Dan Rooney (17 page)

 

 

Unless you were there, you can't imagine the excitement generated by those first Super Bowls. The name itself fit the game, though it came about in a very unusual way. In 1966, as we talked about a “world championship” game, some owners referred to it as the “World Series of football,” but of course that was a name already associated with Major League Baseball. I remember when Lamar Hunt first used the term “Super Bowl,” a name inspired by the Wham-O Super Ball then popular with kids.

We were sitting around a table talking about championship games when someone asked, “Wait, which championship are you talking about, the league championships or the world championship?”

Hunt said, “I'm talking about the Super Bowl.”

Informally, everyone began referring to the world championship as the Super Bowl, expecting at some later date to give it a more appropriate name. But the media, the public, and even the players and coaches latched on to “Super,” and it stuck. Not everyone thought this the best name. I remember Stormy Bidwill kidded about everything being “super.”

The first World Championship, later to be called Super Bowl I, matched Vince Lombardi's Green Bay Packers against Lamar Hunt's Kansas City Chiefs. When the teams arrived at the Coliseum in Los Angeles on game day, they found an army of sportswriters and television crews already encamped. Lombardi bristled when reporters acted as if the outcome of the game had already been determined, that the AFL Chiefs had no chance against the superior NFL Packers. “If you guys already know who won, why should we bother playing at all? I think those guys want to prove they're as good as we are.
Let's play the game and find out, if you gentlemen of the press don't mind.” There was a lot of pressure on Vince to win this game, not just for the Packers but for all of us in the NFL. We believed our league the superior one, but we had to prove it. Losing was not an option.

No one felt the tension more than the players. It was as bad as I've ever seen it. In the locker room and in the tunnel before the game, guys on both sides were shaking with nerves, some of them throwing up. The kickoff released seven years of pent-up excitement. To everyone's surprise, at the half the game was tight, with the Packers leading only 14-10. When the halftime show began we were pretty worried. I worried the NFL might lose; Pete worried the leagues wouldn't be competitive. But so far it had been a great game. In the second half Lombardi's Packers calmed down and hit their stride, decisively winning 35-10. In the elevator after the game, Pete was all smiles. We'd passed a milestone in the history of the NFL, and it looked like the merger would work after all.

Super Bowl II found Lombardi's Packers pitted against Al Davis's Oakland Raiders. There was no love lost between them, and the game got personal. Davis is the kind of guy you either loved or hated. I wanted the Packers to destroy the Raiders—and they did.

Then came Super Bowl III at the Orange Bowl in Miami. The New York Jets dominated the Baltimore Colts, winning 16-7. Broad-way Joe Namath put on a show that shocked the sports world. He passed for over 200 yards and made good on his pre-game prediction, “We're gonna win the game. I guarantee it.” The cocky Namath, the very symbol of the AFL, was named MVP in the showcase game of the merged leagues.

The old guard of the NFL took it hard. Soon after the game, at the Kenilworth Hotel in Miami, I had dinner with Wellington Mara, Art Modell, Tex Schramm, and Vince Lombardi. They were furious, almost ready to throw Carroll Rosenbloom out the window. The Colts had embarrassed themselves and let the league down. Lombardi
criticized the Baltimore coaching staff, listing the could'ves and should'ves that would have won the game. There was no excuse—Coach Don Shula and his assistant Chuck Noll were both top guys. But Earl Morrall's quarterbacking had been disastrous, and the Colts only scored in the fourth quarter when the injured Johnny Unitas came off the bench to rally the team and drive downfield for a touchdown.

I was as much an NFL guy as the rest of them. I thought the Colts played a bad game—they were the better team—and Namath and the Jets had gotten lucky. But I agreed with Pete Rozelle. The loss to the Jets wasn't all bad. It showed the public the two leagues could be competitive, that there was balance.

 

 

Merging the two leagues was not a simple matter. The devil was in the details. There would be two conferences, but how would we align the divisions? The AFL now had ten teams, and the NFL had sixteen. After much debate, we agreed that three teams from the NFL would move over to the AFL to balance the conferences. But which teams? The AFL wanted the Steelers, Colts, and Browns because these established NFL teams would be good for the new conference's image. But we would be placed in separate divisions, which would disrupt the traditional rivalries between the three clubs and antagonize our fans. I was totally against this.

Early in 1969, as the final merger date approached, I began to think that we'd never get the deal done. I didn't want the Pittsburgh Steelers to be one of the three teams to move over to the AFL. We weren't a second-rate team that could just be ripped out of the NFL. We had tradition, we had a strong fan base, and we had our regional rivals. We weren't pawns that could be moved at the whim of the
league. What would our fans think? We'd look like chumps, like the league's whipping boy.

The combined owners met in New York at the league's Park Avenue offices. Rozelle announced that no one was going home until the conference and division alignments were set. Division champions of each conference, of course, would make the postseason playoffs. The conference champions would match up in the Super Bowl, so every team wanted to be in a division that offered the best combination of geography, financial advantages, and strong regional rivalries. To sweeten the pot, Rozelle announced that the three NFL teams willing to make the shift would receive a $3 million bonus, paid by the owners of the other teams.

I still opposed shifting the Steelers to the AFC, but Dad was beginning to warm up to the idea. “Hey, it's a lot easier to receive $3 million than to pay it.” After a long, hard day of negotiating, Dad and I, along with Wellington Mara, went to see our old friend Art Modell, owner of the Cleveland Browns. Art had been rushed to Doctors Hospital with a bleeding ulcer. I told him of the divisional stalemate and explained that none of the NFL teams wanted to move. The AFL guys specifically wanted the Steelers because of our tradition and reputation, which they believed would give greater credibility to the new conference.

As we stood around his bed, Modell looked up and said, “Boys, I'm ready to break this logjam. If the Steelers agree to move, I'll move Cleveland.”

We'd been fighting the AFL for a decade and I wasn't about to join the enemy. It had been a war of sorts, and it wasn't easy for me to go over to the other side just like that. “Wait!” I said. “We're not going to join the American Football Conference!”

Dad put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Danny, hold on. Let's think about this.”

After we left the hospital, I continued to work on Dad as Wellington listened. I restated my reasons for not joining the AFC and thought I had convinced him that we were better off staying with the NFC.

“Let someone else make the move,” I said as I paced the room, trying to keep my emotions in check.

Wellington stepped in my path. “Pacing isn't going to help. Don't get too excited about this. You don't know where it's going. This may work out for you.”

Dad and I had dinner that night, but I didn't say much. I thought I had him convinced. After dinner we returned to the league offices, but before joining the other owners, who were sacked out in chairs and talking in small groups in the hallways, we walked into Pete's office. Pete looked me in the eye and handed me a tiny slip of paper, not much bigger than a Chinese cookie fortune. It read: “CLEV, PITT, HOU, CINCY.”

Then and there I knew the Steelers would be moving to the AFC. Pete had come up with the perfect mix of traditional rivals, big-market cities, and he added the appeal of Houston with its brand-new Astrodome.

Dad asked me, “What is that?”

I handed him the piece of paper. “Here's our new division.”

My father took the slip of paper, then said, “That's right.” As we walked down to the meeting room, he whispered, “If you hadn't been so stubborn, we wouldn't have gotten such a great division.”

Pete announced the new alignment to the bleary-eyed NFC owners seated around the table in the “Fish Room,” so named for the stuffed swordfish (Rozelle was a great fisherman) that dominated the wall. They all seemed relieved.

Then Rozelle led my father and me, as well as representatives of the Cleveland Browns and Baltimore Colts—the other two NFL swing teams—down the hall to the Red Room, where the AFC owners
had gathered. Pete announced the three NFL teams that had agreed to move. Then he introduced me. I said we would move over to the AFC and announced our new division alignment: Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Cincinnati, and Houston.

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, Al Davis shouted, “No! We have to debate, then vote on the divisions as we go along!”

“This alignment is set. It's untouchable,” I said.

Davis shot back, “No, it isn't!”

“Listen, this division is set. I don't care what you do as far as the other divisions, but this division is set. If you don't think so, we're out of here right now!”

Sid Gillman of the San Diego Chargers rose. “Danny,” he said, “don't pay any attention to him. Your division is set, our division is set—it's good, and that's the way it's going to be.”

Then we all sat down and began working on the other details of the AFL.

But Davis walked out.

Outside the Red Room, I heard a commotion. Vince Lombardi had somehow heard of my argument with Davis. In the hallway Vince grabbed Al by the collar, lifted him up, and pressed him against the wall—hard. “If you're going to cause these people trouble,” he warned, “you'll be run out of here. You're getting the best teams. Dan Rooney came a long way for this, so settle down or we'll throw you out. We don't need you!”

Lombardi wasn't fooling around and Davis knew it. Al returned to the Red Room visibly shaken and sat down quietly. He said nothing more about the Steelers' divisional alignment. How could he? It was the best for everyone.

Right after the meeting I made some important calls.

First, I called Chuck Noll, the Steelers head coach I'd just brought on board a few months earlier. “It's a good move,” he said. Chuck had been in the AFL and had coached on the West Coast with San Diego
and Los Angeles. He knew a lot about the AFL teams and thought the new Steelers team he was building would be strong.

Next I called Patricia. She always had her own opinions about football. Sometimes she agreed with me, sometimes she didn't. This time she said it was fine with her, so long as I thought it was the way to go. “But,” she added, “you'd better call Artie!”

Our son was away at school in Cleveland at Gilmore Academy. He had been an outstanding quarterback there and loved football. I left this call for last—I knew it would be my toughest.

Pat Livingston of the
Pittsburgh Press
was my next call. Livingston was the city's top sportswriter and I knew he'd be a key guy in shaping fan opinion. Pat reacted negatively: “You're selling out!”

“Wait a second,” I said, “hear me out. This move will be good for the Steelers. It'll give us a new start.” After I explained the new schedule he said, “Hey, that does sound pretty good. Okay, I'm for it!” And that's the way he wrote it the next day.

Next up, Roy Jefferson, the Steelers player representative. “Roy,” I said, “what do you think?”

“Sounds great, Mr. Rooney, you know what's best. The team will support you.”

Now came my call to Artie. You think Pat Livingston was hard on me? Artie let me have it with both barrels. “This is terrible! You quit! You sold us down the river! We've been fighting these guys for nine years and now you're with them?”

“Calm down,” I said, knowing exactly how he felt; I had felt the same way myself just a few hours earlier. “You've got to understand, this compromise actually puts us in better position than we are now. Playing the Oilers in the Astrodome will be great for TV. Cincinnati and Cleveland are our natural rivals. The fans will love it.”

I could tell Artie was upset, and I flashed back to that day in 1941 when my father called to tell me he wasn't selling the Steelers to Lex Thompson. I realized that Artie cared as much about the Steelers as I
did. History was repeating itself. In time, both of us came to understand that the merger was the best thing that ever happened to the Steelers and the NFL.

Then I checked in with my brother Art. After four years at St. Vincent College, where he was a good offensive tackle, Art had gone to New York to become an actor. Madame Dahakonavich, his teacher, encouraged him and told him he could have a career in the theater. But he returned to Pittsburgh, loafed with the Steelers scouts, and discovered that football was more his style. Art saw the benefits of joining the AFC almost immediately. Then I called Jack McGinley, who quickly came on board.

 

 

The NFL had come of age, and the Steelers would begin fresh in a new conference. By the time of the merger in 1970, my father had already entrusted the daily operations of the Steelers to me. Now the organization needed a strong head coach and a plan for the future. That coach and plan came in the person of Charles Henry Noll.