The morning broke with a brisk wind sweeping across the modest landscape of Dallas, Oklahoma—a small but proud town situated halfway between the two institutions whose names today stirred both passion and pain in equal measure: the University of Oklahoma in Norman, and Oklahoma Agricultural and Mechanical College in Stillwater.
It was November 25, 1944, and even in the midst of global war, with sons and brothers serving on the frontlines in Europe and the Pacific, the traditions of home, hearth, and gridiron still held sway. In wartime America, football was more than just a game; it was a stand-in for normalcy, for community, and for the youthful exuberance that war had threatened to steal away. And nowhere was that more powerfully felt than in the heartland, where the Bedlam rivalry between the Sooners and the Aggies brought citizens together—even if just for a few hours—to forget the hardships and cheer for pride and state.
The Setting: Taft Junior High Stadium
The clash was hosted at the modest but serviceable Taft Junior High Stadium—a small concrete horseshoe of bleachers and a grass field worn thin at the 50-yard line. Usually, this venue accommodated local high school games, marching band exhibitions, and weekend baseball doubleheaders. But today, it stood transformed into the crucible of one of the fiercest and longest-running rivalries in Oklahoma sports history.
Unofficial estimates pegged the crowd at just over 9,000—more than four times the stadium’s intended capacity. Spectators crowded onto the embankments beyond the end zones, stood on the perimeter fences, and even climbed onto the roofs of cars parked tightly along the neighboring streets. The war had tightened everyone’s belts—there was no gasoline to spare, no new uniforms to stitch, and certainly no spare building materials to expand a stadium—but none of that stopped the people of Oklahoma from showing up.
Men in overcoats and fedoras, women in modest wool dresses and heavy scarves, children wrapped in blankets and mittens made by mothers conserving every thread—they came in droves. From Stillwater and Norman, from Tulsa and Lawton, from Muskogee, Enid, and even the distant Panhandle, Oklahomans came to Dallas not for shopping or diplomacy, but for Bedlam.
A Game in the Shadow of War
More than a football game, this 1944 edition of Bedlam played out under the long shadow of the Second World War. Many players from both rosters had been called up or had volunteered, and the teams were filled with a mix of young, untested freshmen and older returnees from injury or training assignments. The country was still months away from victory in Europe, and Japan showed no signs of surrender.
On the sidelines, coaches wore somber expressions. They had watched their rosters decimated over the past three years. OU head coach Dewey “Snorter” Luster had lost more than a dozen players to service academies and boot camps, while Jim Lookabaugh at A&M had only a handful of returning lettermen. Yet both men prepared their teams with discipline, determination, and the hope of giving their fans something to remember.
A prayer opened the ceremony, led by a local pastor who spoke of boys overseas and boys on the field, of honor and sacrifice, and of how the game that day symbolized everything they were fighting for. The national anthem followed, performed by a small high school brass ensemble whose notes trembled slightly in the morning chill.
Kickoff: Bedlam Begins
From the first snap, it was evident that the game would be a slugfest—less of a strategic chess match and more of a bruising contest of will. The Sooners, wearing their traditional crimson and cream, came out in a split-T formation, relying on their speedy tailback, 19-year-old Johnny Martin, a wiry kid from Ada whose older brother was flying B-17s in Europe.
Oklahoma A&M, in orange and black jerseys with faded numbers, countered with a single-wing offense and a grinding fullback named Walt “Ox” Gibson, a 220-pound farm boy from Pawhuska who had spent the previous summer working wheat harvests to support his family while waiting on draft papers.
The first quarter saw both teams locked in a defensive stalemate. Every yard was contested; every inch mattered. Cleats dug into cold, clumpy turf as linemen scrapped with hands, elbows, and shoulder pads. Coaches barked from the sidelines, and referees—local schoolteachers moonlighting as officials—did their best to keep order.
Midway through the second quarter, Oklahoma broke the deadlock. A play-action fake by quarterback Billy Reeder pulled the Aggie secondary just enough for Martin to sprint down the sideline and haul in a 32-yard touchdown pass. The crowd, already tense and overpacked, erupted into a cacophony of cheers and cowbells.
By halftime, the Sooners led 7–0. No marching bands were present this year—many high school musicians had enlisted or were working extra jobs at home—but the PA system played swing tunes over tinny speakers while fans sipped hot coffee from Thermoses and huddled together under quilts.
Second Half: An Aggie Answer
The Aggies came out of the locker room in the third quarter with renewed vigor. Coach Lookabaugh, whose steely gaze was legendary, had clearly lit a fire under his squad. They marched downfield with a 12-play drive fueled by Gibson’s punishing runs and capped off with a trick reverse that saw flanker Leon Taylor scamper untouched into the end zone.
A&M’s small contingent of fans—mostly students and family—roared with pride as the scoreboard read 7–7. But the game was far from over.
As the fourth quarter began, the air took on a stillness—a tension that gripped every person in the stands. It wasn’t just about school pride anymore. For many in attendance, this game represented continuity in the face of disruption, a symbol of life proceeding despite the global chaos. One could feel the crowd willing the players forward with each possession.
The Final Drive
With just under five minutes left, the Sooners took possession at their own 28-yard line. The offensive line, undersized but scrappy, carved out a narrow path through the Aggie defense. Martin, visibly exhausted, took handoff after handoff, each time picking up three, four, five yards.
As the clock wound down, the Sooners reached the A&M 19. With no timeouts and just 28 seconds on the clock, Reeder dropped back and delivered a high-arching pass to tight end Don Hardy—another local boy, who had spent the summer building warplanes in Wichita. Hardy leapt high, snagged the ball with both hands, and came down hard on his back just inside the pylon. Touchdown.
Final score: Oklahoma 14, Oklahoma A&M 7.
Aftermath: A Moment of Unity
As the final whistle blew, the crowd stood—not just in celebration or despair, depending on allegiance, but in shared reverence. The players met at midfield, shook hands, and exchanged nods that spoke of mutual respect. Many would be wearing different uniforms in a matter of weeks—khaki or navy blue, olive drab or Marine Corps green.
Reporters from small papers in Norman and Stillwater scribbled notes, quoted coaches, and described the play-by-play. But what couldn’t be easily captured in ink was the emotion that hung in the air like fog. For a brief afternoon, amid ration books and telegrams, war bonds and blackout curtains, the people of Oklahoma were given a taste of normal life—a slice of joy and agony wrapped in 60 minutes of football.
Legacy of the 1944 Bedlam
The 1944 Bedlam game has often been overshadowed by more famous clashes in later decades, as both OU and Oklahoma A&M (renamed Oklahoma State University in 1957) rose to national prominence. Yet for those who attended that wartime battle in Dallas, it remains unforgettable.
Many of the players went on to serve. Johnny Martin would be wounded in Belgium just four months later but returned to play again in 1946. Walt Gibson was drafted into the Marines and fought in Okinawa, earning a Bronze Star for bravery. Coaches Luster and Lookabaugh both stayed with their programs, helping shepherd the next generation of players through the postwar years.
Taft Junior High Stadium was eventually replaced by larger, more modern venues, but a commemorative plaque now sits on the site, honoring the “Great Game of ’44.” Each year, as the Bedlam game approaches, old-timers and football historians alike recount the story—the grit, the glory, and the community spirit that defined that day.
In an era marked by uncertainty, the 1944 Bedlam game offered a moment of fierce rivalry wrapped in profound unity, a snapshot of a state’s unbreakable spirit in one of its most trying hours. The echoes of that game still reverberate—not just through old newspaper clippings and grainy black-and-white photographs, but in the hearts of those who remember when football, for one day, helped hold a country together.
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