Now You See Him, Now You Don't

There is the story of the day that Irsay was admitted into one of Chicago's finest downtown clubs, a prestigious and understated organization with a diverse and high-powered membership. Two club members remember that after his initiation, Irsay clapped his hands and strutted down the hallway, pausing to thank the most venerated member of the club, a past member of the board of governors, and to stuff a $1,000 bill into the gentleman's breast pocket. The man stiffened, but quickly recovered. "Why, thank you, Bob, for your generosity," he said, retrieving the bill and delivering it to the club's assistant manager. "I'm sure that the employees' Christmas fund will appreciate your contribution."

Irsay's unpredictability is legend in Crabcake City, where Colts fans eventually began avoiding Memorial Stadium in droves. "You couldn't build up enthusiasm when there was always talk about moving the team to Memphis or Phoenix or Jacksonville," recalls Bob Leffler, the Colts sales and marketing director in their final years in Baltimore.

Irsay had talked about moving the Colts to Phoenix as far back as 1976. Memorial Stadium had several drawbacks. According to Richard Sammis, a Baltimore friend of Irsay's, one of the things that bothered him most was that Memorial Stadium had no luxury boxes. "You've got to remember there are 28 owners with 28 giant egos," Sammis says. "Irsay would go to these other stadiums and have a private box with a bar and food, and then he'd have to reciprocate here, where you couldn't even get a sandwich upstairs." That's an exaggeration, Accorsi says.

In 1979 Irsay began shopping the Colts around in earnest, talking first to officials from the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum Commission, then to Jacksonville and Memphis. "He'd cock his head to one side, give us that teddy bear smile, and tell us he was being sincere with us," Jake Godbold, the mayor of Jacksonville, told The Sun in 1984. "His name is mud here."

John Malmo, a Memphis advertising executive, met with Irsay in the Chicago O'Hare Hilton to extend his city's proposal—an exceptionally generous one that guaranteed the Colts a reported $65 million in ticket revenues for the first nine years. But not a unique one. Harold Deutsch was vice-president and G.M. of WCBM, the radio station that carried the Colts games in Baltimore. In 1983, Deutsch and Accorsi hammered out the details of a new contract that called for the station to pay the Colts $1 million over three years. Irsay thought he could get another $50,000 out of Deutsch, so he told Accorsi to ask him to come to a restaurant in Chicago so they could close the deal. "I had assumed it was going to be a private lunch, but there were about 16 people there, and they were drinking and it was noisy and so many rounds were ordered that I lost track of them," Deutsch recalls. "It was horrible. One by one people started to leave, and finally Bob and I were alone. 'Should we go over the contract now?' I asked. But he told me he wasn't going to talk business just then and invited me back to his club. Asked me to spend the night. I told him I really had to get back that evening. Then he said, 'Just a minute,' and excused himself. Ten or 15 minutes later he still hadn't returned, and after 25 minutes I became genuinely concerned for his health. So I called the captain over and suggested we might have a medical problem, and suggested he take a look in the men's room. There was a smile on his face. 'You're Mr. Deutsch, aren't you?'

" 'Yes.'

" 'Mr. Irsay had another appointment, but he'd be pleased if you would stay as long as you like as his guest. Can I bring you a drink?' I got my coat, grabbed a cab, and flew back to Baltimore."

By 1980 the Maryland legislature was sufficiently concerned about losing the Colts that it passed a $23 million bond issue for stadium renovation that was contingent on Irsay signing a 15-year lease. He refused on the grounds that Orioles owner Edward Bennett Williams was not being asked to sign a lease of similar duration, even though he, too, would benefit from the improvements. Before the start of the 1981 season, the Colts signed a two-year lease with Baltimore at extremely favorable terms, a lease that would be Baltimore's last.

Irsay's meddling in football matters, meanwhile, had extended to the college draft—the results of which have shown up in Indianapolis's record the past three years. In 1982 Irsay told the Colts front office not to draft Brigham Young quarterback Jim McMahon because he couldn't stand McMahon's agent, Jerry Argovitz. Instead, Irsay wanted to take Ohio State's Art Schlichter, who, according to most scouting reports, did not have the arm to be an NFL passer.

The Colts were winless in the strike-shortened 1982 season, giving them a shot at quarterback John Elway. Elway, of course, made a public-relations error in announcing that he wouldn't play in Baltimore, when what he really meant was that he wouldn't play for Frank Kush, the Colts coach, and Irsay. Still, Accorsi wanted him. Desperately. If another team wanted to draft him, it would have had to fork over three first-round draft picks in exchange. That was Accorsi's price. When no other team met it, the Colts drafted him. Elway said the Colts had wasted a draft choice. He would play baseball.