Pro Football: Look at Me, Man!

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The guest of honor at last week's luncheon meeting of the Cleveland Touchdown Club seemed the soul of mild-mannered urbanity. He broke his rolls before he buttered them. He politely said nothing about the veal cutlet. He refolded his napkin neatly when he was through. He wore a charcoal herringbone suit, and he buttoned his vest all the way—so only his tailor knew for sure about those 17-inch biceps, that 46-inch chest and that 32-inch waist. But the banquet toastmaster was not fooled for a second. "Gentlemen," he firmly announced, "I...

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