Dan Rooney Page 10

  Bert was a big phone man, he was always on the phone, encouraging, cajoling—and even coercing, if necessary—owners, coaches, and players. He knew the game. He was a real football man and wouldn’t allow anything that might hurt the game.

  In the 1950s on-field officials did not travel outside their own regions. On the West Coast, West Coast officials ruled. Likewise in the East. Many sports fans suspected the officials were biased in favor of their regional teams.

  In a game played on the West Coast in 1955, we were leading 26- 24 with less than thirty seconds remaining in the game. My old high school buddy, Richie McCabe, a defensive back, was called for unnecessary roughness. Richie had placed his hand and knee on a downed player. He barely touched the guy, but the Los Angeles-based referee called a fifteen-yard penalty, which stopped the clock and gave the Rams time enough to bring on their field goal unit and win the game. Kies went berserk. LA Coliseum security guards had their hands full keeping Kiesling from tearing the officials apart with his bare hands. I’d never seen him so angry.

  Following the game, the Steelers lodged a formal complaint, and the very next season the NFL began randomly assigning officials outside their home regions. This may seem a small thing, but it went a long way to making the game more fair and credible. It’s remarkable the Steelers were the ones to blow the whistle on the refs because, in fact, more officials came from Western Pennsylvania than any other part of the country. Just as with players and coaches, our region with its football tradition produced more talent than any other place. You’d have thought we would have enjoyed a built-in advantage in the case of the officials, but it was more important to us to have a fairly called game. I should say here most officials agreed with this change. They wanted fair games, too.

  The Steelers of the 1950s and 1960s weren’t as bad as their record indicated. We had plenty of talented players and an abundance of genuine characters. In fact, odd characters seemed drawn to the Pittsburgh team ever since my father began the Hope-Harveys, then the Pittsburgh Pirates, and now the Steelers. In the 1930s Johnny Blood, whose antics entertained the fans, his teammates, and sportswriters, ruled the Pittsburgh gridiron. His real name was John McNally, an outstanding college player who had to change his name in order to moonlight with professional teams. He adopted the name “Blood” after seeing the Rudolph Valentino film Blood and Sand. Johnny Blood’s free spirit could not be bridled. He caroused, even stole motorcycles if the occasion required it. My father took a chance with Johnny, first as a player, then as a coach. Though he would find his way to the Hall of Fame, during his time in Pittsburgh his performance on the playing field paled in comparison to his performance off the field.

  For raw talent, the only player of the era I saw who could hold a candle to Johnny Blood was Bobby Layne. Bobby came to the Steelers in 1958 after quarterbacking the Detroit Lions to two NFL championships. He was the most competitive player I ever knew. The day he first arrived in Pittsburgh, I picked him up at the airport and drove him to our training camp. He questioned me the whole way, wanting to know everything about the players, the coaches, and the city. From the time his foot hit the ground on the field at South Park, Bobby Layne was in charge. He was that kind of guy, always in command.

  Within weeks he brought the team together. The players were close, both on and off the field. He’d hang out with them, eat with them, play cards with them, and drink with them. We began to think he might be spending too much time with them, and the drinking got to be a problem. He could carouse all night and be up for the game the next day, but his teammates couldn’t.

  Layne could do anything. I remember once we played the Giants and he threw only ten passes the whole game, but three of them were for touchdowns. He could run the ball, too. He was smart—one of the smartest quarterbacks we ever had—and he did whatever it took to win.

  My dad loved Bobby. He had a soft spot for genuine characters. When it came time to renegotiate his contract, Bobby sat across from my father’s big desk.

  Dad asked, “What’s it going to take to keep you here in Pittsburgh?”

  Bobby replied, “Whatever you think I’m worth.”

  “Well, we have to have a contract.”

  “Do you have one for me to sign?”

  “Yeah, but it’s not filled out.”

  “That’s okay, hand it over.”

  With that, Bobby neatly signed “Robert Layne” at the bottom of the blank contract. “You fill in the rest,” he said, “I trust you.” Then he walked out of the room.

  Bobby was shrewd. The way he handled the situation put a lot of pressure on my father to be fair and, of course, Dad wrote in a bigger salary number than Bobby would have asked for. Bobby was unconventional, and I can think of only a few players who would negotiate this way today.

  If anyone could rein in a free spirit like Bobby Layne, it was Coach Raymond “Buddy” Parker. Parker remains one of the winningest coaches in Steelers history. His winning percentage is topped only by Chuck Noll, Bill Cowher, and Jock Sutherland. Parker was a strict disciplinarian and ruled by intimidation. He always told me, “It’s mistakes that beat you!” and that’s the reason he always preferred veteran players to rookies. He hated rookies and would trade away our draft picks in order to sign old pros. One year we didn’t have a pick until the eighth round. It drove me nuts.

  In Parker’s defense I have to say that in those days we had a lot of veteran talent to choose from. There were just twelve teams in the NFL, and the colleges turned out more good players than the league needed. That’s why you’d see rookies like Johnny Unitas get cut. Parker believed if you go with the veteran you’ll win today; go with a rookie and you might win tomorrow. Parker wasn’t alone in this thinking; other experienced coaches also took advantage of the glut of veteran talent.

  When he first took over the team from Kiesling in 1957, he wanted to signal to the players that he was now the boss. Kiesling encouraged him in this, warning Parker that he needed to take a strong hand or risk losing the team. Buddy decided to cut talented running back Lynn Chandnois, just to prove no one was indispensable. Even Parker, however, regretted this hasty decision after viewing Chandnois’ performance in game film.

  But Parker never looked back. He could be a tyrant, especially when he was drinking. Not that he drank often; only after games and whenever he had to make a speech. His axe could fall on luckless players on the bus or plane while coming home from a game. He once cut six players before the fans had even cleared the stadium after a preseason loss to Cleveland. It got so bad, guys would hide after a loss just to stay out of his way, for fear he’d cut them on sight. I worried about Parker’s style and wondered how long my father would put up with it.

  It always bothers me when I hear people talk about the “same old Steelers” and the “terrible” teams of the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s. Going back to the postwar years through the 1960s we had half-decent teams. On a given Sunday the Steelers were good enough to win—you just didn’t know which Sunday it might be. But one thing you could count on, whoever we played would come out of the game bruised and battered and remember Pittsburgh as a tough, hard-hitting team.

  The Pittsburgh legend began to grow, and we had our share of outstanding players, including a number of Hall of Famers.

  We had great defensive players in those early days. Guys like Ernie Stautner, a bruising defensive tackle and nine-time Pro Bowler, could drink alongside Bobby Layne and play like the Pro Bowler he was the next day. He flattened running backs like a steamroller. Ernie wound up in the Hall of Fame, and was considered by teammates and opponents alike to be the toughest guy in the league. He’s the only Steelers player, ever, to have his jersey, number 70, officially retired.

  Eugene “Big Daddy” Lipscomb, a six-foot-seven, 295-pounder, was an aggressive and fearless tackle. He could play with the best and beat them. Lipscomb played hard and lived large. The police believed Eugene died of a heroin overdose. If it really was drugs, then I’m certain it was his first tim
e—any of our trainers would tell you he was afraid of needles and wouldn’t go near them. After the autopsy, the coroner found no needle marks or any evidence of habitual drug use. I always thought highly of him and grieved with all of Pittsburgh at his funeral. Had he lived he would have been a Hall of Famer for sure.

  Cornerback Jack Butler went to the Pro Bowl eight times. He was smart and could really cover the field. Butler was very popular with the players, so well-liked, in fact, they wanted him as their player representative when the players’ association (later the NFLPA) first organized. This is a guy who belongs in the Pro Football Hall of Fame, and it’s a crying shame the selectors won’t give him the nod simply because they feel there are too many Steelers honored already.

  Everyone in the country remembers the famous 1964 Life magazine photograph of Y. A. Tittle taken by Pittsburgh Post-Gazette photographer Morris Berman at Pitt Stadium. Tittle, the great New York Giants’ quarterback, is on his knees, helmet off, blood trickling down the side of his face, looking dazed and beaten. But few remember who delivered the punishing blow that put him there. It was six-foot-six, 270-pound Steelers defensive end John Baker, a mountain of a man that Tittle never forgot.

  We had good offensive players, as well.

  Tight end Elbie Nickel, a six-foot-one, 200-pounder, was a great blocker and receiver. He is immortalized in a stitched tapestry sewn by Sally Anderson and presented to the Steelers upon the completion of Three Rivers Stadium in 1970. Today it hangs in our South Side training facility. The Xs and Os quilted into this wall hanging depict the most famous play in Steelers history—that is until the Immaculate Reception in 1972. It shows the play action pass from Jim Finks to Nickel that helped beat the Philadelphia Eagles in 1954. The last time the Steelers had played the Eagles, the Philadelphia front line hammered Finks. They broke his jaw so badly it had to be wired shut. Our equipment man had to rig a special face mask for him—not like the ones players wear today, but a bumperlike affair that made him look like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz.

  So this was a grudge match, and we really wanted to win. All Pittsburgh wanted us to win, and forty-two thousand fans filled the stands at Forbes Field, the biggest crowd ever to watch a game in that stadium. We led, 3-0 at halftime. In the second half, we had the ball on our 40-yard line, 4th down, 1 yard to go. The Eagles expected we’d run the ball. Coach Kiesling figured we’d run the ball. But in the huddle, Nickel said, “Finks, I think I can beat this guy deep.” Finks looked at him, nodded, and called the play. On the snap, Finks dropped back two steps and faked the handoff to Jim “Popcorn” Brandt. As the Eagle line crowded the line of scrimmage and closed in on Brandt, Nickel slipped behind their secondary, while Finks faded into the pocket. Just when the Eagles figured out Brandt didn’t have the ball, Finks aired it long to Nickel, who was streaking down the right sideline. No one ever laid a hand on him. He ran in for the touchdown to give us a 10-0 lead. We went on to win the game 17-7. You never heard such wild cheering, not until 1972.

  Dick Hoak, the Penn State MVP, had a career with the Steelers spanning forty-five years as a running back, backfield coach, and running back coach. Because Hoak was never the biggest or fastest back, he carefully studied other players and learned techniques that allowed him to take advantage of any opponent or situation. He had a knack for teaching others and became the longest-serving coach in Steelers history.

  John Henry Johnson was a veteran player at the end of his career when we got him. This explosive Hall of Fame power back gave the club two 1,000-yard seasons, and would have been one of the all-time great Steelers if we’d gotten him right out of college.

  Not all the Steelers lived up to their potential. Tom Tracy was one of the best running backs of the era when he played at 195 pounds. Problem was: he couldn’t keep the weight off. He’d go out on the town with Bobby Layne and Big Daddy Lipscomb and Stautner and he’d pack on the pounds and balloon up to 225. He couldn’t keep his speed and could have been great if he had kept his weight down.

  And some players were famous for their unsung contributions day in and day out, game after game, like six-foot-one, 240-pound center Ray “Ranger” Mansfield, who played in 154 consecutive games, at that time a team record.

  As the Steelers legend grew, we began to pay more attention to uniforms, logos, and what the fans thought of us. In the 1950s our helmets were gold, with player numbers painted on either side. We really didn’t have a team logo, other than a little steelworker caricature that sometimes appeared on our letterhead.

  But in 1962 we were having a really good season. A representative from Republic Steel came to see me at our offices at the Roosevelt Hotel. He showed me artwork developed by US Steel in 1958 and later adopted as the official mark of the steel industry. His portfolio included drawings of what he called “hypocycloids”—curvy four-pointed diamond shapes—colorful yellow, red, and blue symbols representing how steel “lightens your work, brightens your leisure and widens your world.” He wanted to know if we’d like to put them on our helmets—we were the Steelers after all. I kind of liked the crisp, bright, modern design, but I wasn’t so sure how it would look on our old gold helmets. So I told equipment manager Jack Hart to put the logo on one side only, until we decided whether we’d stick with it.

  The Steelers finished the 1962 season with a 9-5 record, the best in franchise history to date. We finished second in the Eastern Conference and qualified for the Playoff Bowl. I wanted to do something special, so we changed the color of the helmets from gold to black. This helped highlight the new logo. Hart asked, “Should I put it on both sides?” I said, “No. We got here with the logo only on the right side, so let’s keep it that way.”

  This is the way the legendary Steelers logo was born. People ask me all the time, “Why didn’t you put it on both sides?” I usually tell them, “Just because you’re asking!” It’s a curiosity. People wonder why. That’s reason enough not to change it.

  From the time I started in the Steelers front office, I had been responsible for designing game programs and the team’s media guide. In those days we didn’t have an art department; we did whatever needed to be done. Ed Kiely was our one-man PR department. My wife, Patricia, worked as our secretary until she was replaced by her sister, Mary Regan, who worked directly for my father, and was with him for nearly forty years.

  In 1959 we hired Maurice “Mossy” Murphy to bring the franchise into the mainstream of NFL entertainment. My father and I recognized we were in the football business, but there was an entertainment side of the game we couldn’t ignore. I remember sitting in George Preston Marshall’s office on a rainy day just before the Steelers took the field against the Redskins. Marshall’s band director came marching into the office, red-faced and upset.

  “Mr. Marshall, should we wear our new feathered headdresses? It’s raining cats and dogs out there!” Without missing a beat, Marshall shot back, “We’re in the entertainment business! You put those feathers on and get out there!”

  So one hundred marching band members slogged across the field, soggy feathers matted to their tubas, but the show went on as the delighted fans sang “Hail to the Redskins.” Marshall understood the value of entertainment. The Steelers would have to learn to be competitive in this arena as well.

  Mossy Murphy came straight from Duquesne University, where he had successfully entertained fans and led the student body cheering section. He didn’t look anything like a cheerleader. Standing five-foot-nine and weighing well over two hundred pounds, he had a larger-than-life personality and a creative spark that our team sorely needed.

  He would try anything. He’d ride around the field on an undersized motor scooter, making certain the halftime performances were choreographed just so. Watching him putt around on that tiny scooter, gesturing, giving orders like a field marshal, left the fans and the team howling with laughter. He brought in professional or high school bands for every home game. The latter innovation was an especially good strategy, since the families and f
riends of the high school band members helped fill the stands.

  He organized elaborate halftime shows. One Sunday it might be a jazz theme, the next we’d fight the Civil War. He always came up with something unusual. He set up a big muzzle-loading cannon in the end zone and torched it off whenever we scored a touchdown. One time he almost blasted receiver Buddy Dial as he crossed the goal line and ran into Mossy’s line of fire. Dial’s ad-libbed theatrical death scene made the highlight films for many years after.

  We didn’t need a mascot in those days; we had Mossy. He seemed to be everywhere. When a Pittsburgh politician, Prothonotary David Lee Roberts, annoyed fans by blocking their view—he had season tickets just behind the players’ bench at Pitt Stadium—Mossy decided to play a prank on him.

  Knowing he loved the limelight, Mossy said to me, “Let’s have some fun with Roberts.” He jumped on his scooter, rode over to the bench, and with his walkie-talkie in hand, hailed the official, saying, “Mr. Roberts, I’m from CBS. This game is being televised. Would you mind if we interviewed you?”

  “Oh, yes, of course!”

  Mossy held the walkie-talkie as if it were a microphone and began a lengthy interview, touching on topics ranging from football to politics. Roberts was a huge fan. Waxing eloquent about the Steelers game plan and basking in all the attention, he didn’t notice he was speaking into a walkie-talkie instead of a microphone.

  Then Mossy said, “Mr. Roberts, turn around and wave to the cameras in the press box.”

  Of course, there weren’t any cameras trained on the Prothonotary, but again he didn’t notice. Then I came up and interrupted the interview. “Thank you, Mr. Roberts, we have to cut to a commercial now.” Then we led him to an out-of-the-way VIP seat. It was a riot and all we could do to keep from laughing out loud. Mossy could always be counted on to come up with shenanigans like this.

  But sometimes he pushed the envelope too far. I remember the time he hired a beautiful baton twirler, decked out in a very tight gold lamé outfit. She’s twirling, she’s spinning, she’s gyrating.