There may never have been a better marriage of coach, team and fan base. As colorful as Madden was — a floppy haired, double-chinned, polyester swathed, wildly gesticulating sweaty jumble of fanaticism — he ran a team that fashioned itself as the NFL’s outlaws, well outside the lines of a sport that, to this day, venerates discipline and rule-following above all else. The Raiders embraced an identity as rebellious and ragtag — with the free-flowing locks to match — and, above all, hard-hitting. It was an extraordinary collection of talent and strong personalities: Ken Stabler, Fred Biletnikoff, Cliff Branch, Dave Casper, Gene Upshaw, Art Shell, John Matuszak, Willie Brown, Lester Hayes, Jack Tatum and on and on. In 10 years as the head coach, Madden’s Raiders were in seven AFC or AFL title games and they won Super Bowl XI, beating up on the Minnesota Vikings. The Raiders never had a losing season with Madden and he was the youngest coach in history to reach 100 victories.
He cared deeply — perhaps too deeply — about his team. His Raiders were victims of one of the greatest plays in NFL history, the Pittsburgh Steelers’ “Immaculate Reception,” and he remained as incredulous years later as he was when he walked into the locker room to greet his players that day.
“He just said, ‘We got f—–.’ ” former Raider Phil Villapiano once told me. “And something like, ‘We’ll never get to the bottom of it.’ “
They never did. And Madden continued to lament the play decades later. His obvious passion and excitement for the game — there were moments when he was so agitated on the sideline you wondered if he would pass out — made him a folk hero to Oakland fans and an endearing and popular star to everybody else.
It would also be the undoing of his time on the sideline. Following the 1978 season, after just 10 years as a head coach and with a sparkling 103-32-7 career record, Madden resigned. He cited the toll the job took on him — he had a deteriorating ulcer condition and was generally burned out — and, with tears in his eyes, said he was going to do whatever his wife and kids wanted and that he would never coach again. He didn’t, and was enshrined in the Pro Football Hall of Fame in 2006. To this day, Madden’s .759 winning percentage remains the best in NFL history (min. 10 seasons coached), just ahead of Vince Lombardi (.738) and George Allen (.712).
“I gave it everything I have and just don’t have anything left,” he said on the day of his resignation.
Maybe not for coaching, but Madden had plenty left for other football pursuits. He took what was already the traditional next step for retired NFLers and slid into the broadcast booth.
After a few years doing lower-profile games, he teamed with Pat Summerall in 1981 to form CBS’s — and football’s — top broadcasting duo. Madden was already wildly popular. An advertising executive working for Miller Lite told Madden that after he filmed a new beer ad, more people would know him from that appearance than ever would know him as a coach. Madden insisted to the executive that he would be wrong. He was not wrong.
“I’m not the same crazy coach who used to storm around the sidelines yelling at the officials,” Madden said in the commercial, while hunched over a bar. “I’ve learned to relax.”
Then, while extolling the virtues of the beer, Madden takes off — pacing, waving his arms, yelling. And finally, bursting through a paper façade, his rant still going. It was familiar and hilarious, and it made Madden into what he became for another generation of fans: the guy calling the game who talked like your friends at the bar. It was television magic, and he and Summerall became the soundtrack of the NFL, at a time when the game was exploding in popularity. Madden was, again, a lovable mess, his hair untamed, his words sometimes jumbled in excitement. He was the yang to the yin of the well-coiffed, impeccably dressed television broadcasters who dominated the airwaves then.
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