It was fourth down. Marchetti had just made the tackle on Giants runningback Frank Gifford, when his Colts teammate, Gene "Big Daddy" Lipscomb, fellon him, breaking the ankle that still bothers him today.
By the time Marchetti was carried off the field and the ball was marked,the Giants found themselves short of the first down. The stage was set forquarterback Johnny Unitas' two-minute drill. Unitas would take the Colts downthe field, into the first overtime in pro football history and on to thefranchise's first championship. The Colts won, 23-17.
It was 40 years ago tomorrow.
Last month, 27 players from the 1958 team returned to the city for areunion. If you just glanced at them, you might not have recognized achampionship football team. Most of them are in their mid-60s now, withgraying hair. Some are out of shape, with heavy jaws. Some suffer variousillnesses. Several walk with canes. Marchetti limps.
Their coach, Weeb Ewbank, and seven of their teammates have died.
But a closer look leaves little doubt about the identity of these massivemen. Their backs are straight, their shoulders broad. Their eyes are sharp andtheir pride palpable.
The Brooklyn Dodgers may have been the Boys of Summer, but the 1958Baltimore Colts? A Team for All Seasons.
They played not for a lot of money, but for their own esteem and that oftheir city. They were rugged men in a rugged era who played a hard game.
"I never saw so much love between a group as I saw back then," saysCecelia Lipscomb, Big Daddy's widow. "They wanted to play for each other. Theystill have that camaraderie."
Yvonne Ameche-Davis, the widow of Alan "The Horse" Ameche, recalled thatno one cared who scored, so long as someone scored.
"It was a different time," she says.
A time when ballplayers lived next door and ate at the same restaurantstheir fans did. A time when they signed autographs for nothing, before andafter making history.
"The longer I live," says Raymond Berry, the still-svelte Hall of Famewide receiver, "the more amazed I am by what an absolutely special time itwas."
They still represent a special kind of athlete. As Cecelia Lipscomb says,there are stars among them now -- six Hall of Famers -- Marchetti, Berry,Unitas, Lenny Moore, Jim Parker and Art Donovan. But they still deflectindividual glory with the same ease Milt Davis used to deflect passes from areceiver's grasp.
Ask them: "What has that game meant to you over the years?" And theanswers come back redirected, fuzzy or, if personally applied, with a touch ofdisbelief.
"That game, all it has meant to me was winning a championship," Unitassays. "It meant a lot more to the National Football League. This game put theNFL on the map. But to us, it was just another game. Baltimore had never had achampionship. We just wanted to win, that's all."
It was a game for the ages. A game that still mesmerizes when watched onfilm for the first time.
It was a game that mattered to the NFL, in a big way, as Unitas says. Butto this day, it is a game that matters to the Colts, and to the broadcasterswho called it and the city that celebrated it.
The Colts will tell you, as football games go, it wasn't the greatest gamethey ever played. Moore says the greatest game was two weeks earlier, whenthey rallied from a 27-7 halftime deficit against the San Francisco 49ers andwon, 35-27, to qualify for the title game.
But in historic terms, no one argues its importance.
And Marchetti expresses what it meant at that moment to him and histeammates.
"That game made such a tremendous difference," he says. "After that game,there was tremendous enthusiasm for the sport. Fans were everywhere. Stadiumsfilled up. And in Baltimore, I was able to open my first restaurant. That gamemade that possible. It also made it possible for the guys on our team to goout and find jobs in the off-season." L Definitely different times. Pro football was part-time work.
Marchetti would eventually make a fortune when his one Gino's restaurantmushroomed to 500 and he sold them to Marriott Corp.
"Winning that game, it was just such a great feeling," Marchetti says."The game became so popular, and we became prosperous."
Meaning for all
Chris Schenkel, the voice of the Giants, and Chuck Thompson, the Coltsplay-by-play man, formed the broadcast team at Yankee Stadium that day in1958.
"That game made pro football and gave everyone who played in it aneverlasting legacy," recalls Schenkel, 75.
"Before that game, people would ask me, 'What do you do?' And I'd say, 'Ibroadcast Giants games.' And they'd say, 'Oh, baseball.' It would make me mad.But after that game, that never happened again."
Thompson, the longtime voice of the Colts and Orioles, also benefited.
"I think it had a good deal to do in helping me to stay here all theseyears," says Thompson, who called the overtime period. "I became recognizedwith the Colts and then the Orioles. People ask me about that '58 game morethan they do about any other. Doing that game, it helped make my acceptance alot easier."
In Philadelphia, Johnny Sample owns a radio station and does a radiosports talk show. In 1958, he was a rookie out of Maryland State College (nowMaryland Eastern Shore). He got in the game in the historic overtime, whencornerback Milt Davis was forced to the sideline with a broken foot.
Davis says now that he doesn't believe Sample "ever got enough credit" forthe way he played that day. But that game was Sample's steppingstone.
He went from the Colts to the Jets with coach Ewbank, became the Jets'defensive captain and played a major role in what is perhaps thesecond-most-important game in pro football history, Super Bowl III, in whichthe Jets upset the Colts and smoothed the merger between the NFL and theAmerican Football League.
"Every week, someone calls and asks about the 1958 game," says Sample."They ask about players. 'Where's Big Daddy? How's Gino Marchetti? How's DonJoyce?' It was an amazing game. There were so many legendary players on bothsides. It had TV ratings for the last four minutes triple any ratings profootball had ever had. I remember thinking 'If they catch a TD pass, I'll be agoat the rest of my life.' "
In the 1950s, football was personal. Players could be found in local pubs,having a beer with the fans. They made about the same amount of money as theguys down at Bethlehem Steel. They were part of the community.
Donovan remembers fans invited players to bull roasts, "and we'd go. Theygot to know us."
The players lived right down the block. Some still do.
"Now, we're just old guys who happened to play," says Moore, who -- likeOrdell Braase, Unitas, Donovan, Jim Mutscheller, Art DeCarlo, Andy Nelson,Madison "Buzz" Nutter, Parker, Jack Call and Fred Schubach -- still lives inthe area.
"I work in juvenile justice, and I seldom bring up that I was a profootball player, unless it is to make a point about values," Moore says.
A point was made about values last month. The Colts reunion drew 1,600 andraised nearly $250,000 for Johns Hopkins University research in the fightagainst amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, Lou Gehrig's disease. And, at Berry'ssuggestion, the team stayed for an additional four hours, signing autographsand trading memories.
It was in keeping with their era.
"That game," said linebacker Don Shinnick, in rare revelation of theemotions felt by his teammates and the community, "has meant everything tome."
What it was about
The lasting legacy of the game appears to be the memories it created.Braase says: "That game gave us stories to tell, and it elevated our communitypride."
Louis Grasmick, a Baltimore businessman who helped organize theanniversary party, says it "created a cohesiveness among the fans andballplayers that doesn't exist today."
It was a game that gave Baltimore a joyous moment. City residents canstill remember where they were that day when the Colts won the city's firstmajor championship. Men who were boys then can still hear car horns blowingand people cheering.
Nelson Fox, an 11-year-old in 1958, still gets chills when he remembersthat night. He, his older brother Michael and his parents watched the game ona small black and white television set in their home on Strathmore Avenue inNorthwest Baltimore.
Fox, now 51, remembers how excruciatingly happy they all were when theColts won. He and his brother had immediately begun making welcome-homeposters.
"It was total excitement," says Fox, payroll manager for a human servicesagency in Dedham, Mass. "We went to the airport. It was freezing cold, and westood out on the tarmac for about an hour hoping to see them.
"We never actually saw them -- but just being there, it was euphoric. Evenas an 11-year-old, I could sense the civic pride everyone felt after thatgame."Copyright © 2015, The Baltimore Sun