Dear Chuck,
In the words of that famous biblical football coach, King Solomon, "He that troubleth his own house shall inherit the wind".
You are, perhaps, the greatest Eagle of all time, but you have been troubling your own nest for years. And the wind you have inherited is from the flapping of the Eagles' wings leaving you behind. It hurts to see you as the poster child for the sins of wrath, vanity, and envy. And you can add futility. But I am thrilled to be able to announce that the prodigal son just might be coming home at last.
Concrete Charley, you found fame, if not fortune, as both a college and professional player. An All-American at The University of Pennsylvania, back in the days when Penn was a national power. Eight-time All-Pro, the last of the true two-way players. Elected to the College and Pro Football Halls of Fame. The award for the best collegiate lineman in the country is named after you.
You were a sod-slogging, gnarl-knuckled, slam-bashing, old-school icon of the country's largest blue-collar town. Yet you never made more than $27,000 in a single season. The nickname Concrete Charley wasn't just from your marathon performances on the field. To feed your wife and five daughters, you took a second job selling cement. Despite having reached the pinnacle of your profession, you never saw the big payday, never enjoyed the huge salaries lavished on today's players.
Of course, you weren't the only athlete in this situation. Television broadcast rights, which were the genesis of today's mega-contracts and zillion-dollar endorsement deals, were miniscule back then. Salaries were low, and many players held other jobs. You never got rich, but you were revered. When you donned your green, you earned your greenbacks. Every Sunday.
If there had been a legal lottery four decades ago, all of Philadelphia would have played the number 60 on the day after Christmas, 1960. Your Iggles had just beaten the Green Bay Packers for the NFL Championship, and you, wearing your famous number 60, had played all 60 minutes of the game. You made the final tackle, and, in perhaps the most famous moment in Philadelphia sports history, sat on the Packers' ballcarrier, Jim Taylor, not allowing him to get up until the final gun sounded.
You were 35 years old. On top of Taylor, and on top of the world. But while you sat there, jubilant as the clock ran out, time was also running out on your career. You retired two years later, and lived modestly in Coopersburg. Sadly, your jubilation soon devolved into jealousy.
The winds of change were blowing in football. Competition from the new American Football League raised salaries. Television rights grew from $4.65 million in 1962 to almost $3 billion in 2005. Active players saw salaries skyrocket. The retired, like you, saw little or nothing. You had to sell off your championship ring, your Hall of Fame ring, and some of your mementos ...five daughters and ten grandchildren can do that.
And, in your mind, you saw overpaid players underachieve. No one gutted it out on both offense and defense anymore. Technique was replaced with bulk. You were in better shape at 65, and 75, than they were at 25. For years, you told just about anyone who would listen how you now hated the game.
That jealousy and anger boiled over in 1996, when you asked new Eagles owner Jeffrey Lurie to buy 100 copies of Bednarik: The Last of the 60-minute Men, and give them out to the team. Lurie refused, citing a league rule that prohibits giving gifts to players. But, league rule or not, you took it personally, and have never forgiven him.
"I held it against him. Fifteen hundred dollars is tip money to Lurie," you said. "I know it sounds trivial to most people, but not to me." And so, while Eagles alumni retire Reggie White's number this week, participate in charity events, and root-root-root for the home team, you sit home and seethe.
Instead of being part of the best five years in green-and-silver history, instead of whooping it up at a Super Bowl party, instead of taking advantage of the endorsement offers that would surely have come, you inherited the wind. And you even spit into it - with predictable results. Who is the person being hurt here?
Not Jeff Lurie . The Eagles have been the most successful team in the NFL this millennium. Lurie is the King Solomon of owners - wise and rich. He has built his "gold-standard" franchise. Your snit doesn't even enter his mind.
Not the fans, who bleed green, and talk about little else from September through January. Chuck who?
You obviously have a very long memory. But you need to repent soon, before Philadelphia sports fans start to forget. The Israelites wandered for forty years before they found the Promised Land, about the same eon that has passed since you trod Franklin Field. Even in The City That Loves You Back, yesterday's heroes have a way of slipping out of sight, and out of mind. Including the best of the best.
It is up to you, Chuck, to extend a hoof-like hand in friendship, and, at turkey time, eat some crow to again be an Eagle. You told me that you are finally considering just that - seeking an intermediary between Lurie and yourself. To at least set up a meeting and begin a dialogue. The 60 Minute Man and the 600 Million Dollar Man may never be best friends, but it will certainly be good to see you forget the long green, and return from envy green to Eagles green.
Your friend,
Richard