R.I.P. Jack Tatum

Around these parts, How to Wreck a Nice Beach author Dave Tompkins is known for two things: his mastery of the history and uses of the vocoder, and his ability to recall obscure details of the NFL circa the 1970s. Taking a break from his grueling book-touring and list-making, Dave dropped by to offer this remembrance of the controversial Jack Tatum, who passed away last week. (Recommended ambiance: Dave's vocoder mix.) (And if you're curious, you can buy his book here.)

The Super Collider
by Dave Tompkins

tatum.jpeg
Particle Accelerators: Jack Tatum and Miami receiver Nat Moore, by author, circa 1977

After former NFL star defensive back Jack Tatum died last week, my brother and I had a laugh about the time Tatum knocked Sammy White's eyeballs out of his head. At least that's how Sammy called it. You know you've been hit if your eyeballs have relocated their base of operations five yards downfield inside your own purple helmet, blinking through the earhole. Could've been 20 yards, if myth had its way.

Little did we know that Super Bowl XI was an invitation to a beheading. A feared safety for the Oakland Raiders during the 1970s, Tatum didn't tackle as much as, in his words, "sever players from reality." Spectators too. A woman sitting near Raider's owner, Al Davis, screamed that Sammy White had literally lost his head.

Jack Tatum died at 61. A villain, an All-Pro, and an amputee. Most kids mimicked the end zone dancers, the White Shoes Johnsons, or the quarterbacks that got them there. (Homer Simpson: "Johnny Unitas—now there's a haircut you can set your watch to!") Yet my brother identified with this defensive safety who never apologized for paralyzing another player, once described as Genghis Khan with an afro. "A good collider in a game of collisions."

My brother wore a Raiders jersey bearing Tatum's name—then a new service offered by Sears-Roebuck, which at the time felt like the greatest invention since HBO. He once told me that Jack Tatum's uncle was bagging groceries at the A&P on Providence Road. I didn't believe him and biked over to find the Good Collider's uncle standing at the end of the checkout conveyor, with "Tatum" namegunned to his red apron.

I don't remember much about the exchange, other than asking if his nephew was a nice guy and could I have an autograph?

My brother and I took the game seriously. We spent Sunday afternoons beating the church out of each other, acting out goal line stands on the vinyl couch in the den. We made faces to our own dun-dun versions of the NFL Films symphony. Slow-motion was required for grit and exaggerated scrunch, yet it robbed my brother of the velocity needed to convince the effect. Occasionally, he sped up the action to ensure my face arrived into the crook of his arm on time.

Jack Tatum called this technique The Hook, a form of clothes-lining that once got him a free trans-continental flight to New York for a disciplinary meeting with NFL Commissioner Pete Rozelle. (The return flight was empty, which led Tatum to believe Rozelle had programmed the plane to crash.) He learned The Hook watching Dick "Nightrain" Lane.

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Hua Hsu teaches in the English Department at Vassar College and writes about music, sports, and culture. More

Hua Hsu teaches in the English Department at Vassar College and writes about music, sports, and culture. His work has appeared in The Atlantic, The New York Times, Bookforum, Slate, The Village Voice, The Boston Globe Ideas section and The Wire (for whom he writes a bi-monthly column). He is on the editorial board for the New Literary History of America.

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