Cliff Harris: The Undrafted Cowboy Who Made Fear a Defensive Weapon

Nobody drafted him. Everybody learned his name.

Nobody Drafted Him

There is something wonderfully appropriate about the beginning of Cliff Harris' career.

The Cowboys of that era had developed a reputation for finding football players where other teams weren't looking. Gil Brandt and the Dallas scouting operation searched small colleges, basketball courts, track programs and just about anywhere else an athlete might be hiding.

Ouachita Baptist in Arkadelphia, Arkansas, certainly qualified.

Harris had received only one college scholarship offer. He played quarterback before moving to defensive back and caught the attention of Dallas despite playing far outside college football's brightest spotlight.

Then came Cowboys training camp.

Dallas brought an extraordinary number of prospects into camp in those days. In 1970 alone, the Cowboys brought in roughly 120 undrafted rookies, including a crowded field of defensive backs.

Harris had no draft status protecting him. No investment demanding the Cowboys give him extra time.

He had one advantage.

He could play.

Sometimes that's enough.

Welcome to Dallas, Rookie

Imagine walking into a Cowboys defensive huddle in 1970.

Bob Lilly is there. Mel Renfro is there. Veterans who have already spent years turning an expansion franchise into a contender are looking back at you.

And you're the undrafted rookie from Ouachita Baptist.

Harris later remembered Lilly looking across the huddle and essentially informing the rookie that Dallas intended to reach the Super Bowl—and Harris had better not be the reason they didn't.

Welcome to the NFL.

No pressure.

The remarkable thing is that Harris belonged almost immediately.

He earned the starting free-safety job as a rookie before military obligations pulled him away for much of that season. He returned in time to start at Super Bowl V that same January.

He wouldn't give it back.

Then Came Captain Crash

Eventually, NFL receivers learned something about throwing routes into the middle of the Dallas secondary.

There was a price.

Cliff Harris was collecting it.

His aggressive style earned him one of the great nicknames in Cowboys history: Captain Crash.

It fit.

Harris played safety with an attitude that suggested personal offense had been taken whenever an opponent entered his portion of the field.

He wasn't enormous. The Hall of Fame lists him at 6 feet and 188 pounds.

That didn't seem to concern him very much.

Harris became known for collisions that made receivers reconsider just how badly they wanted to complete the route they had been assigned.

But reducing him to a hitter misses what made him exceptional.

Harris could play. He could cover. He could diagnose. He could create turnovers.

He finished his career with 29 interceptions and recovered 16 opponents' fumbles.

The intimidation was real.

So was the intelligence behind it.

Fear Was Only Part of the Job

The nickname makes it tempting to imagine Harris simply launching himself around the secondary.

Tom Landry would never have tolerated that.

Landry's defense depended on discipline. Assignments mattered. Positioning mattered. Understanding what the offense was trying to accomplish mattered.

Harris combined aggression with football intelligence.

That's what made him different.

He could attack without abandoning responsibility. He could support the run and still protect against the pass.

Hall of Fame safety Larry Wilson believed Harris helped change how the free-safety position was played, pointing specifically to his ability to defend both the run and pass while imposing a physical presence.

That's a much bigger legacy than simply hitting hard.

Harris helped redefine what a safety could be.

Harris and Waters

Every great secondary seems to produce a partnership.

For Dallas, it became Cliff Harris and Charlie Waters.

Waters brought intelligence, anticipation and playmaking ability. Harris brought many of those same qualities with a little extra thunder attached.

Together, they became one of the defining safety combinations of the Cowboys' championship era.

Around them was a defense loaded with names that now populate Cowboys history: Lilly. Jordan. Renfro. Too Tall Jones. Harvey Martin. Randy White.

Different personalities. Different responsibilities. One standard.

And if an opposing receiver happened to venture across the middle?

Captain Crash would be happy to explain the standard personally.

Built for January

Regular-season greatness earns recognition.

Postseason greatness builds legends.

Harris played 21 playoff games, including seven NFC Championship Games and five Super Bowls. He intercepted six postseason passes and recovered four fumbles.

Think about that for a moment.

Five Super Bowls in a 10-year career.

Half of Cliff Harris' NFL seasons ended on football's biggest stage.

Two ended with Dallas as champion.

He was there for Super Bowl VI, when the Cowboys finally broke through and defeated Miami 24–3.

And he was there six years later when the Doomsday Defense overwhelmed Denver in Super Bowl XII.

Harris didn't join a dynasty after it had been built.

He helped build it.

From Undrafted to Unquestioned

By the middle of the decade, nobody cared where Cliff Harris had gone to school.

And nobody cared that 442 players had been selected before Dallas gave him an opportunity.

From 1974 through 1979, Harris made six consecutive Pro Bowls.

From 1975 through 1978, he earned four consecutive first-team All-Pro selections.

He was selected to the NFL's All-Decade Team of the 1970s.

When he retired after the 1979 season, he had spent his entire 10-year career wearing the Star.

The Cowboys placed him in their Ring of Honor in 2004.

The Pro Football Hall of Fame eventually came calling as part of its Centennial Class of 2020; pandemic delays pushed his formal enshrinement ceremony to 2021.

The player nobody drafted had reached Canton.

There is something wonderfully Cowboys about that.

The Part the Stopwatch Couldn't Measure

Professional football has always loved measurements.

Height. Weight. Speed. Strength. Arm length. Vertical jump.

Today we have enough athletic data to make a NASA engineer feel underprepared.

All of it matters.

And then someone like Cliff Harris comes along.

Harris' greatest quality may have been something nobody could measure particularly well.

Fearlessness.

Not recklessness.

Fearlessness.

The willingness to attack an opportunity when nothing had been promised. The confidence to step into a huddle filled with established Cowboys and believe he belonged there. The toughness to play a position where hesitation could be exposed immediately. And the discipline to turn all of it into a decade of excellence.

That's what Dallas discovered at Ouachita Baptist.

Not merely a safety.

A mentality.

The Legacy Lives On

Every NFL draft produces hundreds of evaluations.

Too small. Too slow. Wrong school. Not enough competition. Doesn't project.

And every so often, football reminds everyone that evaluation is an imperfect science.

Cliff Harris was overlooked by every NFL team through every round of the 1970 draft.

Then he spent the next decade making sure nobody overlooked him again.

Six Pro Bowls. Four first-team All-Pro selections. Five Super Bowls. Two championships. The 1970s All-Decade Team. Cowboys Ring of Honor. Pro Football Hall of Fame.

Those accomplishments explain why Cliff Harris belongs among the greatest Cowboys.

But they don't completely explain why his story matters.

His story matters because opportunity and pedigree are not the same thing.

Draft position can get you through the door.

It cannot determine what you become once you're inside.

Cliff Harris walked through that door without guarantees.

Then he spent ten years making receivers wish somebody had kept it closed.

Legacy Reflection

The Legacy: Cliff Harris brought intelligence, fearlessness and controlled aggression to the Doomsday Defense, helping redefine what the free-safety position could become.

Why It Still Matters: Football will always search for measurable talent. Harris remains proof that some of the qualities that separate good players from great ones—instinct, courage, discipline and belief—don't fit neatly onto a scouting report.

The Doomsday Legacy: Nobody drafted Cliff Harris. Eventually, everybody knew where he was.

By Jesse Worrell

Founder & Editor, The Doomsday Legacy