Super Dull: When Marvel Comics and the NFL Teamed Up for SuperPro

Phil Grayfield has one of the more tragic stories to come out of professional football. A standout athlete at Notre Dame, Grayfield had his sights set on the big leagues—but before that could happen, he racked up multiple injuries and then suffered a career-ending setback when saving a boy from an off-the-field fall.

Undaunted, Grayfield quickly embarked on a new venture as a sports journalist. But misfortune struck again when he went to interview a memorabilia collector. Thieves broke in and started a fire, sending up a chemical inferno fueled by old film reels, plastic, gas, and other carcinogens. The fumes granted Grayfield super strength and exceptional athletic prowess. Rather than get back on the gridiron, he decided to become a costumed hero: SuperPro.

This would make an excellent installment of ESPN’s 30 for 30 documentary series, save for one thing: Grayfield is a fictitious character, one drummed up by the National Football League and Marvel Comics in 1991. While their intentions may have been good—the comic hectored readers on topical issues like drug abuse—it was not well-received. In less than a year, SuperPro managed to not only anger comics readers; it also prompted Marvel to issue a formal apology.

Comic Relief

SuperPro was not the NFL’s first venture into the entertainment business. In 1985, the Chicago Bears recorded “The Super Bowl Shuffle,” a self-congratulatory song that anticipated the Bears going to the Super Bowl that season. (They did, and won.) The following year, Bears teammate William “the Refrigerator” Perry struck a deal to have himself immortalized as a G.I. Joe character. There was even the requisite food tie-in: a line of Team NFL candy bars that debuted in 1990.

It was around this time that NFL Properties, which controlled the NFL license, began cooperating with Marvel Comics with an eye on creating the first NFL-themed superhero. At the time, Marvel was the dominant force in the comics industry, capturing roughly half of the total market share. A new Spider-Man title from writer and artist Todd McFarlane had sold 3 million copies. The companies had also worked together back in 1970 when Stan Lee led a project that put Marvel characters in NFL game programs and compared their traits to marquee players. If anyone could credibly make a character whose superpower was football work, it was Marvel.

But it still proved difficult. Speaking with Vice in 2016, SuperPro writer Fabian Nicieza recalled that Marvel editor Bob Budiansky expressed that they were having trouble settling on a premise. Budiansky pulled in Nicieza, who fleshed out the idea and developed the character of Phil Grayfield, a league washout who gains powers after the kind of freak chemical accident common among comic heroes. Grayfield then dons a super-suit modeled after an NFL uniform, complete with the NFL logo on his forehead and chest—a mix of Captain America and Tom Brady.

There were some ground rules: The comic could use actual NFL team names but not actual players. (This rule was broken when Lawrence Taylor appeared in a later issue.) Most of SuperPro’s exploits should revolve around sports-related crime, from crooked agents to gambling to supervillains like Instant Replay, a villain who can travel though time, and Quick Kick, a kicker turned ninja. When he wasn’t breaking jaws, SuperPro would impart life lessons along the way.

SuperPro was the NFL “reaching out to youngsters and stressing the importance of education, staying in school, and trying your best to succeed in life,” according to an NFL spokesperson.

SuperPro made his public debut on a collectible trading card late in 1990 and reportedly made some in-person appearances as a costumed character during the lead-up to Super Bowl XXV in Tampa, Florida, in January 1991. But his true introduction came in the pages of SuperPro Special Edition, also known as SuperPro Super Bowl Edition, a one-off issue retailing for $3.95 that laid out his origin and gave him his first real adversary: a steroid dealer. (The league had been grappling with accusations over its athletes using performance-enhancers since the mid-1980s.)

“We knew what we were doing was wrong and illegal,” the steroid dealer bemoans. “But it’s what they want! It’s what they all want!” (It’s unclear whether the dealer is referring to players, coaches, fans, or all of the above.)

By issue’s end, SuperPro must tussle with Carl, a player who has taken so many steroids he now resembles the Hulk. Carl then collapses, dead of a heart attack prompted by his ravenous drug use.

The special issue stirred enough interest to climb in price on the secondary market, from its $3.95 cover price up to $15. SuperPro then went on regular duty in spring 1991 with his own ongoing series. To help stir reader interest, Marvel opted to slot Spider-Man in as a special guest star in the first issue. Though the two share a common goal—stopping the mafia—they barely interact.

Kicked to the Curb

For Marvel, the objective behind SuperPro was simple. An NFL-related title could help the company recruit young sports fans who might not otherwise pick up a comic. (The company also launched Barbie to appeal to young girls.) For the NFL, it was an opportunity to grow their brand and promote positive messaging.

That wasn’t exactly what happened. In early 1992, issue No. 6 of SuperPro—with writer Buzz Dixon taking over for Nicieza—came under fire by the Hopi tribe for depicting the tribe’s religious beliefs in a way they found offensive. (In the story, some kachina from Hopi lore threaten an ex-Hopi member.) Hopi Chairman Vernon Masayesva demanded an apology from the company and a recall of the issue’s 70,000 copies. Marvel agreed to both, though the latter was largely irrelevant: comics titles have fresh inventory monthly.

“We are deeply sorry for any pain we caused the Hopi Tribe,” a Marvel spokesperson said. Dixon would later state that it was actually characters feigning Hopi affiliation that were behaving violently, not actual Hopi.

In either case, it was the most attention SuperPro would ever get. The character lasted only a few more months before being canceled with issue No. 12. Since Marvel isn’t in the business of pulling books with strong sales figures, it was likely the title wasn’t moving enough copies to justify its existence.

So why weren’t readers interested? Most contemporary reviews cite SuperPro’s simplicity as well as the cliché plots. More than that, it’s possible the NFL affiliation was simply too brazen for readers to accept. Few like to pay for the privilege of reading a 22-page advertisement.

Despite nostalgia fueling comics and pop culture, there’s never been any meaningful revival of the SuperPro character, save for Tony Stark ironically bringing up his name as a possible team-up partner in a 2021 comic. One reason for that is likely to be licensing or trademark issues with the NFL.

Weirdly, the SuperPro brand lived on—sort of. In the 1990s, it happened to also be the name of a line of dog food.

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