About a minute-and-a-half to go. He goes on a down-and-in pass. As soon as he caught it, I really puffed him, and his head snapped and the ball flew, and Chuck Weber fell on it. I clenched my fist, I turned around, and I closed my eyes and I said, 'This f-in game is over.'

Pros like myself played football not for money or glory, but for the simplest reason: the love of the game.

You've got to play with that killer instinct, man. You've got to hate that guy across from you. Then after the game is over, tell him what a nice guy he is. Shake his hand. Especially if you win.

For what my generation did and went through and so forth, and what these glamour boys earn for what little they play, it's a joke. Is it football? Are you guys football players? Is that what they call football? It's not iron-man football, where you stay on the field for 60 minutes. Everybody! We were iron men. Not a bunch of pussyfoots.

About a minute-and-a-half to go. He goes on a down-and-in pass. As soon as he caught it, I really puffed him, and his head snapped and the ball flew, and Chuck Weber fell on it. I clenched my fist, I turned around, and I closed my eyes and I said, 'This f-in game is over.'

And you get into that sort of cannibalistic feeling - all you want to do is go out there and, like I say, kill somebody. I'm going to get him. I'm going to kill'em. Not like you are going to put them into the ground after, but you just want to kill a guy.

The positions I played, every play, I was making contact, not like that Deion Sanders. He couldn't tackle my wife. He's back there dancing out there instead of hitting.