Taking an Arm and a Leg

By Tom Callahan

In show business, as Cathy Lee Crosby could tell Joe Theismann or perhaps he could tell her, a broken leg wished on anyone is a prayer for luck. As the Super Bowl quarterback was resting comfortably in a hospital last week, and his Hollywood actress was pre-empting war and peace on Washington's 11 o'clock news, the Redskins' players and management were ashamed to say out loud that it was a lucky break.

Lawrence Taylor, the New York Giants' most wanton pass rusher, almost swooned on national TV at the sight of a new hinge atop Theismann's right sock. Joe looked up and told a ring of Giants, "You guys broke my leg." Human nature being what it is, they mumbled apologies. Theismann being Theismann, he proclaimed, "I'll be back." Football players being football players, Linebacker Harry Carson said, "Not tonight you won't."

If he never returns, Theismann should be remembered by every kid who ever dreams of having his own restaurant and actress. By untold measure, he is the most embarrassing quarterback ever to succeed in the National Football League. From the moment he rerhymed his name at Notre Dame to chime with the Heisman trophy, he has provoked more winces than any other basically decent fellow in sports, and without once wincing himself.

When Theismann lost the Heisman anyway, to Stanford Quarterback Jim Plunkett, he seemed unaware of the cringes he brought by labeling Plunkett's sightless mother a big factor, and has been blind to failings ever since. Because Miami Coach Don Shula favored Bob Griese, Draftee Theismann stopped off in Canada for three seasons before arriving in Washington eleven years ago as a punt returner. Neither Billy Kilmer nor Sonny Jurgensen quite qualified as athletes anymore, but they were still quarterbacks.

Implausibly, the quarterback almost has to be the toughest guy on the team. Behemoth Baltimore linemen once whimpered under the tongue-lashings of Johnny Unitas, and now the San Diego Chargers are like children in the presence of Dan Fouts. It is not a matter of bodily courage, which Theismann has in abundance. Something about a man just moves other men in this industry, moves them up the field. After he inherited the Redskins four years ago, Coach Joe Gibbs' first disappointment was that his quarterback had none of that. The second was that Theismann couldn't even see up the field.

Having been Fouts' tutor for Don Coryell, Gibbs must have envisioned his own air force in Washington, rather than the infantry that evolved. In a fixed situation, with the least complicated directions, spry and strong-armed Theismann sufficed. But the limits of his perception were more profound than just sight lines. He could never lead. Some quarterbacks lift teams; he could hold up only his modest share. At lunch, if Theismann sat at one empty table and John Riggins at another, the fullback's would fill up but the quarterback's would not until Kicker Mark Moseley kindly joined his holder, and gentle Dave Butz did his 300-lb. best to take up the rest of the space.

While the old Redskins detested Theismann and undoubtedly would have hated the actress, his present teammates smiled and shook their heads as he handed out GET HOT WITH CATHY LEE T shirts. How could anyone be so immune to self-humiliation? In meetings, restraining him from drowning out this week's corrections with last week's excuses was the teaching challenge. Incorrigibly self-centered, almost delightfully dense, he did emit a tolerable charm in good times.

The Redskins' decline has been easy to plot: they won the Super Bowl; they lost the Super Bowl; they lost the divisional playoffs; they are struggling for a wild card. Turning 36 is not what dropped Theismann down the quarterback charts. He always saw the defensive pressure more clearly than the solution to it, and since last season, when the Chicago Bear influence began hurtling itself full force in the face of quarterbacks, passers have been required to have more than an arm and a map. Finally last week, to the team's visible relief, Theismann broke his leg.

A tall, blond Californian with a high-caliber arm, Jay Schroeder, 24, came in against the Giants and won the game. Later he passed around the sugar, taking the blame for a fumble that was not his fault and diverting the credit to a receiver whose catch was routine. Fresh air blew through the clubhouse. The next day the Washington Post headlined THE STREET WHERE HE LIVES, interviewing the babysitter and passersby on bicycles ("A lot of girls at my school think he's real cute"). After starting only one football game at UCLA, Schroeder bumped about baseball for a while on minor-league buses, with his wife trailing in the car. When the curve balls started, he signed on with the Redskins. Should Schroeder be an outfielder after all, previously cut Babe Laufenberg is back standing by. The Redskins relocated him in a Mexican bar called the Giggling Marlin.

Meanwhile, Theismann is in his glory. The fans' boos have turned to bouquets. Cathy Lee is leaving Larry Speakes in the dust. And outside the hospital, visitors are brought before TV cameras to reassure the nation's capital. "He seems to be normal," Center Jeff Bostic shrugged, "except he's got a broken leg." --By Tom Callahan