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CLEVELAND, Ohio -- Hanford Dixon, the "Top Dawg," created the Browns as we know them -- at least in the snarling junkyard persona he and loyal sidekick Frank Minnifield provided for the fans in the 1980s. The often pounded puppies of the franchise's resurrection are simply living off what was left in the dish.
In his new book, "Day of the Dawg," written with Randy Nyerges, Dixon takes us back to the thrilling days of the 1980s, when the Browns played for championships and not to go 9-7 and maybe sneak into the playoffs as the lowliest qualifier.
Once again, the dog bones are flying from the bleachers in old, rickety Municipal Stadium. Minnifield and Dixon are baying at the Bengals' fallen Cris Collinsworth. "Captain Snowflake," they called him, as a white player at wide receiver, traditionally a black position. Players still known fondly by their first names of Bernie, Webster, Reggie, Ozzie and Clay are the darlings of a city whose fans gave their hearts to them, only to see them broken.
Along the way, Dixon offers what can only be called some guarded disclosures about what life was like on the 1980s Browns.
He says the Browns had a bounty system, just like the New Orleans Saints of recent years. The Saints have been gutted by suspensions on the field and in the front office after NFL commissioner Roger Goodell was shocked -- shocked! -- to learn of their bounty system.
Dixon writes that the Browns' version was a players-only operation. "The object wasn't to maim or cause serious injury, but to knock (an opponent) out of the game. These pools would be maybe a couple of hundred bucks, not really that much money," he writes.
Dixon says he's not sure if coaches were aware of it or not. "If they were, they quietly filed it away under 'Don't ask, don't tell.' "
If it was negligence on the part of Sam Rutigliano, Marty Schottenheimer and Bud Carson, the Browns' coaches during Dixon's career here, they had plenty of company. The whole NFL was looking the other way in regard to injuries.
Dixon heavily criticizes himself for a worse instance of what can only be termed malign neglect. He blames himself for the death of safety Don Rogers after a cocaine overdose in the summer of 1986. The presumption by many media members was that Rogers, who died only eight days after Boston Celtics draftee Len Bias succumbed to an overdose, was new to the sports party scene and OD'd out of unfamiliarity with drugs. Dixon's book disputes that, as he describes Rogers, on the night before the wedding rehearsal, leaving the hotel with a woman on each arm for, as Dixon calls it, "his last great party."
Dixon, who admits to having experimented with marijuana in college, "like 90 percent of America," writes that Rogers had asked him to ride in the same car to the dress rehearsal the next day. Dixon thought Rogers was going to enter drug rehab, but as Rogers left, Dixon sensed trouble. "It was going to be his last hurrah. His last great party," Dixon writes. "I'm sure to this day he wanted to get the whole drug thing over with and that's what he was going to tell me the next day."
Rogers never lived to see that day.
"Now I realize why I was there," Dixon writes. "I loved Donnie like a little brother. And big brothers have responsibilities. I should have looked him in the eye and said, 'No (expletive) way, brother. You're not going to do this to yourself.' But like a typical wimpy teenager, I was concerned about what others might think of me."
Dixon estimates that, with Minnifield and himself turning into Pro Bowl cornerbacks (and arguable Hall of Fame coverage men), the addition of Rogers would have meant "at least two Super Bowl championships."
Almost as powerful is his account of the death of the beloved Eddie "The Assassin" Johnson from colon cancer in 2003. A reporter who attended Johnson's funeral remembers the palpable sense of sorrow in the church with so many players daubing their eyes and choking back sobs. Losing a respected teammate can be harder than anything but losing a member of one's immediate family.
Johnson was a seventh-round draft pick. in some ways, he was the epitome of those overachieving teams that came so close to greatness. Not that some media members -- mentioning no names, although Dixon does -- saw it coming.
In a chapter devoted to the Browns' breakthrough victory in Pittsburgh, Dixon quotes a Plain Dealer columnist as dissing talk of the "The Rivers Jinx." "That angle is as weak as the two teams who will play there," he wrote.
After those 1986 Browns won 13 games, the most in franchise history, and came within "The Drive" of going to the Super Bowl, Dixon wrote, "Livingston was full of crap."
When you have been called out by one of the best, it seems pointless to quibble about whether "unwarranted assumptions" or even "hot air" would be more felicitous terms. What he said works well enough.
By Bill Livingston, The Plain Dealer The Plain Dealer
In his new book, "Day of the Dawg," written with Randy Nyerges, Dixon takes us back to the thrilling days of the 1980s, when the Browns played for championships and not to go 9-7 and maybe sneak into the playoffs as the lowliest qualifier.
Once again, the dog bones are flying from the bleachers in old, rickety Municipal Stadium. Minnifield and Dixon are baying at the Bengals' fallen Cris Collinsworth. "Captain Snowflake," they called him, as a white player at wide receiver, traditionally a black position. Players still known fondly by their first names of Bernie, Webster, Reggie, Ozzie and Clay are the darlings of a city whose fans gave their hearts to them, only to see them broken.
Along the way, Dixon offers what can only be called some guarded disclosures about what life was like on the 1980s Browns.
He says the Browns had a bounty system, just like the New Orleans Saints of recent years. The Saints have been gutted by suspensions on the field and in the front office after NFL commissioner Roger Goodell was shocked -- shocked! -- to learn of their bounty system.
Dixon writes that the Browns' version was a players-only operation. "The object wasn't to maim or cause serious injury, but to knock (an opponent) out of the game. These pools would be maybe a couple of hundred bucks, not really that much money," he writes.
Dixon says he's not sure if coaches were aware of it or not. "If they were, they quietly filed it away under 'Don't ask, don't tell.' "
If it was negligence on the part of Sam Rutigliano, Marty Schottenheimer and Bud Carson, the Browns' coaches during Dixon's career here, they had plenty of company. The whole NFL was looking the other way in regard to injuries.
Dixon heavily criticizes himself for a worse instance of what can only be termed malign neglect. He blames himself for the death of safety Don Rogers after a cocaine overdose in the summer of 1986. The presumption by many media members was that Rogers, who died only eight days after Boston Celtics draftee Len Bias succumbed to an overdose, was new to the sports party scene and OD'd out of unfamiliarity with drugs. Dixon's book disputes that, as he describes Rogers, on the night before the wedding rehearsal, leaving the hotel with a woman on each arm for, as Dixon calls it, "his last great party."
Dixon, who admits to having experimented with marijuana in college, "like 90 percent of America," writes that Rogers had asked him to ride in the same car to the dress rehearsal the next day. Dixon thought Rogers was going to enter drug rehab, but as Rogers left, Dixon sensed trouble. "It was going to be his last hurrah. His last great party," Dixon writes. "I'm sure to this day he wanted to get the whole drug thing over with and that's what he was going to tell me the next day."
Rogers never lived to see that day.
"Now I realize why I was there," Dixon writes. "I loved Donnie like a little brother. And big brothers have responsibilities. I should have looked him in the eye and said, 'No (expletive) way, brother. You're not going to do this to yourself.' But like a typical wimpy teenager, I was concerned about what others might think of me."
Dixon estimates that, with Minnifield and himself turning into Pro Bowl cornerbacks (and arguable Hall of Fame coverage men), the addition of Rogers would have meant "at least two Super Bowl championships."
Almost as powerful is his account of the death of the beloved Eddie "The Assassin" Johnson from colon cancer in 2003. A reporter who attended Johnson's funeral remembers the palpable sense of sorrow in the church with so many players daubing their eyes and choking back sobs. Losing a respected teammate can be harder than anything but losing a member of one's immediate family.
Johnson was a seventh-round draft pick. in some ways, he was the epitome of those overachieving teams that came so close to greatness. Not that some media members -- mentioning no names, although Dixon does -- saw it coming.
In a chapter devoted to the Browns' breakthrough victory in Pittsburgh, Dixon quotes a Plain Dealer columnist as dissing talk of the "The Rivers Jinx." "That angle is as weak as the two teams who will play there," he wrote.
After those 1986 Browns won 13 games, the most in franchise history, and came within "The Drive" of going to the Super Bowl, Dixon wrote, "Livingston was full of crap."
When you have been called out by one of the best, it seems pointless to quibble about whether "unwarranted assumptions" or even "hot air" would be more felicitous terms. What he said works well enough.
By Bill Livingston, The Plain Dealer The Plain Dealer