying football cards in front of you from the 1960s through the 1980s, they chronicle a shift from crew cuts to Afros. Eulogizing his black Dallas Cowboy teammate “Bullet” Bob Hayes, who had won gold sprinting for the United States in the 1964 Olympics before playing football, the writer and athlete Peter Gent remembered how challenging Texas was even for an American hero. As late as 1965, Gent writes, colored entrance signs remained on all the downtown theaters, leading to the upper balcony, and there were still two separate drinking fountains. “We trained in southern California because there was no place in Texas that would allow black players to live during camp,” remembers Gent. Through at least 1969, Gent’s last year of playing on the squad—when Earl Campbell was fourteen years old, growing up in Tyler, an hour and a half east of Dallas—the Cowboys gave rookies a personality test specially “weighted to make certain the blacks could deal with the pressure of living in the South.” In Hayes’s retirement, Gent wrote, following a turbulent period in the late 1970s that included prison time for a drug-related conviction that was later overturned, he “finally left Texas for the safety of his home state of Florida after Texas beat the shit outta him.”

  Even though he was handsomely paid, Earl Campbell was a black player toiling, to the point of ruin, for white coaches and white owners. One Orangeblood, as diehard fans of the University of Texas’ burnt-orange-and-white-clad athletes are known, whose father was an Austin oil and gas lawyer and a big UT Longhorns booster, tells a story of being invited as a teenager in the mid-1970s into the Longhorns’ locker room. There, his father pointed out what he said were unusual back muscles, ones he concluded had emerged during Campbell’s upbringing in the East Texas rose fields and made him singularly suited to a bruising running style. The story has the unsettling cast of white people examining black bodies, of seeing those bodies as fit for both field work and football, for labor and abuse.

  It’s no coincidence that when the aforementioned Chicken Ranch, long accepted (and patronized) by lawmakers and lawmen, was shut down in 1973—an ambitious TV news reporter put together an exposé, much to the chagrin of both blue-collars and blue bloods—only one African American had ever crossed its threshold, and that was its longtime maid, Lilly.

  Against this backdrop, we might think of Earl Campbell as a survivalist, in life and on the field, who made use of whatever resources were available to him until they—and he—had been completely juiced. What marked Campbell among the pantheon of great running backs was not just his size and speed but his will, especially to squeeze out that extra yard. Rather than step out of bounds toward the end of a run, he was famous for lowering his shoulder to punish yet another would-be tackler. He leaned forward, almost as if he were looking to pick something up off the turf, and pumped his knees high, leaving little of his body open to direct hits. Campbell, a weary defender once complained, was “all ass and thighs.” A University of Texas assistant coach once said that Campbell’s running style reminded him of the way Groucho Marx walked—although, of course, opposing defenders viewed the whole thing as desperately unfunny. He wielded not a cigar, but a wicked stiff arm—tutored in the technique by his ninth-grade football coach—the better to slap down would-be tacklers as he trampled forward. “Every time Earl carried the football, we’d have to run a stretcher onto the field to carry one or more of our guys off,” the head coach of the Rice football team observed in 1977. “He’s a physical, brutal runner. Very hard to stop. I know our defensive unit hurt for three days after the Texas game.” Reaching for a way to describe the violence of football, the writer Ta-Nehisi Coates remembered watching Earl Campbell as a little kid: “[He] played offense like he was playing defense. He looked for contact and exacted a price on all who went looking for him.”

  Earl Campbell’s impressive, bone-cracking recklessness was long hailed, with nostalgia, as fearlessness. Writing an appreciation of Campbell in the mid-1980s to mark his retirement from football, the Austin sports columnist Kirk Bohls observed, in a grisly turn of phrase that captured something of the violent, crunching quality of his runs, that Campbell “didn’t hit tacklers, he splattered them.” He won “the respect of every defensive player who ever had the misfortune to be introduced to his patented stiff arm. He played the game with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.” The great sports columnist Jim Murray of the Los Angeles Times said Earl Campbell was the best he ever saw: “Put a gun on him and you had a tank.” If other running backs crossed the line of scrimmage as if seeking safety, like swimmers paddling past waves and into open ocean, Earl Campbell liked to dive in the breakers. Jim Brown, the rugged, pathbreaking running back of the 1950s and 1960s, put it this way: “It’s me first, Earl second, and everybody else, get in line.”

  In his day, Earl Campbell appeared transcendent, otherworldly, and, especially, invulnerable. After Campbell scored a key touchdown in one of his last high school games, shrugging off would-be tacklers as he led his high school to victory on the way to the Texas state championship game, the losing coach said: “I always thought Superman was white and wore an S, but now I know he’s black and wears number 20.”

  In 1978, the year after Campbell won the Heisman Trophy as college football’s best player, the University of Oklahoma’s Bil
ly Sims won the award, and Sims’s coach, Barry Switzer, was asked how his player stacked up to Campbell: “Earl Campbell is the greatest player who ever suited up,” he said. “He’s the greatest football player I’ve ever seen. Billy Sims is human. Campbell isn’t.”

  Even in the pro ranks, where he collected most valuable player awards, his opponents regarded him as seemingly sprung from a comic book. Leading up to his first game against Campbell’s Houston Oilers, Cincinnati rookie Greg Bright insisted that he could be contained, even if many called him a Clark Kent in shoulder pads. After Campbell went for 202 yards, Bright was forced to back down. “Earl found a phone booth,” he said.

  But of course, Superman was a bit of fiction. The comics, after all, show Superman as a young man, never as an old one: no plot-lines depict him moving about gingerly with a walker from all the knee surgeries, having trouble shelling pistachios because of debilitating arthritis, or fighting a dependence on pain pills to get through the day. Campbell played before terms such as “concussion protocol” or CTE—the neurodegenerative disease found in people who have had multiple head injuries—became commonplace in sports.

  “I was watching basketball on TV with my sons this week in Minnesota,” Campbell said in 2018, as he attended Super Bowl festivities. “We watched a pro game and then a college game, and in the middle of the second game, I said, ‘Who won that first game?’ And they said, ‘Dad, you watched the whole thing.’ So, there’s definitely some of those short-term problems.”

  His father, Bert, who went by B. C., an alcoholic by turns jolly and stern, died when Campbell was eleven, and it fell to his mother, Ann Campbell, a motor of a woman, to raise eleven children. Earl, like all his siblings, was a mama’s boy. “If they gave out a Heisman Trophy for Moms, Ann Campbell would win it,” he wrote in a sweet-minded Mother’s Day appreciation in the late 1980s. “My mom’s the greatest lady in America. She saw more potential in me than I did.” He required the young Los Angeles agent who courted him out of college to travel all the way to Tyler to get his mother’s blessing in a house so ramshackle, that even decades later, the man remembered the feeling of the wind blowing inside the walls. Earl Campbell ran for her, and for the men that he lionized—including his father, a missing hero, whatever the man’s faults. Other father figures would emerge in B. C.’s stead: UT football’s Darrell Royal, whom some players referred to as Daddy D and who, like any great coach, marvelously manipulated players to get what he wanted—and for whom Earl Campbell would be something of a savior as he tried, in the late stages of his coaching career, to repair his reputation as a racist; and Bum Phillips, the Oilers’ coach, who pushed Earl Campbell to rush the way a trainer might coax a boxer into the ring. Campbell wanted to impress these men. He had a kind of desperation to please, one that translated into success on the field. “I always thought if I let one or two guys tackle me, I wasn’t doing something right. I wanted a bunch of them to get me.”