Last part of story: Two years later, three Murchison cronies who lived in Washington, plus Bob Thompson, a Texan who was also well-known in the capital, decided to have a little fun with Marshall for being such a jerk when Clint was trying to buy his team. Their target was Marshall's annual Christmas extravaganza staged at halftime during the Commanders' final home game which that year would be played against the Cowboys. So, the night before the game, operatives snuck into D.C. Stadium and spread chicken feed all over the field. The next day, when a team of Alaskan sled dogs would pull Santa Claus onto the field at halftime, a bunch of hungry chickens would be released to gobble the feed. CBS would be televising the festivities live. The thought of those chickens wandering around as the dogs showed up made Murchison's buddies howl.
The day of the game, two crates of chickens were smuggled into the stadium, stashed in a dugout and covered with a tarp. All told, there were seventy-six chickens, seventy-five white, one black. At the time Marshall was the only NFL owner who hadn't hired an African-American player. All went well until just before halftime when a Commanders official wandered by and heard the chickens. He queried the guard, who tried to buy his silence with a C-note. The official called the police. Both the guard and the chickens were arrested.
Predictably, Marshall was furious when he heard about the prank. He filed a complaint with commissioner Pete Rozelle. He named Thompson as a conspirator. He made ominous threats. But Marshall's pique only heightened the pranksters' resolve. The following year, as the Cowboy game drew near, one member of the group vowed, "There will be chickens in D.C. Stadium."
I wish I'd been there. As Dallas News columnist Sam Blair reported: "A few minutes before kickoff it happened. The Indian princesses pranced onto the field, followed by the Commander band playing 'Hail to the Commanders.' As they reached midfield, four banners were unfurled from the upper deck of the stadium. The banners said: CHICKENS. One was at each 50-yard line and in the center of each end zone."
The banners were the cue for the acrobats, reported Blair. "Dressed in chicken costumes, they rushed down through the stands, tumbled over the rail and dashed onto the field. Each man carried a bag, from which he tossed colored eggs as he ran. One guy was grabbed by stadium guards and gave up easily but the other was dedicated to his task."
By now the band was playing the National Anthem so no one could stop the man in the chicken suit as he zigzagged through the formation. According to Blair's account, "He pulled one real chicken out of his bag and released it. Then he wriggled away from some stadium guards, jigged up and down, shook his feathers. The real chicken was captured and carried out, but the man was elusive. As stadium guards pursued, he ran out to the middle of the field, turned a cartwheel, fell and sprawled on the 30-yard line. Then, as the teams began to run on the field, the man leaped up, climbed into the stands, and dashed up the steps. The Cowboy Chicken Club had succeeded!"
In the game itself, the 'Skins, 4-2-2 coming in, disintegrated before a standing-room-only crowd, as Snead completed only 11 of 27 passes in a 38-10 Cowboys' rout. The next morning, the game story in the Dallas News detailed the Commanders' demise. The scoring summary, in agate type, was the usual breakdown of stats. Only the last line was different:
"Attendance -- 49,888 (and one chicken)."
Them were the days.
