Dan Rooney

by Dan Rooney

  The only thing standing between us and an NFL record three straight Super Bowl championships in December 1976 was Al Davis’s Oakland Raiders. But the injuries in the Colts game hit us hard. Neither Franco Harris (ribs) nor Rocky Bleier (toe), both of whom had posted 1,000-yard seasons, suited up for the game, and Frenchy Fuqua played at less than 100 percent because of a calf injury. Our only healthy back was Reggie Harrison, and running the ball was the bread and butter of our offense that season. Again some statistics: During the nine-game winning streak in the regular season, our offense rushed for more than 200 yards in every game but one—when we ran for 143 yards against the Houston Oilers at Three Rivers Stadium. That was avenged with 258 yards in the rematch in the Astrodome on the final week of the regular season. During the nine-game winning streak, the Steelers rushed for 2,101 yards and averaged 4.5 yards per carry, and we had thirty-three rushing touchdowns on the season, allowing only five.

  Without our primary offensive weapons we were at a disadvantage, but this was another instance when Chuck Noll showed his greatness as a coach. With only one week to prepare, Noll completely redesigned our offense into a one-back set—revolutionary for that time in the NFL. Later Joe Gibbs would use many of these same offensive principles to win three Super Bowls with the Washington Redskins in the 1980s and 1990s. But with no real time to install the offense, and against an opponent as tough as the Raiders, it never had a chance to succeed. We lost that game, 24-7, and the AFC championship.

  Yet, even in the atmosphere of this bitter disappointment, our players revealed their heart and character. In the locker room after the game, Jack Lambert said, “I’d play ’em again tomorrow. Just give me a few beers, a couple of hours of sleep, and I’ll be out there at 1 p.m. tomorrow.”

  In my opinion, the defense we fielded in 1976 was the best in the history of the game. Our Steel Curtain defense smothered opponents. In the next two years, the league’s Rules Committee recommended and the owners approved changes that would open up the passing game and cut down on injuries. Some of these changes came about as a result of the domination of the Steelers defense. Under the new rules, defenders could still make contact with eligible receivers, but only once. No contact was permissible five yards beyond the line of scrimmage. In addition, the league outlawed the head-slap, which Joe Greene used so effectively.

  The Raiders beat the Minnesota Vikings to win Super Bowl XI, Al Davis’s first Super Bowl victory. But Davis wasn’t one to rest on his laurels. He always looked for the main chance. He believed in keeping his opponents off balance, whether in a tough negotiation at a league meeting or on the playing field. That was his style—just Al being Al.

  Remember the words “criminal element”? After Chuck Noll publicly criticized George Atkinson for his cheap shot on Lynn Swann, the press had a field day with Chuck’s “criminal element” statement. Pete Rozelle and I both worried about the public perception of violence in the NFL. I told Pete—and I even wrote a letter—his fine of only $1,500 on Atkinson did not send a clear enough message that such flagrant acts of unnecessary violence would not be tolerated. And I thought it was unfair that Pete slapped Noll with a $1,000 fine for speaking his mind on the matter.

  With all this going on, I believe Davis saw an opening. He would distract and disrupt the Steelers even before the 1977 season began. I don’t think George Atkinson came up with the idea of suing Chuck Noll for $3 million for “slander and defamation of character” all by himself. NFL rules prohibited one team from suing another, but an individual player can take legal action against a team. Of course, I don’t know the details of the arrangement, but at the time everyone seemed to suspect Davis supported Atkinson and brought in the best lawyers available. I believe Al bankrolled the whole thing.

  Some writers have referred to Al Davis as the “Dark Genius,” implying malevolence. I don’t know about that. I don’t think he’s evil. But he’s no genius. He’s a good football man. I got some insights into the way he thinks from my good friend Richie McCabe. After his playing days with the Steelers, Richie went into coaching, including a brief stint with the Raiders. He wasn’t there very long, and when he came back to Pittsburgh I asked him how it went working for Al Davis.

  “I can’t take him,” Richie told me. “I just can’t stand it. He’d send a play down and say, ‘Run this defense on the third or second down.’ I didn’t think he knew what he was doing. It wasn’t a question of being dumb or not knowing football. Maybe he wasn’t paying any attention.” Al set the tone for his team. He wanted them to be feared and cultivated in his players a swaggering, almost outlaw image. They were called Raiders and he wanted them to act like Raiders.

  The Atkinson lawsuit against Chuck could not have come at a worse time for the Steelers. The trial was scheduled to start in San Francisco in the summer of 1977, just as we opened our training camp in Latrobe. As a defendant in the case, Chuck Noll would be expected to testify, as would a number of our star players, including Andy Russell, Jack Ham, Rocky Bleier, and Terry Bradshaw. The whole thing seemed calculated to foul up our preparations for the 1977 season.

  I personally spent four weeks in the MacArthur Suite at the St. Francis Hotel, a long time considering I should have been working on contracts—both Blount and Lambert were holding out—game schedules, and team logistics.

  Fortunately, the judge in the case, U.S. District Court Judge Samuel Conti, was a reasonable man. He agreed that Chuck could testify immediately after the opening arguments and then be allowed to return to camp, as long as I was on hand for the entire trial to represent the team’s interest. However, the judge also stipulated that Chuck would have to come back near the end of the trial. This schedule would enable him to set up camp and spend at least some time with the team.

  We believed we were in the right—that if we honestly presented our case, even a San Francisco jury would do the right thing. But our insurance company advised us to settle out of court with Atkinson for $50,000 to avoid the expense of a lengthy trial. I said, “We’re not settling—we’re going to win this thing.” I felt strongly that Noll had to win in order to be exonerated. We had to think of the league, too. Settling out of court would look like a cover-up.

  The insurance company then sent us a lawyer we didn’t agree with. So I brought in our own attorney, a very capable Irishman named James Martin MacInnis. MacInnis understood exactly what we needed to do to win the case. He used common sense and sound argument to show the jury why nothing Noll said or did constituted libel.

  MacInnis advised us not to challenge any juror during the jury-selection process. We didn’t—but the judge did. He asked a prospective juror, a woman, “Do you live in Oakland?”

  “Yes I do, Your Honor.”

  “Are you a Raiders fan?”

  “Yes I am. We hold season tickets.”

  “Do you think it would be fair to have a whole jury composed of people like you?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Thank you. You are excused.”

  The lead attorney for the plaintiff, Willie Brown, was a very capable lawyer. He later became mayor of San Francisco and speaker in the California Assembly. On the first day of the trial, Chuck Noll took the stand. Now, Chuck is a man of great intelligence. There is an air of importance about him. He doesn’t talk a lot, but when he does, people listen. He’s a very credible witness—the last thing Brown wanted. In an interview after the trial, Brown described what it was like going head to head with the future Hall of Fame coach, Chuck Noll:

  “It is in federal court with a jury. It is a two-week trial. I am in federal court examining Chuck Noll; I’ve got Chuck Noll on the stand. Chuck Noll is a witness worse than Clarence Thomas. He will answer no questions. He does it with a degree of dignity that you just get angrier, angrier and angrier and angrier. I was going nuts through this hour of examination. I was doing the best job you could do on Chuck Noll, but you really can’t shake him. The judge was watching this whole thing with great amusement . . . So I was h
ammering away, hammering away, and I am getting no place in making the points with Chuck Noll. I finally just kind of looked, gave the judge a glance. The judge asked me if I wanted to take a recess.”

  Brown regained his composure and changed his strategy. This time he asked Noll, “Do you see any criminals in this courtroom?” Players from both teams filled the room. Noll answered, “No,” and Brown walked away feeling he had won the point.

  Now the plaintiff’s attorney focused on me. Brown wheeled into the courtroom a floor-to-ceiling blowup of the letter I had written to Rozelle, in which I stated my objections to the fines levied against Atkinson (too low) and Noll (too high). That day they called me I wore my white shirt, coat, and tie. In the witness box, I put my hand on the Bible and swore to tell the whole truth.

  Brown asked, “Have you ever seen this letter before?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the nature of it?” he asked, hoping to throw me off by quickly firing questions.

  “It’s the letter I wrote to the commissioner.”

  Brown asked, “Did you review the letter with Chuck Noll before you sent it?”

  I replied, “No. I don’t go over my letters with anyone. If I write a letter, I write the letter.”

  He asked me if I thought Atkinson should be fined, implying that he didn’t do anything more than our guys did. I said, “What do you mean? It was a cheap shot. He gave our guy a concussion and knocked him out of the game!”

  MacInnis always seemed to have the trial well in hand. When the plaintiff’s lawyer read a newspaper excerpt criticizing our players for unnecessary roughness, MacInnis spoke up and said, “That’s an interesting bit of writing. Why don’t we read the entire article?” The judge agreed, so MacInnis stood before the jury and read the whole thing aloud. Taken in context, the excerpt described nothing that would damage our case. When MacInnis finished reading, he turned to the jurors and said, “Seems to me, as Shakespeare said, this is ‘much ado about nothing.’”

  A bunch of our players were called to testify.

  Our star witness, it turned out, was Terry Bradshaw. Affable, frank, smiling, Bradshaw played to the courtroom, cracked jokes, and captivated the jury. He was terrific.

  After two weeks of testimony and cross-examination, the judge gave the jury members their final instructions and sent them off to deliberate. Four hours later, they returned with a unanimous verdict that Noll was not liable. Chuck was vindicated. After the ordeal, I told a reporter outside the courthouse, “I’m pleased. It has been the most depressing experience of my life, but I’m happy.”

  It’s a good thing we won this case, both for the Steelers and the NFL. Noll’s integrity remained intact, as did Pete Rozelle’s. Pete had been called to testify and was very concerned about the outcome of the trial. Even more important, the case focused attention on the gratuitous violence represented by Atkinson’s blindside clubbing of Lynn Swann. It served notice that such acts would not be condoned. Rozelle ordered the NFL Competition Committee to investigate rule changes that would make the game safer. At the same time, he removed Al Davis from this powerful committee.

  The NFL faced other issues during this time. No issue received more attention in the mid-1970s than labor relations.

  The owners established the NFL Management Council, made up of one member from each of the twenty-eight clubs, to determine the league’s labor policy. From this group a six-member Council Executive Committee (CEC) was appointed to negotiate directly with the National Football League Players Association (NFLPA). CEC chairman Wellington Mara appointed me the league’s chief labor negotiator in 1976. I had served as chairman of the Expansion Committee in the early 1970s and been successful in bringing the Seattle Seahawks and Tampa Bay Buccaneers into the league. My years of experience in negotiating players’ contracts also served me well in this important new appointment.

  The league’s recognition of the NFLPA in 1956 had greatly improved communications between owners and players. Even so, the NFL suffered a number of player strikes, beginning in the 1960s. The forty-two-day strike in 1974, orchestrated by Edward R. Garvey, executive director of the NFLPA, resolved nothing. The players agreed to end their walkout but their grievances, numbering nearly one hundred, remained unresolved.

  Remember, in the 1974 strike the players wanted to eliminate the Rozelle Rule, which put limits on free agency; arbitration of all disputes; elimination of the draft; elimination of the waiver system; and a contract to guarantee salaries. But the strike fizzled when most of the players returned to camp.

  Garvey had a staff of eight and an experienced negotiating team. After talks between the league and players broke down, the NFLPA leaders took their fight to the U.S. courts. Once I was appointed chief negotiator for the CEC, I reopened talks with the NFLPA. I was joined by Jim Finks, the former Steelers quarterback and then general manager of the Minnesota Vikings, and Sarge Karch, the CEC’s attorney. We met with Garvey and other association representatives repeatedly through the summer and well into the 1976 season. I spent seventy-seven days in New York that year, in addition to meetings in Chicago, Las Vegas, and Miami.

  Formal meetings were getting us nowhere, so I began talks with Miami Dolphins All-Pro safety Dick Anderson, the NFLPA president elected by the player representatives from all the teams. These talks were so secret that not even Ed Garvey knew of them. Miami coach Don Shula cooperated in every way and allowed me to talk to Anderson privately, an unusual occurrence given we were in the middle of the football season.

  I saw Dick in Buffalo, where the Dolphins played the Bills in a Monday Night Football game. We reached an accord, which has since become known as the “Anderson-Rooney Agreement.” When Ed Garvey learned what we had been up to, he wasn’t happy. He’d been left out of the talks and said our agreement was “illegal.” The NFLPA wouldn’t accept it. But Anderson and I kept on working.

  We again met secretly, this time at Dick’s apartment in Miami. In the middle of our discussion the phone rang. No one was supposed to know I was there, but Anderson handed me the phone and said, “It’s for you.” It was Sig Hyman, the league’s outside accountant and chief number-cruncher. Sig said, “You know those figures I gave you? Well, they’ve changed.”

  I thought Dick and I had made good progress, and I wanted to keep moving forward, so I told Sig, “It’s too late now!” and hung up.

  Dick and I continued our talks until we finally hashed out a draft agreement. This became the basis of an agreement both sides could accept, including Ed Garvey, who now entered the discussions, along with Sarge Karch.

  During this time, the trust between the players and the league grew, and I got a chance to meet and know Gene Upshaw, the Raiders Pro-Bowl offensive lineman, and other team player representatives. I already knew Paul Martha, a labor arbitrator who had played defensive back for the Steelers. I had worked with him successfully during the construction of Three Rivers Stadium when the Pittsburgh Black Coalition, an organization of African-American business and civil rights leaders, pushed for assurances that black contractors would get construction contracts.

  In February 1977, the league ratified a collective bargaining agreement (CBA) with the NFLPA. The five-year agreement was worth $107 million. It allowed for the continuation of the college draft through 1986; included a no-strike, no-suit clause; instituted a forty-three-man active player limit; reduced pension-vesting to four years; increased minimum salaries, as well as preseason and postseason pay; improved insurance and medical benefits; modified player movement and control practices; and reaffirmed the NFL commissioner’s authority to discipline players.

  With the expiration of the agreement five years later in 1982, the NFLPA authorized another strike. This time the players demanded a percentage of gross revenues for salaries and pensions. They wanted wage scales and compensation tied to seniority. The free agency issue had not been resolved to anyone’s satisfaction, and players were concerned about injuries caused by artificial turf. The strike bega
n two games into the regular season and lasted fifty-seven days. Eight games had to be cancelled—the first time anything like this had happened. Because of the shortened season, we devised a sixteen-team playoff tournament to determine who would play in Super Bowl XVII.

  As we negotiated with the players during this time, Paul Martha was very helpful in keeping the talks moving. When it seemed things were falling apart, he got it back together. We worked long days and late nights, especially on wages and pensions. I remember one November night I was about ready to call it quits, saying, “We are not giving another dollar.” Our meeting broke up, and I went back to my hotel. Only Martha and Garvey knew where I was staying.

  About midnight, Paul called. I told him, “I’m leaving. I’m going home in the morning.”

  Paul urged me not to leave, saying, “It’s going to happen. Stay.”

  And he was right. The logjam broke the next day, and we agreed on a CBA that we could present to the League and the NFLPA.

  Paul attended the CEC meeting in New York on November 17, 1982. Chuck Sullivan, the oldest son of Patriots owner Bill Sullivan, then chairman of the committee, may have played up his role in the compromise, but in fact his grandstanding almost killed the agreement when he tried to make last-minute changes to get more than we had already agreed to. Paul Martha stood firm. “We can’t change it.”