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SPORTS
FOOTBALL'S
FUSSIEST,
FANCIEST
FAKER
Ray Berry, star end of the Baltimore Colts,
has some "screwball" habits,
but they pay off in pass-catching records
When Raymond Berry can't fake himself loose, he uses -gluelike
hands to grab ball from opponent's grasp.
By ROBERT G. DEINDORFER
Some time ago, high-scoring Raymond Berry of the Balti
. more Colts sat in the locker room reading one of several
detailed notebooks he keeps.
As he sat reading such helpful items as-"and don't fumble"
(which he had underlined twice), an old friend and teammate
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beside him. An inquisitive guy, the teammate focused his
eyes on Berry's notebook.
Suddenly, Berry flipped the notebook shut and put it in
the locker. What might seem strange behavior for anyone
else made good sense to him.
"You may get traded to another team some time," Berry
explained. "And if you're playing defense against me, I don't
want you to know all my trade secrets."
Unusual? Not at all. In a way, that incident says much
about sway-backed, nearsighted Raymond
Berry ("don't call me 'Ray'!"), who plays
football wearing contact lenses and extra long
cleats on one shoe because one of his legs is
slightly shorter than the other.
Whether fans who marvel at his dazzling
catches realize it or not, Berry is considerably
more than professional football's greatest pass
catching end. He also happens to be the fussi
est, fanciest faker in that rough, tough, bone
crushing sport
Among many other things, for example, the
27-year-old from Paris, Texas, feels that he
might lose his artistic touch if his weight ever
exceeds 185 pounds. To guard against such a
fate, he weighs himself regularly three times every day and
often carries his own scales along on road trips.
Early in Berry's professional career with the champion
Colts, he carefully researched a number of fabrics until he
found precisely the durable lightweight material he wanted
for his custom-made uniform. In Berry's view, the slightly
heavier team uniform might slow him down.
Another thing that sets him apart from other players is
a voluble, nonstop tongue, which he uses mostly on himself.
"Nice catch, Raymond," he says after fielding a difficult pass.
"Shouldn't miss that one, Raymond," he scolds when he
muffs a pass.
If Berry wasn't immensely popular with his teammates,
and if he didn't happen to be the outstanding end in football,
Raymond Berry
Berry, however, is taken with grim seriousness by his be
fuddled opponents and with amused admiration by team
mates. Not the least of Berry's admirers is the incredible,
rifle-armed Baltimore quarterback, Johnny Unitas, who
teams with Berry to flimflam the opposition.
"It isn't so much Berry's speed that shakes him past re
ceivers, although he is moderately fast," Unitas says. "What
Berry exploits are a confusing hip-wiggling run and mag
nificent fakes that confound rival players."
Between seasons, Berry visits with his parents in Paris,
Texas, where his father coaches the high-school football
team. Raymond works out regularly, runs and reruns films
of Baltimore games, and goes through his notebooks. For a
few weeks each year, he helps the coaching staff at Baylor
University work with offensive ends.
Earlier this season, Berry married a girl he
met at Baylor. The two have a comfortable
apartment in a pleasant section of Baltimore.
They live quietly without any night life, and
except for occasional visits from teammates
and other friends the pattern of Berry's con
centration hasn't changed much.
After the Colts' last game, the Berrys ex
pect to return to Texas.
In the meantime, you can bet that Berry has
been devoting almost every minute to being
the perfect pro specialist. The day before a
game, for example, Berry often walks back
and forth across the playing field searching
for irregularities: high spots, low spots, soft
areas. Running downfield in the game, he wants to know ex
actly what to watch out for.
Last year Berry even asked Colt president Carroll Rosen
bloom to buy a special new double-weight tarpaulin to
spread over one corner of the end zone between games. Since
Berry caught a number of passes there, he wanted the firmest
footing possible. In the locker room after the next home
game, Rosenbloom kidded Berry about that new tarp. He
reminded him that the team had spent $3,000 for the canvas,
and it hadn't rained once all week.
Berry's dead serious answer not only illustrates his fussy
approach to the game, it also helps explain how a gimpy,
nearsighted Texan became the most exciting, highest-scor
ing end in pro football: "No, it didn't rain all week, Carroll,"
he might easily be laughed out of the game as a screwball. he said, "but it might have rained."
Family Weeklu, December 1J, 1960 7
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