KANSAS CITY, Mo. — If you had the happy fortune to spend time with Len Dawson on occasion, the conversation almost invariably touched on what he considered the serendipity of his own life — quirks of fate he reckoned were bestowed upon him by birthright as “the seventh son of a seventh son.”
Never mind that the arc of his remarkable journey was far more about pluck than luck. And that most of the folklore about seventh sons of seventh sons emphasizes that the legacy conferred powers of healing and clairvoyance more than luck, per se. And that he was in, fact, the ninth of 11 children overall.
Because when it came to Dawson, it was a little bit like Stanley Kowalski said in Tennessee Williams’ “A Streetcar Named Desire”: “Luck is believing you’re lucky.”
Certainly, Dawson prospered by that outlook. Not to mention it was a nice way of conveying humility despite having little to be humble about.
So the pure luck of a seventh son of a seventh son was the theme of his induction speech at the Pro Football Hall of Fame in 1987. And it was a thesis he had a way of trying to reinforce about any time, anywhere.
“I just happened to be at the right spot at the right time to get an opportunity,” he said, invoking the phrase when we spoke at the Chiefs’ training facility on the occasion of his 50th year in Kansas City.
At his dining room table in 2017, he alluded to the term as he spoke about his health issues and the impending end of his broadcasting career, and stressed that most people likely would opt in if they could have led his life.
It was, in fact, a wonderful and singular life that came to an end this week. Early Wednesday morning, KMBC-TV shared a statement from Dawson’s widow, Linda, and his family, saying that Dawson had died. He was 87.
Revered around the nation for his role in the surging rise of pro football and the grace and even chill with which he played and conveyed off the field, Dawson became one of only three men (along with Frank Gifford and Dan Dierdorf) inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame as both a player and broadcaster.
Quite a feat in any context, but all the more improbable after an often-underappreciated part of his story: He had languished through five NFL seasons and became an afterthought who hardly seemed destined to be well-remembered in either capacity.
“I am sure if anyone would have asked at that time, ‘Don’t you think Len Dawson might one day be here?’ … after they got up off the floor from laughing, they would say, ‘Why should he? What has he done?’ ” he said at his 1987 induction in Canton, a mere 20 miles from his hometown of Alliance, Ohio.
Among his other ripples nationally, he later became a prominent voice as a host of HBO’s “Inside The NFL” and was recognized as the 1972 NFL Man of the Year for his contributions on the field and in the community.
But all of those accolades and achievements emanated from his role and stature and indelible legacy in Kansas City, a place he helped transform and where he would become one of our most enduring and endearing figures.
He was perhaps Kansas City’s first true sports icon. And, better yet, by way of an entirely unique path full of curious twists.
‘He never let you see him sweat’
It’s funny to think of this now, but one of those turns paralleled his own initial bafflement about Kansas City before he arrived.
As the Dallas Texans of the AFL were preparing to move to Kansas City and become the Chiefs after the 1962 AFL Championship season, Dawson among others perceived the area as a cowtown … possibly with livestock running wild. He also didn’t know there was a difference between Kansas City, Missouri, and Kansas City, Kansas.
Moreover, he wasn’t reassured about the move after only 5,721 fans came to old Municipal Stadium for their first preseason game against Buffalo in 1963.
“I think we were supposed to go out and throw footballs into the stands,” Dawson recalled with a laugh in 2013. “So I said, ‘Why don’t we just go up and shake (fans) hands and hand them to them?’ It wasn’t like it was a full house.”
But Dawson soon became a fundamental element of creating rabid enthusiasm for the Chiefs and, in fact, a reason for the growth in perception and prestige of the region.
Much like Patrick Mahomes today, he was the glamorous face of a captivating Chiefs era, standing out even among seven other Hall of Fame players on those teams. Those mesmerizing teams helped modernize the game and compel the merger with the NFL, as Kansas City played in two of the first four Super Bowls and drubbed the Minnesota Vikings 23-7 in Super Bowl IV.
Epitomizing his astounding poise, that day Dawson completed 12 of 17 passes for 142 yards and a touchdown and was selected as the game’s MVP only days after he had been embroiled in a gambling investigation that proved unfounded.
That Super Bowl run also came just months after Dawson was out six weeks with a knee injury and only weeks after Dawson’s father, James, died after suffering a heart attack
“He was always the same; he never let you see him sweat,” Chiefs coach Hank Stram, with whom Dawson was more entwined than even Mahomes and Andy Reid, said at Dawson’s Hall of Fame induction. “That’s why his teammates called him ‘Lenny the Cool.’ ”
That’s why he’s long been chiseled onto any Mount Rushmore of Kansas City sports history and will forever stand as a Colossus over the area.
Part of that is because he not only made news but delivered it.
In 1966, Chiefs’ general manager Jack Steadman went to KMBC-TV and suggested an idea for a sports anchor who might boost ratings … and perhaps Chiefs’ ticket sales.
The concept seems preposterous now: Imagine Mahomes hurrying from practice to a TV studio, putting on a sports coat and anchoring the sports segments at 6 and 10 p.m. … and as part of the job telling people how the Chiefs are doing.
“I not only asked the players to interview them, but I’d tell them the questions and give them the answers,” he joked in 2009 when he retired from anchoring full time.
It all went over fine when the Chiefs played the Packers in the first Super Bowl that season. But when people complained that it was disrupting his focus in 1967 and 1968, Dawson liked to say, “At least you know where I am at 10 o’clock at night.”
‘Things happen to me’
While that further distinguished Dawson, whose broadcasting career spanned more than 50 years, including 34 with the Chiefs Radio Network, it also was a prime example of how availing himself to chance helped set him apart.
“Things happen to me,” he said at the Hall of Fame in 1987.
He also made things happen. And it’s telling about his outlook that Dawson saw his life as charmed despite such dark times as the death of his first wife and high school sweetheart, Jackie, at age 42 in 1978 following a stroke the year before.
Dawson also had numerous health troubles over the years, including contending with prostate cancer, requiring quadruple-bypass heart surgery and suffering a miserable case of the shingles that left him needing a walker a few years ago.
But he understood that attitude, and even aura, was everything … and that certain indulgences of destiny enabled his adventures.
None was more tangible than in the form of Stram, who first met Dawson nearly 70 years ago when he was a Purdue assistant coach recruiting him.
Or as Dawson put it at the Hall of Fame in 1987: “Had it not been for Hank Stram and knowing me, there would not have been a seventh look for the seventh son of a seventh son.”
That connection may well never have been forged, though. And without it, Dawson almost certainly never would have played for Lamar Hunt’s franchise and likely never would have emerged as a star.
As he was coming out of high school, Dawson had a sentimental attachment to Woody Hayes’ Ohio State program that was building toward a national title in 1954. But the idea of Ohio State was less attractive after he had a talk with Hayes about running an option offense.
“I got to thinking my health is going to be in the hands of some big defensive end determining whose head he’s going to take off; I knew it was going to be mine,” he said with a smile in 2013. “So that ended any thoughts whatsoever of me going to Ohio State.”
Enter Stram, who was running a far more pass-oriented offense at Purdue. Ever the showman and salesman, Stram put together a highlight reel of the Boilermaker passing game for the discerning Dawson.
After showing it to Dawson, the prospect playfully said, “‘Coach, I’ve got to ask you a question … Did any of your quarterbacks ever throw an incomplete forward pass?’”
That proved the beginning of a beautiful relationship.
In his Purdue debut a season later, Dawson threw four touchdown passes in a 31-0 romp over Mizzou in one of the few scenarios we know of where he dismissed the meaning of luck: When wished good luck entering the game by an assistant coach, Stram reported that Dawson said, “‘Thank you, Coach, but you don’t need luck; all you need is ability.’”
A week later, he threw four more TD passes as Purdue upset top-ranked Notre Dame. He was well on his way to leading the Big Ten in passing for three straight seasons and being drafted fifth overall in 1957 by the Pittsburgh Steelers.
But his career stalled there, including behind Hall of Famer Bobby Layne in 1958 and 1959. Dawson then was traded to Cleveland, where coach Paul Brown professed he wanted to “see what he can do.”
Nevertheless, Dawson started just one game in the next two seasons and threw just 28 passes (completing 15) for one touchdown with three interceptions.
Approaching his 27th birthday, his career was on the verge of fizzling out before it even really started. So much so that Dawson began to face the idea he might have to make a career out of one of the offseason jobs he had selling life insurance or soft water.
Improbably in its own right, Stram by then had become coach of the Dallas Texans of the fledgling AFL that Hunt had been instrumental in creating.
Then an assistant at Miami, Stram was at best Hunt’s third choice for the Texans job after he had tried to lure then-New York Giants assistant Tom Landry and Oklahoma coach Bud Wilkinson.
According to Michael MacCambridge’s biography, “Lamar Hunt: A Life In Sports,” Hunt “didn’t have a clue” where to turn after that. He only considered Stram because of a nudge from longtime friend Bob Wilkes on their flight back from Norman, Oklahoma.
That led to a certain magic of its own between Hunt and Stram, who needed a catalyst to build around.
So perhaps the one man who might still see a future in Dawson happened to attend a coaches’ convention in Pittsburgh, where Dawson still lived.
“How things happen,” Dawson said in 2013, smiling. “He became the head coach in this new league. I had lunch with him, and he could see I wasn’t too happy.
“He basically said, ‘If you ever get free, let me know. I’d love to have you on my team.’”
Dawson abruptly got free: He simply went to Brown and asked to be put on waivers. Brown complied. A little too eagerly.
“When you ask the coach to put you on waivers, and he says, ‘Oh, fine,’ yeah, I was off the radar,” Dawson said, laughing.
When Dawson arrived in Dallas, though, his skills had eroded. His release had slowed; at times, he found himself tripping over his own feet. He figured Stram had to be wondering, “Whoa, what happened to this guy?” And he heard Hunt was skeptical when he saw him practice.
All in all, Dawson figured most observers “had me on the road back to wherever I wanted to go.”
Instead, Dawson took the franchise where it could only have hoped to go after essentially being revived by Stram. He won the starting job, then became the MVP of the AFL on the way to the first of three league titles from 1962-69.
It would be 50 years before the Chiefs returned to the Super Bowl after they won Super Bowl IV.
But their status as perennial contenders now doesn’t diminish the marvels of a time led by Len Dawson.
Like it said in the song “The Seventh Son,” written by Willie Dixon and popularized by Johnny Rivers in 1965: “In the whole wide world there is only one.”
“Definitely very, very fortunate,” Dawson said at his Hall of Fame induction.
As were we all.
