by Dan Rooney
I attended a meeting in Philadelphia with the CEC and the player representatives just before the start of the 1987 season. Hugh Culverhouse of Tampa Bay chaired the meeting. He along with Tex Schramm had made their views known. I knew we were in for a long tough battle—they wanted to beat down the players, not make a deal with them. Tex made it clear he would not yield to the players’ demands—in his words, they were the “cattle” and the owners were the “ranchers.”
At one point during the meeting, Gene Upshaw, now director of the NFLPA, looked over to me and turned his palms upward as if to say, “What’s going on here?” I just shrugged and shook my head to let him know this was a tough situation and these guys weren’t going to back down. I wanted to negotiate this thing in good faith, but Schramm and Culverhouse were adamant. They were ready to lock the players out and go on with the season using retired pros, collegiate has-beens, and NFL wannabes.
We had prepared for the strike, just as the other teams had, and had identified some replacements just in case. When the walkout occurred we scrambled to sign anyone we could get. The Teamsters supported the players and we worried that our replacements would be harassed if they practiced in Pittsburgh. So we moved to Johnstown, sixty miles southeast. Here we were welcomed by the community. Jim Boston, our chief negotiator, set up an office at the Holiday Inn, while our scouts scoured the countryside for talent.
The strike lasted twenty-one days, and only one game was canceled. I met with our players outside the stadium to answer their questions, reassure them, and let them know the progress of our negotiations from a management point of view. Many of our veteran players worried they’d get out of shape during the layoff. Steelers player representative Tunch Ilkin asked me if he and some of the other guys could get into the practice field next to Three Rivers Stadium to work out. This was really the only place the players could practice. I told him where he could find the key to the practice field. He got it and when the strike ended, our players returned in pretty good shape.
The strike ended with nothing resolved, especially the issue of player free agency. The NFLPA now took this battle to the courts. Schramm and Culverhouse had won a tactical victory by breaking the strike with replacement players, but I worried that the image of the league had been tarnished, and now we were tied up in court.
At the same time, an adversarial relationship had developed between management and the players. The strike had disaffected many football fans around the country. In Pittsburgh, our fans supported the Steelers. We gave them the opportunity to turn in their tickets for refunds, but of the sixty thousand tickets sold, only five thousand were exchanged. We quickly resold these and actually suffered no loss in attendance. This was not the case in other cities, where some games were played before crowds of as few as fifteen thousand.
The players agreed to come back without a CBA in place, but the issues at the heart of the strike remained and would need to be settled once and for all. Rozelle always maintained the commissioner should not actively participate in player-management negotiations. Rather, he thought he should be an impartial observer. I agreed with him but thought he should play some role for the good of the league. By the time of his retirement in 1989, Pete had come to realize it would be better for the commissioner to shape labor agreements than have the courts do it.
I believe labor relations is the most critical issue facing the league. When Rozelle left, I strongly advocated in favor of Paul Tagliabue, the league’s chief outside legal counsel, as our new commissioner. Paul understood that to be effective the new commissioner would have to get fully involved in negotiating a new CBA. The days of impartial observation had passed. I told Gene Upshaw that Tagliabue was a good man and could be trusted to represent the interests of the players and owners.
In 1993, under Commissioner Tagliabue’s leadership, a new CBA, including free agency and some revenue-sharing (the players would receive 63 percent of the defined gross income of the NFL), was signed. The new agreement recognized that the NFL comprises players and management. We’re all in it together. It’s like a marriage. There has to be give and take. There has to be understanding based on fairness. Whatever is done must be in the best interests of the league.
The burden of responsibility weighed heavily on Pete Rozelle. Though only a little older than I, Pete had aged beyond his years. The constant pressure of lawsuits and hearings—it seemed Pete spent more time in courtrooms than in league offices—had taken its toll. For nearly thirty years Pete had shepherded the NFL through the twists and turns of corporate development. When he took over the commissioner’s post in 1960, ten NFL teams played before half-empty stadiums. Now, pro football was a multibillion-dollar business and America’s favorite game. He, more than any man, shaped the NFL we know today. I considered Pete not just the commissioner of the NFL but one of my closest friends. We talked almost daily—about television rights, ventures, expansion, public relations, and more. He cared very much about the league and worked tirelessly to ensure its future.
When Pete announced his retirement, he formed a commissioner search committee, composed of Wellington Mara, Art Modell, Lamar Hunt, Robert Parins, Ralph Wilson, and me. Pete attended every meeting and guided us through the process. Art Modell came out early with his candidate—Jim Finks. Yes, the same Finks who quarterbacked the Steelers in the 1950s. This put me in a tough spot. I considered Jim a friend, and everybody thought I’d support his candidacy.
But Paul Tagliabue had really impressed me. A lawyer and former basketball player, Paul could handle the business and legal affairs of the NFL, and he had the ability and personality to work effectively in the arena of labor relations. I knew he favored a more hands-on approach with the players and would make a long-term CBA his highest priority.
I told the committee members not to rush their decision. “Look,” I said, “we have to see who we have and study the candidates.” I told Paul not to pull out, even if the going got rough. I knew it was going to be a tough election. Other candidates emerged, including Willie Davis, the former Green Bay Packers tackle. The committee could not reach a consensus. Pete finally formed another committee and asked me to chair it. This group consisted of Wellington Mara, Art Modell, Pat Bowlen, and Mike Lynn. In short order, we nominated Tagliabue. Modell proposed hiring both Tag and Finks, believing Finks could act as a senior advisor to the less football-wise Tagliabue. I knew this couldn’t work, and Tag would have no part of it. I urged the other presidents to take action quickly before we lost our best candidate. After much discussion, on October 26, 1989, the owners finally elected Tagliabue on the twelfth ballot.
In August 1988 Pittsburgh suffered an unprecedented heat wave. For thirty-five straight days the temperature topped ninety degrees. The drought conditions turned the usually green hillsides to straw yellow. The conditions at training camp were brutal. On August 17, while sitting in his office at Three Rivers Stadium, my father suffered a stroke that left him partially paralyzed. Paramedics rushed him to Mercy Hospital, where he was able to talk and seemed to recover. The next morning he had trouble breathing and was moved to the intensive care unit. My brother Art and I stayed by his bedside.
It was hard seeing my father, usually so animated and talkative, connected to a respirator, unable to speak. He communicated with us by blinking his eyes and squeezing our hands until his condition worsened, and he fell into a coma. Dr. Theodore Gelet, my father’s longtime physician, explained that the damage from the stroke was so great he had no hope of recovery. At 7:30 a.m., on August 25, I allowed the doctors to remove him from the respirator.
The funeral was scheduled to take place three days later at St. Peter’s on the North Side. It was almost one year to the day since our daughter Kathleen had passed away. By order of Mayor Sophie Masloff, all the flags in Pittsburgh flew at half-staff. From across the country, thousands of friends and admirers came to pay their respects. The church overflowed with mourners, and hundreds had to be seated in the basement to watch the service on
televisions set up for that purpose. Tony O’Reilly came from Ireland. The ushers stopped him at the door and refused to let him enter the overcrowded church. If my son Art had not seen Tony he would have been turned away. Bishop Donald Wuerl of the diocese of Pittsburgh and Bishop Vincent M. Leonard celebrated the mass. Rooneys came from around the country.
My children were there: Arthur J. Rooney II, with his wife, Greta, and their daughter Meghan; Patricia and her husband, Robert Gerrero, with daughters Laura and Nina; Rita and her husband, Laurence Conway (they had flown in from Ireland where Larry studied medicine); Kathleen’s husband, Tom Miller, with daughter Caitlin; Daniel; Duffy; John; James; and Joan.
My brothers were all there: Art Rooney and his wife, Kathleen, with their family, Arthur J. III, and his wife, Christine, and children Michael and Susan;
Tim Rooney and June, with their family, Kathleen and Chris Mara with children Daniel, Kathleen, Patricia, and Arthur; Margaret and Robert Galterio with Erin, Clare, and Molly; Bridget; Timothy J. Jr.; and Cara;
John J. Rooney and JoAnn with family Sean; Mary Jo; Alice and Sean Mahoney with son Sean; Peter; Matthew;
Patrick J. Rooney and Sandy, with their children Patrick J. Jr.; Joseph; Theresa; Christopher; Thomas; Brian; and Molly.
My father’s niece Trisha Fiske Jesek, who had been raised with our family, was there. Trish was very much a part of our family. Imagine, one girl in a house with five rough-and-tumble boys—she played sports with us, but my mother delighted in dressing her in pretty clothes. She was as close to Dad as any of us.
My father’s only remaining brother, James, was there, as were his sisters Margaret Laughlin and Marie McGinley.
Our NFL friends attended, including Pete Rozelle, Paul Tagliabue, Roger Goodell, Wellington Mara (Giants), Art Modell (Cleveland), Ralph Wilson (Bills), Jim Finks (New Orleans), Tex Schramm (Cowboys), Rankin Smith (Falcons), Bill Bidwill (Cardinals), Ed McCaskey (Bears), Jim Kensil (Jets), Norm Braman (Eagles), Max Winter (Vikings), Al Davis (Raiders), and NFL director of broadcasting,Val Pinchbeck, along with Gene Upshaw, president of the NFLPA.
All the 1988 Steelers players and coaches were there, as well as a number of former Steelers, including Franco Harris, Joe Greene, Andy Russell, Roy Gerela, L.C. Greenwood, and Mel Blount.
It seemed all state, county, and city officials were in attendance, from Governor Bob Casey to Mayor Masloff.
Dad was eighty-seven when he died. Few lived as full a life as he had. A North Side saloon-keeper’s son, he had gone on to be a politician, an athlete, a coach, a manager, a promoter, a philanthropist, a community leader, an NFL Hall of Famer, and perhaps the most respected and admired man in all of sports.
But he was also a father. As I sat in the first pew with my four brothers beside me, I could not help but think of our youth and my father’s powerful influence on our lives. Though he wasn’t always at home, we felt his presence in everything we did. He was a larger-than-life personality, and a force to be reckoned with—in our family, in our community, and in America’s sports world. My father’s charisma and genuine love of people shone through every aspect of his life. He and I were different, but he instilled in me values that have never failed me—a devotion to our Catholic faith, a love of family, and a commitment to Pittsburgh. Through him I gained my love of sports, and had it not been for my father, the Pittsburgh Steelers would never have been. Through thick and thin, he kept the team in Pittsburgh. And he believed in me and gave me confidence as he passed the leadership of the team on to me.
I saw the greatest tribute to my father in the faces of those who attended the funeral. And there were thousands who lined the streets throughout the North Side—the old First Ward. They came out of their homes and stood at curbsides and street corners as the black limousines of the funeral cortege wound through the narrow streets and passed by familiar shops and parks and hangouts. Some stood silently, others wept. Some came dressed in their Steelers jerseys, and still others held up signs saying “Goodbye Art” and “Thanks Chief.” From the backseat of our limousine I saw again how beloved my father really was. These were his people.
Throughout the 1988 season, the Steelers wore an “AJR” patch on the front of their jerseys.
CHAPTER 8
HANDING OFF
IN 1989 the Maxwell Football Club honored Chuck Noll with the prestigious Earle “Greasy” Neale Professional Coach of the Year award. The club had been founded by our old friend Bert Bell back in 1937, and both my father and Bert would have approved.
I believe Chuck really showed his greatness the year before, despite our 5-11 record. We were 2-10 at Thanksgiving in 1988, but Chuck rallied the team to three wins over the final four weeks, including an upset of the Oilers in Houston. I thought—our whole organization thought—better days lay ahead.
But that hope certainly didn’t seem realistic as the 1989 season began. Our opener against the Cleveland Browns at Three Rivers Stadium snowballed into a 51-0 loss—still the most lopsided defeat in the history of our franchise. Things didn’t get better in our second game in Cincinnati against the Bengals. They beat us 41-10, prompting Chuck to say, “We either just played the two best teams in the AFC, or this is going to be a long season.”
That was vintage Noll—he never showed fear or panic. We discussed the situation, and I told Chuck we’d be all right. My confidence in him was unshaken. The following weekend, we pulled off a major upset by defeating the Minnesota Vikings at Three Rivers, and the team stabilized. We won five of our last six games to squeeze into the playoffs as a wild card team. Once in the playoffs, we beat the Oilers in overtime in the Astrodome and came within a dropped pass of beating the eventual conference champion Denver Broncos.
Chuck had won four Super Bowls and was the fifth-winningest coach in NFL history, alongside Don Shula, George Halas, Curly Lambeau, and Tom Landry. That’s a pretty elite group. Yet, the Maxwell Club’s award was the first time he had ever been honored for the job he did with a team during a single season. He should have been recognized in the 1970s. But he never played to the press the way some coaches did. As Joe Greene said, “I think he’s acknowledged when his name comes up, because they have to acknowledge the winning and the tradition and the style of play he put together. That’s why the fondness for the Steelers of the 1970s has had such a long life—because we played with a style that was his. Maybe it was because he didn’t cater to the media. He was respectful, and that’s what he always told us, that the media had a job to do even though it was different than our job, and that we should respect them. He had an appreciation for the media, but he never played up to them, and maybe that’s why he’s underappreciated.”
The “Greasy” Neale award was the highest honor a coach could get—and I thought it was high time.
At the end of the 1991 season, Chuck told me it was time for him to retire. At first I was surprised. He’d been our coach for twenty-three years. That’s a lifetime in the NFL. As far as I was concerned, the job was his for as long as he wanted it. I wasn’t happy, but I understood his thinking, and in the end I think he made the right decision to leave when he did.
Chuck’s departure left us with the hard work of finding a new coach. Of course, every time you change head coaches it’s like starting all over again—almost like an expansion club in its first season. That may seem an overstatement, but it’s true. Though the culture of the team remains the same—that’s something management establishes—a new head coach must rally the team around him, set the tone and spirit, and bring his system to the field and implement it. And working with management and scouts, he must build the team, merging new talent with veteran players.
One thing I’ve learned over the years is when you hire a head coach you need to have a process. It’s not something to be rushed. We came up with a list of potential candidates. High on the list was Joe Greene, who we had hired as the defensive line coach in 1987. Joe had retired as a player in 1981 after thirteen history-making seasons. He was a terrific coach, and
I felt strongly we should give him a genuine shot at the top job. We talked to Kansas City Chiefs coach Marty Schottenheimer about his defensive coordinator, Bill Cowher. Marty had played University of Pittsburgh football and knew the kind of guy we were looking for.
Cowher grew up in Crafton, Pennsylvania, just west of Pittsburgh. An outstanding high school athlete, he lettered in football, basketball, and track. At North Carolina State, he played four sports and started as linebacker for three years. As a senior, in 1978, he was team captain and MVP, leading the Wolfpack’s defense in tackles. In the early 1980s, Bill played linebacker for the Browns and the Eagles. In 1985, he took over as special teams coordinator for Cleveland and later coached the secondary. Schottenheimer hired him as defensive coordinator for the Kansas City Chiefs in 1989.
We brought Bill to Pittsburgh for an interview. I liked him right off the bat. He was a Western Pennsylvania guy and understood Steelers football. I put great stock in interviews—you can tell a lot about a candidate in the question-answer process. He was a family man, with a fine wife, Kaye, and three little girls. Bill’s self-discipline and integrity shone through. I knew he was a good person. This may sound trite, but that’s the most important thing to me. When the going gets tough, you need that strength of character to make good decisions. I got the sense he could relate to the players—they would trust him. This trust in the coach is essential in building team closeness.
He was young—only thirty-four years old—but that was a plus. Remember, Chuck Noll was only thirty-seven when we hired him. Cowher also had an infectious enthusiasm. He wanted to win. What’s more, he even looked like a Steeler. With his jutting jaw and chiseled features, he reminded me of our old logo, the one that depicted a rough, tough, brawny steelworker walking an I-beam.