The Tampa Decision

Dad had been out of work for a while. Age has wiped many of these memories away, but I seem to recall his being fired by the Bears, almost instantly being hired by the WFL's (World Football League) Chicago Wind, that team eventually folding before their season ended, and then...nothing. Nothing. Dad sitting at home in his elaborate full sized bar basement, playing cards with friends and drinking beer. There was an aura of uncertainty in the Gibron house, a sense that a radical lifestyle shift was about to take place. Granted, we had only been living in Michigan City, Indiana for a little over ten years, but it felt like home. Even with the occasional stays in Chicago proper, our oversized house on Kenwood Place remains the established roots I think back on whenever the twinges of mortality take over.

Still, Dad being out of work was a big deal. It was the first time I had ever experienced unemployment, and from what I could see, it was not very pretty. He was angry - angry that the Bears hadn't been better under his regime. Angry that the new General Manager hadn't given him a chance with the draft pool they were picking from. Angry that the Winds didn't have a sound financial backing, leaving his tenure there always up in the air, week after week. But mostly, he was angry because, throughout his years, he had been the rock to everyone's - my mother's, my grandmother's, the extended family's on both side - unsure lives. He had taken up football in hopes of making something of himself (he actually earned a history degree at Purdue, and would have pursued teaching had he gone undrafted) and had been very successful in that regard. Now, for the first time in more than 20 years, he was on the outside of the NFL looking in.

Not that I really cared, come to think of it. I was your typical 14 year old - belligerent, antisocial, putting on a facade for adults but secretly sneaking out at night to smoke weed with my friends. I even had a post-pot kit which I kept well hidden in our detached two story garage (complete with apartment over the car bays). In the container - actually, one of those amazing "secret panel chests" you could buy at Disney World in the magic shop near the end of Main Street - was Tic Tacs (for breath), Visine (for the eyes), a small bottle of Scope (in case the mini-mints weren't doing the job) and various other accessories (after shave, Binaca, Q-tips)  I thought necessary to keep my cover. I remember when we were moving, I stumbled across the box, it's Haunted Mansion themed label peeling and/or partially removed. I opened it and a wave of weeknight subterfuges  came flooding back (it was empty, of course).

Even worse, I had just started attending the LaLumiere School for Boys, an "exclusive" boarding school out in the Indiana wilds near LaPorte. My parents had deemed my previous public school education "unworthy" of my supposed genius, so it was a choice between the Culver Military Academy toward the South end of the State, or LaLumiere. Those who know me easily understand the resulting decision. Sure, I was massively homesick at first, but once I connected with a group of like-minded dorm mates, all equally infused with a desire to smoke dope, listen to rock 'n' roll, and hang out, I was fine. Still, Dad being out of work was always in the back of my mind, the threat that finances could upend my newfound freedom (and fun) constantly  risking a return back to Michigan City (and Rogers High School).

Somehow, my parents made it work. I don't remember having a single conversation about the cost of LaLumiere, the numerous requests the bookstore would make for "additional funds" to our purchasing accounts (usually for mid-study hall runs for Mountain Dew, Doritos, and numerous candy bars), or the occasional trips into Chicago with my friends. I do remember several instances where we'd have an available weekend open for returning home, and being one of the five or six students left behind. As I started my stay at LaLumiere, Dad had begun looking for work, and I seem to recall weekends where he was out, schmoozing with potential teams and former coaching associates, my mother tagging along for the ride.

It was sometime in February when the call came. It was weird. We usually didn't get calls from home during the school day. In fact, more times than not, we spent a few minutes before study hall waiting in line, taking turns on the dorm's front desk handset for whatever communication needs we had. But to get called into the Headmaster's office during the day was a big deal. It was almost always bad news and you rarely saw the student return for the rest of that day. Still, a senior server walked up to me with a piece of paper, and I could see the rest of my table staring back like I was a death row prisoner who lost his pardon. I knew what the note meant, and I wasn't sure what to think as I walked to the building adjacent to the dining hall.

To make matters worse, when I arrived, the Headmaster's secretary had the phone IN HER HANDS! This meant that whoever was on the other end needed to speak with me ASAP. As I walked to the desk, I trembled a bit. Even at my smug, seemingly superior age, I was still unsure about how to handle tragedy. I grabbed the receiver and mumbled my, "Hello."

"Bill, it's your dad," came the matter of fact reply from the other end. Great, I thought, he's trying to be serious.

"What's wrong?" I asked, hoping everything is okay.

"Nothing. Don't worry," he chided, "I just want to ask you something."

I was floored. My father rarely asked anyone anything. He was more of a teller, or perhaps a better way to say it, he was a absolute dictator. He made the decisions and there was never a need for a quorum. So the fact that he wanted to ask me something was stunning. Naturally, a billion possibilities passed through my mind (it's amazing how quickly my brain leapt from the potential funeral I had to prepare for to the curious state of this particular conversation) and I made some minor small talk.

"Listen," he said in the same determined manner, "I have two possible job offers. One is down in Tampa with my old buddy John McKay, the other is in Seattle." I knew the names. The NFL had been abuzz with news of the expansion into Florida and Washington state, and I had wondered if Dad would be up for any of the available jobs there. He continued. "I wanted to ask you for your choice. Which one would you choose? I mean, which place would you want to live? This effects you, you know?"

I was speechless. Not only was my Dad asking me for my opinion - something he never did - but he made it sound like something I said just might influence his decision. I couldn't believe it. I was taken aback. Was Abe Gibron really asking his oldest son Bill what job to seize? Better yet, was he giving me a choice of Seattle vs. Tampa? Really?

I was about to say something when reality kicked in. I can't describe it. It's like a wave of resignation washed over me. Here was my Dad asking me where I preferred to live for the next few years (at least, that's what I assumed he was asking) and all I could think of was "Who cares?" After all, I was in boarding school, and would be for another three years. I was happy and had friends and family in the area. I didn't need to leave. I was 14 going on 50. I was fine just where I was at.

In those moments before I muttered my answer, a thousand snide retorts reverberated inside my head. I was prepared to go full angry adolescent on my dad...but I didn't. I realized it really didn't matter and I told him as much.

"Listen," I said, "you've never really asked me for my advice before, and I am not sure why you are asking for it now, but I really don't care which job you take. I'm sure Mom would prefer to be near the beach, so I assume you'll do whatever makes her happy. I have to get back to lunch now before classes start back up. Sorry."

There was a silence on the other end of the phone. I am sure my dad was trying to figure out whether he could tear me a new a-hole through the receiver or just wait until he got his snotty little son home to do the damage. Whatever the case, he eventually said something like "OK, we'll talk about it this weekend," and we ended the call. I went back to my already cold meal, got a chance to scarf it down while the rest of the Hall was being cleaned, and had to go back to the office to get a permission slip to walk into Trigonometry 20 minutes late. Already, the next four days were playing out in my head, the numerous punishments my father was about to force on me becoming more and more inventive in their creativity and cruelty.

Oddly enough, when I got home, the decision was already made. Tampa it was. Mom seemed excited about getting down to the sun and fun of Florida and I felt a slight twinge of excitement knowing we would be mere minutes away from one of my favorite vacation destinations at the time - the old version of Disney World. Still, I was sad to see how predictable it had all been. What if I had been adamant about Seattle? Would I, today, be sitting in a Washington locale, typing away, wondering about the bygone days of grunge and pre-coffee cultural fixations? It didn't matter. Dad was already making plans to move down to the West Coast to start working with the team. Turns out, the Tampa decision wasn't much of one after all.

Debunking the Abe Gibron Myths, Part 1

There's no denying the fact that my father was a larger than life character. He was tall (six foot even), big in both size, stature, and weight (though he barely topped the scales at over 300 lbs during his heaviest) and lit up a room whenever he was in it. He was the life of the party, the center of attention, and the focus on some silly media scrutiny. Growing up, I remember reading articles about my dad from some of the famous Chicago columnists - Bill Gleason being an actual friend of the family - and within many of these feature pieces, you'd find lots of mythologizing and exaggeration. Could my dad curse a blue streak? Heck, where do you think "I" got it from? Did he enjoy his adult beverages? Absolutely. Was eating a recreational activity for him? Well, not really, but based on the stories you will see below, many felt that his obvious girth came from somewhere.

Like that childhood game of Telephone, however, the stories circling around Abe Gibron and food are almost always embellished. For those on the outside looking in, no one with his outsized personality could partake of things in normal moderation. No, every meal was a feast, every outing a life-changing experience worthy of an epic poem. He didn't eat ice cream - he ate GALLONS of same. He didn't sip scotch - he gulped down bottles of booze before taking on the evening's vast victuals. As part of his path to eventual placement in the National Football League's Hall of Fame, I thought some personal insights into my dad's character were/are warranted. I sense his reputation suffers from people making light of his personality while otherwise dismissing his very serious feelings toward football. Abe Gibron was much more than his overblown reputation. By bringing some perspective to his personal life, maybe his achievements on the football field will stand out a bit more (not like they need to).

Anyway, I will tackle these celebrated stories over the next few months. I'll begin with three of the most frequently mentioned:

#1 - Abe once ordered an entire baby lamb - and then proceeding to eat it in one sitting.

FALSE

First of all, what restaurant serves up an entire baby lamb. Not the meat equivalent of an entire baby lamb, but AN ENTIRE BABY LAMB ITSELF! Over the years, the story has been amplified. At first, it was a massive plate of leg of lamb. Then it was an entire leg (with the bone, one assumes). Then two legs. Finally, the leap to an entire animal. Being Lebanese, my dad was a true connoisseur of all things pre-mutton, and he instilled a similar love in me. I can tear into a bunch of chops and don't even get me started on the raw brilliance of kibbeh! Needless to say, my father could eat lamb until he popped, and that's exactly what would happen to him if he tried to sit down to an entire baby. On average, they weigh between 30 and 40 lbs., and while not all of that is good eatin', that's a Nathan's Hot Dog Contest sized portion, and something my father could never have managed.

He did eat a lamb's head once (I helped...a bit) and he was known to roast whole lambs (and goats, and chickens, and pigs) on an open spit, but he never took down an entire creature for the sake of cuisine. Sorry to burst that particular gourmand bubble.

#2 - Abe once sat down with a group of friends and ate for six hours straight.

PARTIALLY TRUE

I should know. I was there. Now, granted, there is still a great deal of hyperbole here, but there were actually two times in my entire life when I sat down across from my dad and didn't get up again until a good four to five hours later. Once was at a place called Generro's in East Chicago, and the massive round table probably held 24 diners. When you consider that my family took up five seats, and that dad's pals took up another 10, the nine or so hangers on really didn't matter (my guess would be that they were all part of my parent's particular outer Rat Pack back then). Still, we filled the middle of the main dining room and by the time everyone was done, we had stayed from five in the afternoon to after 10:30PM. No, we didn't eat continuously the entire time. As was the etiquette, there were multiple rounds of X-proof highballs, a regular complement of appetizers, several main courses, dessert, coffee, and the mandatory after dinner aperitif. There was also a lot of conversation, and when you consider my dad's storytelling skills, that meant a lot of pauses between bites...to laugh. To look astonished.  

The other instance was in Hawaii. My father, two of his friends, and a local man who used to play professional football, took me to a little hole in the wall Chinese place for my first taste of real authentic Asian cuisine. After years of Chung King and La Choy, this was a real eye-opener. The meal was amazing, served in several courses on a Lazy Susan in the middle of the table. I remember eating duck and pork and chicken and beef and seafood and various unique vegetables which, by 1974 standards, could have come from the moon for all I knew. Again, we didn't eat continuously and the meal only lasted a little over four hours. Still, this is a story with a particular facet of truth at its core.

#3 - After one particularly scorching training camp practice, Abe sat down and drank 24 beers.

FALSE

The number changes frequently. Sometimes it's a mere 10. In other instances, it's an entire case. A few recall they were just the "pony" size cans, so any large number would have been understandable considering their combined volume. Others insist, however, that my father came off the practice field, sweating profusely and clearly dehydrated (though everyone took salt pills before heading out for the afternoon) and then sat down to guzzle two dozen brews - without stopping. Oh, you don't know that part, do you? Apparently, this wasn't some pre-dinner repast. Abe wasn't just settling in for a long night of imbibing. Instead, the myth makes it very clear that only a gross of fine pilsner would quench his insatiable thirst. At that singular moment. At the single sitting.

Now, it's no secret that my dad enjoyed alcohol. Everyone's parents in the '60s and '70s did. As a matter of fact, many of us grew up recognizing what I would call the "three stages of liquid maturity." First, all kids started out with milk. Eventually, as you turned into a teenager, you could introduce an occasional soft drink, or soda pop if you like, into your regime. Eventually, you turned 18 and could legally enter many of the finer restaurants in town (ah...those were the days) and at that point, you were supposed to graduate to liquor. No middle stage. No measured introduction into the joys of fermented grains. One day, you're sipping coke. The next, a obligatory addition of rum was called for. Anyway, my dad was a notorious drinker. He could, when he wanted to, pack the potent potables away. However, he never drank 24 beers in a single sitting, especially not after a hot July afternoon in the Rensselaer, Indiana heat.

Requiem for My Dad

Today is the unofficial first day of the 2013-14 NFL season. It's a preseason game, pitting the Dallas Cowboys against the Miami Dolphins. It's also the day after the National Football League inducted its most recent class of honorees into the Pro Football Hall of Fame. I can remember a time when such exhibitions mattered. I was there when football wasn't a full time job, but a passion that still required you to find some other occupation between January and July to make ends meet (unless you were lucky enough to play in the Super Bowl, then you put off getting together a resume and pounding the pavement until February).

Forty years ago, the preseason was there to help still out of shape players polish their skill set, to learn new offensive systems and "gel" with the other potential members of the team. The Turk was still around, cutting the inadequate and putting the unsuspecting on waivers, so every set of downs was imperative. For the coaches, it was more than just a time to evaluate personnel. It was a chance to see if all the off season brainstorming over the playbook and various offensive and defensive schemes would work, or would lead to yet another disappointing season.

You see, my father was Abe Gibron, and while a Google search will provide more specific information, I will hit the highlights for you. He played for the Cleveland Browns and the Chicago Bears. With the former, he won three National Championships (sorry - the Super Bowl didn't exist in the '50s) and made the Pro Bowl four times. He was named an NFL All Pro in 1952, 1953, and 1954.

After he retired, he would go on to coach for Bill McPeak and the Washington Redskins (where I was born in 1961) and George Halas and the Chicago Bears before becoming the Head Coach of the Monsters of the Midway in 1972. After three dismal seasons he was fired, languished in the WFL, and then found a new position with his friend John McKay and the upstart Tampa Bay Buccaneers. He was there when the expansion team went 0- 26 and he was there when they went to the NFC title game against the Los Angeles Rams in 1979.

That would be his last professional coaching gig. He was fired, along with most of the staff, in 1984. He then was diagnosed with a benign brain tumor that was affecting some of his motor skills. By today's medical standards, the procedure would have been risky, but easily recovered from. In my Dad's case, the operation caused him to lose the ability to speak, and the various medications he had to take for prevention and maintenance caused occasional mini-strokes. After a long battle with such lingering side effects, he died in 1997. He was only 72. Though he was celebrated during his larger than lifetime, he had by then become a forgotten fixture - as had many - from the earliest history of the NFL. While the late Steve Sabol of NFL Films loved to point out that he kept a picture of my dad on his wall (one of only two coaches enshrined there), no other league organization had, or has, celebrated his tenure.

This year, for once, the Cleveland Browns will be inducting my father into their hallowed Hall of Legends (I am not sure if I have that right or not). As far as I know - and I have been out of the loop when it comes to my dad's career the years since his death - he has not earned such an honor anywhere else. Not at Washington, or his adopted hometown of Chicago (he grew up 90 miles away, in tiny Michigan City, Indiana), nor in Tampa. The last one is a bit biting when you consider he helped guide the defiant defense (he was the line coach - specifically - Hall of Famer Leroy Selmon's coach) for his entire tenure with the Bucs.

So I have started this blog for several reasons. One, in memory of my father. We weren't always close, but I respect him as a player, a coach, and as a man of football. Second, to suggest that his absence from the Hall of Fame (or any such honor) is a fiasco of monumental proportions. He has the playing stats, and while his coaching tenure might cost him some points, his love of the game (and the recognition of same) should count for something. Finally, I hope to change the myopic view of the current sports climate where every new player is THE BEST EVER and every new winning team is a DYNASTY. The spoiled millionaires of today are taking their inflated paychecks to the bank on the backs of men like my dad. They helped created the billion dollar entertainment industry we worship at today.They reaped little of the rewards.

Abe Gibron deserves to be in the National Football League's Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio. This blog will continue until he is.   

BILL