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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 give you Superman."
Well, not quite. James Nathaniel Brown, 29, fullback of the National Football League's Champion Cleveland Browns, cannot leap over the Empire State Building—or even stop bullets with his chest. But it is sheer nonsense to try to convince the practitioners and patrons of pro football that Jimmy Brown is an ordinary mortal. After nine seasons in the league, Brown is regarded as a genuine phenomenon in a sport that shares the language ("blitz," "bullet," "bomb") of war. Pro football's stars are the samurai of sport—immensely skilled, brutally tough, corrosively honest mercenaries who respect each other almost as much as they respect themselves. In the critical company of his peers, the Baltimore Colts' Johnny Unitas is considered "a great quarterback, but if you beat his blockers, you beat him." Rookie Fullback Tucker Frederickson of the New York Giants is "strong right now, but in a year he'll hit a little less hard." And Flanker Bobby Mitchell of the Washington Redskins is already "slowing down fast"—at the age of 30. There is only one player in the game today whose ability on field commands almost universal admiration, and that is Jimmy Brown.
Seven Out of Nine. When he tucks that $23 official N.F.L. pigskin into the crook of his arm and stutter-steps into the line, big (6 ft. 2 in., 228 Ibs.) Jim Brown is without argument the greatest runner in professional football. In 1957, the first year he joined Cleveland as an All-America from Syracuse University and the Browns' No. 1 draft choice, he gained an incredible 942 yds. on the ground. He has not done that poorly since. Only eleven men in the N.F.L.'s 45-year history have gained 1,000 yds. or more in a single season —an accomplishment roughly equivalent to batting .400 in baseball or scoring 50 goals in hockey. Brown has done it seven times in nine years. He has led the National Football League in rushing for eight of those years, and in 1963 he gained 1,863 yds. to become the only runner in history to pass the mile mark in a single season. By last week Jimmy had carried the ball a record 2,268 times in his career, gained a record total of 11,832 yds. (for a record average of 5.2 yds. per carry), scored a record 119 touchdowns.
Jimmy naturally has his off days: in one game against Baltimore in 1962, he carried the ball 14 times and managed the grand total of 11 yds. He also has his natural enemies. There are defensive men around the league who have dedicated themselves, their souls, their bodies to a holy war against Jimmy Brown. None of them has yet won the crusade—although their ferocious determination speaks for itself.