The scene played out before at least a dozen Buffalo Bills road games.
A few hours before kickoff, in the visitors' section of the press box, Buffalo's burly general manager would spot one of the few members of the traveling media corps dumb enough to share his cigarette habit.
"Dave," John Butler would say, "Where ya smoking?"
Or, if he had already cased out the closest spot to light up, he'd gesture to follow him to the walkway or alcove he'd discovered.
Once there, you could see the primary architect of Buffalo's four straight Super Bowl teams -- an executive who got as pumped up for game days as any player on the roster -- unwind, at least for a few moments.
The news that Butler died Friday at age 56 didn't come as a shock -- he'd been diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer last July. As he fought the disease through last fall, seeing his bulldog's head stripped bare by chemotherapy provided a stark reminder of the ravages of his illness. And brought back memories of those pre-game bull sessions.
His mammoth hands making a cigarette look like a tooth pick, we'd talk about the city we were in, the stadium, the weather, our families -- but mostly football.
Before the 1998 regular-season finale in New Orleans, we wound up next to each other in line for the pre-game meal of jambalaya. He pointed to an unattended black wood bar with a pair of tin-foil ashtrays on it in a darkened corner of the press box lounge, and smiled.
"Don't even have to go outside," he said. "I'll see you over there."
The topic that morning was one that would dominate most discussions of the Bills for the rest of his tenure in Buffalo -- quarterbacks.
The game meant nothing to the Bills -- their playoff position was secure. So the hierarchy decided to rest Doug Flutie, whose brilliant comeback season after nearly a decade playing in Canada had resurrected Buffalo's season, and give Rob Johnson his first playing time since a freak rib injury more than two months earlier gave Flutie his opening.
Butler signed Flutie the previous January, a month before trading for Johnson. Johnson cost a first-round pick and a five-year, $25 million contract, while Flutie signed for little more than the league minimum. But the latter's remarkable year meant decisions would have to be made in the offseason. Would Butler let a guy who had galvanized the Bills Nation get away, or pay two guys extremely well to do one job?
For Butler, the answer was simple.
"In this league today, you've got to have two quarterbacks," he said that morning in New Orleans. "And I'd always rather have two than none. Watch the other guys today, and see what I mean."
Sure enough, a pre-rehab Kerry Collins stunk out the Superdome for three series before Mike Ditka gave him one of the quickest hooks ever received by a healthy quarterback. By that point, the Bills were up by three touchdowns and cruised the rest of the way.
Of course, Butler's grand design didn't work out because Flutie and Johnson couldn't play nice together. But the attempt was just one example of his willingness to buck the conventional wisdom of the National Football League's elite.
His ability to find talent in the football hinterlands made names like Don Beebe of Chadron State, Phil Hansen of North Dakota and Marcellus Wiley of Columbia a big reason the Bills averaged 10 wins per year during Butler's 14 seasons in their front office.
And if the NFL has grown into an exclusive club where very rich men own teams run by well-coifed executives in tailored suits, John Butler was the ultimate party crasher.
At 6-foot-3 and weighing more than 300 pounds, Butler would have been a tailor's nightmare, if he cared about such things. Factor in his bushy moustache, and he looked more like a former professional wrestler than one of his actual sport's most astute personnel evaluators.
That may have been because he didn't follow the traditional path up the football ladder. A United States Marine who served in Vietnam, Butler played one season of college football before a knee injury forced him off the field. He was 34 years old and a part-time assistant coach at the University of Evansville in Indiana, working the overnight shift as a cashier at a 7-Eleven, when he got his break.
Legendary coach George Allen read an article in a local newspaper about the gung-ho coach/clerk and hired him to work for the fledgling Chicago Blitz of the United States Football League. That's where Butler met two other Allen proteges, Marv Levy and Bill Polian. In 1987, Polian brought Butler, just five years removed from punching cash-register buttons, to Buffalo as the Bills' personnel director.
Some critics claimed that he was merely a caretaker after taking over as general manager in 1993, maintaining what his predecessor built, but that ignores both Butler's role in building the Super Bowl teams and his post-Polian record -- five trips to the playoffs in eight years and another AFC title.
He was also criticized for being too loyal at times, particularly when he gave an aging Bruce Smith one last huge contract, one that subsequently swelled Buffalo's salary cap to the point of bursting.
But he was also willing to make tough choices, like the decision to release Smith, Thurman Thomas and Andre Reed on the same day in February, 2000.
Butler could be fiercely defensive about press coverage of his team, calling one reporter on the carpet for properly reporting a post-loss locker-room row that took place in clear earshot of everyone present, and limiting media access after a particularly galling stretch of losses.
That level of devotion was a key part of his success, though. He wasn't so much the boss as part of the team. Butler took that philosophy to San Diego with him, building the Chargers from an aging 1-15 embarrassment to a young playoff contender in just two seasons.
Butler was on the job right to the end, analyzing this year's draft class from his hospital bed, even after doctors told him Monday that, though his lung cancer remained in remission, lymphoma had infiltrated his stomach, liver, pancreas, lungs and intestines. According to reports, he also made peace with Bills owner Ralph Wilson, who made no secret of the grudge he bore after they parted ways late in the 2000 season.
His daughter, Andrea, had convinced him to stop smoking during the 2001 season, less than a year before doctors found the tumor in his lung. It's easy to wish that he had quit sooner, and to rue the death of someone with years, even decades, remaining at the pinnacle of his profession. But John Butler was never one for self-pity. He fought the disease that killed him with the same determination and humor with which he lived. He got to live his dream. And he made a larger, more lasting impression on his chosen field and on those fortunate enough to meet him than most who live much longer.
| Niagara Falls Reporter | www.niagarafallsreporter.com | April 15 2003 |