Abel Raises Cain
by Alan Abel

Chapter 1 — Super Bowl XVII



The first half of the January 30, 1983 Super Bowl game in Pasadena between the Washington Redskins and Miami Dolphins was a real bore and 110,000 disappointed fans drowned their dismay in beer, munched on hotdogs and aimed binoculars at the Kennedy clan, former President Gerald Ford and Hollywood celebrities.

At the beginning of the second half the Dolphins were ahead, but deep in their own territory on fourth down. Their kicker took his place, the ball was snapped and the field umpire blew his whistle as he jogged across the field waving his arms. He looked like an official but underneath his striped uniform was Ray Williams, a twenty-four year old stand-up comic from Brooklyn who resembled Eddie Murphy. Williams was also a stellar athlete in track, football and basketball.

Referee Jerry Markreit shook his head in disbelief and groaned audibly, "Oh, God, why did this happen to me." Then he signaled the sidelines for assistance. The stadium police force, several hundred strong, stood fast because they couldn't see anything wrong. Markreit halted the game and again called frantically for help.

Up in the NBC-TV booth, director Ted Nathanson saw something unusual happening on the field and he was overheard shouting frenzied commands to his technical director: "Switch to Mr. T... give me a station I.D., no, go to the blimp."

Bogus referee Williams was on camera briefly before one hundred million people and it all seemed perfectly natural to the viewers, except for a subsequent two minute picture of the Goodyear Blimp. For Nathanson and his crew it was an eternity.

Pandemonium broke out on the field. It was a Mack Sennett Comedy with one Keystone Cop, a police officer weighing at least 250 pounds, chasing Williams down the field as the entire police force watched in amazement and amusement. The crowd hooted and cheered wildly: "Go ref, go! The ref is going for a touchdown! He's running like Walter Payton." This was an unexpected happening, more exciting than the game.

The huffing and puffing officer was no match for super athlete Ray Williams who twisted, turned and made a beautiful run down the sidelines as fans shouted more encouragement. Both teams and five officials watched in stunned silence. When the cop finally collared his victim, stadium fans roared their disapproval with a chorus of boos and catcalls.

Williams and the arresting officer walked through an exit tunnel and stopped by a refreshment stand to enjoy a well earned cold drink with me. Actor Frank Murgalo, as the bumbling heavy-set policeman, should have been nominated for an Academy Award after his brilliant performance that included several staged pratfalls.

Thereafter, the game continued on a high note of crowd enthusiasm and the Washington Redskins came from behind to beat the favored Miami Dolphins 27 to 17.

Today, most photographic evidence of the Williams-Murgalo caper is unavailable. This includes photographers' negatives (they had a field day shooting the mad chase) and video tapes that never showed up in photo libraries that make them available to the public. Apparently, many news services were concerned they might lose their future junkets to the bowl games.

Nevertheless, commentator Mal Sharp reported the scene in detail over San Francisco radio station KMEL. So did Phil Reisman for Gannett Newspapers. National Football League information director Jim Miller was quoted by one wire service reporter as saying, "I saw that guy. It happened right in front of me." And there were 110,000 other eye witnesses.

Until that exciting day in Ray Williams' life, he worked as a Manhattan messenger and studied comedy at the New School where I conducted a weekly workshop. Out of fifty students Ray was in the top five for creative comic ability.

When he told me that his life long ambition to play in the Super Bowl was shattered by becoming a single father, with a two-year old boy to raise, I began thinking about ways for him to realize his fantasy. By the end of the ten-week course I had developed a plan whereby Ray would have an opportunity to "play" in the Super Bowl. And he was willing to carry off the charade under my direction.

Several months prior to the game I worked out the details with Frank and Ray. I also alerted an attorney friend in Pacific Palisades, California, Roger Jon Diamond, in the event we needed his legal services. Since our intent was to amuse the fans and not injure anyone, Diamond felt we wouldn't have any serious problems.

"Even an arrest would only be a misdemeanor charge," Diamond assured us. "He might receive a $50 fine for trespassing, nothing worse."

So it was on to California with funds supplied by a friendly backer who insisted on anonymity.

During halftime in Pasadena, field judge Williams and officer Murgalo used a portable john to change into their respective uniforms. They joined me in my medical jacket and we left our bleacher seats to head towards the fifty-yard line. No questions were asked by security personnel as a policeman, official and doctor were waved through one barrier after another.

We reached the edge of the playing field in time for the second half and Ray entered the action. He was out there for three plays and then blew his whistle to stop the fourth down kick. Enter Murgalo and the merry chase was on.

After the game, we headed for a nearby diner. Inside, still in uniform, Williams was besieged by autograph seekers. A former candidate for Miss California slipped him her telephone number on a napkin and we found it impossible to eat with all the good-natured fuss over his stadium adventure.

That evening we had dinner at the Pasadena Huntington Sheraton with Los Angeles Times reporter Bart Everett and the dining room was filled as more admiring fans hovered around Ray and asked for details on his great run. Both Ray and Frank, in uniform for the benefit of reporter Everett, were easily spotted.

An elderly couple, drinking heavily at a nearby table, began a shouting match between themselves and it soon became difficult for Everett to take notes as he questioned us. I asked Frank to go over and suggest they lower their voices. Being in a policeman's uniform would accentuate the request.

He obliged and the tipsy woman followed him back with a glass of wine in her hand as she bellowed: "Don't tell me to lower my voice, you asshole!" The entire dining room became hushed at this outburst. Frank sat down and she poured a dribble of wine on his head. He turned redfaced and cursed under his breath.

"Don't do anything rash, Frank," I whispered tensely. "I'll get the Maitre'd." As I left, the inebriated woman poured another drop of wine on his head and shouted in a high-pitched voice: "All policeman are assholes. But you're the biggest asshole of them all!" She smiled wickedly at her husband's table and he saluted her with another drink.

Now everyone in the dining room was attentively watching this wild drama as Frank gripped the edge of the table and I knew he was about to explode. Fortunately, the Maitre'd came over quickly and led the couple out, bowing and scraping all the way as though they were royalty.

Afterwards, I spoke to a hotel assistant manager who had been summoned to the dining room and he explained that these two inebriates were loyal guests from Florida. Obviously he didn't want to chastise them for their obnoxious behavior.

"Besides," he added, "they're leaving early in the morning. So please accept my apologies and just forget the incident." As a further gesture of good will, the hotel paid for our dinners.

Frank was livid with rage the rest of the evening and he stalked around our room kicking furniture to let off steam while speaking his mind rather boldly. I couldn't blame him. He had acted with great restraint and was a true gentleman in the face of totally unwarranted abuse by this shameful woman.

Meantime, Ray Williams was out on the town with his date, the former Miss California runner-up.

The next day I spoke to the desk clerk: "Sir, we were entertained last night in the dining room by this delightful couple from Florida and they sent wine to our table. I didn't get their names, they've checked out and I'd like to send them something in return." The obliging clerk gave me their names and address in Florida.

Back in New York I found the appropriate greeting card in a Times Square novelty store, one that blatantly shows the anatomy this woman accused Frank of being. The message on the card read: "It takes one to know one." And I signed it: "From your police officer friend in the Huntington Sheraton Hotel dining room."

On a happier note, Ray Williams returned home as the recipient of a promotion. Fellow messengers were ecstatic over his feat and the boss made him a dispatcher. No more bicycle riding on Manhattan streets, dodging cars and pedestrians. And, most important to him and his son, Ramone, Dad had played in a Super Bowl game.

- More on the Super Bowl hoax