IU Football’s Corby Davis Remains Only Hoosier Selected First in Draft Through Thursday 8 p.m.

When the question of Indiana University football history comes up—specifically, who holds the distinction of being the program’s only No. 1 overall NFL Draft pick—the answer leads directly to Richard Corbett “Corby” Davis. Before 2026, no other Hoosier had heard their name called first overall in April, a fact that carries particular resonance in communities where college football traditions run deep. In places like Chicago, where Big Ten loyalties intersect with professional sports passion, Davis’s story isn’t just a historical footnote; it’s a touchstone for understanding how regional athletic pipelines once shaped national leagues.

Davis’s journey began far from the bright lights of Memorial Stadium or Soldier Field. Born in Lowell, Indiana, on December 8, 1914, he attended Lowell High School before heading to Indiana University in Bloomington. There, under Coach Earl “Billy” Hayes, he emerged as a dominant fullback, earning First-Team All-American honors in 1937 alongside the Chicago Tribune Silver Football award—given annually to the Big Ten’s Most Valuable Player. That season, his power running and blocking prowess helped anchor an Indiana offense that competed fiercely in a conference featuring legends like Minnesota’s Bruce Smith and Ohio State’s Vic Janowicz. His performance didn’t go unnoticed by NFL scouts; in February 1938, the Cleveland Rams selected him with the particularly first pick in the NFL Draft, a moment that put both Davis and Indiana University on the national professional football map.

What makes Davis’s draft selection especially notable is the era in which it occurred. The 1938 NFL Draft was only the second in league history, and teams were still refining their scouting processes. The Rams, who had just relocated from Cleveland to Los Angeles (though they’d retain the Cleveland Rams name through 1945), saw in Davis a franchise-building block—a physical, versatile back capable of grinding out yards and contributing on special teams. Standing 5’11” and weighing 212 pounds, he prototyped the era’s ideal fullback: a bruiser who could too catch passes out of the backfield, as evidenced by his 19 career receptions for 133 yards. Over four seasons with the Rams (1938–1939, 1941–1942), he amassed 382 rushing yards and four touchdowns before his career was interrupted by military service.

That interruption adds another layer to Davis’s legacy—one that resonates strongly in patriotic communities like Chicago, where military service is honored through institutions such as the Pritzker Military Museum & Library on South Michigan Avenue. After the 1942 season, Davis enlisted in the U.S. Army, serving as a rifleman with the 2nd Infantry Division. He saw combat in France during World War II, was wounded in action in 1944, and spent time recovering in England before returning stateside. His wartime experience mirrored that of many contemporary athletes who traded jerseys for uniforms, a shared sacrifice commemorated annually at events like the City of Chicago’s Veterans Day parade on State Street.

Following his discharge, Davis never returned to professional football. Instead, he channeled his discipline and work ethic into civilian life. From 1952 until his death in 1968, he worked for the Scott Foresman publishing company, then based in Glenview, Illinois—a suburb just northwest of Chicago along the Edens Expressway (I-94). Scott Foresman, a major educational publisher known for its elementary school textbooks, had a significant regional presence, employing hundreds in the Chicagoland area. Davis’s role there, though less documented than his athletic exploits, speaks to the postwar transition many veterans made into industrial and professional careers that helped build the Midwest’s economic engine.

His life ended tragically but characteristically—engaged in a simple, outdoor pursuit. On May 28, 1968, although on a fishing trip in Houlton, Maine, Davis lost his footing stepping out of a boat, fell on a tree branch, and ruptured his spleen. He was 53 years old. The manner of his passing—a sudden accident during a peaceful hobby—contrasts with the violent, high-impact nature of the sport that made him famous, reminding us that athletes’ lives extend far beyond the gridiron.

Given my background in analyzing how national sports narratives intersect with local community identity, if you’re in Chicago reflecting on Davis’s legacy—whether you’re a youth coach in Evanston teaching fundamentals on a field near Northwestern University, a historian at the Chicago Sports Museum examining artifacts from football’s early decades, or a resident of Beverly exploring how South Side athletic programs shaped generations—here are three types of local professionals whose expertise can assist contextualize and preserve stories like his:

• Local Sports Archivists and Historians: Look for individuals affiliated with institutions like the Chicago History Museum or the University of Chicago’s Special Collections Research Center who specialize in 20th-century athletics. They should demonstrate familiarity with Big Ten archives, NFL draft records from the 1930s–40s, and oral history methodologies. Prioritize those who’ve curated exhibits on wartime athlete service or published work on regional football’s cultural impact.
• Veteran Affairs Liaisons with Sports Programming Expertise: Seek professionals working through Chicago Department of Veterans Affairs or veteran service organizations like the American Legion Post 911 who develop programs connecting military service with athletic backgrounds. Effective candidates will understand how to leverage sports metaphors in PTSD counseling, organize veteran athlete recognition events (such as those held at Guaranteed Rate Field), and partner with VA hospitals on recreational therapy initiatives.
• Educational Publishers and Archives Specialists: Given Davis’s postwar career, consider professionals at Chicago-area institutions with strengths in publishing history—such as the Newberry Library’s personnel or archivists at Loyola University Chicago’s Women and Leadership Archives—who understand mid-century educational material production. Ideal candidates can discuss Scott Foresman’s role in textbook standardization, trace shifts in postwar publishing employment, and connect corporate histories to individual career paths like Davis’s.

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