Life with the Cowboys
Frank Clarke was 26 when he arrived to play for the Cowboys, exposed in
the expansion draft by the Cleveland Browns. His coaches at Colorado
and Cleveland criticized his blocking, but the Cowboys were still
intrigued by the 6-1, 215-pound receiver.
FILE PHOTO 1965
Frank Clarke finished his eight-year Cowboys career with 281 catches for 5,214 yards and 51 touchdowns.
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"He was the most attractive guy on a list of old, injured, disposable
players," recalled Gil Brandt, the longtime Cowboys player personnel
boss who was charged with putting together the team's first roster.
It didn't hurt that Mr. Clarke could blend into new environments. One
of only a handful of blacks on the Colorado campus in the mid-1950s,
Mr. Clarke was elected the university's equivalent of homecoming king.
He and John Wooten, the only other black player then on the Colorado
team, were segregated from teammates on some road trips. They quietly
accepted such indignities, but it wasn't long before their teammates
wouldn't go to places that didn't welcome them.
"Frank didn't have to say anything," said Gary Nady, a retired Dallas
businessman who was Mr. Clarke's roommate on those trips. "He was the
most popular guy on the team. No one wanted to see him and John hurt.
It strengthened us as a team."
In Dallas, Mr. Clarke said he was stunned to find separate public
drinking fountains. He was told living in North Dallas was not an
option.
Life was different inside the Cowboys' locker room, where rookie head
coach Tom Landry wouldn't tolerate the slightest sign of bigotry.
"We were concentrating on making the team, not on changing the politics
of Dallas County," Mr. Clarke said. "Tom knew if anyone had an ax to
grind because of color, it wasn't going to work."
Behind the scenes, Mr. Clarke pushed quietly to improve the plight of
minorities around the city. Former City Council member Al Lipscomb, one
of Dallas' most prominent civil rights leaders, recalls Mr. Clarke as
"a leader."
"He didn't shut his eyes," said Mr. Wooten, who followed Mr. Clarke to
Cleveland and ultimately joined the Cowboys' front office. "He was a
stand-up guy who always pushed for what was right. He would say, 'This
is what we have to do to make it better. Who is going to stand up with
me to make it better?' "
Instead of picking at Mr. Clarke's deficiencies, Mr. Landry chose to
accentuate his strengths. The coach appreciated Mr. Clarke's speed, his
ability to run precise routes and his soft hands.
Mr. Clarke finished an eight-year Cowboys career with 281 catches for 5,214 yards and 51 touchdowns.
At age 33, he was ready to move on from football. Younger, faster legs
had arrived. Bob Hayes had already pushed him to tight end. Mr. Norman
shoved him to the bench.
Besides, his future outside the game appeared limitless.
From football to TV
On weekends, Mr. Clarke anchored sports reports for WFAA-TV (Channel
when not working NFL games for CBS. During the week, he threw himself
into work at a bank and the youth council.
FILE PHOTO WFAA
Former WFAA-TV sports anchor Verne Lundquist (left) gives part-time sportscaster Frank Clarke some pointers.
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"He had the respect of little toughies and got them back in the main
vein," said Mr. Lipscomb, the ex-council member. "He had the ability to
talk to street toughs and CEOs and hold their attention."
Channel 8 liked the idea of showcasing a former high-profile Cowboy on its air.
"The Cowboys erupted on the scene with the NFL Championship Games
against Green Bay in 1966 and 1967," said Verne Lundquist, Channel 8's
lead sports anchor when Mr. Clarke joined the station in 1968. "The
idea was to find the most pleasant, handsome, bright ex-Cowboy and put
him on the air."
But by 1973, Mr. Clarke was ready for another change. Television work
at CBS and Channel 8 had lost its allure. There were signs his marriage
was coming apart.
"They got married at an early age," said oldest son Gregory, 55, a
Dallas firefighter. "Maybe after my dad left the limelight, he was
trying to find himself. Some things were not there. Maybe his marriage
was one of them."
If the Clarke children resented their father for the breakup of their
parents' marriage, they say they have long since re-embraced him.
Jeffrey gave up a promising college football career at Washington State
to help his mother after the divorce.
"She needed me," Jeffrey said. "There was no choice."
Sandra Clarke, 71, lives in the Dallas area. Her children report she isn't well.
"I can speak for my mother," said daughter Stephanie, 48, of McKinney.
"My mother has always been in love with my father and always will be."
The move to California offered no professional elixir for Mr. Clarke.
He said he felt like a "fish out of water" in the corporate world of
construction.
On Feb. 7, 1974, his 40th birthday, he received
The Handbook to Higher Consciousness,
which lists 12 pathways to "unconditional love and oneness." Mr. Clarke
said the book taught him how to take responsibility for himself and a
life structure to find happiness.
"I've learned to trust and follow my heart," he said.
That heart led him to Berkeley and Mr. Keyes' Living Love Center. Even
in a liberal community, the center caused concern. A beat-up old bus
always parked out front was considered an eyesore. Inside, rituals
included members standing nude in front of the assembly and describing
their own bodies.
"At that point, you don't have to pretend anymore," said Roedy Green, a
Living Love alumnus who is now a Web designer in Victoria, British
Columbia. "You'd do the same thing mentally. All the things you had to
hide, you came forward with and faced a nonjudgmental crowd."
Mr. Clarke embraced such concepts.
Even in an accepting community, Mr. Clarke stood out. Carole Thompson,
a Living Love leader, said his NFL experiences made him different.
"He was seeing that everyone didn't live in a competitive,
kill-or-be-killed world," said Ms. Thompson, who dated Mr. Clarke after
his divorce and now serves as a minister in San Angelo, Texas.
Commune Cornucopia
In 1977, nearly a decade after his playing days were done, Mr. Clarke
faced a decision. With the Living Love Center facing mounting criticism
and a desire to expand, Mr. Keyes and his followers purchased the
150-acre Catholic convent in St. Mary, Ky., and established a commune.
The atmosphere in Kentucky was different. Rituals and exercises were
less explicit. Families were reared, and children were welcome. But the
primary tenet remained the same: the search for personal happiness.
Mr. Clarke was one of the few blacks in the commune, but something else
made him noteworthy: He earned a reputation as a gentle giant.
"I think it was a place he got respect. And as a black person, that was
hard to do," said Mr. Green, who also moved to Cornucopia. "Part of it
was he was a person who liked helping people. He could calm them. He
could help people in emotional turmoil."
Mr. Clarke reveled most, however, in working with the children. "My calling," he called it.
"People started having children, and Frank loved being around children
and they responded to him. It was just a natural fit," said Deborah
Ham, another Cornucopia alum.
Like all Cornucopia residents, Mr. Clarke's days were regimented. In
addition to assigned tasks called "karma yoga," there were workshops,
group sings and training sessions for visitors.
At first, Cornucopia's neighbors in St. Mary found the newcomers alien.
Commune residents sometimes arrived in town tethered together in an
exercise to better understand each other. They frequently would also
appear on townspeople's doorsteps volunteering to help with chores.
"People thought it was a cult at first," said Susan Spicer, a longtime
town resident. "But some of the people were able to kind of insinuate
themselves into the community, and quite a few people stayed here."
Cornucopia dissolved in 1982 because of a power struggle. Mr. Keyes and
his followers moved to Coos Bay, Ore. Mr. Clarke followed to take care
of Ms. Ham's twin daughters.
Ms. Ham credits Mr. Clarke for saving the girls' lives when the brick
siding on an incinerator collapsed on them. He heard the commotion and
managed to lift the wall.
Later, it took five men to move the wall that Mr. Clarke lifted, Ms. Ham said.
"He's so present in the moment with the children," Ms. Ham said. "He
laughs and plays with them. It's a joy to behold. And they love him."
No car needed
Cherry blossoms line the Duke Park neighborhood that Mr. Clarke now
calls home. The trees help shield him from the outside world.
He has no car. Mr. Wooten recalls Mr. Clarke telling him at the 50th
reunion of Colorado's 1956 Orange Bowl team that he didn't need one.
"I don't have anywhere to go," he said, according to Mr. Wooten.
It wasn't easy finding Mr. Clarke and persuading him to attend the reunion.
"No one believed he'd come," said Bill Harris, director of the school's
alumni association for athletes. "No one had heard from him in years.
People always called asking for him. I had no idea where he was.
Finally, I had to put John Wooten on the case, and he convinced him to
come."
Once there, Mr. Clarke gave an impassioned speech, thanking his former teammates for standing up for him and Mr. Wooten.
Those teammates had no idea that when Mr. Clarke moved to Durham, he
packed all his possessions in a single suitcase and took a train from
Oregon to live with the Tugwells, who are related to a Cornucopia
member.
He is in his 27th year as a full-time nanny, living off what he calls a
work exchange – caring for children and keeping house for room and
board. Even when he returned to his native Wisconsin to care for his
elderly mother, he worked as a nanny. When he stayed with son Gregory
for several months in the late 1980s, Mr. Clarke served as nanny to his
granddaughter.
Reviews of his work have been exemplary. Gal Looft, who says Mr. Clarke
worked in her rural Kentucky home for several months, describes his
work as "great."
Ms. Weaver and Mr. Tugwell say they couldn't be happier with their
situation. A month after Mr. Clarke arrived, the parents took infant
son Quinn out of day care and entrusted him to the newest member of the
household.
"I can't even tell you how grateful I am," Ms. Weaver said. "I keep
walking around saying to myself that I must've done something right at
some time to be given this gift."
Mr. Clarke is involved in community activities and is known to many in
the neighborhood as "The Mayor of Duke Park." Asked whether they know
anything about his football background, most neighbors simply shrug.
Mr. Clarke prefers it that way, reiterating that he "lives in the moment."
Mr. Tugwell said he had no idea of his nanny's NFL past when he met Mr. Clarke.
"I had to Google Franklin," said Mr. Tugwell, a longtime Washington
Redskins fan. "I said to him, 'I can't believe you didn't tell me about
all this.' "
Mr. Tugwell has been able to draw some football stories from Mr.
Clarke. The men followed intently as Terrell Owens pursued Mr. Clarke's
touchdowns record. After the record fell, Mr. Clarke received an
autographed football from Mr. Owens with a message: "Proud to be in the
same class as you."
If Mr. Clarke's sojourn from the Cotton Bowl to Duke Park doesn't
resonate, he is content to let the world try to figure him out.
All he knows is that he is happy. That's what he believes really matters.
"You keep doing what you're doing," he said. "That's where I am,
knocking on the door of 75, and I'm ready for another 74 years. The
rest of my life couldn't possibly be what the last 74 have been, and
I'm ready to go tomorrow, if that's what the plan is for me."