Category: History and More

Ask someone if they remember the Dallas Texans, and they’ll likely tell you they were one of the charter members of the American Football League.

They’d be right.

But eight years before that team hit the gridiron, the NFL had its own versions of Dallas Texans.

A success story, it was not.

While the AFL Texans ultimately moved to Kansas City and now boast a pair of Super Bowl titles, the NFL Texans struggled through a one-and-done 1952 season – and finished the year as a road team.

The franchise actually had a long history before arriving in Dallas; its lineage can be traced back to the Dayton Triangles of 1920. But after the NFL originals morphed into the Brooklyn Dodgers (1930-43), they were rebranded as the Brooklyn Tigers (1944), merged with the Boston Yanks (1945), moved to New York in 1949 and became the New York Bulldogs, and then remarketed as the New York Yanks in 1950.

They couldn’t make a go of it in the Big Apple and were sold back to the league, opening the door for Dallas textile millionaire Giles E. Miller to buy them on January 29, 1952. Part of the deal meant that Miller paid $100,000 to relocate the Yanks franchise and underwrote an agreement to pay off that club’s $200,000 in debts. Miller’s brother, Connell Miller, and 12 other Dallas businessmen were part of the ownership group.

According to the Associated Press, the team was expected to be called the Texas Rangers but Giles Miller christened the franchise Dallas Texans instead. Saying he was a “rabid football fan,” Giles Miller admitted owning a team was a new experience for him and “I’ll need plenty of advice.”

However, the smiles displayed at the opening press conference didn’t last long.

Not only were the Texans – who finished 1-9-2 a year earlier as the Yanks – unable to figure out how to win games under coach Jimmy Phelan, they never managed to win the hearts of Dallas fans. Their largest crowd at the Cotton Bowl was 17,499, which came in an opening day loss to the New York Giants.

But while starting the season with nine consecutive losses, they played only four games in Dallas. On November 14, the league took control of the team again, with NFL Commissioner Bert Bell releasing a lengthy statement on the matter:

I have determined that the Dallas Texans Football Club, Inc., is guilty of acts detrimental to the National Football League, namely a refusal to continue to operate the club and field a team throughout the balance of the 1952 season. The franchise of the Dallas Texans’ Football Club, Inc., is hereby canceled and forfeited and the player contracts, including the reserve player list, are hereby taken over by the National Football League acting on behalf of the remaining clubs in the league. The National Football League, acting for its remaining members and for the benefit of the players employed by the Dallas club, will continue to field the team with the approval of the Dallas club, under the name of Dallas Texans, for the balance of the 1952 playing season.

The club spent the rest of its 12-game slate as a road team, winning its only game in Akron with a 27-23 upset of the Chicago Bears. The traveling Texans closed out an 1-11 season with a 41-6 thrashing at the hands of the Detroit Lions at Briggs Stadium in Detroit.

So, what went wrong?

Pretty much everything.

Although they featured sensational running back Buddy Young (who would later have his number retired by the Baltimore Colts) and all-purpose standout George Taliaferro (the first African-American drafted by the NFL and a member of the College Football Hall of Fame), the Texans were overmatched game in and game out. They were last in the 12-team league in scoring offense, 11^th in overall offense, 11^th in passing offense, 10^th in rushing offense, and last in both team defense and rushing defense.

And the fact that Dallas was a segregated city and made sure to stay that way on game day did the team no favors at the box office.

Rhett Miller, grandson of Giles Miller (and lead singer of alt-country band Old 97’s), wrote about the situation in the January 12, 2015, edition of Sports Illustrated:

In the opening game, Taliaferro connected with Young for the new team’s first touchdown. (It came after the Texans’ defense forced a New York Giants fumble by, of all people, Tom Landry.) Despite initial enthusiasm within Dallas’s African-American community for the team’s two black stars, very few black fans were on hand to see Young score. Cotton Bowl officials had coerced Pop (Giles Miller) into denying black fans access to the $3.60 grandstand seats, allowing them access only to the $1.80 end zone areas. The first preseason game was marred by overcrowding in these sections, and much of the local black community boycotted subsequent games.

Art Donovan, a Pro Football Hall of Fame inductee as a defensive tackle who gained additional fame in later life as a popular talk show guest, was also a member of the Texans. He said by the time the squad left Dallas behind, players just wanted to make it to the end of the season.

“Hershey, Pennsylvania, was our headquarters for the last four games of the season, and the league paid our salary,” Donovan said during an NFL Films interview. “When we were in Hershey, we were running out the string. We didn’t have any bed check, we were trying to get the season over … it was a disaster.

“We practiced maybe for about an hour and we used to play volleyball with the football over the crossbar. That was a big thing, and the best thing in Hershey was the night life. Man, we stood Hershey on its ear.”

In the end, the remnants of the Texans would provide the bones to build the Colts; the 1953 Baltimore team is considered an expansion franchise, but owner Carroll Rosenbloom was awarded the assets of the Texans and retained many of their players.

Thus, the ill-fated Dallas Texans hold the distinction of being the last NFL franchise to fold.

In the classic film Inherit the Wind, there’s a scene when lawyer Henry Drummond – with dogmatic rival Matthew Harrison Brady on the stand – expounds on the advancement of society:

“Madam, you may vote, but at a price. You lose the right to retreat behind the powderpuff or your petticoat. Mister, you may conquer the air, but the birds will lose their wonder, and the clouds will smell of gasoline.” 

So … what does this have to do with college football?

On the surface, absolutely nothing.

However, for people like me – folks who have spent more than a half century following the game – those words resonate.

Why, yes, I’ll be glad to explain …

The latest installment of college football is now 31 games old with a full slate of action set for today. Of those 31 games already played, most were televised by some outlet.

And if you so choose, at 11 a.m. today you can start your gridiron viewing fest by tuning into the Big Ten Network to watch the Buffalo-Maryland clash, or catch Michigan-Colorado State on ABC, or Delaware-Navy on CBS Sports Network, or North Carolina State-East Carolina on ESPN, or Rutgers-Boston College on the ACC Network, or Sam Houston State-Texas A&M on the SEC Network, or … well you get the idea.

Point being, there is all the college football your eyes can handle, available throughout this day and night, as well as once on Sunday (Florida State vs. LSU, ABC) and again on Labor Day (Clemson vs. Georgia Tech, ESPN).

And with that, I now shift to the “remember when” portion of this column, where I (clumsily) tie-in Drummond’s fiery courtroom elucidation with the old days of college football.

Go back 50 years to the start of the 1972 season, and you’ll see that except for a West Coast tilt on September 8 (San Diego State vs. Oregon State), September 9 was Opening Day.

For a young boy growing up in Birmingham, Alabama, then (spoiler alert: I was that young boy), the two biggest games of note were Duke vs. Alabama at Legion Field and Auburn at Mississippi State, both set for 7:30 p.m. kickoffs.

Nationally, the UCLA-Nebraska and Southern Cal-Arkansas clashes were billed as great lid-lifters for a new campaign.

Kids today (I’ve been wanting to use that expression for the longest time) would be shocked to learn that none of those games were on TV in the Birmingham area. If you wanted to follow the Tide or Tigers without actually being in the stands, you had to do it via the radio.

As for the showdowns between the Bruins and Cornhuskers and Trojans and Razorbacks, you’d need to watch the late news in hopes you got a score because you couldn’t even listen to those intersectional battles.

Nope, if you lived anywhere near my hometown on September 9, 1972, and wanted to watch a college football game you had one shot and one shot only. That came at 4 p.m. when ABC broadcast the Tennessee at Georgia Tech game from Atlanta.

And it was magnificent.

Why wouldn’t it be? It was all I knew. Back in the day, ABC carried all the regular season college football games, and you got what you got and liked it. (Every now and then they’d have a day game and a night game and man, that was glorious).

Sure, it was even better if Alabama or Auburn were on TV, but the fact that any contest was being televised was a huge deal.

It allowed me to hear legends like Chris Schenkel and Bud Wilkinson call games from such exotic (to me) locales like Ann Arbor, South Bend, Los Angeles and Austin. Teams I might never see in person from states I’d never been were right there in the living room, and they demanded my attention.

When Southern Cal and UCLA would meet, it was like spending the day in Hollywood – or at least how I imagined it. With the Bruins donning baby blue and gold and the Trojans rocking cardinal and a yellowy gold, the sartorial splendor on display was wonderful.

And I’d always get excited when I knew Ohio State would be one half of the game of the day, because I could cheer against Woody Hayes.

In a word, these events were special, and college football games on TV are no longer that. To paraphrase Mr. Drummond, they’ve “conquered the air but lost their wonder,” so to speak.

But before you fear I’ll start complaining about the fact that athletes don’t wear leather helmets anymore or play games while it’s lightning, rest easy. I’m not an older guy who pines for the way college football was, I simply appreciate how it made me feel when I was young.

Nowadays I love being able to watch one game on my TV, another on my laptop and a third on my iPhone. And if I want to find a tilt involving one of the 131 Football Bowl Subdivision teams on any given Saturday (or whatever day they play), I can do it.

But I can also plant my patootie on the futon today and take a few moments to reminisce … thinking back fondly on a time when one TV game on a College Football Saturday was a genuine thrill.

And I plan to work those moments in – probably sometime between the Georgia-Oregon and Florida-Utah games.

I love researching sports history, often in the interest of finding column fodder but sometimes just to travel back in time.

Today, it allowed me to remember an old friend.

While looking for some game accounts of the New York Cosmos’ North American Soccer League championship victory on August 26, 1972, I found myself eying a newspaper dated August 27 of that year.

A completely unrelated headline that popped out at me read: “Astros fire Walker, lure back Leo.”

Houston’s National League club had parted ways with skipper Harry Walker and replaced him with Leo Durocher, who had been axed by the Chicago Cubs during the All-Star break. It would mark the end of Walker’s professional managerial career, one that also saw him guide the fortunes of the St. Louis Cardinals and Pittsburgh Pirates and finish with a 630-604 record.

That got me reminiscing about Walker, who was the UAB baseball coach during my college days (he was 211-171 while leading the Blazers during their first eight seasons) and who I got to know better when I became a frequent guest at his home in Leeds, Alabama.

It was always time well spent. The first visit was to do a piece for a newspaper I was working for at the time, and later it was just to sit and listen to him tell stories of the days when baseball was unquestionably the National Pastime.

And keep in mind, Walker was not someone who just passed through the game. He was a big league center fielder from 1940 through 1955 (eight years with the Cards plus stretches with the Cubs, Philadelphia Phillies and Cincinnati Reds), winning two world championships and a National League batting title in 1947.

That year he batted .363 while playing 130 games for Philadelphia and 10 with St. Louis. He and his brother, Dixie, are the only siblings to win Major League batting crowns.

Oh, and the two-time All-Star also served in the 65^th Infantry Division in 1945 and 1946, earning a Bronze Star and Purple Heart.

Nicknamed “The Hat” due to his habit of adjusting his cap between pitches, he also cussed like a sailor. Or, maybe the better description would be sailors cussed like Harry Walker. Man, oh, man, every other word was a profanity.

The funny thing, though, is there was never any maliciousness behind his colorful language; that’s just the way he talked. And when it came to baseball, well, he could talk all day

“If we aren’t careful, we’re going to see baseball deteriorate,” Walker told me back when I first interviewed him in 1990. “I think everybody needs to make sure that baseball — American Legion and that sort of thing — is available to the youngsters.

“Now it seems like after Little League, people forget about baseball. That’s why baseball was so great back in the 1940s and 1950s. It brought people together. Cotton mills had teams and it didn’t matter where you went, you could find a baseball game. Wouldn’t it be great if little towns all had teams like they did in the old days?”

Walker saw professional baseball’s star fading; he understood that football had become king to a large number of American sports fans, but the game he loved was hurting itself with too many “mediocre hitters.”

“In those days if you wanted to stay in the big leagues, you had better be able to hit the ball,” Walker said. “I see guys now making millions of dollars and hitting .225, and if you hit 225 back when I played you wouldn’t be in the majors, you’d be down on the farm somewhere.”

In his later years Walker was in high demand as a hitting instructor, willing to assist everyone from local high school players to professionals in developing a better swing. It was his way of continuing to grow the game.

He died on August 8, 1999, at 80, leaving behind a legacy as one of the country’s foremost “Baseball Men.”

I wish I’d had a chance to ask him about interleague play and the universal designated hitter, topics I’m sure he’d have strong opinions that he’d be willing to share. And the steroid era and contraction of minor league teams would’ve likely set him off, too.

But when I was around Walker, I preferred letting him drive the conversation. And the fact that those conversations revolved around “the old days” was fine by me.

As a fan of sports history, what’s better than talking with someone who lived it?