The University of San Francisco football team were undefeated in 1951 and invited to the Orange Bowl to play for the National Championship against Georgia Tech. The invitation came with a caveat: Leave their two African-American players behind. Every university before accepted those terms, but the USF players stood firm against this discrimination. This is a story of those individuals and what led to their moral stance that has made them legends.

Note from the author: Growing up in San Francisco, almost insured that I knew of the 51 Don’s football team and their stance. In 1951 there wasn’t an African-American in America that hadn’t experienced some sort of discrimination. Certainly the stance taken by the Orange Bowl board would have been considered ‘Right thinking’. The NCAA hadn’t yet grown in power to where they controlled the bowl bids for the National title. The Orange Bowl stance was copied in all southern bowls, and no Black player was allowed to play in any of them until five years after, and then it was by mistake.

When I became the Director of Athletics for USF, I was determined that this stance by the players should not be forgotten. Their story had to be told. I sent a film crew around the country to film interviews with the remaining players. These interviews, and the many books written about Pete Roselle, gave me the dialogue that was used in this account of the true story.

Excerpt

I stopped next to Gino Marchetti’s seat. “Mind some company?” Slouching there in the window seat, Gino was dressed in Levi’s and a leather jacket with an improbable number of zippers. Years later, before Gino’s Hall of Fame induction, I asked him about that jacket. He said it had sixteen zippers and they were a sign: the more zippers, the tougher the guy. 

As I glanced down, I saw that what I had taken to be an empty seat was actually occupied by a scuffed green duffel bag that looked like it was from a cut-rate army surplus store. Marchetti glared at me, then at the bag. He had a growth of dark beard starting but had probably shaved that morning. It would have taken me a week to grow something so impressive. Looking up at me, Gino stood, ducking under the overhead storage rack and moving out into the aisle. With one hand, he picked up the duffel and stuffed it into the rack, forcing it into a space that would not have accepted it but for the malleable canvas of the bag and the strength of the hand pushing it. 

Gino had played football the previous year in junior college, only because it allowed him to play with his brother. He was raw, not having played in high school. I was beginning to think approaching him had been a mistake when Marchetti levered himself back into his seat and gestured with an immense hand for me to take the seat beside him. 

I shot out my hand as he sat down, and Marchetti enveloped it in his own. 

“I’m Pete Roselle.” 

Marchetti nodded, and I thought he was not going to say anything at all. He looked out at the passing scenery, then back at me. “You must be important. Coach introduced you longer than any of the others.” 

I heard nothing from Marchetti for the next fifteen minutes. He sat quietly, looking out the window. It got hotter with each passing mile. The bus continued up the freeway through Berkeley, San Pablo, and Vallejo. The window to Gino’s left started halfway back in our seating area. Marchetti had it opened fully, but all the air was going to the seat behind, where Dick Colombini, a reserve halfback and lineman, had his hand up, acting as a funnel, bringing what breeze there was directly into his face. Marchetti suddenly stood, bent at the waist and leaned over the bench in front of him. He slammed the window open, heard the locks click, then sat back down. 

“They’re wrong, you know. Corning isn’t near Fresno. It’s up near Chico, west of Sacramento. I rode through it last summer on my bike. Swallowed a butterfly riding with my mouth open. The temperature there is going to be hot.”