Dan Rooney Read online

  Instantly, Dad flared, “Don’t you ever question my religion!”

  I thought I was going to have to jump between them. Dad knew how to fight, and Jack Mara wouldn’t have had a chance. My father was a pretty easygoing guy most of the time, but there were a few things that set him off. This was one of them. They calmed down, but I never again heard Jack bring up religion in a league meeting.

  At Dad’s urging, we finally agreed the league would put together a biddable package and contract with a single network. The revenues would be shared by all teams equally. In addition, the owners authorized the commissioner to negotiate the contract on our behalf. We also agreed to continue the existing home blackout policy. Plus, every road game would be broadcast back to its own home market.

  This represented a great step forward for the NFL. Unfortunately, U.S. District Court Judge Allan K. Grim disagreed. He ruled the NFL’s package deal violated federal antitrust laws. This forced the league to go political. Rozelle was up to the challenge, and mobilized the owners to lobby their congressmen and even President Kennedy. In addition, the league satisfied concerns raised by the NCAA by agreeing not to broadcast NFL games on a network on Saturdays during the college season.

  On September 30, 1961, Kennedy signed the Sports Broadcasting Bill, which gave professional football a limited exemption from antitrust laws. Within three months, Rozelle signed CBS as the NFL’s first exclusive national television contractor. The league would get $4.65 million each year for two years.

  We were pretty proud of this deal and the one three years later, which netted the fourteen NFL teams $14.1 million a year for two years from CBS. Then we learned the AFL owners had negotiated an even more lucrative TV contract.

  My father pointed out to me at the time, “You will rue this day!” and I asked him why. He said, “Everyone will be telling you how to run the league, asking for money. You will have agents, the television networks, and Congress trying to get involved.”

  Something had to be done. It was time to negotiate in earnest a merger between the two leagues.

  During this period I wasn’t focused just on television contracts and possible mergers. By 1962 our family had grown considerably. Patricia and I tried to get away with the kids in the summer, even if only to nearby Ligonier or Shamrock Farms, Dad’s horse farm in Winfield, Maryland. That year, we decided to organize a family vacation that combined recreation and educational opportunities. Of course, looking back, I probably went a little overboard. The centennial of the Civil War (1961-65) captured my interest, and I began reading Bruce Catton’s award-winning series of books. Then I got out the road maps and charted a thousand-mile road trip. The kids—Art, Kathleen, Rita, and Pat—all had reading or, in the case of the younger ones, coloring assignments (state flags, uniforms, state seals, etc.). Baby Dan was too small to go, so we left him home with Grandma Regan. We took Patricia’s younger sister Rita along to help ride herd and packed everyone into our station wagon.

  First stop: Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, where John Brown and his antislavery raiders captured the U.S. Arsenal in 1859. The opening shots of the Civil War were fired here (although historians might contend the first shots were fired at Ft. Sumter in 1861), and we took refuge from the rain in the same firehouse that had sheltered Brown and his men from U.S. troops, who were led, strangely enough, by Robert E. Lee and J.E.B. Stuart. On we marched to the Antietam Battlefield, then to Washington, D.C., where we saw every site from the Washington Monument to the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, where Father Dan was ordained. The rain came down hard as we drove off to Manassas and the Bull Run Battlefield, where young Artie was awed by the gigantic equestrian statue of “Stonewall” Jackson. “Look, there stands Jackson like a stone wall,” he read on the bronze plaque at the base.

  “Hey, Dad, why did Colonel [Bernard] Bee say Jackson stood like a stone wall?” he asked. “Was it because he was too scared to move?”

  I said, “No, it was that he and his men were too brave to run.”

  For the rest of the trip we heard “Look! There stands Jackson like a stone wall!”

  At Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Spotsylvania, Richmond, and Petersburg the statues and cannons became a blur. Jackson followed us, it seemed, always holding his ground. On we went, through fearsome summer storms (it must have rained every day) on a side trip to the 1600s and 1700s, Jamestown and Williamsburg, where the kids marched with redcoats down the Duke of Gloucester Street to the music of fifes and drums.

  Off we went to Virginia Beach, where it stopped raining long enough for us to wade in the surf. That evening Artie learned to swim in the Hilton Hotel pool and made a big splash with his “cannonballs” from the diving board. Back in the station wagon again we headed home by way of Gettysburg for one last charge. By this time we had exhausted our supply of Civil War songs, coloring books, puzzles, car games (counting cows, license plates, car colors), and good humor. It had been a memorable journey, the first of many family expeditions.

  I attended the 1963 dedication of the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio. I remember thinking at the time that Pittsburgh had as much right as Canton to be the home of the Hall of Fame, since pro football began in Pittsburgh in 1892. But the Canton people had a legitimate claim, since the NFL was born there in 1920 at the Hupmobile dealership. In any event, the Canton people did a bang-up job.

  It must have been tough deciding who would make the cut for that first class. The selectors made it a point to honor the men who helped found the league: Bert Bell, Joe Carr, George Halas, Curly Lambeau, Tim Mara, George Preston Marshall, and, of course, Jim Thorpe, the league’s first president. In addition, the selectors recognized some of the early greats of the game: Sammy Baugh, Dutch Clark, Red Grange, Mel Hein, Pete Henry, Cal Hubbard, Don Hutson, Johnny Blood, Bronko Nagurski, and Ernie Nevers. In 1964 my father proudly accepted the honor of his selection in the second class of inductees, alongside Jimmy Conzelman, Ed Healey, Clarke Hinkle, Link Lyman, Mike Michalske, and Brute Trafton. I can remember few honors he treasured more than his induction into the Pro Football Hall of Fame.

  On November 21, 1963, the U.S. Fourth Court of Appeals decided in favor of the NFL in a $10 million antitrust suit, filed by the American Football League. This new league, founded by Lamar Hunt, meant to compete with the NFL head to head. The news of this victory was sweet. But the following day, Friday, November 22, as Dad and I sipped coffee in the restaurant of the Roosevelt Hotel in Pittsburgh, someone shouted out, “The president’s been shot!” We ran to our office and turned on the television, to learn John F. Kennedy had been gunned down in Dallas. We stayed glued to the TV set all day, caught up by the tragic events unfolding before our eyes. By nightfall, the tolling church bells echoed throughout the city. The next morning, the flags at half staff confirmed the death of the president. Steeped in Catholic tradition and strongly Democratic, Pittsburgh mourned.

  I was still in shock when I received a call from Pete Rozelle late Friday, asking what I thought about playing football on Sunday as usual. I thought the assassination of the president demanded we cancel all games and told him so. We had a good talk and Pete agreed to think about it before making a final decision. Pete had called me instead of my father, not only because I was in charge of the day-to-day activities of the team, but because we had become very good friends. We always seemed to think alike.

  Over the next two days, Pete and I talked almost hourly. Both of us received a flood of calls from family, friends, politicians, and business leaders. Of course, I talked to my father. He knew the Catholic community was especially shaken by the assassination.

  Bud Rieland, my best man and longtime friend, called and said, “You’re not really considering playing the game on Sunday, are you?”

  While I tested the pulse of the community, Pete consulted the president’s press secretary, Pierre Salinger. I knew they were good friends and years before had been classmates at the University of San Francisco.

  When Pete called
me he said, “Pierre says we should go ahead with the games. Jack Kennedy would have wanted it that way.” Rozelle had discussed with Pierre the fact that no games had been scheduled in Dallas or Washington, D.C., that Sunday, which made the decision to go ahead with the games a little easier. Pete thought Salinger was right. Playing football on Sunday might have a positive effect on the country and signal to the world that America could still function during this time of tragedy and crisis. Remember, this was at the height of the Cold War. We didn’t know whether the assassination was part of a Soviet-backed conspiracy or the work of a madman. Still, I didn’t agree with the decision to play on Sunday, and I told Pete it was a mistake.

  The back-and-forth calls continued until, finally, early Saturday morning, Pete called and told me the games would go on. I told him, “Okay, Pete, I disagree, but I’ll support you.”

  Hours later Rozelle issued the following statement: “It has been traditional in sports for athletes to perform in times of great personal tragedy. Football was Mr. Kennedy’s game. He thrived on competition.” The games were played but not televised.

  Pete later told me it was the wrong decision, one of the few he regretted making during his term as commissioner. But no one could have anticipated what came next. That Sunday, just two hours before kickoff, I was on the stadium roof at Forbes Field with a transistor radio pressed to my ear. Newscasters reported from Dallas that Jack Ruby had shot Lee Harvey Oswald, Kennedy’s assassin. The Chicago Bears had already taken the field to warm up when I called security to alert them of this newest development. We determined to go ahead with the game and not make any announcements until all the facts were in. Following the national anthem, the somber crowd hushed for a minute of silent prayer and the game went on.

  When we played at Forbes Field, I always watched the game from the roof, because here I could get the best view and follow the action as it moved downfield. Mike Ditka, a Western Pennsylvania boy who had starred at Aliquippa High School and later at the University of Pittsburgh, had a terrific game for the Bears. The Bears would go on to win the NFL championship that year, but the Steelers fought them to a 17-17 tie. My mind was on the news reports from Dallas coming through my little transistor radio, and calls from our security team. We really didn’t know what to expect that day. Fortunately, there were no incidents.

  While I paced the roof, my father stayed in the press box. He had given strict instructions for the Steelerettes to stay seated on the bench and not lead any cheers. It was a very cold day, and by halftime a light snow began to fall. Dad took pity on the shivering girls and asked an equipment man to run to the locker room and get jackets for them. Soon they were decked out in oversized Steelers jackets, now warm but invisible to the crowd.

  Rozelle and the league received a great deal of criticism for the decision to go on with the games, especially since the rival AFL had cancelled its games. When I reflect on this terrible time, it helps put football in perspective. There are more important things than playing football every Sunday, and we have to make decisions based on what’s right. The NFL learned this lesson; we all learned this lesson in 1963. When Commissioner Paul Tagliabue called me following the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001, there was little question we would postpone all the games scheduled that week.

  The year 1963 tested the NFL in other ways, as well. Gambling represents one of the greatest threats to professional sports. Rozelle recognized this. Early in his administration he launched an investigation of players, coaches, and even owners to ensure that the NFL was squeaky clean. He hired former FBI agents to uncover any trace of gambling within the league. Then early in the year came shocking news. Two of the NFL’s greatest stars, Paul Hornung, the Green Bay Packers MVP running back, and Alex Karras, the Detroit Lions All-Pro defensive tackle, had bet on games—including games involving their own teams. The national news media broke the story and Rozelle knew he had to get to the bottom of the rumors. If they were true, he’d have to make an example of these superstars. The reputation of the league depended upon swift and decisive action.

  My father and I backed him all the way and so did most of the other owners, although Carroll Rosenbloom, co-owner of the Baltimore Colts, was under league investigation himself. The evidence against Hornung and Karras was overwhelming. With the approval of the owners, Rozelle suspended both players, levied heavy fines, and sent a warning to the league that gambling would not be tolerated. He posted signs in every locker room, reminding players and coaches of the NFL’s no-tolerance policy. Pete’s toughness on this issue reflected my father’s feelings exactly, and set a standard in the NFL that guides the league.

  Both Hornung and Karras would return to their teams after missing one full season. But four years later, Karras made the front pages again. In August 1967 he fanned the burning competition between the NFL and AFL into open flame and threatened the fragile partnership brokered by Rozelle in 1966. The Detroit Lions traveled to Denver to play the Broncos in a preseason game. No AFL team had ever beaten an NFL team. In January, the NFL Green Bay Packers had defeated the AFL Kansas City Chiefs in the first Super Bowl. The Packers’ domination of the Chiefs confirmed what many sportswriters thought: the NFL was a much better league and it would be years before the AFL would be competitive. Karras was so confident of victory over the Broncos that he announced on national television, “If Denver wins I’ll walk home.”

  I also believed the NFL to be the superior league, but I knew the AFL had latched on to a lot of talent, and several teams had the potential to be competitive with our teams. I didn’t think Karras shooting his mouth off like that was appropriate. It wouldn’t help the delicate merger process, and I didn’t feel Karras was the ideal spokesman for our league, considering his gambling troubles.

  So what do you think happens? Denver wins, the first AFL team to beat an NFL team, ever, and the chant “Walk, Karras, walk!” could be heard in every NFL stadium.

  This incident is only a small indication of the intensity of the rivalry that had been brewing since the founding of the AFL in 1960. The AFL comprised eight teams: Boston Patriots (later the New England Patriots in 1971), Los Angeles Chargers (later San Diego Chargers in 1961), Denver Broncos, New York Titans (later the New York Jets in April 1963), Houston Oilers, Buffalo Bills, Dallas Texans (later Kansas City Chiefs in 1963), and Oakland Raiders.

  The genius behind the new league was Lamar Hunt, owner of the Dallas Texans, who had tried and failed to acquire an NFL franchise. Locked out of our league, he founded his own. The AFL was well financed and well organized, with its owners willing to go after the best talent in the country and pay top dollar. AFL coaches and scouts scoured the country looking for the best college players.

  The NFL was so worried about losing top college talent, especially quarterbacks, that we implemented a “hand-holders” program. This odd scheme worked like this: we used experienced former players, coaches, and college associates to establish “relationships” with top-ranked players and make sure they didn’t sign an AFL contract. The hand-holders got to know their charges and helped them in any way they could without violating NCAA and amateur rules. Above all, the hand-holders needed to keep the college kids away from the AFL agents who worked hard to lure them away.

  The Steelers had set their sights on a kid named Aaron Brown, a big defensive lineman from the University of Minnesota. We assigned Buddy Young to take Brown under his wing. Only five foot four, Buddy was a stand-out African-American running back, known as the “Bronze Bullet,” and had played for several AAFC and NFL teams. He put Aaron up in a hotel but made the mistake of getting a room on the first floor. The AFL guys sneaked him out through a back window, and Brown was halfway to Kansas City before we knew what happened. Brown went on to have a successful career with the Chiefs and, later, with the Green Bay Packers. Buddy was a good hand-holder, and he went on to become one of the first black executives in the NFL.

  The bidding war was ruining us. The AFL teams seemed to have money to b
urn. Take Joe Namath, who signed with the New York Jets in 1965 for the unheard salary of $427,000. Namath quarterbacked his high school team in Beaver Falls, near Pittsburgh, before going on to break records at Alabama for Bear Bryant’s Crimson Tide. He was brash, he was bold, a phenomenal talent, and everyone wanted him. The AFL guys simply outbid us.

  Nothing like this had happened in the NFL since my father had signed Whizzer White in 1938 for $15,800, a salary three times the going rate. Just as then, Namath’s contract shattered the salary barrier and the NFL-AFL rivalry entered a new phase.

  In 1966 Al Davis, coach and general manager of the AFL’s Oakland Raiders, took over as AFL commissioner. Lamar Hunt knew exactly what he was doing. He needed a tough guy at the bargaining table. Davis had already attracted attention with his in-your-face style, hard-nosed football, and aggressive pursuit of NFL-bound college players. He wanted nothing to do with the NFL, and would fight it tooth and nail, city by city. And he wanted the merger to come on his terms. Now he was AFL commissioner.

  To complicate matters, in the spring of 1966 the New York Giants signed soccer-style kicker Pete Gogolak away from the AFL’s Buffalo Bills. This shattered the six-year unwritten agreement that neither league would raid the other’s veteran players. Davis encouraged retaliation by raiding NFL quarterbacks. At the very moment the war between the leagues seemed about to explode, Rozelle met with Tex Schramm and Lamar Hunt.

  Tex was president of the Dallas Cowboys, an expansion team that entered the NFL in 1960. Tex had given Rozelle his big break years earlier when he hired him shortly after the war as the director of publicity for the Los Angeles Rams. They were close friends, and Pete believed Tex was the guy to negotiate with the AFL. Pete asked him to meet in secret with Hunt, the kingpin of the AFL, because he didn’t want Davis to undermine the negotiations.