Hall is the only QB they know — or have even heard of — who loves to block on running plays to pay back late hitters
October 18, 1974
6 p.m. The semi-pro South Bay Crew football team meets at Earthborn Industries in North Redondo. There’s an air of excitement. The team’s maiden game is tomorrow and the Daily Breeze’s Chris Mortenson has written a long, positive column about the team in today’s paper. After getting some directions and logistics taken care of, shop owner and defensive lineman Dee Peterson shouts, “Let’s roll.”
Bachmann-Turner Overdrive’s “Roll On Down the Highway” blares out from KLOS as the Crew’s caravan pulls onto Meyer Lane.
October 19, 1974
12 a.m. Quarterback Coy Hall gazes curiously at his offensive linemen huddled in front of the Union 76 Gas Station.
“What the hell they got goin’ over there?” he asks Charles Matheson, the team’s trainer.
“They’re chompin’ on some flowers to get fired up for the game,” says Matheson sheepishly. “That lady over there gave ’em a bouquet.”
“Hey, you frigin’ goats! Let’s go! Tomorrow you gotta protect me from convicts.”
All five dutifully obey. The left tackle slips the lady $10. Hall has presence. On the field he is the only QB they know — or have even heard of — who loves to block on running plays to pay back late hitters. Off the field he leads the team into the bar and buys his linemen shots, sometimes dinner.
1:30 a.m. The Crew’s caravan rolls into Jim Maggini Memorial Park in Greenfield after six hours on the 101. They’ll get six hours of sleep. Good enough. Heck, that’s more than a lot of guys get after a midweek roll at the Flagship or Critters.
8 a.m. Thirty wild men file into Patrick’s Roadhouse in downtown Soledad. Employees’ eyes widen, their jaws drop. For the next 90 minutes they will bust their tails like they haven’t in eons. From the opposite side of the place left guard Jerry Myatt bellows, “Hall, you’re like a goddamned savage!” as he watches his QB polish off the last bites of a steak-and-eggs that is far more rare than medium. Hall responds with a devious grin and a flick of imaginary dandruff off his shoulder.
10 a.m. Three hours before kickoff the caravan arrives at Soledad Prison. It looks like something out of a Jimmy Cagney movie — barbed wire everywhere, drab gray cellblocks, armed guards galore. One of the guards tells everybody to spread their gear out on the lawn in front of the main tower for inspection. Then sign a roster. An electronically-operated gate opens and everybody enters. Then the first of two headcounts. All this before reaching the visiting locker room.
11:45 a.m. After suiting up, a prison staff leads the team through the cellblock towards the field. Once on the field an inmate shouts through a cellblock window at middle guard Dave “Mad Dog” Freeman, “Hey, #89, You look like a real turkey mothaf– to me!” Two inmates on the field make snide remarks about the Crew’s “star spangled” uniforms.
Following warm-ups, Hall meets with the referees. “OK, guys, listen up. The refs are inmates. They’re gonna use duck calls instead of whistles. The reason is whistles signify an escape attempt and guards will start…” A stern voice over the PA system interrupts him and announces that if any fighting breaks out guards will open up on anyone not in either a white uniform or civilian clothes.
1 p.m. Crew wins the coin flip and defers. Wise move. It’s a simple case of nerves. Better to put the defense out there first even though the Crew is the far more experienced team. This is everyone’s first game as a semi-pro team and many members’ first game in pads since ‘Camino several years ago.
Soledad goes three and out. A lousy punt gives the Crew the ball on the Soledad 40. Three plays later Hall scores on a rollout and takes a late hit in the end zone. The penalty is assessed on the kickoff but #55 on Soledad is not ejected, which pleases Hall.
Another three and out and a mediocre punt give the Crew good field position again. A long pass to Craig “Skull Man” Timms puts the ball on the Soledad one. Hall calls a sweep to the left and says, “Watch me nail that chump (#55).” Seconds later the ball is in the end zone and #55 is on the bench nursing a bloody nose.
Although it has a few good players and impressive physical specimens, Soledad is not a team. It hobbles itself with costly mistakes. The Crew exploits them to take a 28-0 and goes on to win 37-20.
Walking back through the cell block Hall becomes fired up about the win. He let’s loose a rebel yell, jumps up and shouts “Hot diggity dog!” his signature expression. A prison guard stares at him before turning to a coworker and deadpanning, “I’m startin’ to think some of these guys belong in here.”
4 p.m. The team eats with prison staff in the cafeteria. The food is cheap and pretty good. Later, one of Soledad’s players shows up to help out in the kitchen.
7 p.m. The Crew’s caravan rolls into downtown San Luis Obispo and stops at the first bar it encounters, the Bull Tavern. Hall buys the team shots of Wild Turkey and they hoist to the start of a successful season. The bartender announces that the cops are outside ticketing vehicles. Everybody goes out there and Hall assumes the spokesman’s role.
“Hi, officers. We’re the South Bay Crew semi-pro football team and we just gave Soledad Prison a hellacious beating this afternoon. We’re looking for a place to celebrate at…Can you recommend one?” The officers pause and exchange Machiavellian grins before the senior one says. “Tell ya what. Go three blocks down Higuera to Ethel Reds. Don’t just celebrate. Go berserk!” And with that he tears up the parking ticket.
8 p.m. The team heeds the officer’s advice. Within an hour the bar rakes in more money than it normally does on a good weekend. But it comes at a price. There’s a host of beer on the floor and the noise level is off-meter, drowning out the band. Plus, the regulars are starting to complain.
So the owner calls the San Luis Obispo PD. “Please. Please come! There are dozens of big lunatics here and they’re going to trash my place. Please come!” He receives a big ol’ yawn and an “OK. We’ll be right there.”
9 p.m. Linebacker/defensive coordinator Bill Sloey sits at a crowded table holding court, recounting his days as a Nebraska Cornhusker. A young woman walking by asks what the deal is with two guys wearing phony noses and glasses. Sloey calmly explains that both are out of their gourds and that the garb is part of the team’s shtick. Then he asks her to join them. She accepts. Twenty minutes later the table is deserted. One of the Crew’s vehicles still sports a Sixties bumper sticker: DON’T COME KNOCKIN’ IF THIS VAN’S A ROCKIN’. On this balmy fall night it fits—nicely.
October 20, 1974
Midnight: The cops are finally forced to come. Hall is in a fistfight defending a drunken teammate. He tries to flee but they quickly nab him. He’s a bit too conspicuous being shirtless and all sweaty.
8 a.m. The team awakens in a campground on picturesque Avila Beach just outside San Luis Obispo. For a half-hour they rehash the game and especially the wild west scene from the night before. Turns out Mad Dog got into the fray, too. His Levi cords are sliced knee-to-groin, the result of being hit by a huge pane of falling glass. He almost tumbled into the tire store next door as well.
There’s a coffee shop resembling Uncle Bill’s within easy walking distance. It’s a good thing. Everybody’s hungry enough to eat the butthole out of a wolverine. As they scarf they discuss the upcoming schedule, which includes a road game against Tehachapi Prison in three weeks.
10 a.m. One vehicle heads back into downtown SLO to pick up Coy. The others jump on the 101 South for the five-hour trek home. Bachmann-Turner Overdrive is blaring again. This time it’s “Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet.”
