
Football was woven into Bert Jones’ life long before he ever threw a pass in the NFL. He wasn’t just around the game — he was immersed in it. His father, Dub Jones, was a standout receiver and defensive back on Paul Brown–coached Cleveland Browns teams of the 1950s, part of one of the most influential dynasties in pro football history. While other kids spent summers on vacation, Bert Jones spent his at Browns training camps, watching professionals work, learning how the game was supposed to be played.
That upbringing mattered. It shaped Jones into a quarterback who understood the game at a level far beyond his years — mentally, physically, and emotionally. By the time his career ended, Jones had been a college star, a No. 2 overall draft pick, an NFL MVP, and one of the most respected quarterbacks of his era.
Yet today, especially for fans under 40, Bert Jones has become a forgotten name, which is one of the quiet injustices in NFL history. Because for a brief but brilliant stretch in the mid-1970s, Jones wasn’t just good — he was the standard.
Joe Burrow was not LSU’s first great quarterback. Long before the modern spread era, Bert Jones redefined what an LSU quarterback could be.
Jones possessed:
A cannon arm
Legitimate athleticism
The ability to throw on the move
A fearless approach to contact
He was not a system quarterback. He was the system.
Jones’ time at LSU wasn’t without conflict. He had well-documented disagreements with head coach Charlie McClendon, but when Jones finally took over as the starter, the results were undeniable. Over his final 15 starts, Jones went 12–3 confirmed wins, lifting LSU into national relevance.
In 1972, he finished fourth in Heisman Trophy voting, an impressive feat given LSU’s uneven offensive reputation at the time. Jones was widely expected to be the No. 1 overall pick in the 1973 NFL Draft, but he slid to No. 2, where the Baltimore Colts selected him as the heir apparent to Johnny Unitas.
That was no small expectation — and Jones handled it.
By the mid-1970s, Bert Jones had turned the Colts into a perennial AFC power.
From 1975 to 1977, Baltimore:
Won three straight AFC East titles
Became one of the league’s most feared offensive teams
Was quarterbacked by the best player in football
In 1976, Jones was the NFL’s Most Valuable Player, throwing for 3,104 yards and 24 touchdowns in a 14-game season — remarkable numbers for the era. His passer rating that year was 102.5, an elite mark even by modern standards.
The respect he commanded was universal.
When asked in 1976 who the best quarterback in the NFL was, Joe Namath answered immediately: Bert Jones. Years later, Bill Belichick, when asked outside of Tom Brady who the best quarterback he had ever seen was, named Bert Jones.
That’s not nostalgia. That’s peer testimony.
Jones had weapons — Roger Carr, Glenn Doughty, and Lydell Mitchell — but the Colts went as far as Jones could take them. Unfortunately, their prime coincided with two of the greatest teams in NFL history.
In 1975 and 1976, Baltimore ran headfirst into the Pittsburgh Steelers dynasty in the playoffs. In 1977, the Colts fell in one of the most iconic games ever played, losing 37–31 to the Oakland Raiders in the legendary “Ghost to the Post” game.
Despite those losses, the prevailing belief entering 1978 was simple: Baltimore was next.
Then everything changed.
In the 1978 preseason, Bert Jones suffered a shoulder injury that would alter the trajectory of his career — and the Colts’ future.
Jones was tough to a fault. Instead of shutting it down and fully rehabbing, he tried to play through the injury repeatedly. The results were disastrous. His mechanics suffered, his arm strength fluctuated, and his availability became inconsistent.
Without Jones, the Colts collapsed.
1978–1979: Baltimore finished at the bottom of the AFC East
The roster deteriorated
Organizational dysfunction spread
By 1980, Jones was relatively healthy again — but the team around him was broken. A low point came in a game against the St. Louis Cardinals, when Jones was sacked a record 12 times in one game. The Colts briefly started 4–2 that season, but won only three of their final ten games.
What followed was worse.
The 1981 Colts were among the worst teams in NFL history.
The defense gave up:
500+ points
Nearly 7,000 yards in a single season
Owner Bob Irsay, in a moment that perfectly captured the chaos, called plays from the coaches’ booth during a 38–13 loss to the Philadelphia Eagles.
Jones later described the moment in a 1986 Sports Illustrated article:
“[Irsay] couldn’t have told you how many players there were on the field, never mind what plays we had. All he was trying to do was embarrass the coaches and the players. When he told me to run, I threw. When he told me to throw left, I ran right.”
That quote sums up the end of Bert Jones’ prime: elite talent trapped inside organizational dysfunction.
In 1982, Jones escaped Baltimore and joined the Los Angeles Rams, hoping for a late-career revival. It didn’t last.
During a 20–14 win over the Kansas City Chiefs, Jones suffered a severe neck injury. That injury permanently ended his playing career. There was no dramatic farewell — just silence.
For a quarterback who had once been the NFL’s best, it was a cruel ending.
In 1990, long after his playing days were over, Jones reminded everyone just how special his arm still was.
He competed in the first NFL Quarterback Challenge, finishing:
1st in the retiree division
3rd overall, competing against active NFL quarterbacks
His performance was so impressive that Bobby Beathard, then general manager of the San Diego Chargers, explored the idea of a comeback. Jones was 38 years old, and after consulting doctors, chose not to risk it.
The arm was still there. The body was not.
It’s impossible not to ask what if.
If Jones doesn’t get injured in 1978, his résumé already suggests Hall of Fame trajectory. He remains one of only three quarterbacks to post a 100+ passer rating in the 1970s, joining:
Roger Staubach (1971)
Ken Stabler (1976)
Jones’ 1976 MVP season stands as one of the most efficient quarterback years of the decade.
Longtime scout Ernie Accorsi once said that under different circumstances, Bert Jones “probably would have been the greatest player ever.” John Riggins called him the most formidable competitor he had ever seen. Bill Belichick labeled him the best pure passer he’d ever watched.
That kind of praise doesn’t fade — even if the memory does.
The NFL is filled with players whose careers were shortened by injury, especially before modern medicine and rehab. Bert Jones belongs at the top of that list.
He was:
Elite in his prime
Feared by opponents
Revered by peers
Undone by injuries and dysfunction
Bert Jones was not a “what if” because of talent. He was a “what if” because fate intervened.
And that’s why he should never be forgotten.
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