A long wait that will end much too late

• Article
• Comments ()
• Click-2-Listen
• Videos

By

JACKSONVILLE, Fla. -- It was Nov. 23, 1982, and Benny Friedman didn't want to live any more. His left leg had been amputated, his heart was bad and he was feeling, at 77, forgotten, irrelevant, useless. Half a century before, he'd been one of the nascent NFL's main attractions, the Dan Marino of his day. But the ravages of age had - to his horror - turned him into "the old man on the park bench," he said in a note later found by his family.

In his apartment on New York's East Side, Friedman pointed a gun at himself and pulled the trigger. It's only speculation, of course - who knows what thoughts were going through his mind at the end? - but perhaps the sun on that park bench would have been a little brighter, a little warmer if he'd been voted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame during his lifetime.

It was about the only football honor that was denied Friedman, an oversight the Hall of Fame selection committee hopefully will correct this morning when it chooses this year's enshrinees. Indeed, Benny hasn't even been a finalist since the current voting process was put in place in 1970. Like a number of other worthy players from the '20s, he has disappeared in the mist.

Strange given his exalted status in the NFL's first decade. In an era better known for punts than points, Friedman was a genuine sensation, the game's first great passer. While other teams were slugging out in two-yards-and-a-clump-of-mud style, Benny's were slinging the ball all over the lot. Football had never seen a quarterback like him, one who would throw anytime, anywhere, to anybody.

After his Giants dazzled the Portsmouth Spartans in 1930, the local newspaper gushed, "[The home team] could have used a squadron of airplanes, a couple of dirigibles and some blimps as they tried to stop the [Friedman] air raid." It was like that everywhere the Giants played - Benny went deep, and the crowd went wild.

Red Grange is often thought of as the league's No.[ThSp]1 drawing card back then, but the attendances at Friedman's games were just as impressive. In fact, when the Bears and Giants faced each other in 1929 and '30, home and home, the games drew 20,000 in New York (the Grange factor) and 38,000 in Chicago (the Friedman factor).

"Benny revolutionized football," the Bears' George Halas once said. "He forced defenses out of the dark ages" - by, among other things, making them move the center, the middle man in the then-standard seven-man line, to linebacker so he could help out against the pass.

Because of his ability to put fannies in seats, Friedman might have been the highest-paid player in the '20s. (It was either him or Ernie Nevers, the Duluth Eskimos' rugged runner/passer, who got a percentage of the gate.) Benny claimed he made $22,000 in 1927 alone - counting an exhibition tour with Grange after the season. This at a time when many players were getting $50 a game.

Friedman's value was so great that Giants owner Tim Mara bought the Detroit Wolverines franchise in 1929 just so he could add him to his roster. (Actually, the deal upgraded the Giants at half a dozen positions - the Wolverines were one of the NFL's better clubs - but Benny was the main prize. Not only was he a terrific talent, he appealed to New York's sizable Jewish population.)

His first season with the Giants was one for the ages. In the '20s, remember, the rules all but discouraged passing. The ball was fatter, much less aerodynamic, and the quarterback - or, more accurately, the tailback in the single wing - had to throw from at least five yards behind the line of scrimmage (which took a lot of the guessing out of it for the defense). Two consecutive incompletions resulted in a five-yard penalty. An incompletion in the end zone cost you possession of the ball.