Big Daddy Lipscomb—Triumph and Tragedy

By John Turney 

Big Daddy Lipscomb with the Rams, Colts and Steelers

All-Pro defensive lineman Eugene "Big Daddy" Lipscomb twice as a modern-day finalist for the Pro Football Hall of Fame (1970, 1977) and wasn't elected. OK, so it happens. But since then, he hasn't been able to get back on the voters' radar, and that's a shame.

Because he should.

He has the credentials to be a Hall-of-Famer -- a four-time All-Pro (twice consensus AP, UPI and NEA), with his last two by the NEA alone. That's significant because it was the "Players' All-Pro team" determined not by the media but by a poll of NFL players who knew what "Big Daddy" could do. And they considered him among the best of his era.

But his legacy was tainted by off-the-field pursuits that eventually cost him his life ... and, in all likelihood ... a chance for election to reach Canton.

"If he hadn't died tragically," said former L.A. Times writer and Hall voter Bob Oates, "he would've been in (the Hall of Fame) already."

But he's not. And he probably never will be.

Pro football's first athletic big man, Eugene Allen Lipscomb was a marvel for his day. He stood 6-feet-6, weighed 320-pounds at his peak (though listed weights varied, starting at 280 pounds and up to 306) and could run like a much smaller man with speed. But his nickname of "Big Daddy" had nothing to do with his size and everything to do with his memory. He had trouble remembering names. So he called everyone "Little Daddy"... which, in turn, made him "Big Daddy".

Or so the story goes.

When he played football, he ruled by intimidation, hitting so hard that Hall-of-Famer Jim Brown -- who said he feared no one -- admitted that he was "very aware of what damage Lipscomb could do." So was Hall-of-Fame offensive lineman Forrest Gregg. As a rookie guard with Green Bay, he couldn't block Lipscomb. So he resorted to holding him, which irked his opponent.

"Hey Forrest," Lipscomb said one afternoon. "Let's make a deal. If you don't hold me, I won't kill you."

Gregg agreed. He refrained from holding the rest of the game.

 A legendary NFL figure, Lipscomb was so effective that he once said he'd tackle everyone in the backfield until he found the one who held the football.

"Him, you keep," he said. 

"He pursued better than any big man I ever saw," said Baltimore quarterback John Unitas, a teammate of Lipscomb's. "When he tackled you, you stayed tackled."

But Lipscomb wasn't just a football player. He was someone with a myriad of interests and larger-than-life appetites. He wrestled professionally in the offseasons. He tried to play basketball with the Baltimore Bullets of the EBA before NFL commissioner Pete Rozelle prevented him. He was enamored with America's space program and wanted to become an astronaut after retiring.

"I wonder if those cats up there on the moon have a football team," he said. "If they do, 'Big Daddy' would have himself a ball. And when those scientists ... see somebody making tackles all over the surface, they'll be able to say, 'There's a man on the moon, and it's 'Big Daddy' Lipscomb."

But he also enjoyed drinking -- sometimes in legendary amounts -- and seeking the attention of women. He was married and divorced three times. The lifestyle he led has been described as extravagant, which is another way of saying he flirted with trouble. And that trouble eventually ended his life.

He died in Baltimore in May, 1963. That much we know. But the circumstances are unclear. It was ruled a heroin overdose, but those who knew him are more than skeptical. They think he could've been the victim of a homicide.

"He couldn't stand needles," said former Pittsburgh teammate Clendon Thomas. "You couldn't get close to him with a needle. In the locker room, if something was hurting ... you could shoot him in the muscle, and there was no way you could get anything deadened. He wouldn't take a vitamin shot."

Another teammate, Hall-of-Famer Lenny Moore noted that needle marks were found on Lipscomb's right arm, which made no sense. He was right-handed, the former Colts' star said, which meant Lipscomb would've had to inject himself with his left hand.

"Big Daddy' never took dope in his life," said another former teammate, cornerback Johnny Sample.

Sample admitted that "Big Daddy" was a heavy drinker. But he speculated that after a night of partying with associates, someone injected a large amount of heroin into an inebriated Lipscomb and robbed him of considerable cash.

The Hall had no morals clause when Lipscomb was a modern-day candidate, so it's not only possible ... but plausible ... that what was determined as a drug overdose influenced Hall-of-Fame voters and kept Lipscomb from gaining a Gold Jacket.

But his accomplishments and place in history deserve another look.

After an extremely difficult and troubled childhood (his mother was murdered -- stabbed 47 times by a man on a street corner), Lipscomb joined the United States Marines out of high school and played football -- as an offensive end -- at Camp Pendleton (Cal.). It was there that he drew the attention of Rozelle, then with the Rams' public relations department, who liked what he saw and passed his report to the team's head scout, Eddie Kotal.

Kotal liked what he saw, too, and the Rams not only signed Lipscomb but put him on the field when his military hitch expired in 1953 -- with Lipscomb playing the final two games of that season at defensive end (in a wide-9 alignment, no less!) and starting his first game against his future team, the Baltimore Colts. 

Lipscomb at left defensive end - split on the open side
outside the tight end in 9-technique on the closed side

The following year he was moved inside to a more natural position of defensive tackle. Usually, he was the right defensive tackle, where he could beat up left guards and anyone else who got in his way. But his role changed in 1955 when the Rams fired head coach Hamp Pool and hired Sid Gillman, whose philosophy clashed with Lipscomb's performance.

Lipscomb at nose tackle in a 3-4 (upper left) and 5-2 (upper right)
Then at right defensive tackle in a 4-3 (lower left) and 5-2 (lower right)

Gillman liked disciplined players; Lipscomb was more prone to free-lancing -- dominating his opponent before chasing down ball carriers. The result? Lipscomb played less under his new coach. Nevertheless, he played well enough that the Times' Oates chose him as one of the defensive tackles on his all-time L.A. Rams' team -- remarkable for someone who played just a little over two seasons in Los Angeles.

A brawl in a 1956 preseason game that stemmed from a "Big Daddy" late hit on Unitas, combined with domestic issues (he had two ex-wives by the age of 25), ended his Rams' career, with the team releasing him. That's when Baltimore coach Weeb Ewbank decided to give him a second chance and claimed him off waivers for $100.

It was a wise decision.

After recovering from broken ribs and a strained knee sustained in the Unitas fracas, Lipscomb became a starter and led the team in tackles with 137 in 1957. The following year, he led the Colts in tackles again with 118 and was voted All-Pro for the first time.

But wait. How could a defensive tackle lead a team in tackles? Easy. It was Lipscomb's style of play.

With the Colts, he was not a penetrator; he played more sideline-to-lineline -- sometimes lining up as a linebacker to give the Colts a quasi 3-4 look. His unique abilities gave him the range to do it. Furthermore, he occasionally dropped into zone coverage, too, especially when Baltimore played the 49ers and their shotgun offense.

Lipscomb in various alignments with the Colts including linebacker
nose tackle, right defensive tackle on the ball and flex off the ball

He was the perfect complement to Hall-of-Famers Gino Marchetti and Art Donovan, who comprised the left side of the Colts' defensive line, and the combination of Don Joyce and Ordell Braase, who split time to his right. That group formed the best defensive line in the game and contributed mightily to the Colts' back-to-back NFL championships in 1958-59 by harassing passers and flattening running backs. 

Ewbank thought that Lipscomb had the ability to become one of the greatest defensive tackles in the history of the game, while John Bridgers, the Colts' defensive line coach, went one step further -- saying he was the greatest.

But within a year, the Colts had floundered, and  Ewbank became so concerned with Lipscomb's excessive off-the-field habits that he feared he was "losing control" of him. By then, "Big Daddy" was more vocal about how poorly black players (and the black population in general) were treated in Baltimore, while his forays into pro wrestling and basketball didn't set well with the Colts' hierarchy.

So they traded him to Pittsburgh in 1961 as part of a five-man deal.

The move wasn't just a change of scenery for "Big Daddy;" it was a change in assignments. Rather than have him serve as a piano player (playing left and right), Steelers' coach Buddy Parker wanted Lipscomb to play up-the-field in an attacking role --creating chaos as he used his enormous size to overwhelm smaller guards.

And he did.

Recent reviews of NFL gamebooks reveal that Lipscomb had 17-1/2 sacks (per Pro Football Reference) in his first year as a Steeler -- though sacks from that era are unofficial. Official or not, though, it's a mind-boggling total for an interior lineman in that -- or any --era.

"Last year was my best rushing the passer," Lipscomb said then. "With the Colts, I didn't rush much. But here I had the chance, and I just love to rush the passer. It's my bread-and-butter, and it's a lot of fun."

Indeed.

He didn't have as many sacks in 1962, but he was dominant in the Playoff Bowl and played so proficiently that football insiders felt it may have been his finest season. Happy, confident and secure, "Big Daddy" was said to be looking forward to contract talks, a significant raise and a fourth marriage before his untimely death the following spring. 

"(P)eople always remember you by the last thing you did," Lipscomb once said.

He was prophetic. The complicated man with an outgoing public personality and private fits of depression and sadness likely had his legacy tarnished by the last day of his life. After failing to reach the Hall in 1977, he's never been back as a senior candidate.

Lipscomb at right tackle in a 4-3 with the Steelers

And that raises the question: Shouldn't there be room for a flawed man who was respected by his peers and who five times received some sort of postseason honor -- either All-Pro or Pro Bowl? Who possesses two NFL championship rings? And who worked his way out of dire circumstances into one of the most well-known and beloved football players of his day?

There should be.

"Big Daddy" Lipscomb deserves to have his case heard at least one more time with a fresh set of eyes. The Hall's seniors committee should make that happen.