Sid Gillman. Josh Katzowitz
primary responsibility was blocking defenders on power sweeps.
By the time he was a sophomore, Gillman was ready to make an impact on the varsity team, threatening to overthrow the upperclassmen ahead of him on the depth chart by bursting into the starting lineup as one of the Buckeyes’ ends.
The day before the Buckeyes were to open fall practice to begin preparation for the 1931 season, Ohio Stadium was quiet on a Monday afternoon. One could hear workmen banging hammers as they readied Ohio Stadium for the upcoming football season. Student managers, in an effort to obscure the views of those passersby who were desperate to watch a little bit of practice, erected long pieces of canvas around the practice field. They might not have bothered.
It seems hard to believe today, but Ohio State athletic director Lynn St. John had a big problem on his hands with the $1.6 million facility. Simply put, the Buckeyes couldn’t fill Ohio Stadium with fans. This was a problem for St. John and his athletic budget, but it was also Willaman’s problem. Willaman had been an all-Ohio halfback in 1913 for the Buckeyes, and he had been hired before the 1929 season to replace John Wilce as the Ohio State head coach. In his first two seasons, Willaman had recorded a 9-5-2 record and the Buckeyes had been irrelevant in the Big Ten championship race. He needed better success in order to convince fans to show up to games.
St. John also had big decisions to make. Every night, after his workday was complete, he emerged from his office and walked around the Ohio Stadium track, stepped down the stairs to the practice field, and watched Willaman’s team work. While watching, his mind churned, pondering how to convince fans to return. The big question: Should St. John allow a radio station to broadcast the play-by-play from the Buckeyes’ games? If not, the only way people could follow the action live was to show up and pay their money, which obviously benefited Ohio State’s bottom line. But St. John also realized that radio broadcasts could be a good way to expand the fan base. That also would benefit the Buckeyes. He watched and he pondered, day after day.
As the team set to open the 1931 season, though, there simply wasn’t much interest. But the coaches—and the newspapers—were excited about the sophomore class that would begin practice the next day.
While managers inflated 40 footballs on that fall afternoon before the maelstrom of football began, others rolled tackling and blocking dummies onto the practice field. Monday afternoon was calm with the squeaks and the hammer raps. The next day, nearly 90 potential Buckeyes would rip up the grass with their cleats and soak their uniforms with sweat. Tuesday was the storm. Monday was the calm. Tuesday was the beginning of the long, hard journey. Monday was the last day of summer vacation. Tuesday was the beginning of Gillman’s football career. Monday was his last day as a nobody.
The first day of Gillman’s step into manhood was dreary, and rain clouds littered the sky. Occasionally, the sun darted between the clouds and shone on the helmets of the 73 men who actually turned out for practice and the eight-man coaching staff who put them through their paces. If players needed extra motivation, all they had to do was divert their eyes from the practice field in front of them and turn to Ohio Stadium, that most hallowed of places which an incredible football player named Chic Harley had once helped build.
The day’s weather was cheerless, but on the flip side, it was extremely and unpleasantly hot. Soon after the whistles began to blow, scarlet jerseys were thrown to the side of the field so the Buckeyes’ bodies could breathe through the humidity. The rains came early in the morning and again at noon, but Ohio State managed to practice in between and got in a good day’s worth of work before the Buckeyes broke for lunch. The practice had been long but light, and the only time anybody placed headgear atop his skull was to pose for a photo from the newspaper cameramen in attendance.
The cameras were not there to shoot Gillman. No, Gillman was not a star. For one of the few times in his athletic career, he was just another guy on the field. Basically, a no-name who had never accomplished anything. That was proven true when, after a few days of practice in hot, wet weather, Willaman named his initial starting 11. Junius Ferrall and Howard Rabenstein were listed as the starting ends, and not only was Gillman’s name nowhere to be found on the depth chart, the September 17 edition of the Ohio State Journal didn’t think enough of Gillman’s chances to list him among the sophomore end candidates who had even a remote chance of winning a starting spot. Not just the end candidates in general. The sophomore end candidates.
But it was clear that Willaman saw something in Gillman. Before his team scrimmaged for the first time, Willaman gathered his players in the early evening, passed out the team helmets, and asked a simple question: “How about a little football?” Then, he selected Gillman for the starting team, even though it was clear Gillman was still undersized for the end position. Gillman couldn’t take advantage for long. He dislocated his thumb in practice, knocking his chances of starting the season opener against the University of Cincinnati completely off track and forcing him to undergo surgery in order to repair his thumb.
Gillman missed the first game of the season—where Ohio State romped 67–6 against the Bearcats—but he entered his first varsity collegiate game in the first quarter of the October 10 contest against Vanderbilt, which survived a Buckeyes onslaught of 21 unanswered points to hang on for the five-point victory.
Ohio State’s next test was against famed rival Michigan, and the Buckeyes would enter the game without Junius Ferrall, one of the starting ends, who fractured a bone in his hand during a midweek scrimmage. Howard Rabenstein, the other end, was not performing up to expectations. He was so bad, in fact, that Willaman didn’t even use him during the scrimmages anymore, and Willaman thought Gillman would be a better choice to start. Gillman had been the one to replace Rabenstein early in the Vanderbilt game with the Buckeyes losing 12–0, and he had performed well, according to the Columbus Dispatch, which wrote that Gillman “strengthened the end position considerably, in spite of the fact that he was playing his first game of major league football and just over the effects of a bad injury.”
Willaman had made up his mind about Gillman early in the Vanderbilt game when Rabenstein, who already was playing poorly, whiffed during an attempt to tackle a Commodore ballcarrier. That misplay changed Gillman’s job status. It meant the starting job was his alone. Though the Wolverines were heavy favorites on that October day, the Buckeyes won 20–7 in a massive upset, and Gillman made a big impact with his aggression on defense, which helped stop the Michigan running attack.
The next week, in true fashion during the Willaman era, the Buckeyes couldn’t sustain the momentum, losing to Northwestern, and by the end of the season, the Buckeyes were 6–3 and 4–2 in the Big Ten, finishing fourth in the conference standings. It was only a slight improvement on the 1930 season, but for Gillman, the season was an awakening. On a wet, rainy day in a 20–0 win against Navy, Gillman scored his first collegiate touchdown, catching a 23-yard touchdown pass from quarterback Carl Cramer that had been tipped, juggled, and mishandled by “Bullet Lou” Kirn, one of Navy’s star players. On his way to the end zone, Gillman sidestepped a defender after an athletic hesitation move and shook off another tackle attempt before ending his run in the end zone.
For a guy who was not expected to contend for a starting job at the beginning of the season, Gillman had played three 60-minute games his sophomore year, scored an impressive touchdown, and won his varsity letter. The next season, his junior year, was even better, as he played five 60-minute games and at least 45 minutes in each of the other contests. He was called an “iron man.” He was also beginning to look like a star.
Gillman had improved as a student as well. He still planned to enter law school once he completed his undergraduate degree, and he worked harder at studying than ever before. His piano work, though, didn’t seem to suffer. During his freshman season, he played piano during lunch and dinner at The Village, where the team ate its meals. The Buckeyes enjoyed music at mealtime, because it kept up their spirit, and it was not unusual for a teamwide sing-along to break out from time to time. The music also kept Gillman’s wallet full, but eventually, the undersized Gillman