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There was an amusing article in the New York Times a couple of weeks ago prior to the Jets playoff game against the Pittsburgh Steelers. The article credited the late Johnny Sample as the first real trash talker in pro football. It triggered very endearing memories for me because I worked with Johnny for a few years on the WYSP Eagles Pre-Game Show. As I write this column, I can see over my left shoulder a photo hanging on the wall of my backroom office where we are huddled in cold-weather gear, broadcasting from a tent outside Veterans Stadium. Sample is seated next to me and has this infectious smile on his face, one that seemed to embrace the whole world.
Whenever I read anything about Johnny, including his own book, “Confessions of a Dirty Football Player,” I never recognized him as the guy I had come to know. The Johnny I knew was not a snarling, trash talker. He was not a guy you would associate with trying to cut your knees from under you on one of his patented tackles. That is not to say he had lost that fire in his belly, but he had a thoughtful, gentle side to him. He was a guy with whom you could talk frankly about subjects as diverse as race relations or the state of the fight game.
Sample was never one of those old-timers who became embittered against today’s players. He loved Brian Dawkins like a son. He told me the players of today deserved to be well-compensated. He was at heart a union guy fighting for the rights of players. Despite the fact Johnny played on two Super Bowl winners — the Jets and Colts — his NFL pension was just $2,700 a month.
I got to know him better during our long rides to Bally’s in Atlantic City, N.J. where we did the pregame show. He counseled me and helped a family member of mine get a job. One day I told him of my disappointment during a hiring dispute I experienced while working for the federal government. I had been on a panel with two other folks who were charged with interviewing 20 applicants for a promotion. We had chosen an African-American man, who had served in the military before entering government service.
We were totally comfortable choosing this guy who had worked tirelessly and effectively for me. He richly deserved the promotion. A female applicant protested our choice, and in doing so, lied about our process and not only tainted us, but our choice. Our selection was upheld, but the experience left me bitter because our guy would forever be viewed as an “affirmative action” pick.
Johnny listened to my experience. He understood how frustrating the question of race and gender can be in life. I don’t remember his exact words, but he told me if you have done right in your heart of hearts, it is all we humans can do.
Each Sunday when we would meet to do the show, I would ask Johnny how his week had gone. He would regale me with stories of him flying to Vegas for a championship fight and meeting Venus and Serena Williams and their dad before a big tennis tournament. One time he explained he had visited Mecca that week with a Muslim friend (Johnny was a Christian) and had ridden on a bus with devout Muslims on some dusty road just to experience what Mecca was all about.
There was another side of Johnny; his deep friendship with Sonny Hill. Along with Sonny, he was deeply committed to the inner city where they both grew up. They delivered turkeys door-to-door to the needy and did a million things to show they never forgot their roots. Sonny would check in on Johnny if he had the flu and vice versa. They played pick-up basketball with former Temple basketball coach John Chaney where I am sure they traded barbs with one another. Sample told me about his memories of his father who owned a barbershop in West Philly. It was the repository of the accumulated wisdom gained only by being black and living in America.
One time, our program director decided that after doing the pregame show in Atlantic City, we would hop a CBS traffic helicopter at Bader Field to do the post-game show from a sports bar on Columbus Boulevard. Johnny opted out. He was fearless on the football field, but taking a helicopter heading into the teeth of high winds was where he drew the line.
Johnny ran a city tennis program for Philadelphia youth. He was nuts about tennis, played everyday and kept fanatically fit. I never saw him drink anything stronger than orange juice, even when we watched the Eagles game together.
We kept in touch after WYSP decided to let us go right before the Eagles moved into their new stadium. Johnny always felt it was because he had drawn blood asking tough questions at the Monday Andy Reid media conference. He always maintained I was let go to avoid any questions of race entering into the firing.
My abiding memory of Johnny is not of the fearless defensive back who intercepted a pass in a Super Bowl, but of a guy who did our shows in the tent with his handsome grandson sitting on his lap. He would have liked that Times article about his trash talking. SPR
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