Remembering Johnny U

Colts legend was more than a teammate -- he was a friend

Is there anything tougher than growing old? Keeping tabs of old friends in the obituary pages? Saying a final goodbye to a teammate?

Hey, it happens to all of us. Death hits the well known and unknown, the most gifted of athletes and humble pencil pushers. No favorites are played here. Just check the sports names recently leaving the scene: Ted Williams . . . Bob Hayes . . . Johnny Unitas .

On the cover of last week's Sports Illustrated, a still-in-his-prime Unitas -- billed as “The Best There Ever Was’’ -- is caught taking a snap in a 1964 game against the Washington Redskins. Linebacking great Sam Huff eyes him from across the line, as Baltimore Colt Dick Szymanski readies to center the pigskin.

Like everyone else, Szymanski knows the rules. But try as he might, the old center has had a more difficult time coming to grips with the loss of his quarterback.

Johnny U was the Baltimore Colts of the late 1950s and '60s. A tall-in-the-pocket quarterback with a shuffling kind of trot, a skinny sandlot reject who was pound-for-pound the toughest guy on the Colts, according to teammates.

“The worst thing about growing old is to see your friends go,’’ says Szymanski, retired to a golfing life in Sanford, Fla. “To see someone who’s always been healthy and then get a call saying, ‘Hey, John had a heart attack and died’ -- it shocks the hell out of you. It’s very depressing.

“I know John had heart bypass [surgery] 10 years ago or so, but every time I saw him he looked in great shape. He didn’t look like he was 69. It hits you. You heard about other teammates, somebody being in bad shape. You never heard about John . . . he was just such a tough son of gun.’’

Szymanski got the call from Ruth McDonald , wife of the old Colts’ orthopedic surgeon, who has remained friends with the likes of Artie Donovan and Alex Sandusky. He began packing for the drive to Baltimore, but while watching his alma mater, Notre Dame, upset Michigan on TV, Szymanski experienced a “dark curtain like’’ going across his left eye.

The next morning, he was in an Orlando operating room for surgery to repair a detached retina -- and the trip to Unitas’ funeral was off. “I felt awful not being able to go,’’ he says softly.

Now he’s home in Florida reveling in stories about Johnny U, telling how he and Unitas had almost crossed paths at Notre Dame, where Szymanski starred at both center and linebacker. Unitas had been invited to South Bend for a tryout, which was a common practice of the day. But Irish coaches didn’t think Unitas, at 6 feet and a rail-thin 138 pounds, could stand up to the rigors of running what was essentially an option offense.

A few years later, when Szymanski was away in the service, Unitas landed with the Colts and took the QB job from the more heralded George Shaw.

“I’d heard about him, but I’d never seen him,’’ Szymanski recalls. “So when I returned in ’57, I asked somebody in the locker room, ‘Which one is Unitas?’ They pointed to him. I said, ‘You got to be kidding me. That’s not Unitas.’ He looked like one of the helpers.’’

Skinny, yeah. Only he’d stand in the pocket and take a shot with the best of his day, QBs like Bobby Layne and Otto Graham . There’s the story about the time the Chicago Bears busted his nose and he returned to throw a game-winning TD strike to Lenny Moore.

Years later, Szymanski says, then-Bears defensive whiz George Allen told him: “I told my ballplayers if you can get John out of the game, get him out. But don’t make him bleed. If you make him bleed he’s gonna come back and beat you.’’

The sin to many a Colt fan is that Unitas didn’t retire in Baltimore, that six months after buying the franchise Robert Irsay sold the aging franchise quarterback to the San Diego Chargers. Nobody thought it would happen. Unitas was supposed to remain a Colt for life, according to an unwritten pact with former owner Carroll Rosenbloom .

Unitas is said to have gone to NFL commissioner Pete Rozelle, who refused to intercede when a written agreement couldn’t be produced. That experience would lead to a sour relationship with the league in Johnny U’s later years. He had nothing to do with the Colts until the late 1970s when Szymanski, by then the general manager, offered him a PR and scouting gig.

So when Unitas passed away what did the NFL do? Borrowing a page from Bud Selig’s PR book, the league denied Indianapolis Colts QB Peyton Manning’s request to wear black hightops as a salute to Unitas, threatening a fine upwards of $25,000. And then reportedly hit Baltimore Ravens quarterback Chris Redman with a $5,000 penalty after he donned hightops for the same reason.

“What is going on?’’ wonders Szymanski, former president of the NFL Alumni Association. “I may be wrong because I’m a teammate, but if they all want to wear hightops let them.

“It makes it look like a vendetta thing for people who know there was a disagreement between John and the NFL. I like [commissioner] Paul Tagliabue. He’s a first-class guy and he’s doubled the pension for old-timers, but this was just bad PR.’’

Unfortunately so.

Mike Fish is a senior writer for CNNSI.com.

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