Padecky: Bob St. Clair a beautiful dichotomy of tough and soft

No one lives forever but after being around Bob St. Clair a few times, I thought he’d give it a good shot. After all, how could mere mortality penetrate that body, that mind, that voice, that tenderness of spirit? It wasn’t as if St. Clair appeared indestructible. He was much more impressive than that. He was unavailable, unavailable to be a target, his mere presence discouraging anything that would otherwise irritate or cripple the rest of us.

Bob St. Clair died Monday, that’s what the 49ers and his family said, but I’m going to wait a couple more days before I believe it. Remember, this was the guy who blocked a Norm Van Brocklin punt with his face, the kick knocking out five teeth. They stuck cotton in his mouth to stop the bleeding. They shot him full of Novocain to numb the pain. He played the rest of the game. So you’ll pardon me if I don’t believe just yet Bob is gone.

Bob St. Clair was this beautiful dichotomy of tough and soft. It not only made him complex, it made him tough to stereotype, even tougher to diminish and disregard. When you’re 6-foot-9, 280 pounds, with hands the size of a catcher’s mitt, with a such a deep voice he sounded like God with a head cold, well, St. Clair carried baggage with him, the baggage of assumption.

“When I talk,” St. Clair told me once, “I don’t use dem’s and dee’s and doe’s. It surprises people. I like that.”

That’s St. Clair, a 6-foot-9 imp. That’s St. Clair, who looked like he was 6-foot-9 when you first met him but after about 15 minutes of conversation he shrunk. His formidable size was no longer apparent or necessary. He now was a guy with an interesting backstory, with a sense of humor, who thought of himself as just another guy at the end of the bar at the Nutty Irishman here in Santa Rosa (now the Nutty Bar and Restaurant).

In fact, check the bar’s website. There’s a picture of St. Clair surrounded by friends. Notice St. Clair. He’s not standing up. He’s sitting so low that you have to search for that massive head of his. He truly wanted to be another guy at the bar.

St. Clair dressed up once as a German barmaid in pigtails, pigtails that looked like rope, a rope so long it had to be one a cowboy would use to catch a calf. That St. Clair made fun of himself was one of his charms. In the NFL these days, go ahead and find an NFL star that has no problem with self-deprecation, who isn’t shy about revealing he has flaws as well.

St. Clair was driving down 19th Avenue in San Francisco with his future wife, Marsha, and Marsha’s parents in the back seat. The 49ers had just lost a tough game, a too-common occurrence in the late ‘50s. St. Clair found himself at a stoplight. On the sidewalk were three very drunk men, 49er fans with loose tongues and cursing sarcasm at St. Clair. St. Clair asked them to be quiet. The drunks laughed. St. Clair asked again. Again they laughed at him.

St. Clair emerged from the car as only a man 6-foot-9 can do and handled each man as if they were stuffed animals. One he threw against a wall. One he threw against a mailbox. One he threw like a Frisbee down the sidewalk.

“And my future father and mother-in-law are sitting in the backseat, eyes wide open, wondering who in the hell is their daughter marrying,” St. Clair said. He told the story with a nervous laugh, knowing it was a good story even if it wasn’t his finest hour.

He preferred to keep the violence on the field. If there was one thing he enjoyed, it was telling an NFL story of the ‘60s. When he told the tales, St. Clair was telling everyone what it was like living in the Wild West, where rules were more like guidelines, subject to adjustment from anger.

Against Chicago, St. Clair cold-cocked Chicago Bears coach George Halas with a punch, sending Halas’ hat and sunglasses flying. One of the founding fathers of the NFL had raced down the sideline to kick a downed Hugh McElhenny in the ribs, so upset was he at the 49ers running back after a long gain. St. Clair was just protecting his teammate.

And then the punch line: Halas tried trading for St. Clair the next offseason, so impressed he was with St. Clair’s aggression.

St. Clair made no apologies for his play then and no apologies for the NFL today, as the league undergoes intense scrutiny for brain trauma injuries. He said fans don’t want to see the league toning down the violence.

“The fans love it,” St. Clair said. “Like the Romans.”

St. Clair had a broken toe, three broken fingers, a broken elbow, both Achilles tendons shredded, six times his nose was broken and 23 Novocain injections in his back, toes and shoulders.

“It goes with the territory,” he shrugged.

As much as the aging or aged ex-NFL players are being pushed further and further away in our memory, to become fuzzy skeletons of a long-since bygone era, they remain relevant for one simple reason. They aren’t surrounded by agents, handlers, overly-protective friends. They are a resource material easily accessible. They are a history lesson, wisdom and perspective lining their stories. All one needs to do is ask, timidity being the only roadblock.

Bob St. Clair took away that timidity from the curious. He was as accessible as the rising sun. He spoke and the stereotypes and his size and his voice became irrelevant. He was a gentleman giant and the shame of it all - if he truly has passed - is that Bob’s not around anymore to teach today’s player how to behave.

And they would have to listen. Yes they would. You see, no one would fall asleep when Bob St. Clair opened his mouth. No one would. No one could. Bob St. Clair always had the stage, whether he wanted it or not.

To contact Bob Padecky email him at bobpadecky@gmail.com.