After Starr completed a short pass to Taylor, the Bears’ Bill George slammed the quarterback to the turf, bloodying Starr’s lip. That should take care of you, Bart Starr, you little pussy. Jerry Kramer couldn’t believe what he heard next. Fuck you, Bill George, we’re coming after you. Kramer had never heard Starr curse. (And never did again.) They had been teammates for a year and a half, but Kramer thought of Starr as methane gas—odorless, colorless, tasteless, having little impact on his surroundings.
