RIP Sammy Baugh

[backrow]

Originally Posted by Slingin Sammy 33

God Bless Sammy and his family. God's team just got a lot better, getting the greatest football player to ever live.

Amen!

[hooskins]

One of the greatest punters and QBs and a pretty damn good DB. I wish I could've seen him play, RIP.

[DarkKnight]

Originally Posted by SmootSmack

Being reported on ESPNews

He died way to young?

[70Chip]

RIP Samuel Adrian Baugh

"When Spring comes, I'll carry him back to Texas."

Robert Duvall based this character on Baugh:

[over the mountain]

like alot of you i wished i had a chance to see him play, thanks for the video clip thats actually the first time ive seen moving footage of him.

thank you Mr. sammy baugh for your help in making the redskins a storied franchise.

[pbhawks45]

TCU is going to wear #45 in his honor next season. Apparently there will be some sort of ceremony next season.

[htownskinfan]

heres another good article on Sammy from a houston sportswriter that went and spent the night at his ranch in 98.
Chron.com | News, search and shopping from the Houston Chronicle

the last paragraph is priceless,lol

By JOHN McCLAIN
Staff

ROTAN - Sam Baugh is not sure about the exact day he received the telephone call at his ranch, only that it was in June of 1997. An officer with the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio, was calling to tell him that Don Hutson had died.

Baugh thanked him and hung up the telephone. He sat down in the recliner in his den, and for a few moments he thought about Hutson, the Green Bay Packers receiver who was one of the greatest players in pro football history. Then, he thought about some of the others - Red Grange, Jim Thorpe, Bronko Nagurski, George Halas, Ernie Nevers and Curley Lambeau.

Like Baugh, they were pioneers of pro football and among the 17 members of the original class of inductees into the Pro Football Hall of Fame. But there was one difference.

"I had already seen on television that Hutson had died," Baugh says now, pausing to spit a stream of tobacco juice into a large cup. "But when he said, `You know, Sam, you're the last survivor,' I was shocked. I knew a lot of the others had died, but I sure didn't know I was the last. You know, it feels kind of strange."

Baugh, 84, is quiet for a few seconds as he runs a hand through his thinning gray hair. When he is asked how it feels to be the last survivor, he leans forward, slaps his thigh and says with a laugh, `Well, in this case, last is a hell of a lot better than first.' "

. . .

Samuel Adrian Baugh, "Slingin' Sammy" in football lore, is a genuine Texas legend. Born in Temple, he played all sports through his first year at Temple High School. Then, the Santa Fe Railroad moved his father to Sweetwater, where Baugh continued to play football, baseball and basketball. Back then, he was better at baseball.

Baugh got the nickname "Slingin' " from a Fort Worth sportswriter when he played at TCU. The nickname didn't come from the way he threw a football. It came from the way he threw a baseball from third base to first.

Baugh played for Dutch Meyer at TCU at a time when the Horned Frogs were a national power. His understudy was Davey O'Brien, who won the Heisman Trophy his senior year. By then, Baugh had already become one of the best and most famous pro football players in the country.

Baugh became an almost mythical figure in the Washington, D.C., area during his 16-year career (1937-52) with the Redskins. He is the greatest player in Redskins history. He led Washington to two league championships and five division titles. His number 33 is the only number the Redskins have retired. Before Jack Kent Cooke died, he named a level of the Jack Kent Cooke Stadium that opened last year after Baugh, who still owns 11 team records and shares four more. The Redskins invited him to the opening ceremonies, but Baugh never spends a night away from the ranch anymore.

"I never met Mr. Cooke, but I'm honored," he says. "I truly am. I appreciate everything people want me to do, but I just don't want to leave home any more than I have to. And I don't have to."

Even though Baugh has been out of football for 46 years, he is still the NFL record-holder in five categories, and he is tied for first in five more.

NFL historians say Baugh was the first great passer, and his rambunctious, daredevil style changed the game. The Redskins used the single-wing formation early in Baugh's career. He was the tailback who took the snap and had the option to throw, run or hand off. Usually, he threw. From all over the field.

"I may have been the first one to realize that if you stayed in the pocket waiting for a receiver to get open, you could get killed," Baugh says. "That's why I threw on the run so much. Give me a quarterback who can move to avoid the rush any day. That's why if I were picking one today, it would be Steve Young.

"When I came into the league, not only were helmets optional, but you could hit the quarterback until the whistle blew. If I threw a short pass to a receiver and he zigged and zagged 75 yards for a touchdown, I had four sumbitches chasing me in the other direction. All defensive linemen were told to knock me in the dirt to get me out of the game. Another rule said that if you were injured and left the game, you couldn't return until the next quarter. If you could walk, you stayed on the field."

In the early '40s, the Redskins finally switched to the modern T-formation, and Baugh was even better. He and the Chicago Bears' Sid Luckman were the premier quarterbacks of their era, and they remain two of the greatest ever.

Teams had 23-man rosters in those days. Baugh played safety and punted, too. He is still the NFL's all-time punting leader, probably the best in history. In 1943, he had perhaps the greatest season of any pro football player. He led the league in passing (133-of-239 for 1,754 yards, 23 touchdowns), punting (45.9 yards per kick) and interceptions (11). He played every minute of every game.

. . . .

To his friends and business associates, he is just Sam Baugh. That's how he signs his name to the hundreds of pieces of memorabilia that fans and collectors still send him.

"People have always wanted me to sign `Slingin' Sammy Baugh,' " he says as he carefully signs three footballs. "But I can sign `Sam Baugh' twice as fast. And I try to sign everything. It just may take a while."

The requests are stacked in a corner of his den, sometimes to the ceiling. Every month or two, his daughter or one of his four daughters-in-law will spread out everything on a table for him to sign. Baugh gets many offers to attend card shows that have become so lucrative to so many former players, but he politely declines them all.

Baugh has been offered as much as $20,000 to sign his name for two hours in Dallas and Fort Worth but, smiling, he says, "I wouldn't trust any sumbitch that claimed he was going to pay me that much money to sign my name."

Baugh hasn't flown since his two-year career as an Oilers head coach and assistant coach ended after the 1965 season.

"I had four bad experiences on planes," he says. "The last one came my last year with the Oilers. We had a bad flight to Oakland, and I said, `God, if you just get me through this flight, when the season's over, I'll never fly again.' And I haven't. And I hate trains almost as much as airplanes."

For more than 30 years, executives from the Pro Football Hall of Fame tried to lure Baugh back to Canton for the annual induction ceremonies. They offered to bring him by plane, train or automobile.

"Back then, it didn't seem like such a big deal," he says about his enshrinement. "It was the first year, and there was only one building. I don't remember there being a particularly big turnout. I appreciate it more now than I did then. I'd really like to go back and see it now because I've heard so much about it, but I'll never do it.

"They invited me for a long time, but I think they finally gave up. I haven't been back since the year they inducted me (1963). Shoot, I haven't even been back to Washington since my career ended. I mean, damn, why would I want to leave here?"

Baugh doesn't go anywhere he can't be back at home by sunset. Since his wife, Edmonia, died in 1990, he has lived alone on his 8,000-acre ranch outside of Rotan, a town of 1,913 about 40 miles east of Snyder and 25 miles north of Sweetwater. He has two dogs and a cat.

Baugh owns three ranches in three counties, about 22,000 acres in all. But the one he lives on is special. He bought it in 1940. His five children, 12 grandchildren and four great-grandchildren meet at his ranch every Christmas.

The Double Mountains form the backdrop. One sits on his property. The Double Mountain Fork of the Brazos is near his front gate. Not too far away is Post, where the caprock begins. The caprock escarpment is the dividing line between the High Plans and the Lower Rolling Plains of West Texas. This red-brush country is part of Baugh, whose hobbies are golf and dominoes.

"I drive to Snyder to play golf three or four days a week," he says. "I took up golf in my 50s, when I couldn't get on and off my horse any more because of a bad knee. God, I love the game. I never play on weekends, though, because I like to watch golf on television.

"I love to watch pro football, too. I still love the game. But I don't like crowds. You can't find a better seat than right in front of my television."

When Baugh played, he was called a long, tall Texan. He was 6-2, 190. He weighs less now, but his lean body is as solid as rock. His face isn't as weathered as you might expect from someone who has spent so much time in the sun.

Baugh's ranch isn't a museum to his pro football career. Even though he played 16 years with the same shoulder pads, he didn't take them when he retired. A visitor wouldn't even know Baugh played pro football if not for a small room at the entrance.

The small bookshelf is covered with trophies and awards, some hidden behind others. One wall has plaques and pictures commemorating Baugh's career. When he is asked which one he treasures most, Baugh reaches behind a huge football trophy and pulls out a certificate and $10 bill that have been framed.

"This one," he says proudly about his first hole-in-one.

He hesitates a few seconds, looks around the room and says, "Well, I guess if I could save only one, this would be it."

Baugh holds up a trophy he received for being named to the NFL's 75th Anniversary Team. He didn't attend that ceremony, either. Actually, the last night he spent away from home was in 1993 when a friend drove him to Fort Worth so TCU could retire his jersey.

"And the Aggies just beat the hell out of us," he says, bursting into laughter.

. . . .

Baugh laughs easily. To say his language is salty is an understatement. He uses curse words like most people use "the," "and" or "but." But the words aren't offensive. They actually add flavor. He is a master storyteller, and when he gets wound up, he uses his hands for emphasis, slaps his thigh a lot and shakes his head at the freshness of the memories. A chaw of tobacco is always in his cheek, and he stops from time to time to spit.

Time may have dimmed the exact years, but the actual moments are as clear as if they happened yesterday.

Listening to Baugh talk about such legends as Cool Papa Bell, the Gashouse Gang, Ted Williams, Babe Ruth, Bronko Nagurski and Gene Autry is like being in a time machine.

"After I took my last exam at TCU, I didn't wait to get my diploma," Baugh says. "I told them to mail it to me. I couldn't wait to get to Pampa and play on a semipro all-star team, the Pampa Roadrunners. I'd played third base my whole life, but the manager moved me to shortstop so he could put this guy at third base. I don't remember his name, only that he'd been cut by the Washington Senators and he was trying to make it back. As it turned out, that was a good move for me.

"Anyway, we went to Denver for a big national semipro tournament that was played every year. If you lost one game, you went home. As soon as I saw this one team from the east, I knew we weren't going to win that tournament. It was a team from the Negro League. Turns out they had won that tournament every year. No wonder. They had players like Josh Gibson, Satchel Paige and Cool Papa Bell. I've never seen a finer collection of ballplayers anywhere.

"We won our first two games, and then we played the Negro League all-stars. During that game, Cool Papa Bell hit a line drive to left-center field. He was so damn fast. He rounded for first and headed for second, but when the ball bounced high and the center fielder knocked it down, Cool Papa took off for third. The ball and Cool Papa arrived at third base at the same time. He went in with his spikes up and hit that sumbitch right in the face. The third baseman rolled backward a few feet and was out cold. Blood was gushing out of his face like oil.

"All of a sudden, players from both teams came charging out of the dugouts with bats. They start swinging at heads. Hell, I don't mind telling you I've never been so damn scared in my life. I'd never seen anything like that. Guys without bats would throw up their arms to keep from getting hit in the face, and their arms and fingers would be broken. I've never seen a bloodier bunch of people than I saw that day. There were only four or five policemen, and they couldn't stop it.

"This big guy about 6-6, a pitcher I think, came after me at shortstop. I thought, `What in the hell am I going to do?' When he got to me, he grabbed my jersey. I grabbed his jersey. We just held on to each other and watched the fight in front of us. When we took a step, it would be backward. When the fight finally stopped, so many people were hurt. They canceled the game and the rest of the tournament."

Baugh returned to Sweetwater.

"I actually signed a baseball contract before I signed a football contract," he says. "I had been scouted by Rogers Hornsby. The Cardinals wanted to sign me. He told me he couldn't sign me, that I'd have to go to Greenville, S.C., where Mr. Branch Rickey was and sign with him. So I did. But I told Mr. Rickey that I was going to play football first, and he agreed."

. . .

After moving from Boston, the Redskins played their first season in Washington in 1937. Baugh was their No. 1 pick. The owner, George Preston Marshall, was a promoter and innovator who was loathed by many of his players. The Redskins were the last team to integrate, and Marshall was praised in some circles and vilified in others.

"Mr. Marshall got asked all the time when he was going to get some black players for the Redskins, and his response was the same every damn time," Baugh says. "He'd say, `The Redskins will have black players when the Harlem Globetrotters have white players.'

"Mr. Marshall always treated me well. After they drafted me, he called and offered me $5,000 to sign. At the time, their star players were making $2,750 a year. We were coming out of the Depression years, and no one made a lot of money at that time. I called my coach at TCU, Dutch Meyer, and asked him what I should do. He told me that was a lot of money, more than they'd paid anybody. So I called up Mr. Marshall and asked for $8,000. He asked if I'd sign then, and I said yes. He agreed to it.

"He told me when I arrived in Washington, he wanted me to be wearing a 10-gallon hat and cowboy boots. I told him hell no. I could see what was coming. I told him I didn't own any, but I really did. He told me to go to the store and get some, and he'd pay for them. So I got a new hat and boots, too."

In Baugh's rookie season, the Redskins beat the Bears in Chicago to win the league championship. Baugh was the toast of Washington.

"After we won the title, Mr. Marshall and Mr. (George) Halas scheduled three exhibition games in January to make extra money," he says. "Near the end of the game in Miami, I broke my sternum. I've still never felt such pain. I couldn't let them operate because I was supposed to report to spring training with the Cardinals in March. Naturally, when I got to spring training, I couldn't throw or hit because of my sternum.

"People said my baseball career ended after one season because I couldn't hit a curveball, but hell, who could have hit with a broken sternum?"

Baugh went to spring training in St. Petersburg, Fla., to play shortstop with the Cardinals, a time when they were known as the Gashouse Gang.

"I roomed with Joe Medwick," he says. "He was the best hitter the Cardinals had. They said he was the only hitter in their system who could hit any pitch a pitcher could throw. They told us to watch him in batting practice. Dizzy and Paul Dean were down the hall.

"One guy that really tried to help me was their third baseman, Pepper Martin. He'd played football somewhere, and he'd bring a football to practice and ask me to throw it to him. We'd throw it before practice, and he could really catch that ball.

"That season, my minor-league career started at Columbus, Ohio. Edmonia and I had just gotten married, and one of my new teammates had also just gotten married. We lived on the same street and became good friends. His wife still sends me cards every birthday and tells me about their grandchildren. Who was he? Let me put it like this: When I watched Marty Marion play for the first time, I knew I'd never play shortstop for the St. Louis Cardinals."

It may have been while he was with the Cardinals, or it may have been later - Baugh isn't exactly sure - but he did form an opinion about Babe Ruth, the greatest player in baseball history.

"I'll tell you something," he says. "His image wasn't too damn good. He did just what he wanted. If they went back and checked into everything he got into, they might throw him out of the Hall of Fame. They won't let Pete Rose in the Hall of Fame. Hell, I've talked to a lot of people who said Babe Ruth did a whole lot worse than Rose."

Baugh will never forget the first time he laid eyes on Ted Williams, who had yet to become known as The Splendid Splinter.

"In Columbus, we played the Red Sox farm team," he says. "Williams was a big kid, but he was only 17 or 18. We had a bunch of older players on our team, and they hated that sumbitch. Williams played right field. Now, I'd never seen anything like this, and I still haven't, but when they were in the field, Williams would take off his glove, put it in his back pocket, turn his back to the infield and start doing exercises."

Baugh jumps out of his chair and starts doing jumping jacks. He's laughing so hard he starts coughing.

"I'm serious," he says. "That sumbitch would do that when the batter was walking to the plate. When the pitcher was ready to pitch, Williams would turn around, put on his glove and be ready. I couldn't believe it. We wondered why his manager would let him get away with antics like that. We finally figured it out. The big boys in Boston must have told the manager to leave that kid alone because they knew they were going to make a good living off him for a long time. And they were right.

"Man, could that kid hit. He hit line drives you could hang clothes on. He'd smash balls so hard we'd hear planks coming out of the outfield fence before we could turn around. He could do anything he wanted on a baseball field."

. . . .

Baugh didn't need baseball because he was a star in football, but he did need extra money to help pay for the ranch he and Edmonia bought in 1940.

"Back then, I wouldn't turn down a chance to make money," he says.

That's why he accepted an offer to go to Hollywood to star in King of the Texas Rangers, a serial that ran for 12 weeks on Saturday mornings in movie theaters around the country. The story line had Baugh going from Texas to California to avenge the death of his father. His sidekick was Duncan Renaldo, who went on to become famous as the Cisco Kid.

"One day, we couldn't film because Duncan had gone to the courthouse to be sworn in as a U.S. citizen," Baugh says. "He was a big enough star at that time to attract a lot of media attention. When he came out of the courthouse, he stopped on the steps for a press conference. Someone asked Duncan what he had to say about becoming a U.S. citizen, and I'll never forget what he said: `I think we should keep all the foreigners out of the country.'

"When we'd take lunch breaks, I never ate with the other actors. I always ate lunch with the technicians because they told me some great stories. They had all the gossip. I've never understood this, but they all hated Gene Autry. I don't know why. Gene Autry was one of the biggest stars in Hollywood.

"It was funny because those technicians told me they knew a young guy who was going to be as big as Autry in a couple of years. They told me I'd never heard of him, but that I would because he was going to be a big star. And they were right. His name was Roy Rogers."

Baugh loved baseball, and he took that acting job for the money, but he excelled at football like no other.

Shirley Povich, the legendary Washington Post sports editor who recently died at age 91, chronicled Baugh's career. Baugh was sad to learn about Povich's death.

"Old Shirley got me in trouble my rookie year," Baugh says, chuckling at the memory. "He asked me if I'd write a column for the Post. I told him I could hardly talk, much less write. He said he'd write it for me and put my name on it.

"It went fine at first, but one time he had me writing about a quarterback from Oklahoma State, I think, and he had me saying that guy was better than David O'Brien. Are you kidding me? After that, I was lucky to be able to come back to Texas, much less TCU. I canceled that column right away."

Ray Flaherty, also a member of the Pro Football Hall of Fame, was Baugh's first and best coach in pro football.

"But Dutch Meyer was the best damn coach I ever had," Baugh says. "I learned everything from him."

Football historians say Baugh was never blessed with great receivers. Bones Taylor, who followed Baugh as a coach with the Oilers, was the best. Baugh made average receivers look good. He could be cantankerous on occasion, but he also had a sharp wit and a great sense of humor.

Once, when a Redskins rookie offensive lineman was introduced to Baugh, the lineman said, "Gee, whiz. I've always dreamed of playing with the great Sammy Baugh."

To which Baugh responded, "You knock the hell out of those defensive linemen, and I'll dream of you."

In the most lopsided championship game in NFL history, the Bears beat the Redskins 73-0 in 1940. The Redskins had beaten the Bears 7-3 three weeks earlier. On the opening drive of that championship game, Baugh drove the Redskins down the field and threw a perfect pass that would have been a touchdown, but the receiver dropped it.

Asked now what the score might have been if the Redskins had scored first, Baugh smiles, spits and says, "73-6."

"The Bears never had a bad team in the 16 years I played," he says. "Halas was a great coach, and he had great players. Unlike other teams, when we played the Bears, they didn't assign anyone to block me at free safety. I didn't understand it. One year, I asked Bronko Nagurski, who was a hell of a nice guy off the field, why they didn't have anybody try to block me.

"Bronko said, `Because Mr. Halas wants to use the extra blocker to help me get through the line. Then, I'm supposed to run over you.' Halas didn't think I could tackle Bronko, who was real big (6-2, 225) back then. Most of the time, he was right."

As a safety, Baugh had to tackle such backs as Nagurski, Cleveland's Marion Motley, Philadelphia's Steve Van Buren, Detroit's Doak Walker and the Chicago Cardinals' Charley Trippi.

"Nagurski was the toughest," Baugh says without hesitation. "He was big, strong and powerful. He had a way of dipping his shoulder so you couldn't get a big lick on him. He'd use his arm or turn his body a certain way. When the field was frozen, I just tried to run up and hit him like I was blocking him, and I always hoped I could knock him off balance. If you tried to tackle him, he'd knock the living hell out of you. Hell, I used to get hurt more on defense than offense."

One memory remains especially vivid to Baugh. In his fifth season, the Redskins were playing a late-season game against Philadelphia at Griffiths Stadium.

"We beat the Eagles, but that's not what I remember most about the game," he says. "What I'll never forget is how the (public address) announcer kept interrupting play by calling out people's names. We kept on playing, but that hadn't happened before, not when we had the ball. I'd be calling signals, and he'd be calling out names and saying some other stuff. Hell, I couldn't tell what it was. We talked about it on the sideline and tried to figure it out, but no one had any answers.

"It wasn't until I picked up the paper the next morning that I realized he'd been calling out officers and telling them to report for duty because Pearl Harbor had been bombed. The coaches had been instructed (by the owners) not to tell us about it."

At the end of Baugh's career, he was helping develop his replacement, Eddie LeBaron.

"I probably stuck around a couple of years too long, but Mr. Marshall wanted me to help Eddie," he says.

LeBaron was only 5-7, but he was a master ballhandler.

"I asked Bones Taylor one time how Eddie was doing," Baugh says. "Bones said, `He's doing real good, but he's so short, it's like he's throwing from a well.' "

. . . .

Every so often, treasure hunters - professional and amateur - stop by Baugh's house and tell him they think there is gold and silver in the Double Mountains. They ask for permission to dig in his mountain.

"All I tell them is that if they strike it rich, I get a cut," he says. "If there's four of them, I get a fifth. If there's five of them, I get a sixth. I get a kick out of them. You know what? I don't think there's any damn gold or silver in those mountains. The only sumbitch getting rich is the guy who makes the maps."

After a couple of days of telling tales, Baugh escorts two visitors to their car parked at the side of his house. He has made them two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the road.

"You know," he says as he gazes across the landscape, "people say, `Sam, why don't you just move into town?' Well, why would I want to move into town? I can walk out any door of my house, step off the porch and pee any damn place I want to.

"I couldn't do that in town."

[Monkeydad]

Nice to at least see the #33 stickers on the back of the helmets this week. I was hoping for more, but it was short notice I guess.