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What are they doing with the sacred game of pro football?
Edwin Shrake
October 25, 1971
By nine o'clock on Saturday night the London Chop House in Detroit already had enough people in it to start another suburb, and dozens more were waiting at the red velvet rope and lined up along the stairs to the street, and if you phoned for a reservation you were told it didn't matter if you were Henry Ford bringing Prince Charles in for a bucket of snails, it would be hours before you could have a table.
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October 25, 1971

What Are They Doing With The Sacred Game Of Pro Football?

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"And with me are the irrepressible, the irresistible Dandy Don Meredith and the handsome, charming, utterly dynamic Faultless Frank Gifford...."

"Are those tennis shoes Meredith's got on?" someone said.

Cosell turned to an attractive woman standing nearby with her husband, a tall and solid fellow with gray hair and a smile that seemed uncertain whether to remain.

"Darling, I see you have quite obviously married beneath yourself. It must be a source of considerable embarrassment for you to be in this world-famous restaurant with a man so much older than you. If you would care to join us as we pass through this rope to enjoy our dinner...."

"Can't you see there's no tables?" said the girl at the rope.

"Do you have a card?" said the woman whose husband was now puzzling over exactly what to do about Howard Cosell having entered his life.

"I do not need a card," Cosell said.

"Leave it to the coach," yelled Meredith, whistling through his teeth. "I love it, I love it."

And then, miraculously, the rope was lifted, and Cosell's party was admitted ahead of many faces that were not altogether pleased. Cosell grinned enormously and looked at Meredith and Gifford out of hooded eyes and lit another cigarette.

"Howard, you're incredible," said Meredith.

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