Mondays With Murray: Butkus Speaks: ‘Bleepandblurkandgetthefreakouttahere!’

Happy 77th birthday to Dick Butkus!

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TUESDAY, OCTOBER 5, 1971, SPORTS

Copyright 1971/THE TIMES MIRROR COMPANY

JIM MURRAY

Butkus Speaks: ‘Bleepandblurkandgetthefreakouttahere!’

  Dick Butkus is one of the leading pass receivers of the National Football League. He led all of the Chicago Bears’ wide receivers in passes caught Sunday against the Rams at the Coliseum. He caught two footballs on the fly and one on the ground.

  What makes Butkus so valuable is, he often catches a football before it is thrown. This is mondaysmurray2because, in addition to catching footballs, he also catches people who have them. He shakes them upside-down till they let go.

  Butkus has 19 lifetime receptions, which is remarkable since he wasn’t the primary receiver — or even the secondary — on any of them. Roman Gabriel completed 15 passes against the Bears on Sunday — four to Josephson, three to Snow, two each to Rentzel and Ellison, one to Smith, one to Masslowski and two to Butkus.

  Butkus recovered his 18th career fumble in the second quarter, and four plays later, the Bears had scored their only points of the day, three. He is the nearest thing to an offense the Chicago Bears have. Only the quarterback gets his hands on the football more than Dick Butkus.

  I thought I would go down to the locker room Sunday to interview this All-Pro wide receiver of the Bears, find out how he ran his patterns, what moves he put on the defenders (and one moving into Butkus’ zone hoping to catch a football has to be classified as a defender).

  I expected, of course, the conversation to be in sign language, and I brought a stalk of bananas, my bush hat, an elephant gun, and scribbled my will on the back of an envelope. It is inadvisable to approach Dick Butkus on the heels of a 17-2 loss in anything less than a reinforced Land Rover with a white hunter, armed, abroad.

  They say Fay Wray locks herself in her room when Butkus comes to town. And when he hits New York, the Army surrounds the Empire State Building while the Air Force buzzes it. Other players play in a face mask, with Butkus, it’s a muzzle.

  First of all, I’m happy to report it can talk. The rumor going around that Dick Butkus went through college on a vine, or that he was discovered by a scout for a Tarzan picture is not true. Neither is the report that he dresses by himself because his fur makes his roommate sneeze.

  I know it can talk because when I knocked on its dressing room it said clearly, “fuzzandblurkandgetthefreakouttahere!”

  I went over to safety man Ron Smith’s cubicle. “If I come flying out of there,” I said, pointing to Butkus’ locker, where shoulder pads, helmets, socks and cleated shoes came flying through the air accompanied by screams of rage, “will you call for a fair catch?”

  Smith grinned. “He’ll be all right as soon as he has his couple cups of blood,” he soothed. “You see, he hasn’t had his quarterback today yet.”

  “Does he shower or just lick himself clean?” I asked.

  “Listen,” said Smith, “I knew Butkus when I was a sophomore at Wisconsin and he was at Illinois and he was mean then and he was still mean as of a few minutes ago. He chews cement and spits out sidewalk.”

  I tapped on his cage again.   “Bleepandfreakandblurpandcrockandchickandcreep!” it roared. “Cantcha wait till I get dressed?”

  He came out of the shower a few minutes later. Mighty Joe Young would have run screaming up a tree. I gave a nervous laugh.

  “I didn’t recognize you without a quarterback under your arm,” I joked feebly. Butkus glared. He never smiles.

  “Listen, did you see what they’ve done out there with their little fairy plays? Those little end-around tippy toes, the chicken-trip stuff and then those twerps sneak back on you, those little elves give you a slip, and those bleep-censored officials say ‘one more word out of any of you and it’s 15.’ You call that football?! If I came out of here for a dance, I’d have worn pumps. Lemme comb my hair, fer cryin’ out loud!”

  A moment later, the defensive genius of the Chicago Bears, the last Monster of the Midway, stalked out with that rolling gait of his like a charging rhino. “Hey, Butkus!” yelled the crowd. “You got quarterback sticking to your whiskers.” “Hey Butkus, make yourself at home! Eat somebody!” “Hey, Butkus, do they let your cage on the airplane with the rest of the people?” “Hey, Butkus, do they bring your food on a plate or on a rope?”

  Butkus just glared. “Bleepandfleepandtweerpandfagandbagand,” he growled. “Girls’ football!”

  Someone nudged me in the ribs. “You’re lucky he’s in a good mood today,” he said.

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Reprinted with the permission of the Los Angeles Times

Jim Murray Memorial Foundation, P.O. Box 60753, Pasadena, CA 91116

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What is the Jim Murray Memorial Foundation? 

  The Jim Murray Memorial Foundation is a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization, established in 1999 to perpetuate the Jim Murray legacy, and his love for and dedication to his extraordinary career in journalism. Since 1999, JMMF has granted 104 $5,000 scholarships to outstanding journalism students. Success of the Jim Murray Memorial Foundation’s efforts depends heavily on the contributions from generous individuals, organizations, corporations, and volunteers who align themselves with the mission and values of the JMMF.

Like us on Facebook, and visit the JMMF website, www.jimmurrayfoundation.org.

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A dozen years ago, Linda McCoy-Murray compiled a book of Jim Murray’s columns on female athletes (1961-1998). While the book is idle waiting for an interested publisher, the JMMF thinks this is an appropriate year to get the book on the shelves, i.e., Jim Murray’s 100th birthday, 1919-2019.  

Our mission is to empower women of all ages to succeed and prosper — in and out of sports — while entertaining the reader with Jim Murray’s wit and hyperbole.  An excellent teaching tool for Women’s Studies.

Proceeds from book sales will benefit the Jim Murray Memorial Foundation, a 501(c)(3) not-for-profit organization providing sports journalism scholarships at universities across the country.

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