Siren Song

"Grand opportunities for young men," beckoned the ads. "Be a TV celebrity." "See the country." One outfit's brochure promised a salary "double that of the average U.S. working man." A rival offered free life insurance (up to $20,000 worth), free medical coverage, bonuses (up to $6,700 a year) and retirement pensions (up to $821 a month). "Statistics show," it warned archly, "that out of every 100 people who reach the age of 65, 84 are flat broke, eight are weak financially, six are comfortable, and two are well off." Sign on the dotted line and "be one of the two."

It sounded like a talent hunt for rocket engineers. But this was pro football, at draft time, when the two leagues work up a lather over graduating college stars. In Manhattan, the American Football League drafted 160 players; in Chicago, the National Football League drafted 280--in a marathon session that started at 9:04 one morning, lasted until 6:47 the next.

The Dallas Cowboys delayed the N.F.L. proceedings for 2 1/2 hours, awaiting a doctor's report on Oregon Halfback Mel Renfro, who had cut his wrist on a mirror--and drafted Texas Tackle Scott Appleton instead. Coaches cackled happily when they landed a prospect that the opposition had overlooked. "I like this kid," said Green Bay's Vince Lombardi of his 14th-round choice, Northwestern End Tom O'Grady. "When you talk to him, his eyes light up. Besides, he's six-four, weighs 205 and runs the 100 in 9.9."

Money flowed like ballpark beer, and college stars gleefully acted as their own auctioneers. The Detroit Lions lost Southern Cal Quarterback Pete Beathard, their No. 1 draft choice, to the A.F.L.'s Kansas City Chiefs. The Chiefs gave Beathard a $15,000 bonus for signing, a $20,000 contract, stock in a pay-TV company, a new car and a rent-free apartment.

That would be enough to set any young man's head awhirl. But for Beathard, as for most rookies, a "career" in pro football may mean nothing more than sitting miserably on the bench, or maybe a spot on the kickoff "suicide squad." Occasionally, a rookie hits it big. But for every one who does, there are many more like Ralph Gu-glielmi, bouncing around four pro clubs in seven years, wishing he had never listened to all that hoopla about glamour and success. The "old pro" may be a cliche, but he is also a fact: only one out of eight rookies wins a starter's job.

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