I’m not a renowned proponent of conspiracy theories within sports, yet I’m assuredly not naïve either. I’ve witnessed an ample percentage of the 50-plus Super Bowls. While there have been many incredulous comebacks, debatable calls, dropped passes, and fumbles, nothing has made me fathom that any of these confrontations may have been predetermined—all except one.
ALL THE FIXINGS
Several weeks ago, I was in the company of a group of Brothers with whom I’ve been acquainted for between 20 and 50 years. We grew up together, playing various sports, and in addition, we all excelled from an academic standpoint. The consortium, by and large from the Maryland/D.C. area, ruminated over the recent playoff loss by the Baltimore Ravens to the Kansas City Chiefs. While many cleave to varying hypotheses for Baltimore’s failure to win on their home turf with the AFC Championship at stake, the consensus in the room was that it was not solely quarterback Lamar Jackson’s fault. One could argue that the onus rested more on the offensive coordinator. The playcalling was barren and horrendous. Seemingly, the Ravens could rush the football through the Kansas City defense like a hot knife through butter. However, Baltimore jettisoned the run and insisted that Lamar stay in the pocket and pass (resulting in critical drops and desperation heaves) rather than take off himself. The Ravens’ running backs—more than capable—toted the rock a paltry six times. Amid our conversation and dialogue, one of the gentlemen commented, “Do you think the fix was in?” Assuredly, I don’t believe that this was the case here.
Once the home team loses, expressing sour grapes, so to speak, is usually par for the course in any locale. The coaching staff’s ineptitude and play-calling contributed to the Kansas City coronation. Nevertheless, before their nocturnal, snow-filled, breakneck escape and transplantation to Indianapolis 40 years ago, another franchise in Baltimore, the Colts, was once a powerhouse that may have been involved in something much more ambiguous.
MORRALL CLAUSE
Colts quarterback Earl Morrall was no slouch. During the 1968 season, perennial starter (and eventual Hall of Famer) Johnny Unitas was injured, and Earl played lights out, garnering NFL MVP honors. Alas, he did not uphold the same standard in Super Bowl III; that day, he was odious. He passed for a minuscule number of yards (71) and completed 6 of 17 passes (35%) while throwing three interceptions.
The most salient play, which has confounded pundits of the game for decades, occurred on a flea flicker. On that snap, Colts running back Tom Matte, who had been carving the Jets up on the ground (finishing with 116 yards on 11 carries), took the handoff, ran to the right side, and pitched it back to Morrall. This was a designed play they had run often. The hot receiver was flanker Jimmy Orr. The Jets had bit on the fake, and to say Orr was wide open was an understatement. NFL Films shows this as Jimmy frantically waves to Morrall (with no one within 20 yards of him) because the Jets had been fooled. Earl, inexplicably, never looked his way and threw to the other side of the field to a receiver who was well-covered, resulting in an interception.
”I never saw Jimmy in the end zone,” Earl Morrall said. ”I only saw Jerry Hill in the clear down the middle.” [1]
Of note: while exhibiting dominion on the ground, the Colts got inside the 20-yard line in Jets territory several times in the first half. They came away with precisely zero points. Matte was productive that afternoon, but it was all for naught.
THE BOOKENDS: BUBBA & MR. ROY
While Bubba Smith was a two-time All-American at Michigan State University, the East Lansing crowd often chanted “Kill, Bubba, Kill” to help invigorate the behemoth defensive tackle to sack opposing Big Ten quarterbacks. He was more than happy to oblige. A generation later became familiar with him due to his role as ‘Moses Hightower’ in the series of Police Academy movies. But before that time, Bubba Smith was terrorizing quarterbacks in the National Football League. The former number-one overall draft pick spent most of his career with the Baltimore Colts, becoming a two-time All-Pro.
Although pleasant and beloved off the field, the 6 foot 7 inch, 280-pound Smith was an absolute leviathan on it. In terms of opinions, he was no-nonsense. After losing to the Jets in Super Bowl III, Bubba announced his reasons for suspicion and skepticism regarding his team’s moribund performance and frequently voiced his convictions for the world to hear.
Bubba stated: “Something was happening during that game, and [in real time] I didn’t know what it was. Our owner Carroll Rosenbloom bet $3 million on the Jets and only needed quarterback Earl Morrall to make sure [that] the fix was in.” [2]
Another towering and altitudinous teammate on the Baltimore defensive line was Jackson State University grad Roy Hilton. He had not developed into a full-time starter opposite Smith during Super Bowl III. In fact, despite his imposing height (6 feet 6 inches), at 240 pounds, many scouts had initially considered him “too skinny and built more like a basketball player.” [3] Their progression into a tandem was just over the horizon and would soon materialize.
In the late 60s and early 70s, Hilton lived about 200 yards from me in an adjacent cul de sac. I often saw him because his next-door neighbor was my first basketball coach. Always friendly, Mr. Roy, as he was known to youngsters in the neighborhood, frequently sat outside and watched our pick-up 3-on-3 games on the driveway. Cordial demeanor aside, the Mississippi native did lay down a couple of easy-to-follow ordinances: (1) keep the basketball from landing in my wife’s garden (“Or it’s mine.”); (2) leave my beautiful daughters “alone.”
Point taken.
THE GUARANTEE
Joe Namath, the flamboyant All-American quarterback from the University of Alabama and the highest-paid player in the AFL (American Football League) then, was known as “Broadway Joe.” Namath balked at a competing offer from the NFL’s St. Louis Cardinals in 1965. “Namath’s first few years with the Jets were more notable for his off-the-field activities than his quarterbacking. His hair was alarmingly long, he had numerous girlfriends, and he spent many nights drinking and hobnobbing with sportswriters and celebrities in New York City. On one occasion, he got into a fistfight with a writer at a club and was fined by the team; on another, he and his African-American teammate Winston Hill tried unsuccessfully to room together during a mid-1960s exhibition game in Birmingham, Alabama. Namath appeared utterly unconcerned with whatever accepted standards of propriety he considered hypocritical, no matter where or to what they applied.” [4]
He had taken New York City by storm and became a superstar with the Jets. In the buildup toward the showdown with the Colts, the leader of the 1968 AFL champions did precisely as predicted: he exuded exorbitant confidence when asked about his team’s chances against the juggernaut from the more established league. While relaxing at the
Miami Touchdown Club, Namath replied to a phalanx of reporters, “We’re gonna win the game. I guarantee it.”
Odds be damned, Namath was putting it out there that he was primed to lead his team to a colossal upset. Was he trapped within the moment, surrounded by the media at the poolside when he commented? Did he know something about the Colts’ game plan from his coach, Weeb Ewbank, who had been fired from Baltimore? Or did his well-known affiliation with mobsters in New York make him privy to some esoteric intelligence?
