He’ll Surely Bring Down the House

Did you ever get this funny feeling you were looking at something you didn’t want to see? And couldn’t bear to watch?

A baby carriage rolling down a hill into the water. A guy going to the chair. A car crossing a collapsing bridge. Or a situation where you knew something the victim didn’t?

Remember those scenes in World War I aerial movies where the adjutant would say to the squadron leader: “My God, sir, you’re not going to send a boy up in that! “ Or where the young couple would walk up to the front door of Dracula’s castle when their car broke down in the thunderstorm and not notice the butler’s teeth were red?

Well, all of these things flashed through my mind the other day as I sat through an interview with a young man about to embark on a career adventure and all I could think of as I looked at him was Red Riding Hood going into the forest with her basket, the Titanic heading for the icefields with the orchestra playing, or the Light Brigade getting ready to charge into the Valley of Death.

Rusty Hilger is about to play first-string quarterback for a pro team in the L.A. Coliseum this year.

As Marc Antony said, if you have tears, prepare to shed them now.

Do you have any idea what L.A. does to its quarterbacks?

Well, let me give you an idea. This town booed Dutch Van Brocklin. Now, if you’ve been following the game, you know that Norm Van Brocklin might have been the best thrower of the football in the history of the game. He’s no worse than second.

You remember Billy Wade? Not a bad quarterback. A bonus draft choice. Well, they ran him right out of this town with their boos. He got so he hated to come out of the tunnel. They had to drag him.

All he did when he left here was toss the Chicago Bears right into the championship. Van Brocklin did the same thing for the Eagles.

I don’t remember the crowd booing Bob Waterfield. Not even a Coliseum crowd could be that crass. But they did give him the silent treatment. And wrote nasty letters to the editor. Bob got the message. He quit one year too soon.

Then the town got Bill Munson--and, by the third down he played, the fans were yelling, “We want Wade!”

Please don’t make me tell you what they did to Roman Gabriel. Roman was everything a quarterback had to be. Tall, fearless, competitive, an arm like a bazooka, the strength of a horse. It wasn’t enough for L.A. He was hounded out of the Coliseum. The abuse had to be heard to be believed.

Vince Ferragamo had a great arm, too. So far as L.A. was concerned, the trouble was it came with Vince Ferragamo attached. He was the only quarterback who ever took the Rams to the Super Bowl but he was glad to escape to Canada when the fans got through to him.

And, then, there was Marc Wilson.

Poor Marc. He would have been better off if he’d robbed banks for a living. Pit bulls get a better press. The wolves turned him into a nonperson. Ron Jaworski, Shack Harris, Pat Haden could have explained the feeling to him.

This is the warm, sunny, wholesome, understanding atmosphere Rusty Hilger is stepping into tomorrow night as he starts in the Coliseum against the San Francisco 49ers. If it were a movie, they’d cue up the sounds of wolves baying, thunder crackling and secret doors squeaking. Rusty would notice that the lord of the manor slept in a coffin.

The kid who went up in the rickety old biplane against the Red Baron had a better chance than Rusty.

I would have to say Rusty will be allowed one incompletion before the howls start coming and the fangs are bared. Maybe one sack.

But the first interception he throws will bring out the beast in the crowd. I can hear it now. “That’s it! Get rid of this guy! Now we know why they call you Rusty, Hilger! You got any oil for that arm? Call that an arm, do you?”

I give him one quarter before the chorus comes down, “We want Wilson!”

Does Hilger know this? How long before he notices what big teeth the crowd has?

“My job is to win the trust of my teammates,” says Rusty Hilger. “That’s the biggest hurdle a quarterback has. You get them to have faith in you and things fall into place. They’re the ones who know if you’re handling the job. They’re the ones who know what you’re trying to do out there and how well you’re doing it, not the crowd.

“Oh, I’ll hear the crowd, all right. But as long as they don’t come out of the stands and start to rush the passer or play zone defense, they’re not my problem.”

Oh, dear. Why do I keep hearing the captain of the Titanic saying, “What iceberg?” Little Red Riding Hood saying, “But I thought it was Grandma!” and Custer saying, “I never pay any attention to smoke signals.”?

I can’t look.