The day the music died

By Art Spander

The radio in my TR4, a British sports car, couldn’t always be heard clearly over the noisy four-cylinder engine, but I sensed from the gravity of the announcer’s voice that something was wrong. I pulled over to the curb and turned up the volume.

“ . . . The president has been taken to Parkland Hospital in Dallas,” was the somber message. “We are awaiting word on his condition . . . ”

Fifty years ago, Nov. 22, 1963. America’s age of innocence was at an end. Camelot had fallen.

It was the weekend of the college traditionals, and the next day I would be covering the USC-UCLA game for the Santa Monica Evening Outlook, a publication no longer in existence. I was driving to the office, three blocks from the Pacific.

I stopped. So did America.

John F. Kennedy, the 35th president, had been assassinated. And nothing would ever be the same.

In the half century that followed, other leaders would fall, the World Trade Center would be brought down with a massive loss of life, one horror after another. This was the beginning.

They still argue about the killing of JFK, still posit conspiracy theories, still insist it was more than a single shooter, still point out that everything we’ve been told and seen has either been fabricated or whitewashed. The New York Times the other day had a story and photo of the blood-spattered pink suit worn by Jackie Kennedy as she sat with her dying husband.

Fifty years ago the scenes were of the Texas School Book Depository, of Dealey Plaza, of a country in mourning and sport in a muddle.

The nation didn’t want to play. It needed to weep.

The Outlook was a p.m., a pure afternoon paper. The advance story for a Saturday afternoon game was Friday. The first edition was on the streets. I changed a few words, and the revision made it for the late editions. Then we waited.

The Big Six, as the conference of Cal, Stanford, USC, UCLA, Washington and Washington State was known, announced postponements. As did the Big Ten. As did the American Football League, which was three years from a merger with the NFL.

But not Oklahoma or Nebraska. Or any games of the NFL.

At first, it seemed as if USC-UCLA would be held, if without card stunts — remember card stunts? — or bands or any type of normal celebration. Just football.

But John McKay, then the Trojans' coach, was opposed. “I can’t believe you’d play a football game," he said, “where there was only half the enthusiasm.”

We didn’t. For a week.

I composed a story that only a few hours earlier never could have been imagined, about a game that was so important now so unimportant. Then I went on the streets, a reporter, and interviewed people whose disbelief was no greater than mine.

Color television was only for the wealthy in the early 1960s. Most of us sat, numbed, watching the repetitive images in black and white, the widow helped on to Air Force One, the caisson rolling down Pennsylvania Avenue, the world leaders from Charles de Gaulle to Haile Selassie in the procession, 3-year-old John Kennedy Jr. saluting as the coffin moved past.

Pete Rozelle was the NFL commissioner and was unsure of staying the course, allowing the usual Sunday grouping of games to be played 48 hours later, or deferring to reality.

Rozelle, who died in 1996, and Pierre Salinger, Kennedy’s press secretary, had been classmates at the University of San Francisco. They talked. Although it was more complex than that, Salinger persuaded Rozelle that to play games as scheduled would provide a sense of normalcy and perhaps relief to a country desperate for both.

The teams played. Rozelle rued his decision. “It’s the one thing I would change,” he later said of his 30 years as commissioner. “If I could do it again, we wouldn’t play.”

The games were not televised. They were reported. And criticized. Pete Rozelle, more for his suspensions of Paul Hornung and Alex Karras, would be selected Sports Illustrated Sportsman of the Year.

The following Friday, Nov. 29, in a repeat of sorts, I created another advance story for the game, rescheduled for the next day, Saturday, Nov. 30, suggesting a 40-6 USC victory — hey, those were the Trojans of “Student Body Right” — but the final score was 26-6.

What do I remember about the game? Virtually nothing. It was anticlimactic. We had been through a torturous few days that for our generation would stay forever. As Don McLean’s song of the early 1970s would remind us, it was the day the music died.