With the right to the first
overall choice in the 1970 draft riding on a coin flip, Dan Rooney
deferred to Chicago's Ed McCaskey to make the call while NFL commissioner
Pete Rozelle readied his thumb beneath a 1921 silver dollar.
The Bears called heads. The
coin spun about a foot in the air and thunked down on a table in a New
Orleans hotel. Lady Liberty's image was face down. The eagle side was up.
The Steelers had won the toss between the two worst teams in
football.
So hardened to losing was
the city that the Post-Gazette headline to the top story in the sports
section was: "Honest to Goodness -- Steelers Win."
In hindsight, winning the
toss was an omen. By the end of the decade, the headlines spoke of triumph
after triumph. The team with the NFL's all-time inferiority complex
developed a sterling silver swagger. And a city once described as hell
with the lid taken off turned into the City of Champions.
Alchemy should work so
well.
The franchise that had seen
such quarterbacks as Sid Luckman, Johnny Unitas, Len Dawson and Bill
Nelsen get away used the first pick to select Terry Bradshaw, a
rifle-armed, fleet-of-foot bundle of raw energy who endured a rocky start
to become an integral part of the glory days.
A new wind was blowing
other ways as well. The Steelers moved into Three Rivers Stadium, and a
scratchy-voiced showman named Myron Cope, with his impeccable sense of
timing, joined the broadcast team.
"If that stadium had never
been built, we'd never have won," Steelers founder Art Rooney once said.
"We had second-class facilities in the old days, and we were a
second-class team. We went to being a first-class club."
Only a handful of veterans
made the transition from old Forbes Field and Pitt Stadium to the new
multi-purpose facility and a new start in the American Football
Conference, but they noticed a new attitude in the new players coming
aboard.
"I don't think they know
about the old losing image. They didn't know the Steelers are supposed to
lose," lineman Ray Mansfield said at the time. "When I first came to
Pittsburgh, even if we won a few games, there was always an expectation of
doom."
Still, the bandwagon had
plenty of room as the climb started.
Oh, those draft picks
For an outfit notorious for
botching the draft, the Steelers set a standard that was the envy of the
NFL. Chuck Noll believed in molding young talent by building through the
draft. Art Rooney Jr., son of the founder, was in charge of personnel with
super scout Dick Haley,
Joe Greene was already on
board, and Mel Blount arrived in the Bradshaw draft. Jack Ham was added in
1971. The coach preferred Robert Newhouse as a running back in 1972, but
the scouts sold him on Franco Harris. Then came the mother lode in 1974 --
Lynn Swann, Jack Lambert, John Stallworth and Mike Webster before the
fifth round was over. There was no other draft like it before or
since.
But in addition to all
those future Hall of Famers, the Steelers scored big in lower rounds,
especially with players from traditionally black schools. Credit went to a
new talent evaluator, Bill Nunn Sr., who as sports editor of The
Pittsburgh Courier had named an annual All-Star team of players from black
schools.
He recommended draft
choices and free agents such as L.C. Greenwood, Ernie Holmes, Joe Gilliam
and Donnie Shell.
By the end of the decade,
not a single player on the Super Bowl roster had ever worn another team's
uniform. They were all home-grown. A total of 22 players were measured for
all four Super Bowl rings.
In a sporting sort of way,
Steelers history has a biblical quality. The first 40 years of wandering
through the wilderness is the football version of the Old Testament. The
new age dawned with a play known by a religious name and interpreted as an
act of providence.
'Dee-fence! Dee-fence'
But before the Steelers
ascended to the ranks of winners, they had to vanquish the Browns.
Cleveland had won 34 of the first 45 games played against the Steelers,
and the radio stations in a city where the river caught fire looked down
their noses at Pittsburgh.
The breakthrough came on a
gray, gloomy Sunday in 1972, with the teams tied for first place, in a
game The Pittsburgh Press called Armageddon. It was a chance to right
everything for all the bad years, and a resolute bunch of blue-collar fans
packed Three Rivers Stadium to be part of it.
A throaty roar went up an
hour before the game and never let up. Those who were there on that Dec. 3
game to witness a 30-0 victory can attest that the reinforced concrete
actually pulsated as primal voices, without prompting, chanted "Dee-fence!
Dee-fence! Dee-fence!" while savoring every delicious moment.
"I got the feeling that if
we didn't win, the fans were going to come out of the stands and win it
for us," said linebacker Andy Russell, who intercepted a pass and
recovered a fumble, leading to 10 points.
From that day on, the
Steelers have never failed to sell out a game.
After finishing first in
the division for the Steelers' first title of any kind, the Oakland
Raiders came to town for the first playoff game here in a quarter century.
It was as fun to watch as a street fight. The Steelers allowed their first
touchdown in December and fell behind late in the game.
On fourth down, with time
nearing expiration, Art Rooney got into the elevator on his way to
consoling his team. Then a 17-second sequence buried the Same Old Steelers
for good.
A pass thrown to Frenchy
Fuqua, who was belted by Jack Tatum the instant the ball arrived, caromed
backward end over end. Franco Harris picked it out of the air at shoe-top
level at the 42-yard line and ran into the end zone with five seconds
left.
In the bedlam, referee Fred
Swearingen phoned the press box to confer with Art McNally, the NFL's
director of officiating. "You have to call what you saw," the referee was
told.
Since none of the officials
saw anything to negate the result, Mr. Swearingen raised his arms to
signal a winning score, making official the single most electrifying play
in NFL history. The fact that the collision and the reception maintain an
element of controversy only adds to the mystique.
There was no Super Bowl
trophy that year, but the play lives on. Two figures greet passengers
headed to baggage claim at the Pittsburgh airport. One is of a young
George Washington, who fought to claim the fort that became Pittsburgh.
The other is of Franco Harris reaching out to recreate the city's moment
of unabashed joy -- the Immaculate Reception.
Madness in the stands
Darwinism of a sort has a
niche in Steelers history because Steelermania evolved from a primate.
Well, actually, it evolved from a guy wearing a gorilla suit -- Bob
Bubanic of Port Vue, who introduced the world to Gerela's Gorillas, a fan
club dedicated to a soccer-style kicker claimed off waivers for $100 in
1971.
He and his pals first
rented the monkey suit for $60 a game, then held a raffle to buy it
outright for $250. They showed up every Sunday to cheer Roy Gerela and to
jinx opposing kickers.
"Yes, I felt like I was
part of the team and that. We all did," said Mr. Bubanic. "It was a lot of
fun."
All kinds of fans went ape
over the Steelers.
Thaddeus Majzer, also from
Port Vue, saw Hall of Fame potential in a new linebacker. Beginning in
1971, he hung a sign that said Dobre Shunka, which means Good Ham in
Slovak.
As he watched Jack Ham and
the Steelers grow into a team without peer, Mr. Majzer would remind his
friends: "Enjoy this while it lasts. You'll never see another football
team this good."
In 1972, Tony Stagno and Al
Vento brought forth Franco's Italian Army and the battle cry "Run,
Paisano, Run!" Their ranks were later graced with the enlistment of Ol'
Blue Eyes himself, Frank Sinatra.
Frenchy's Foreign Legion
honored running back John Fuqua, whose sartorial splendor included purple
suits and platform shoes displaying live goldfish. Ernie Holmes, part of
the Steel Curtain front four that made the cover of Time magazine, shaved
his hair in the shape of an arrow to point him toward the opposing
quarterback.
The Steelers touched some
deep emotional chord that stirred a personal creative energy in a diverse
ethnic population that had been hungering for a winner.
A Greek showman named Jimmy
Pol merged the melody of the Pennsylvania Polka with his own lyrics. That
45 rpm record became the anthem: "We're from the town with the good
football team..." The original version included references to the Gorillas
and the Army.
Harold Betters and his jazz
band serenaded fans at games. His trombone provided the sound track to the
chant, "Here We Go, Steelers, Here We Go."
To top it all off, Myron
Cope, the wordsmith whose schtick was that of the Yiddish yinzer, turned
terry cloth into a trademark with the Terrible Towel.
One all-encompassing banner
created back then now graces Heinz Field. It is a proclamation and a
warning: You're In Steeler Country.
Winning the first one
In a decade that introduced
leisure suits and smiley faces and disco, the '70s were a roiling time.
The Kent State shootings. Spiro Agnew's resignation and plea of no contest
to tax evasion. Paris Peace Accords. Richard Nixon said he was not a
crook, then resigned the presidency and was pardoned. Saigon fell. An Arab
oil embargo inflated gasoline prices. Billy Carter's brother occupied the
White House. Iran held Americans hostage. The Soviet Union prepared to
invade Afghanistan. And the Steelers provided a blessed
diversion.
After Terry Bradshaw
emerged from a bitter and contentious quarterback controversy, all the
pieces were in place by 1974 for the greatest stretch of football a
football town has ever seen. When the Steelers clinched the division title
and a playoff spot by defeating the Patriots, someone asked Chuck Noll
where the bubbly was.
"Champagne?" he asked with
steely-eyed resolve. "We're interested in rings."
After the first round of
the playoffs, the notion was put forth that the best two teams in football
had clashed when Oakland defeated the defending champion Dolphins. But the
Steelers coach had a different view, which led to what Joe Greene called
the defining moment in Steelers history.
"I have news for them," Mr.
Noll told his players before preparations began for Oakland. "The best
team in professional football is right here in this room."
He had never said anything
like that before or since. And it got the Steelers in a proper
froth.
"It made a big impression
on me," said Mr. Greene. "We were behind in the fourth quarter on the
road, but there was no despair, no anxiety, no worries. Maybe it was
foolhardy. I felt personally that Oakland had no chance."
They didn't. And the
Steelers earned a spot in their first Super Bowl. They were underdogs
going into that Jan. 12, 1975, game against the Vikings, but this was no
longer the Old Testament.
Dwight White, who lost 18
pounds in a bout with pneumonia during the week, climbed out of his
hospital bed to register a safety and the team's first points in a Super
Bowl. Franco Harris ran and ran to claim the MVP award.
Joe Greene intercepted a
pass and recovered a crucial fumble -- "I wasn't prepared to lose," he
said -- and captains Andy Russell and Sam Davis elected to give him the
game ball. Fate took a hand when Art Rooney was spotted off to the side,
stoically waiting to accept the Lombardi Trophy on behalf of his
players.
"I saw The Chief standing
in a corner, totally removed from the scene, and I just knew that ball
should go to him," said Mr. Russell. "I had a lot of good moments with
him, but that one was the best."
Thoughts turned to the fans
who had waited so long for the ultimate prize.
"The 'Burgh must be in
ashes," Jack Ham laughed.
Lynn Swann's breathtaking
catches earned him MVP honors the next year in Super Bowl X, a win over
the Cowboys that validated the Steelers as true champions. But mention
must be made of Jack Lambert, who served notice that there were to be
consequences for laughing at Pittsburgh.
With the Steelers trailing,
Roy Gerela -- his ribs bruised while making an earlier tackle -- missed a
field goal. Cliff Harris got in the kicker's face and taunted him, which
prompted Mr. Lambert to toss the Cowboys free safety unceremoniously to
the ground.
"We were getting
intimidated, and we're supposed to be the intimidators," said Mr. Lambert,
who did not draw a penalty for his actions. "Someone had to do something
about it."
That play inspired the
defense to a second Super Bowl win. It had taken the Steelers 42 years to
win their first NFL title and just 371 days for their second.
Said coach Noll: "Jack
Lambert is the defender of all that is right."
Injuries take a toll
Of all the super teams of
the '70s, the best one didn't win a Super Bowl. That 1976 team lost in the
playoffs to Oakland because injuries wiped out their running
backs.
During a nine-game winning
streak, in the hands of rookie quarterback Mike Kruczek taking over for an
injured Bradshaw, when a loss would have eliminated them, the defense took
command like never before. It posted five shutouts and, in one stretch,
didn't allow a touchdown for 22 quarters. The Steelers routed the Colts in
the playoffs, but the only back available in the AFC championship game was
Reggie Harrison.
The next year, 1977, the
Steelers defeated the Raiders in federal court, but the messy proceedings
served as a distraction.
Oakland's George Atkinson
had sued for slander after Chuck Noll said he was part of a "criminal
element" for a hit on Lynn Swann. A jury in San Francisco returned a
verdict that exonerated the coach. But the NFL fined him for inappropriate
remarks.
The cast was largely the
same but a fresh script arrived in 1978, in large measure because the
Steelers defense was so dominant. New rules were adopted to create more
offense, but they actually served to take the reins off the Steelers
passing game. Although Terry Bradshaw may have exasperated critics who
thought he was Li'l Abner in cleats and prone to stage fright, he threw
the prettiest spiral in the NFL and came up big on the biggest
stage.
After a going 14-2 in 1978
-- a franchise record for wins to that point -- the Steelers breezed
through the playoffs for a rematch with the Cowboys, who had been dubbed
America's Team by NFL Films.
The tag didn't phase Dan
Rooney. "We're Pittsburgh's team," he said.
And after Hollywood
Henderson said that Mr. Bradshaw couldn't spell cat if you spotted him the
"c" and the "a," the quarterback had his best day as a quarterback in a
super win, leaving it up to the Cowboys to spell M-V-P.
The exhilarating roll
continued in 1979. Every touchdown pass, every defensive stop, every
victory served as a confirmation.
For the second straight
year, the Steelers split the regular season series with the Oilers and
then beat their rivals in the AFC title game. Houston coach Bum Phillips
volunteered these words for his epitaph: "He'd have lived a hell of a lot
longer if he didn't have to play Pittsburgh six times in two
years."
Mr. Bradshaw repeated as
Super Bowl MVP. His biggest contributions were two long passes to John
Stallworth -- both of them right on the money -- to rally the Steelers in
the fourth quarter over the Rams. The Steelers became the first team to
win consecutive Super Bowls twice and the first team to win the big game
four times, going from the outhouse to the penthouse in one glorious
decade.
After presenting the team
its fourth Lombardi Trophy, Pete Rozelle quipped that the value of the
sterling silver was higher than the franchise fee The Chief paid back in
1933. Priceless.
The bandwagon was so
overcrowded it became a movable tail-gate party. In the background,
however, were rumblings that real-life steelers and the mills that
employed them were edging toward hard
times.
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