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June 22nd, 1981

Baltimore, Maryland

Robert Ursa is sitting inside his office drinking scotch

This is what the cantankerous ornery 58-year-old does with much of his time. He drinks

And when he's not drinking, he smokes. The long-time owner of the NFL's Baltimore Colts

smells like a booze-filled ash tray. He often walks with an angry intoxicated wobble.

He takes particular pride in stiffing contractors, ignoring bills and dismissing women as sugar and honey.

There are 28 NFL owners and none are liked less than him.

What is it?

His secretary peaks your head through the door. There's a man on the phone who insists he's

buying the Baltimore Colts from you.

Over the past few months, the rumor has spread that Ursa is interested in unloading the Colts.

Ever since, he's received an incessant number of calls from this kid from New York City,

Fast Talker, Rude, uniquely annoying.

Pass him through. Ursa takes another swig of scotch, embraces himself for the voice he's come to

dread. Bob! Listen, Donald, I told you not to call me Bob. I'm Mr. Ursa.

Right, right, Mr. Ursa. I wanted to see if you've thought any more about the Colts.

I always think about the Colts. They're my team.

Right, of course, but my offer is $50 million. That's a lot of money. It's a great deal.

Nobody else is going to pay you that much. You guys finished seven and nine last year.

You play in a run-down baseball stadium. This really, really is a tremendous offer.

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