A good story about Sammy Baugh
CoachHouston247
Posts: 82
Thought you board members may enjoy this
Honor role
Turning 90 today, Sam Baugh balks at being a 'living legend,' but likes
living
By David Casstevens
Star-Telegram Staff Writer
Before the filming of Lonesome Dove, Robert Duvall visited Sam Baugh on
the rancher's West Texas spread.
The actor listened to his rusty drawl.
He observed the old man's gestures as he spun stories, the way his hands
swooped and darted, the way he pointed a long finger as if toward some
distant landmark along life's trail only his keen blue eyes could see.
"In two hours, Sammy Baugh gave me the finishing touches for Augustus
McCrae," Duvall said of his TV miniseries character, "and he didn't even
know it."
Any study begins with those hands.
They are large hands, strong hands.
In the 1930s and '40s they were the hands of the most versatile and,
perhaps, heroic, player in football. In the rain and mud, in the icy
cold, he transformed the forward pass from a novelty to a primary,
any-down weapon.
Baugh changed the game, forever.
Those once-callused hands twirled a calf rope. Doctored livestock.
Mended fences. Killed rattlesnakes. Pitched horseshoes. Slapped down
dominoes. Rolled in putts. They turned the pages of every Louis L'Amour
and Zane Grey western novel.
Those big hands held and loved five children delivered by his wife --
his high school sweetheart -- with whom he shared a simple, satisfying
life for more than 50 years.
He told a visitor her name.
"Edmonia," Baugh said.
Her father, he recalled, was a preacher. "She's a good woman."
Baugh's love died in 1990, but he spoke of her as if she could have been
in the next room, doing laundry or reading her New Testament.
Sam Baugh turns 90 today.
"You sure?" he asked skeptically.
His small, bright eyes appraised the stranger.
Reminded he was born in 1914, the former TCU All-American and only
surviving charter member of the Pro Football Hall of Fame used an index
finger as a pencil, doing the math on his kitchen table.
By God, he declared.
Baugh has been known to invoke the Lord's name.
A look of surprise lit his seamed face.
"I guess that's right."
He couldn't say if he feels his age because he's never been this age
before. How the blankety hell is 90 supposed to feel?
Sam threw back his toothless head and laughed.
Living legend
Last week John Price drove out the two-lane road to Double Mountain
Ranch. Rotan's only barber gave Baugh a $7 haircut and clipped his white
whiskers. The rancher will be guest of honor Saturday at a birthday
banquet hosted by Western Texas College in Snyder. The event is called
"A Celebration of a Living Legend."
Baugh would no more refer to himself as a legend than he would appear at
some local rodeo dressed in one of those fancy English fox-hunting
outfits.
But if folks who know him for his saltiness and good humor and love him
for his generous heart want to make a fuss then he can't stop them. If
he's a legend, Baugh figures, a living one is the best kind.
His name and achievements are in the books. After leaving Sweetwater,
Baugh led TCU to a share of the national championship in 1935. A
first-round draft choice, he signed a pro contract with Washington for
$8,000 and quarterbacked the Redskins to an NFL title his rookie season
(1937). His team won another title in 1942. A year later, the lanky
Texan led the league in passing. And in punting. And interceptions. He
played every minute of every game.
Awards and honors never have meant much to him. At age 85, Baugh
declined several invitations to attend his induction into the Cotton
Bowl Hall of Fame.
Baugh refused to drive to Dallas on the interstate.
The Hall of Fame offered to provide a chauffeur and a hotel room.
Baugh said he preferred his bed.
What if they flew him to the ceremony and back the same day?
"I don't fly," Baugh declared, which is the truth.
He hasn't been on an airplane since 1965.
Bob O'Day of Snyder gave Baugh's acceptance speech and delivered the
bronze trophy to his golfing partner and longtime friend.
Golf and horses
Western Texas College is renaming its golf course after Baugh. For years
he drove 100 miles, four or five times a week, to knock a ball around
the nine-hole course. He set speed records en route. O'Day and others
who rode in Baugh's Cadillac, with Sam behind the wheel, agree that God
truly was his co-pilot.
Baugh and O'Day teamed up against Rick Kahlich, the course head pro.
They didn't play for big money, but the losing team had to pay a price
until it reversed the outcome.
In defeat, Baugh put on a cap with hot-pink lettering.
It read, "Sammy Sue." O'Day became "Bobby Sue."
Kahlich ("Ricky Sue" if he lost) delighted in greeting the "Sue
Sisters," particularly the older one, on the first tee before their next
grudge match.
"Good morning, Sammy Sue!"
Baugh wedged a chew of Levi Garrett into his cheek and told the gloating
kid what he could do with his blankety morning, and his afternoon.
Kahlich never will forget his competitive friend, in his 80s, hobbling
hole to hole on a bad knee -- a calf roping injury -- tobacco juice
spattering his jutted chin.
Baugh once saw a golfer in Abilene toss his clubs and bag into the
water. The fellow stomped toward the clubhouse and then turned around,
waded in waist-deep, fished out his bag, retrieved his car keys and
threw the instruments of his frustration back into the drink.
"People," Baugh said, grinning, "are peculiar animals, aren't they?"
He quit golf two years ago. He reluctantly gave up riding when he
couldn't mount a horse unassisted.
Baugh gazed out a picture window of his ranch house, toward the mountain
where he once rode. "If I had a wish," he said, longingly, "I'd wish for
a damn good horse to ride all the time."
After a long silence, he said, as if to himself, "I like a quiet horse
under me. If someone were to come in here with a great horse I'd be
tempted to try and buy him."
The rancher spit into a plastic cup.
"I'm half crazy about horses."
Marquee name
Like Gus McCrae in Lonesome Dove, Baugh was once a Texas Ranger, sort
of. In 1941, he starred as Tom King in a 12-week serial titled King of
the Texas Rangers that ran in movie theaters on Saturday mornings. His
sidekick was Duncan Renaldo, the future Cisco Kid.
During 16 pro seasons he never wore a face mask. When he entered the
NFL, defenders could pile on the quarterback until the play was whistled
dead. Roughing the passer didn't exist. Still, Baugh completed more
touchdown passes (187) than any Redskins player in history.
He once threw four touchdowns and intercepted four passes in one game.
When Baugh retired, The Washington Post editorial page said,
"Washington, especially in the autumn months, will be a duller and
sadder place."
Sam never returned to Washington.
Back home, on his 8,000 acres, he ranched and competed in calf ropings.
For years he rolled up dusty miles on a maroon pickup he bought in
Snyder off the showroom floor.
Baugh didn't quibble about price.
"Young man," he told the salesman, "just show me where to turn on the
air-conditionin' and heatin'. And put the radio on a country and western
station."
His choice of music varied only when his wife shared her hymnal during
Sunday worship at Rotan's First United Methodist Church. Near the end of
one sermon, Baugh's mind happily drifted off. He was in deep thought
about horses and calves -- he had a roping scheduled after lunch -- when
he felt a sharp elbow poke his ribs. He looked at Edmonia.
"The preacher," she whispered, "just asked you to give the benediction."
Baugh looked down the pew at his children, five stairsteps. They were
staring at him, like owls. It was a Norman Rockwell moment.
Baugh doesn't remember what he told the Lord.
But he kept it short.
In the mid-1950s, he coached at Hardin-Simmons in Abilene. During his
time there, the chapel burned, and the Baptist school moved devotional
services into the gymnasium. Baugh's office, the door open, was down the
hall.
One morning, heads bowed in meditation, students suddenly flinched at
the sound of a big fist banging against a tabletop, followed by the
clatter of dominoes hitting the floor.
The raw, rising voice was unmistakable.
"You son of a [expletive]!" Baugh shouted. "You beat me again!"
At the podium, the devotional leader blanched.
"Chapel," he announced, "is dismissed."
Constant companion
Seated at the kitchen table, Baugh slapped his thigh.
"Peewee, come up here and talk to me."
A black-and-white fox terrier dutifully bounded into his master's lap,
his eyes round and shiny.
The dog is Baugh's companion.
It follows him everywhere. Once Peewee got into Sam's billfold and
chewed several $50 bills into confetti. Baugh didn't care. When it comes
to that pet, no transgression is unforgivable.
Every morning he washes down a glazed pastry with a cup of coffee. For
lunch, he fixes the same meal every day, a peanut-butter-and-jelly
sandwich.
"It's a work of art," said Jean Baugh, who lives nearby.
Baugh's daughter-in-law prepares him nutritious suppers.
If she didn't, what would Sam do for dinner?
Jean didn't have to think.
"Fix another peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich."
He spends part of each day autographing footballs, photos, miniature
leather helmets and other memorabilia. Every signature reads, "Sam
Baugh." Signing "Sammy Baugh" or "Slingin' Sammy Baugh," he said, is a
damn waste of time.
Life has sailed by
In his twilight of life, Baugh's memory fades and returns like a
weakening radio signal. But he remembers who he was in sports, and what
he did.
"I used to kick a football, and got to where I could kick the sum (expletive)
pretty good and kind of where I wanted it to go . I think I was a better
damn punter than I was a passer. I liked Dutch Meyer [his coach at TCU]
from the day I met him. He helped me more than anyone in football."
The game, he knows, is better today. Players are bigger, faster. Linemen
are "strong as mules."
But he is glad he played during the era he did.
The son of a railroad man, Samuel Adrian Baugh was born the year World
War I began. His lifetime spans 16 presidential administrations. He has
seen astronauts walk on the moon and wide receivers dance in the end
zone. How the world, and the game, have changed.
He played against Satchel Paige and Ted Williams in the minor leagues.
He tackled Bronko Nagurski. Life is a long spiraling pass. Time has
sailed by.
"Oh God, yes," he said.
"You know, I sit right here at this damn table and think about that."
If Baugh has any regrets, he said, coyly, he's keeping them a secret.
Never mind all his athletic achievements. All the accolades. All the
cheers and adoring applause. As he looks toward 91, what the old rancher
values most -- besides family -- is a quiet horse beneath him, the land
around him and the comfort and security of falling asleep in his own
bed, every night, alongside a little short-haired dog.
For the record
Here are some of Sammy Baugh's accomplishments in football.
Played three positions: quarterback, defensive back and punter
Nicknamed Slingin' Sam because of the way he threw a baseball
First-team All-American at TCU (1936)
Two-time All-Southwest Conference at TCU (1935-36)
Drafted by Washington in the first round (1937)
Played 16 seasons with the Redskins
Nine-time all-pro
Inducted into College Football Hall of Fame (charter member) in 1951
Inducted into Pro Football Hall of Fame (charter member) in 1963
TCU jersey No. 45 retired on Nov. 20, 1993
Inducted into Cotton Bowl Hall of Fame in 1999
Passed for 21,886 yards and 187 touchdowns with the Redskins and
averaged 45.1 yards per punt. Also ran for nine TDs
Won six NFL passing titles
Scored a rare "triple crown" in 1943 by leading the NFL in passing,
punting and interceptions
Honor role
Turning 90 today, Sam Baugh balks at being a 'living legend,' but likes
living
By David Casstevens
Star-Telegram Staff Writer
Before the filming of Lonesome Dove, Robert Duvall visited Sam Baugh on
the rancher's West Texas spread.
The actor listened to his rusty drawl.
He observed the old man's gestures as he spun stories, the way his hands
swooped and darted, the way he pointed a long finger as if toward some
distant landmark along life's trail only his keen blue eyes could see.
"In two hours, Sammy Baugh gave me the finishing touches for Augustus
McCrae," Duvall said of his TV miniseries character, "and he didn't even
know it."
Any study begins with those hands.
They are large hands, strong hands.
In the 1930s and '40s they were the hands of the most versatile and,
perhaps, heroic, player in football. In the rain and mud, in the icy
cold, he transformed the forward pass from a novelty to a primary,
any-down weapon.
Baugh changed the game, forever.
Those once-callused hands twirled a calf rope. Doctored livestock.
Mended fences. Killed rattlesnakes. Pitched horseshoes. Slapped down
dominoes. Rolled in putts. They turned the pages of every Louis L'Amour
and Zane Grey western novel.
Those big hands held and loved five children delivered by his wife --
his high school sweetheart -- with whom he shared a simple, satisfying
life for more than 50 years.
He told a visitor her name.
"Edmonia," Baugh said.
Her father, he recalled, was a preacher. "She's a good woman."
Baugh's love died in 1990, but he spoke of her as if she could have been
in the next room, doing laundry or reading her New Testament.
Sam Baugh turns 90 today.
"You sure?" he asked skeptically.
His small, bright eyes appraised the stranger.
Reminded he was born in 1914, the former TCU All-American and only
surviving charter member of the Pro Football Hall of Fame used an index
finger as a pencil, doing the math on his kitchen table.
By God, he declared.
Baugh has been known to invoke the Lord's name.
A look of surprise lit his seamed face.
"I guess that's right."
He couldn't say if he feels his age because he's never been this age
before. How the blankety hell is 90 supposed to feel?
Sam threw back his toothless head and laughed.
Living legend
Last week John Price drove out the two-lane road to Double Mountain
Ranch. Rotan's only barber gave Baugh a $7 haircut and clipped his white
whiskers. The rancher will be guest of honor Saturday at a birthday
banquet hosted by Western Texas College in Snyder. The event is called
"A Celebration of a Living Legend."
Baugh would no more refer to himself as a legend than he would appear at
some local rodeo dressed in one of those fancy English fox-hunting
outfits.
But if folks who know him for his saltiness and good humor and love him
for his generous heart want to make a fuss then he can't stop them. If
he's a legend, Baugh figures, a living one is the best kind.
His name and achievements are in the books. After leaving Sweetwater,
Baugh led TCU to a share of the national championship in 1935. A
first-round draft choice, he signed a pro contract with Washington for
$8,000 and quarterbacked the Redskins to an NFL title his rookie season
(1937). His team won another title in 1942. A year later, the lanky
Texan led the league in passing. And in punting. And interceptions. He
played every minute of every game.
Awards and honors never have meant much to him. At age 85, Baugh
declined several invitations to attend his induction into the Cotton
Bowl Hall of Fame.
Baugh refused to drive to Dallas on the interstate.
The Hall of Fame offered to provide a chauffeur and a hotel room.
Baugh said he preferred his bed.
What if they flew him to the ceremony and back the same day?
"I don't fly," Baugh declared, which is the truth.
He hasn't been on an airplane since 1965.
Bob O'Day of Snyder gave Baugh's acceptance speech and delivered the
bronze trophy to his golfing partner and longtime friend.
Golf and horses
Western Texas College is renaming its golf course after Baugh. For years
he drove 100 miles, four or five times a week, to knock a ball around
the nine-hole course. He set speed records en route. O'Day and others
who rode in Baugh's Cadillac, with Sam behind the wheel, agree that God
truly was his co-pilot.
Baugh and O'Day teamed up against Rick Kahlich, the course head pro.
They didn't play for big money, but the losing team had to pay a price
until it reversed the outcome.
In defeat, Baugh put on a cap with hot-pink lettering.
It read, "Sammy Sue." O'Day became "Bobby Sue."
Kahlich ("Ricky Sue" if he lost) delighted in greeting the "Sue
Sisters," particularly the older one, on the first tee before their next
grudge match.
"Good morning, Sammy Sue!"
Baugh wedged a chew of Levi Garrett into his cheek and told the gloating
kid what he could do with his blankety morning, and his afternoon.
Kahlich never will forget his competitive friend, in his 80s, hobbling
hole to hole on a bad knee -- a calf roping injury -- tobacco juice
spattering his jutted chin.
Baugh once saw a golfer in Abilene toss his clubs and bag into the
water. The fellow stomped toward the clubhouse and then turned around,
waded in waist-deep, fished out his bag, retrieved his car keys and
threw the instruments of his frustration back into the drink.
"People," Baugh said, grinning, "are peculiar animals, aren't they?"
He quit golf two years ago. He reluctantly gave up riding when he
couldn't mount a horse unassisted.
Baugh gazed out a picture window of his ranch house, toward the mountain
where he once rode. "If I had a wish," he said, longingly, "I'd wish for
a damn good horse to ride all the time."
After a long silence, he said, as if to himself, "I like a quiet horse
under me. If someone were to come in here with a great horse I'd be
tempted to try and buy him."
The rancher spit into a plastic cup.
"I'm half crazy about horses."
Marquee name
Like Gus McCrae in Lonesome Dove, Baugh was once a Texas Ranger, sort
of. In 1941, he starred as Tom King in a 12-week serial titled King of
the Texas Rangers that ran in movie theaters on Saturday mornings. His
sidekick was Duncan Renaldo, the future Cisco Kid.
During 16 pro seasons he never wore a face mask. When he entered the
NFL, defenders could pile on the quarterback until the play was whistled
dead. Roughing the passer didn't exist. Still, Baugh completed more
touchdown passes (187) than any Redskins player in history.
He once threw four touchdowns and intercepted four passes in one game.
When Baugh retired, The Washington Post editorial page said,
"Washington, especially in the autumn months, will be a duller and
sadder place."
Sam never returned to Washington.
Back home, on his 8,000 acres, he ranched and competed in calf ropings.
For years he rolled up dusty miles on a maroon pickup he bought in
Snyder off the showroom floor.
Baugh didn't quibble about price.
"Young man," he told the salesman, "just show me where to turn on the
air-conditionin' and heatin'. And put the radio on a country and western
station."
His choice of music varied only when his wife shared her hymnal during
Sunday worship at Rotan's First United Methodist Church. Near the end of
one sermon, Baugh's mind happily drifted off. He was in deep thought
about horses and calves -- he had a roping scheduled after lunch -- when
he felt a sharp elbow poke his ribs. He looked at Edmonia.
"The preacher," she whispered, "just asked you to give the benediction."
Baugh looked down the pew at his children, five stairsteps. They were
staring at him, like owls. It was a Norman Rockwell moment.
Baugh doesn't remember what he told the Lord.
But he kept it short.
In the mid-1950s, he coached at Hardin-Simmons in Abilene. During his
time there, the chapel burned, and the Baptist school moved devotional
services into the gymnasium. Baugh's office, the door open, was down the
hall.
One morning, heads bowed in meditation, students suddenly flinched at
the sound of a big fist banging against a tabletop, followed by the
clatter of dominoes hitting the floor.
The raw, rising voice was unmistakable.
"You son of a [expletive]!" Baugh shouted. "You beat me again!"
At the podium, the devotional leader blanched.
"Chapel," he announced, "is dismissed."
Constant companion
Seated at the kitchen table, Baugh slapped his thigh.
"Peewee, come up here and talk to me."
A black-and-white fox terrier dutifully bounded into his master's lap,
his eyes round and shiny.
The dog is Baugh's companion.
It follows him everywhere. Once Peewee got into Sam's billfold and
chewed several $50 bills into confetti. Baugh didn't care. When it comes
to that pet, no transgression is unforgivable.
Every morning he washes down a glazed pastry with a cup of coffee. For
lunch, he fixes the same meal every day, a peanut-butter-and-jelly
sandwich.
"It's a work of art," said Jean Baugh, who lives nearby.
Baugh's daughter-in-law prepares him nutritious suppers.
If she didn't, what would Sam do for dinner?
Jean didn't have to think.
"Fix another peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich."
He spends part of each day autographing footballs, photos, miniature
leather helmets and other memorabilia. Every signature reads, "Sam
Baugh." Signing "Sammy Baugh" or "Slingin' Sammy Baugh," he said, is a
damn waste of time.
Life has sailed by
In his twilight of life, Baugh's memory fades and returns like a
weakening radio signal. But he remembers who he was in sports, and what
he did.
"I used to kick a football, and got to where I could kick the sum (expletive)
pretty good and kind of where I wanted it to go . I think I was a better
damn punter than I was a passer. I liked Dutch Meyer [his coach at TCU]
from the day I met him. He helped me more than anyone in football."
The game, he knows, is better today. Players are bigger, faster. Linemen
are "strong as mules."
But he is glad he played during the era he did.
The son of a railroad man, Samuel Adrian Baugh was born the year World
War I began. His lifetime spans 16 presidential administrations. He has
seen astronauts walk on the moon and wide receivers dance in the end
zone. How the world, and the game, have changed.
He played against Satchel Paige and Ted Williams in the minor leagues.
He tackled Bronko Nagurski. Life is a long spiraling pass. Time has
sailed by.
"Oh God, yes," he said.
"You know, I sit right here at this damn table and think about that."
If Baugh has any regrets, he said, coyly, he's keeping them a secret.
Never mind all his athletic achievements. All the accolades. All the
cheers and adoring applause. As he looks toward 91, what the old rancher
values most -- besides family -- is a quiet horse beneath him, the land
around him and the comfort and security of falling asleep in his own
bed, every night, alongside a little short-haired dog.
For the record
Here are some of Sammy Baugh's accomplishments in football.
Played three positions: quarterback, defensive back and punter
Nicknamed Slingin' Sam because of the way he threw a baseball
First-team All-American at TCU (1936)
Two-time All-Southwest Conference at TCU (1935-36)
Drafted by Washington in the first round (1937)
Played 16 seasons with the Redskins
Nine-time all-pro
Inducted into College Football Hall of Fame (charter member) in 1951
Inducted into Pro Football Hall of Fame (charter member) in 1963
TCU jersey No. 45 retired on Nov. 20, 1993
Inducted into Cotton Bowl Hall of Fame in 1999
Passed for 21,886 yards and 187 touchdowns with the Redskins and
averaged 45.1 yards per punt. Also ran for nine TDs
Won six NFL passing titles
Scored a rare "triple crown" in 1943 by leading the NFL in passing,
punting and interceptions
1974 Topps PSA 8 or better
1955 Topps All-American (raw or PSA graded)
1955 Topps All-American (raw or PSA graded)
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