(Former NFL commissioner Bert Bell suffered a fatal heart attack on Oct. 11, 1959, while attending that afternoon's Pittsburgh-Philadelphia game at Franklin Field. He was 65. Son Upton, one of Bell's three children, was there and recalls what it was like to witness "the loss of the most important thing in a young man's life -- one of his parents.")
They said 3,000 people had passed through the Bringhurst Funeral home already, and more were waiting outside, with 15 minutes left before the doors closed.
“How ‘bout that, sports fans,” I mumbled as people filed by the casket.
“Who will replace him?” a mourner stage-whispered.
“No one, of course,” another answered. “You can’t replace a giant.”
Another mourner: “Bert ran the league with an iron hand. Now they’ll have to think for themselves again.”
My eyes focused on the little man in the casket, a very public man. My father. He didn’t look powerful to me. If he had been, it had all ebbed away by now.
The final act of the drama was about to take place: The club owners had arrived, amid weeping and wailing, for the formal transfer of power. The more I looked at him, the more he looked relieved and happy. I wondered if the public really knew the man. I wondered how well I’d known him.
I probably knew him better since that Sunday in 1959.
Sunday had been a beautiful day - a little warm, a little uncomfortable perhaps, but that was mostly my fault. I’d been out late the night before: Too much talking, dancing, drinking, and eating. It’s tough being all things to all people. Damn, concentrate. I have to clear my head, dress, eat breakfast and go to church (can’t avoid church since my Dad converted to Catholicism). The last ritual of the day would be the Eagles’ game. It probably won’t be a good game. The Eagles are playing the lowly Pittsburgh Steelers.
Both teams had been owned by my father at one time. Neither had made him rich. Bert, as he was called, had founded the Eagles for the sum of $3,300. He had to borrow the money from my mother (his father felt it wasn’t proper for a young Philadelphia gentleman to own a professional sports team. Besides, Bert already owed him $100,000)
During World War II, he swapped franchises with the Steelers. Had to keep the dream alive, you know. He finally ended up equal partners with Art Rooney in the Pittsburgh franchise. The Eagles won two championships after he sold them, and the Steelers were always competitive. Both teams have fallen on hard times, although the Eagles are rebuilding these days. That’s not his problem anymore, though. Or mine.
Now in the summer of 1959, he’s commissioner of football. His priorities and problems are different, and the lines on his face are more profound. We’ll be watching the two teams he once owned play on the same field where he played as captain of Penn’s 1919 Rose Bowl team.
I’m finally organized. Have eaten breakfast, gone to church; even paid attention to the sermon for a couple of minutes … until distracted by the new fall fashions. Home again, and then off to the game. As I pull my car away from the three others in the driveway (one for each member of the family and all a damn sight more expensive than what my father is driving), I wonder what color suit he’ll wear today.
My father wears only suits. Blue from November to May; brown from June to October, or when it’s warm. Today it’s warm. Got to be the faded brown one.
Before the game, he’ll be at the Eagles’ office drinking coffee, meeting people, checking the ticket sales – but, most important, swapping stories with Joe Donahue, the Eagles’ president. When he sees me, he’ll ask in a loud voice about last night, and why I’m late. I’m always late. He’ll understand. I’ll ask him for more tickets … I’ve acquired more hangers-on since I picked up my date.
It’s one o’clock. I’m late as usual. It’s humid in Philadelphia, and my date is starting to look annoyed. Too bad. She’ll have to suffer with the rest of us.
Before the game I have to make my appearance in the inner sanctum of the Eagles’ office. I push through the crowd into the anteroom. I can see my father and hear his voice – that voice. He’s talking to an older-looking guy. “Look, Bull, I know things aren’t going well. Take this and stop by the office next week.” It’s Bull Lipski, one of the players from 1933. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll get my tickets quickly and touch my father for a little cash, too.
He sees me now. “Where have you been?”
Umm, I’ve been to church, and you see I met some friends and might need some more tickets. And after the game we might go to dinner. And I forgot my money.
Laughing, he pulls out a twenty; then he yells to Joe in the outer office: “I need three more tickets, and Upton will be out to pay for them.” I laugh nervously. “See you after the game,” he tells me.
As I leave, I hear him yell to Joe, “Let me pay you now for the tickets.” One of his peculiarities, although as commissioner he was entitled to a box and free tickets. He always paid.
We battle our way through the crowds at the mausoleum known as Franklin Field, reaching our seats at the 50-yard line just as the teams are ready to kick off. Just time enough to give my group some fast instructions on VIP etiquette. First, don’t root outwardly. As the son of the commissioner and as his friends, we’re expected to be neutral. Second, smile. If you’re talking to the relatives of visiting team owners, compliment their team lavishly – no matter how lousy they’re playing.
The Eagles lead almost all the way through. But then the Steelers rally. Now, late in the fourth quarter, they’re on the Eagles’ 20 with a chance to win. Something catches my eye in the right corner of the end zone, way up in the stands.
Spectators are bent over what appears to be a fallen body – somebody must have collapsed in the heat. The Steelers’ quarterback throws a pass into the end zone … incomplete. Second down coming up. Somebody is running up the stadium steps with an oxygen tank. Idly, I ask one of my friends for his binoculars and focus on the scene. The man is wearing a brown suit and lying face up on the ground. But what would Bert Bell be doing sitting in the end zone?
Another look. It’s my father. He’s motionless. I jump the railing and start running across the field. People are screaming, “It’s Bert Bell!” For some reason, I’m out of breath after my first few steps. He seems so far away, like a mirage that keeps receding before me.
His face is now covered when I arrive. I ask somebody how he’s doing. No one answers. The scene is swimming all around me. Somebody’s screaming that the damn oxygen tank won’t work … and to think: We got it from the Steelers. "You mean," I ask dumbly, "the Steelers’ oxygen tank doesn’t work?”
The ambulance ride was quick, and his hands were cold. When we got to the hospital, they wheeled him into the waiting room. Everything was noise and confusion. Flash bulbs were popping, and news people were everywhere. A priest was talking quietly in Latin. A reporter was asking for the names and ages of the children. It’s not over yet, I told him. But now my father’s hand felt like a rock, and his face seemed etched in stone.
Other people were asking questions and shedding tears as I left the waiting room and struggled to reach my car. It had been a scene with no redeeming qualities. My father, a quiet man, hadn’t been allowed to die alone, and that was that.
Don’t worry, Dad, I won’t be late next time. And, yes, those cross-country trips were great and I loved those evenings we spent talking about Joe DiMaggio. And I promise I won’t flunk out of school. But, most of all, I forgot to kiss you and say goodbye.
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