The men look likeplay-toy manikins from a seat high in the stands, and the thunder of theirconflict is lost in the noise of the crowd. But seen from field level at thesidelines, these same men are gargantuan; there one hears the sounds ofbattle—the heavy thud of flesh on flesh and the shouts and cries of combatantsin violent physical contact. On the next nine pages Artist Bob Peak brings tolife the closeup color of professional football. Here is the way the playerssee and feel the game and here, too, is how they look when they play it. It isa ballet of bulky elephants—bruising, yet curiously graceful and alwaysexpressively serious.
On the bench thebig men sit quietly tense, waiting and thinking of action past and action tocome.
One thousandpounds of determined man and an air-filled leather ball move toward enemyterritory, soon to be met by an equally determined defense.
Relaxed officialschat while awaiting the start of the second half. There is a curious quiet inthe arena as the first team streams out of the dressing room. Soon the battlewill again he joined, each team testing the adjustments made during theconferences between halves.
September 8, 1963
At the moment thehall is snapped, the battering hulk of opposing linemen meet head on like bullsin mortal combat, igniting a violent human explosion.
One week'scontest is over and, hooded against the cold of evening, the teams trudge offthe playing field, tired and silent whether in victory or defeat.