My Best for HIM: My Memoir

By Dave Williams

My book title, My Best for Him, provides a statement about my life in Christ. I have not always been the best of Christians and have committed my share of sins and behavior unbecoming to a person of faith. Rather, my early life was a series of "falling away," putting myself ahead of Jesus, but coming back to His grace and mercy. God has always had a way of nudging me back on his path, and I am eternally grateful that he has. I have had many "hims" and "hers" in my life, including my parents, my wife Sherry, teachers, coaches, and mentors. This is a story about always trying to do my best for them, but ultimately doing my best for God.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781640793132

Dave Williams

Dave Williams has worked as a graphic designer and illustrator for many years, and creating fun, bright illustrations to help tell stories is what he finds most rewarding about children's publishing. Based in the Northwest of England, Dave works (digitally) from his spare room at home in the company of his Sprocker Spaniel Charlie and a few cheeky Ragdoll cats.

Book preview

302284-ebook.jpg

My Best for

Him

My Memoir

Dave Williams

ISBN 978-1-64079-312-5 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64079-314-9 (Hard Cover)

ISBN 978-1-64079-313-2 (Digital)

Copyright © 2017 by Dave Williams

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

296 Chestnut Street

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Preface

Dear Mom and Dad,

It has been a few years since you both passed from us to be with our Lord. Your family and friends here on earth miss you greatly. All your children, your grandchildren, and your great-grandchildren are well and moving through life. We miss both your smile, your laughter, your positive and steady resolve to do what’s right, but mostly we miss just sitting around your living room and talking story. It’s the talking-story part that compelled Sherry several years ago to ask you both to record your life and experiences. We are so happy and pleased that you did for not only do we have a written transcript of those stories, but we also can play back the tapes to hear your voices. I especially like Mom’s input, for even though Dad does most of the talking throughout the tapes, Mom chimes in on many occasions to remind Dad of a correction or an addition to one of the stories. That makes the dialogue most special.

As I promised you back then, if you two would record your life story as we requested, then I would write a book about your life along with and interweaving my experiences and own stories. This would become my memoirs to celebrate your life. After you both passed, it took me time to calm my emotions so that I could organize my thoughts into words to not only frame your life story from your words but also to present it through many events in my life that you guided me through. It was very helpful to listen to the tapes and get the real meaning, emphasis, and emotion of your stories. The more I listened to your voices, the clearer my mission became. I waited until 2008 to start my book, but I had kept a journal for many years before. It is mostly a jumbled up mess of dates and events about both of you and your strong and wonderful influence in my life. It is also about the love of my life, Sherry, as well as our family. Both the tapes and journal have served me well in writing my memoirs.

I am not a writer, but like both of you, I love to talk and tell stories. Therefore, the easiest part of the book for me was my own storytelling about your love and leadership in my life along with your strong encouragement and advice. The most difficult part was to recreate your story into a dialogue that represents both of you in the proper fashion and format that you both richly deserve. I hope you find your story pleasing and have many belly laughs just as I did during the writing!

I think about each of you all the time and wish I would have had just one more day with you. However, not to worry for we are all headed your way in the not too distant future. When that happens we’re going to have a great family reunion.

Love, David

Part I

My Best for Him

Chapter One

Johnny Unitas

If you can keep you head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming you

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you…

—Rudyard Kipling, If

Dad, Mom, and their five kids left Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and arrived in Tacoma in the winter of 1951/1952 and immediately took up temporary residence with Dad’s parents on East Thirty-Second Street. Papa and Grandma’s home sat high on a hill with great views of downtown Tacoma and the harbor. There was a smaller house available across the street, so Dad and Mom were able to purchase that home within a couple of months. About two blocks away and down the hill was where Dad’s brother Paul, his wife Hazel, and their family lived. All in and with those children of Papa and Grandma still living at home, there was about eighteen to twenty Williams living in a close proximity near each other on Thirty-Second Street. For a new kid on the block, so to speak, this was a huge advantage. We were proud clan. I was proud to be part of and grow up in a strong Christian working class family. Christians from the working class sounds good, doesn’t it? I do believe that when you come from a Christian working class family here in America, you grow up not really caring what color of skin a person has; where they live, as long as you can walk there; what they wear; where they work; what they drive; or where they go to church, just so they went to church! I’ve always been more attracted to people that sweat for a living: the working class. Throughout my adult life, especially in the corporate world, I’ve always been more uncomfortable with the suits than in a suit. Typically, during most of my early life, my suits were uniforms such as football gear, basketball uniforms, track sweats, and baseball uniforms. I wore jeans, a sweatshirt, and working boots as a construction laborer from the time I was fourteen to the end of college. Even though it was necessary for me to wear a coat and tie many times in my business life, I was most comfortable with a pair of slacks and a nice aloha shirt to do my job best. Many times I found that as soon as a guy puts on a coat and tie that his priorities change—no longer are family and people his priority, but rather money, power, and prestige. I had to constantly be on guard personally so I did not fall into that trap. I have always been just an ordinary guy and loved ordinary hardworking people. My personal favorite became the single moms. They are the backbone of America’s working class. They know more than anyone else about the proper priorities—importance of Christ and family, how to budget, and have no time for jerks or frauds.

I enrolled at Hawthorne Elementary and met the principal within a couple of days. I found out quickly that the school had weak windows in the basement gym area and would not withstand my beanbag fastball! Susan was at Hawthorne also and a perfect student with impeccable behavior. Because of her, the principal gave me a pass, one time only. It would not be long before I was back to see him again—just to check in, of course. Jerry was at Gault Junior High School, and Joe was enrolled at Lincoln and about to start the Williams football tradition. Dad found work at Star Iron and Steel Works in Tacoma. Mom and Scotty were at home getting the family all settled in. We didn’t have a lot of furniture, so donations were accepted. Our home was a three-bedroom, one bath-home with two rooms upstairs.

We soon had enough furniture donated from the family to be comfortable. Mom, Dad, and Scotty were in the downstairs bedroom, Joe and Jerry shared a bedroom upstairs, Susie had a room to herself, and I slept on an army cot in the hallway upstairs. I loved that old army cot because I would know when everyone was up and moving. I kept my stuff in two places. Dad had made me a wooden toy box out of Iowa pine for my birthday the previous August, and I kept it at the foot of my bed with my clothes and treasures in it. In fact that toy box was my seat in the car all the way from Iowa to Tacoma. It fit nicely in the backseat foot, well, just behind the long bench-type front seat. It contained all my worldly personal possessions at the time, and I still look at it occasionally with fond memories. Dad also found a false step in the stairwell. It was the third one from the bottom. He put hinges on it and boxed in the inside for me to keep the rest of my stuff. That step became known as David’s step, and all I had to do was lift the step with the hinge to get my stuff in and out. That step always had a squeak when someone stepped on it. From the time I remember being in Iowa, our blankets of choice were homemade quilts. I had a couple of favorites, one for winter and one for summer. When it was really cold, I used both. Later, when Dad would take us kids backpacking into the high Cascade Mountains east of Tacoma, I rolled up my quilts into a bedroll and strapped them across the top of my homemade backpack. I had everything I needed for home or in the mountains.

Uncle Walt, one of Dad’s older brothers, blessed us with an old television in 1955. It was black and white with the need of a lot of aluminum foil on the single antenna to get reception. Later, when we had some extra money, we purchased rabbit ears and with some more aluminum foil could see the picture quite clearly, at least for those times. We had three channels in Tacoma in the mid-to-late fifties, and one channel broadcast the National Football League games every Sunday. We were all getting used to this new device that entered our home and its new dimension, and soon we all became instant fans of the NFL.

A couple of years before, Joe and Jerry introduced me to football. Mostly it was more like wrestling in the front yard and always came back to Joe and Jerry trying to prove who was the toughest. Joe had a distinct advantage with anyone, for when he tired of rolling around on the wet lawn, he just rose to his feet and picked up his opponent over his head and gave him a flying air spin followed by a toss across the lawn! This was a barbaric technique, but effective.

One particular day they wanted to teach me to play catch. Back in the day we used rubber footballs from Pop Warner/Little League Football through high school. The ball became wet, slippery, tough to throw, and even harder to catch; but they lasted a long time. Joe and Jerry were quite unforgiving when we played catch. Catch the ball in your hands. Look it into your hands and tuck it away under your arm covering both points of the ball. Don’t catch it with your arms or your body, and remember, if you can touch it, you can catch it, they continually yelled at me. (Later in life with sons Jeff and Steve, both of whom became excellent receivers, I had drilled this same phrase into their heads. Jeff would take pen to paper and write a poem about it later.) It was at this time that Jerry stayed out late with me and introduced me to his ball drills that I carried with me forever. Many nights I went to bed with bloody hands and huge welts on my forearms. There we were in the front yard in the rain with only one small porch light to see by and he kept drilling me with his ball drills. He had me catch face-to-face, over the shoulder left, over the shoulder right, over the top, on a simulated sideline, catch with both hands, catch one hand left and one hand right, and always tucking the ball away. Every time I missed—and he kept track—I had to do ten push-ups for each dropped ball.

He also introduced me to a ball drill that took me ten years to understand. At first I thought he was messing with my head or discovered some mystical, unreal secret to catching the football, but later in my career, it became very real. Jerry said that I had good hands for a kid (He was always short on positive comments until I was in high school.), but anybody could catch a football. To be a really great receiver I needed to concentrate—or focus, as he put it—on catching the football laces up. I thought at the time, What a crock! The darn ball is spinning like crazy, and I’m lucky to see it clear and catch it in my hands, let alone being able to see the laces on it. I asked him if he had ever done it. To my surprise he said no, but he knew it was possible. I put that laces-up drill out of my mind, for I was certain it was just folly! In September of 1960 I would be surprised when it resurfaced at a most interesting moment.

For some reason, we received mostly games from the east—the Bears, Lions, Browns, and the Baltimore Colts. It was the Baltimore Colts in 1957 and their quarterback Johnny Unitas that grabbed our attention, and we all loved to watch them. We used to hold our breath on Sunday mornings hoping that Papa’s sermon at the local Presbyterian church he ministered would not go too long and interfere with the Colt game. Sometimes we kids took turns with a fake stomachache or cold to get the rest of the family out of an after-church event so we could go watch Johnny Unitas. Mom was the first to fall under Johnny’s spell, and it wasn’t long before he had grabbed all of us. I guess she liked his old school style, crew cut hair, black high-top football shoes, his humbleness, and his never-give-up attitude; and most important, she was attracted to a guy who was turned down and not wanted by many others. (Hmmm, wanting the unwanted—this would play well in Mom’s wheelhouse for the rest of her life.)

This was a classic American underdog story. After high school John wanted to go to college to play football. He was turned down by both Indiana and Notre Dame. He was excited when the University of Louisville offered him a scholarship, which he had to maintain by supplementing another activity: square dancing. John was team captain, team leader, and he lead by example. He played quarterback, halfback, safety and punter. Actually, John would play any position on the field to help his team. John was drafted in the ninth round of the NFL draft by the Pittsburgh Steelers but was never allowed to take a snap and released, not tested and unwanted. Married with a young child, John worked construction in Pittsburgh during the week and kept his quarterback skills sharp by playing with a local semipro team on the weekends for $6 per game. John joined the Baltimore Colts in 1956 after borrowing gas money to get to the Colts training site. The Colts signed John, and he had his first big break when Colt quarterback George Shaw broke his leg in the fourth game against the Bears. (Later in life I had the honor to meet George Shaw and listen to him talk about John.) John’s first pass was intercepted. His next play caused a fumble that the Bears recovered. John rebounded quickly with wins over the Packers the next week and then beating Cleveland. He was off to one of the most storied careers in NFL history. John was the consummate leader, field general, and best under pressure. He redefined the strategy in the last two minutes of each half. He had ice water running through his veins and was the reason they call it the two-minute warning because if John had the ball in the last two minutes of either half, he was going to score. Thus, heed the warning!

The Williams family had moved to 2218 East Thirty-Second Street behind the Indian Hospital in 1957. We had been able to purchase a new and better television by then, and this electronic box now became the focal point of family events. In the late fifties almost all the shows were family oriented with the sex and violence limited, implied, and not shown. There was little or no cursing, and we were not allowed to watch the television until after dinner and homework were completed. We enjoyed the various shows and sporting events but always looked to the fall for Johnny Unitas, the Colts, and NFL football. On December 28, 1958, the Colts played the New York Giants for the NFL championship.

The Christmas Season of 1958 was an exciting one. Brother Joe and Elaine were married, Jerry came home for the holidays from the University of Iowa and announced his engagement to marry the following August, Susan was in her senior year of Lincoln High, Mom and Dad announced that they would be caring for foster babies through the Washington Children’s Home Society until a permanent adoptive home for them was found. Mom loved those that were not wanted by others, especially babies, but she couldn’t help herself by putting John in the wanting the unwanted category. Many people on this earth are demeaning toward those children who are orphaned or adopted, and it angers me greatly. Jesus loved all children and had a special place in his heart for them. He especially loved the adopted children, and they occupied a corner of His heart. Why, some may ask. It is quite simple, for adopted children are chosen. So they are very, very special. Mom and Dad knew this and had huge hearts full of love for them.

Scottie and I were blessed with new Schwinn bicycles for Christmas, and the entire Williams family was about to see the greatest football game ever played. The Giants were favored, but the tenacious Colts led by Johnny Unitas were not to be denied. There are volumes written about this game but suffice to say that John was in his glory. He brought the Colts back time and time again and forced a sudden-death overtime period, the first in NFL history. He then marched them down the field where Alan Ameche scored the winning touchdown. The explosion in Baltimore and the explosion on television would pale in comparison to the long-term explosion of popularity of the National Football League. In my youthful excitement I declared to the family that someday I was going to play in the National Football League. My brothers laughed, but Mom and Dad looked at me and told me they believed I would. Little did I know at the time that this announcement would be a dream come true for me, both the NFL and Johnny U. The events of this day would carry the NFL into the most successful sports, business, and television relationships ever. The seeds of future fortunes in professional football, as well as all the ancillary businesses, were planted on December 28, 1958. The books are full of John’s achievements and exploits as a football player. However, if we could focus on the business side, the one person who would be responsible for this earthquake-like magnitude shift and meteoric rise of popularity in pro football, it would be Johnny Unitas. As Pete Rozelle would say years later, The 1958 Colts vs. Giants sudden-death championship game was the greatest football game ever played and vaulted the NFL into the successes enjoyed to this day. We should all thank Johnny Unitas. Simply put, the experts would call it The Game and the game that shook the sports world.

While John was throwing touchdown passes and winning football games for the Baltimore Colts, Pete Rozelle was making huge contributions to the National Football League in other ways. Pete grew up in Southern California, served in the Navy, and graduated from the University of San Francisco. He was the school’s student publicist for the football team and did some part-time work in public relations for the Los Angeles Rams. After marketing the Melbourne Olympics for a Los Angeles-based company in 1956, he joined the Rams full time. In 1957 Pete was named the general manager, where he had the opportunity to turn around the chaotic organization into profitable business. When NFL Commissioner Bert Bell died in 1959, Peter Rozelle was elected to replace him. Rozelle’s credits included moving the antiquated business plan of the NFL teams into gate-and-television-revenue profit sharing. He stabilized the balance between large and small market teams. Pete’s business model was essentially a cartel that brought all teams into a level playing field of revenue sharing and the annual player draft. In his career, he orchestrated, handled, negotiated, and finalized the merger between the NFL and the AFL. He handled and settled players’ strikes. He developed the Super Bowl concept and succeeded in completing the common player draft by and between the NFL and the AFL. Most importantly, he led the negotiations with the television networks that resulted in the most lucrative television revenue contracts in NFL history. In short, Pete Rozelle was the business and visionary counterpart to John Unitas, the player.

I first talked with Commissioner Rozelle the day I was drafted in the first round of the first common draft in 1967. I was so humbled and honored to be drafted into the NFL in any round, but especially in the first round. It was a dream from a kid in Tacoma that started with Johnny Unitas back in 1955. I figured Commissioner Rozelle called all the first-round draft choices so didn’t make too much of it. I learned later that he did not call all the first-round selections and never got an answer for my curiosity. He was quite pleasant on the phone and wished me the best of luck. He ended the conversation by asking me my opinion of whether the Seattle market was ready for an NFL team. I responded by saying that I believed the entire state of Washington was ready, especially with the great success of Coach Owens at the University of Washington since the late 1950s. He agreed, and I had no idea at the time how foreshadowing this conversation would be. I had the good fortune to see Commissioner Rozelle at many banquets over the years and made sure I went up to introduce myself to him. He always remembered my name, and on a few occasions I received calls during the season when I had a better than average game. I remember once he called to congratulate me on catching four touchdown passes against the Saints. I thanked him, but reminded the commissioner that we lost! He laughed and said, Okay, minor detail, but the television fans loved the game. He was always thinking, the consummate marketing genius.

I first met John Unitas in the late summer of my rookie year. The Cards were hosting the Colts for a preseason game at Busch Stadium in St. Louis. John’s popularity was immense, so we had a huge contingent of his fans drive over from Louisville of the game. I couldn’t keep my eye of him in pregame warm-ups, and at that point a pass bounced off my shoulder pad because I was looking at John and not the ball. Larry Wilson, our All-Pro safety, came up and said, Don’t feel too bad because I still get goose bumps just being on the same field with him! I wanted to go introduce myself and let him know how much the Williams family in little ol’ Tacoma, Washington, appreciated him, especially Mom Williams; but I felt that would be impertinent. As luck would have it, John came to me. As we prepared for the announcement of the starting lineups and the run out of the tunnel onto the field and being a split end, I found myself the first Cardinal to be introduced after the last Colt was introduced. On that night the officials decided to introduce both teams starting with the offensive lineups. Yup, you guessed it. At the bottom of the tunnel was No. 19 John Unitas waiting for his introduction and next up would be me, a relatively nobody from the northwest. As the other Colts took their turn at running out onto the field, perhaps John felt my uneasiness. He turned to me, grabbed my hand, and said, David, I’m John Unitas and want to wish you the best of luck tonight and in your NFL career. All I could mutter was Thank you, Mr. Unitas. A mere Thank you, Mr. Unitas, what a dolt I was! Oh well, and little did I know that there would be much more conversation that would come later. Most sports fans know the many exploits of Johnny Unitas on the field but very few know his contribution to saving the NFL off the field. That story now begins.

So the stage was set for the events of 1973. John had been traded to the San Diego Chargers a year after I had been traded to the Chargers from the Cards. Most of us believed this would be his last year in football. I was honored to be on the same team with John and hoped to really get to know him. I knew just going through one training camp with John that I would learn more from him than all six of my previous camps put together. Commissioner Rozelle was on a roll with the development of the National Football League. The NFL had become America’s game, and he was at the top directing the progress. Revenue streams were better than the wildest dreams anticipated, and with the soaring popularity, there would be no stopping the NFL, perhaps. But a cloud had formed over the league. Coach Jim Owens was in his last two years of coaching at the University of Washington or any other coaching job. The repeated charges of racism had worn him down, and he was about to retire. My dad was still a rock of patience and understanding that I relied on time after time. So it would be John, Commission Rozelle, Coach Owens, Dad, and my faith in Christ that would help with the upcoming tough decisions that needed to be made.

Since learning to write cursive at a young age, I had kept a journal of some type. Early on, it was just an old writing tablet, but the special tablet was only for my journal thoughts and nothing else. I didn’t write every day but only when I had something I believed important to say. As time went on, the journal would take different shapes into a more formalized version. I used those thoughts for school writing assignment, speeches, reports, or just for reference. I wrote down various pass routes and pass patterns, assignments, scouting reports, basketball plays and defenses, track workouts—oh boy, did I have the track workouts down to a fine line. Writing in my journals was not to develop some best seller some day, for that was not even the slightest purpose. I wanted to record things, events, and times so as not to forget. Someday I would tell my kids and grandkids what my life had been all about. I had separated my journals after I left the Cards in the winter of 1972 and started a new journal just prior to joining the Chargers for training camp in July of 1972. Little did I know that me and my writing was about to enter the darkest days of my football career and my life.

I had enjoyed three very successful years of playing football with the St. Louis Cardinals followed by two very average years. Yes, there were many injuries and almost always at the most inappropriate time, but the overriding factor to deal with was the stress of a failed marriage and the change to a coaching staff of unacceptable caliber. The staff that replaced Charley Winner’s group of coaches in 1970 was simply not up to the professional challenges of the NFL. It was a huge disappointment to me, for I had felt in many areas that the coaching and leadership of players and management was far less than I had experienced at the University of Washington. At Washington, Coach Owens took charge. He was organized, disciplined, well-prepared, and took no prisoners! Charley Winner was a wonderful person but lacked a take-charge attitude or approach. He did surround himself with many fine assistant coaches. Fran Polsfoot, my receiver coach, was a great one. Harry Gilmer, the quarterbacks coach, and Red Miller, the offensive line coach, were superb. This was a great support and balance to Coach Winner. However, when Red and Fran left for other opportunities, a void was created and never adequately filled. Thus, Charley and his staff were fired in 1970, and the weak Bob Holloway staff came into St. Louis.

I had been very excited to be traded to the Chargers and initially believed the change would be exactly what I needed. The move to San Diego did not help the marriage situation, and I had been foolish to think that it may. In some regards the football situation was worse but in a very confused and tainted manner. The 1972 and 1973 seasons with the Chargers were both bizarre at best. Harlan Svare was hired by Gene Klein to replace Charley Waller as the Charger head coach in 1971. He would last through the 1973 season. I was working as a marketing director at Ozark Airlines in the off-season during the last three years with the Cardinals and received the news about the trade from one of my staff. I never received a call from any of the Cardinal staff or owners, just a news report. I did attend a player dinner for Cid and me with the players only, which was really fun. Wow, did the guys let their hair down and offer up their real opinions about the coaches, owners, and the situation. Cid Edwards, our hard-driving fullback, and I were traded to the Chargers for Leon Burns and Walker Gillette. A running back and receiver were traded for a running back and receiver. I was never sure of the brain trust that made that decision or which team gained an advantage, but I really didn’t care. I was in a poor marriage that was getting much worse and fast. I had now been traded to the Chargers, a team of unknown quality and dubious history of leadership. I fell back to what works for me in times of stress and concern: prayer for guidance. I also fell back into writing in my journal. There was a lot of life issues happening very fast, so I wanted to get them all down for posterity, if for no other reason. I would be glad I did, for what was about to happen in San Diego would blister the pages.

They called us Harlan’s Hooligans, a bunch of guys Coach Svare traded for with a somewhat checkered past. Typically we fell into three categories: (1) perhaps it was inconsistent play, such as Cid and I, mostly due to injuries; (2) questionable off the field escapades of a potentially more serious nature; (3) players that were at the end of their effective playing days but with a lot of great experience and wanted one more shot in the game. Some of Harlan Hooligans fell into all three categories, and that became a problem. Coach Svare called me the next day after the trade to welcome me to the Chargers. He said we would have a spring practice session in April and would get back to me with the dates. I told him I worked for Ozark Airlines and could get passes to come and visit the Charger offices if that was okay with him. Coach Svare encouraged me to come out as soon as possible. I went to San Diego two weeks later to visit the Charger organization. I always held a lot of respect for Harlan Svare as a player because he was one of these guys that was not too big but would play anywhere on the field and not afraid to hit anything that moved! He had a captivating persona and easy to get along with. However, at the end of the day, he made some real poor choices because of friendships and not common sense. Coach Svare was quite pleasant and showed me around the facilities and the stadium. When I went to meet my new receiver coach, Bob Schnelker, the chill set in. He looked up from his desk and bluntly said, Why are you here? I kept a positive attitude and introduced myself, whereby he reluctantly shook my hand. He had as many words as a man without a tongue, so I was gone in five minutes. He never got up from his desk chair. All and all, and looking back, that would be the most pleasant five minutes I was to ever have with Coach Schnelker! I haven’t the patience in this writing to address all the Schnelkerisms but suffice to say that I had never met a more disagreeable coach or person. It appeared that he had a lifetime burr up his butt! I thought he smiled once, but he was probably just passing gas! Obviously, he had no love for me either, and even though I asked, I never knew why. Schnelker was a decent player, a very smart man with great ideas, a penchant for math, and has excellent recall. His downfall was his ongoing anger and his lack of good interpersonal skills.

From a pure talent point of view, the 1972 and 1973 San Diego Chargers had as much talent as any team in the league. Certainly more than the five St. Louis Cardinal teams I played with. However, we had no team spirit, no teamwork, and no effective leadership from the coaching staff or on the field. The reason for lack of leadership on the field was due to the staff. We had no leadership from the staff, not due to ability but lack of want and execution. We had no leadership on the field, not due to capability or earnest want but because the staff didn’t allow it. John Hadl was our quarterback in 1972 and one of the finest I ever played with. His leadership was of limited capacity, apparently by design of Svare. In 1973, we signed the greatest leader in the history of the NFL, Johnny Unitas. Yet he was given only a minor scope to organize, direct, and execute. On those two teams with the Chargers, there were four future NFL Hall of Fame players, a dozen Pro Bowl players, a former Heisman Trophy winner, and a half dozen first-round-draft selections. Having said all of this, lack of leadership as coaches and lack of allowing leadership to be tunneled to the field with the players was not the reason for such poor performance. The apathy and failure to recognize the seriousness of performance-enhancing drugs and street drugs that the staff allowed to enter into the Charger organization was the reason for the decay and failure of the team. It also threatened the very foundation of the National Football League. So yes, it came back to leadership or the lack thereof, plus the willingness to recognize a serious situation, grab it by the throat, and stop it. We had a couple of coaches that tried to stop it, and we had a few players that tried to stop it, yet to no avail. Drug abuse was about to rotten the Chargers from the inside out.

I should have known the Charger relationship was not going to work from the first day of training camp. I was headed over to have my first meal when Coach Svare stopped me and began to yell at me for interfering with his contract negotiations with Gary Garrison, another of our wide receivers. He claimed that I passed sensitive and personal salary information to Gary and he was using it as a negotiation tool. I told Svare that all I gave to Gary was the published salary guidelines from our players association for him to review. I asked Svare if he had a copy, and he gave me this dumb, stupid stare and said, Of course, I don’t have a copy! I volunteered to give him mine, but all I heard was that I’d better watch myself. Oh crap, here I go again!

It was early into the Charger training camp at University of California at Irvine in 1972 that I began to notice an unusual number of weird and unsavory characters hanging around the dorms at night. It started to get really out of hand when these unsavory characters would roam the halls of the dormitories with large plastic bags the size of footballs of what appeared to be marijuana trying to find the right person to make their sale. The open use and recommended use of steroids and amphetamines was present in the locker rooms for practice and games. It became so egregious that one player in particular taped a large plastic cup to his locker with the label bennie bucket. By design there was an early bus to the stadium on game day labeled the bennie bus. This made it a little awkward for some of us who liked to get to the stadium early to warm up, play catch, and mentally prepare ourselves. Eventually, we gave up riding the obnoxious bennie bus and took cabs at our own expense. The illicit use of the pot and the uppers led quickly to the use of other more potent street drugs such as cocaine and heroin. The most sickening issue to me was that many of the so-called team leaders were the players leading, dispensing, and using these illicit drugs. It was evident all around the practices, the meetings, and pregame locker rooms so that it was easy for the press to pick up on it. For the most part the coaching staff knew of these issues but turned the other way, allowing it to play out. I lost count of the number of potential fine young prospects that came through training camp and lost out to drugs. The dissipation of these young players happened quickly right in front of our eyes, and no one cared! These guys would come to camp in good shape and all excited to be part of the Chargers and the National Football League. Very quickly in most cases, they would be enticed by older players of named reference and fall prey to the use of drugs: pot, steroids, amphetamines, pain pills, and, in a few sad cases, cocaine and other illicit street drugs.

As Sherry and I were to learn later in our personal life with our youngest son Steve, not all the talent, not all the ability, and not all the experience in the world could make up for the devastation of drug use in any player or person. Our team could be brilliant on one play or series or drive and then look and play totally ridiculous on another. In one game in Charger Stadium, we sent our punt team in to punt with only nine players. There was confusion and misalignment, and we were flagged by the referee. The next time we sent our punt team into receive a punt, we had only eight players. Once again, there was confusion and misalignment. Yup, we were flagged and the referee came over Coach Svare and yelled at him to get our collective act together because we were an embarrassment to the league. All the coaches did was to yell at each other and at the players.

I was completely distraught over this entire mess. We were not a football team, but a bunch of drug abusers in jerseys! I wanted out and didn’t care who I played for next. I went in after the season and asked Coach Svare to trade me—anywhere or anybody for I did not care. He thought it was over my lack of rapport and relationship with Coach Schnelker and told me he wanted me to stay for one more year and he would help work it out. I told him that even though I believed Schnelker was a jerk and would not change, he was just a two-bit carnival sideshow compared to the serious drug situation. During the previous winter I had the opportunity to have dinner with a couple of Schnelker’s old teammates and got the lowdown on old bullet Bob. His playing style was much the same as his coaching style. In his eyes he was never wrong, tough to coach, and, in a tight situation, always blamed someone else. Hmmm, this sounded very familiar to a coach out of my past: Face-man! I’m sure in Schnelker’s eyes I was not his prototype receiver, and he probably wished me gone. Me too! Coach Svare said he would look into the drug situation. To Coach Svare’s credit, he tried to do the right thing and did look into the situation and took action. He hired a well-pedigreed drug doctor to be part of the Charger family. This person had carte blanche access into the Charger organization. He interviewed players, coaches, support personnel, and looked into the player’s personal and confidential medical files. He then would prescribe treatment, counseling for supposedly to stop the usage of both prescription and illicit drugs and corrective action. Problem was that this guy was using and moving his own stuff! Purportedly, he was smoking it, snorting it, popping it, and using any other means to get it into his body. He had grants to study the deadly use of many drugs in various environments and chose to use several of the players as laboratory guinea pigs! So here we go again, directly from the frying pan into the fire with this nutjob stoking the flames. The Charger players now had their own direct access to an illicit drug dispensary. We were not an NFL football team but a zoo or a traveling circus!

This was a foreshadowing of events to come in the NFL and the entire sports world. The problem already existed, but the Chargers set a new precedent for permissive and abusive drug use. Coach Svare, whom I personally like, was unaware of the powerful forces working against him and the players. The problem was much larger in scope. A massive societal force loomed on the immediate horizon. This was a runaway train hell-bent on chaos and destruction. It started in the early 1960s with a huge push from the liberals to push for free and open drug use starting with marijuana. They made excuses that it was harmless and not to worry. From personal observation with many teammates, business associates, and our son, marijuana is a most definite and huge gateway drug. Its use has moved the users to other and more dangerous drugs that have caused death and destruction. This crap will grab a person’s soul and destroy it. If not held in check, abusive and addictive drugs will rot our society and rot the inner soul of the world. So here I was trying to deal with a runaway illicit drug train of moral and physical decay while trying to respect coaches who could not see past their clipboards and whistles. What a mess this had become. I was angry, disappointed, and frustrated with this entire business they call the NFL. What can I do to help clean it up? Because if it is not cleaned up, there will be no more NFL!

During the old days of training camp in the NFL, the league office would send out a couple of Commissioner Rozelle’s advisors to meet with the players and coaches and lecture us on the perils of gambling, drug abuse, and hanging out with unsavory characters. These two guys were usually retired FBI or New York police officers with impeccable resumes. Additionally, the league office was always available for advice and checks on people outside the league that wanted relationships with players. Their resources were quite detailed and thorough, and I always found them to be a wonderful source of information and advice. Unlike many of my teammates, I read every word of my contract with my brother Jerry back in 1967 and was very familiar with what was deemed to be acceptable behavior as a member of the National Football League. In the preseason meeting with the league office reps in 1972, it was pretty much the standard bill of fare that I was familiar with during my five years with the Cardinals in St. Louis. However, as we prepared for the 1973 season, the same two reps came out a day early, stayed a day longer than before, and could be seen wandering the UCI campus 24-7, apparently on the alert. They had caught wind that something foul was amiss and were going to dig into it.

In a professional and appropriate manner I tried to get to know John as best I could during the 1973 season. He found a willing partner to arrive on the practice field early for warm-up and some throwing drills, as well as staying out after practice to throw and analyze pass patterns and pass routes. John still had amazing zip and accuracy, as good as any quarterback in the league. His throwing arm did not have the stamina to throw five hundred passes a day, but he would always stay after and help me refine my footwork and pass routes. He was a wonderful teacher. I marveled to watch John demonstrate to me how he wanted an out, a dig, or a post pattern executed. He really liked the post-corner route and always reminded me to look back at the quarterback on the post part. Look me in the eyes, he would say. Plant the inside foot and break to the comer. He explained that as soon as we made eye contact he would release his pass for the comer. We worked hard on the basic curl route and how he would put the ball on my inside number so I could catch, pivot, and roll out of the tackle. (Damned if it didn’t work to perfection against the Rams later.) It was the same on the out or comeback route. He and the legendary receiver Raymond Berry had perfected this route so that it was virtually unstoppable. I would never be able to duplicate Raymond’s work, but John did teach me to run a pretty damned good comeback! John was the master teacher, and I was a sponge of a student. I would carry John’s teaching and coaching with me forever. I used it in my days with the Southern California Sun in the World Football League. Coach Tom Fears, one of the greatest receivers of all time, allowed me to be a player-coach; and we collaborated on the John Unitas techniques of pass routes and pass patterns. He loved Unitas and all he brought to the game. I used it with sons Jeff and Steve to help them become better receivers. Interesting that when I met and played with Daryl Lamonica for the Sun in 1975 he had very similar demands as John from his receivers. Daryl and John had the same philosophy on the passing tree, proper alignment, proper foot plants, and always breaking or going for the ball. Don’t wait on the damned thing, for it’s going to attract a crowd. Go and get it, they would say. The only thing I could bring to the Unitas coaching clinic was my ball drills. He had seen a few similar, but not to the refinement, of what brother Jerry started back in 1957! So I gave him brother Jerry’s classic version of ball drills. He loved it and was mesmerized when we got to the laces-up ball drill. He had never heard of it but believed it was possible. I showed him how the next day, and he asked me to let him know when it happened in a game. He wouldn’t have to wait too long.

As great of a player that John was, he was even more of a man of character and integrity. He stood tall on the field, but nowhere near as tall the man John Unitas stood. I learned my most important lesson of character, integrity, commitment to the game, and always doing the right thing in the summer of 1973. John and I had spoken subtlety about the strange people hanging around the locker room, the dormitories, and the weird doctor that a lot of the guys went to see; but the whole mess came to a boiling point with John just after one of our preseason game. He and I were very, very concerned about the drug abuse. The Chargers had just completed a preseason game with the Rams in Los Angeles and lost. Even though this was a preseason game, it was just the same as a regular season game for both the Chargers and the Rams. It was roster time, so both sides played the game as a regular season game. It had all the intensity for the players that were to be both starters and the key players for the season. John quarterbacked the first half and was the old John—master of play calling, commander of the field, and passing as accurate and powerful as ever. Perhaps it was the fact I sensed his days were numbered or perhaps I sensed my days as a Charger were numbered or, more importantly, I believe that I was a receiver for John Unitas and I’d better bring my best game for him because he’s counting on me that I had my best game ever as a Charger, even though in a losing cause. I caught five or six passes, one for a touchdown on John’s curl and roll, and had no blocking misses or mistakes. (Yes, I caught it laces up!) Most of all it felt good to have worked well with John and not let him down. After the game he and assistant coach Forrest Gregg of Green Bay Packer fame (a man I looked up to as a great player and an even better man) came into my locker. They congratulated me on a great game, handed me a game ball even though we lost, and said that I should be proud of my play regardless of what Schnelker may say. John said my game was as good as any receiver in the league. Wow, that meant more to me than anything! (Schnelker didn’t say a word after the game and very little in film session.) They went on to say that I could play for any team in the league. Ironically, it was the same locker I used in the Husky vs. UCLA game in 1965! I had carved my number under the bench in a nervous pitch prior to that game in ’65, and it was still there. So here I was again in the Los Angeles Coliseum after losing a tough game with a great quarterback and questionable communication with my receiver coach. The Chargers were the better team that night but left our game with bad habits in the locker room and off the field! However, the life-changing surprise would happen in a few hours.

The Ram game was a night game; so by the time we all showered, dressed, and boarded the buses back for Irvine, it was quite late. Several of the players had family and friends they went home with for the weekend because we didn’t have to report back to camp until dinner on Sunday evening. I took the bus back to camp and found a marvelous spread of postgame food prepared by the kitchen staff at UCI. In my three training camps at UCI, two with the Chargers and one with the Sun, the food and beverage staff at UCI was wonderful. There were only a few players who took advantage of this feast, much to the chagrin of the staff. Almost all the players had finished and left for their rooms when I found myself alone with John. I was never able to sleep after a game so had taken a book over to the buffet to read for a while. We were alone in a little alcove of the dining area and had just finished off a couple of monster turkey and ham sandwiches and were washing them down with a soft drink when John reach in his bag and pulled out a game program.

David, he said, there are about sixty players on this roster and probably another fifteen to twenty on reserve or injured, right?

That’s probably a good number, John. Why? I responded.

So let’s say there are seventy-five players on our team right now, okay? John said.

Okay, John, I said with a huge question look on my face.

David, how many players do you think are totally and completely clean of drugs—either steroids, prescriptions, or illicit street drugs?

I literally coughed up my Pepsi into my cup and responded, My gosh, John, I don’t know, but why do you ask?

Our team will fail, other teams will fail, and the NFL will fail if this drug thing is not brought in control. People need to be found out and punished to send a strong message to the rest of the cowards taking this crap! John said.

This was the most outspoken and harshest I ever heard John talk in my short-term relationship with him. He was dead serious and wanted to get this issue resolved.

I don’t have many years left, perhaps this is my last year, and I don’t have many games left. I will not leave this game and leave this league with the specter of drug abuse active and unchecked. As much as this is a very important issue to me, the National Football League and this game is much bigger and more important that any one player or any one team. David, we must do whatever we can to stop this from growing further. Will you stand up, be counted, and help?

I was suddenly thrust back in time—sitting in the front pew of my papa’s church and listening to a very strong sermon of conviction.

John, I am just a player and largely here because of your inspiration when I was only twelve years old. You were our family idol and my idol since 1957. Don’t get me wrong. I have a strong faith in Jesus, along with wonderful family support and have had many coaches along the way to get me here, but you were the motivating factor. I am here in the NFL today because of you. (John’s face actually flushed with embarrassment.) I’m just happy to be part of this great game and represent my family, my high school, and my college. I will do anything to protect the league, but I’m insignificant. How can I help?

You’re not insignificant, and you will need to be courageous. I will need to be courageous, and others will need to be courageous, John said. I learned a long time ago, and I know you have also, that all of us are very fortunate to play in the NFL. And we need to constantly and always give the league, the coaches, our teammates, and ourselves the rich respect that is due. Playing in the NFL is a privilege and an honor, not a right. We have a lot of guys that don’t have any level of respect for any part of the game, and they make me sick!

John went on to say that this would be his last season in football and he was done. He also said that my involvement could be a career ender and would have long-term ramifications.

Now let’s count the number of our drug-free teammates, John continued.

Of the seventy-five players on the extended roster, we counted fourteen that we knew for sure were clean of all steroids, prescription drugs, or illicit street drugs! We finished the head count, looked at each other, and sat in stunned silence. What a nightmare of a mess we were in. John said that he had already done his homework with the league office and that the heat was about to come down. Oh crap, I knew some of that heat would fall on my head, but not sure how much!

John and I talked well into the night about family, football, and the characters we had known. He was very interested in how I grew up and smiled when I described Mom and Dad and the influence they had on all the kids, especially Mom’s commitment to the foster babies.

So when I call her Mom Williams, she has really been a mom to many, he mused.

Little did John know how much he fit into that category! He asked if they would be coming to San Diego for any games and, if so, could he could meet them.

I said of course because it would make my mom’s life to meet her favorite football player of all time.

He said, Even more favorite than her four boys?

I responded, Yup, sadly, even more than her four boys.

He let out a huge laugh and said that was one of the best compliments he ever received. He asked if I still wrote in my journal. I told him I did and was proud of our dialogue and other thoughts and observations recorded almost daily, but concerned over all the dark details over last year and this year with the illicit drug activities. He told me not to stop the writings for all of it had merit and would be important very soon. We finally called it a night, and I walked back to my dormitory with an odd feeling that the drug issue was about to take another turn and it would not be fun.

Mom and Dad did come to a Charger game in San Diego. I had asked a few guys over for some postgame beef grilling including John. I had told my parents not to get their hopes up because John typically shunned these invites. I was with a few of the players and their wives in the back, cooking and talking over the game, and Dad came up with a huge grin on his face and pointed to the kitchen window. There was Mom and John engrossed in conversation.

Mom would say later that she was getting some more food prepared when John walked into the kitchen and said, Hello, you must be Mom Williams. I’m John Unitas. John gave Mom a big hug, and they began to talk. They stood there in the kitchen for a long time while we all watched from the outside patio. Soon Mom gave John a notepad and pen, and he was writing down notes intently. I knew it wasn’t notes on Mom’s best football plays, for she only had one: throw it to Dave! So what could it be? Later we found out that since John was alone on occasion and really didn’t like to eat out that often, he was in need of nourishment, so Mom was giving him her recipe for homemade bread. There we were, Dad and I standing side by side, watching Mom talking and directing Johnny Unitas, her football idol. We looked at each other with big smiles on our faces