Dan Rooney (34 page)

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.

Bill didn't have to build a team from scratch. Chuck had handed off the nucleus of a good club. Neil O'Donnell and Bubby Brister were two quarterbacks who had starting experience in the NFL; running back Barry Foster would set a franchise record with 1,690 yards rushing in 1992, Cowher's first season as coach; Gary Anderson had won that playoff game against the Oilers in 1989 with a 50-yard field goal in overtime and was one of the most consistent kickers in the league; and center Dermontti Dawson was just getting started in a career that may someday land him in the Hall of Fame. On defense, Rod Woodson was so good at cornerback that Mel Blount said he was the best at the position in Steelers history. Safety Carnell Lake and linebacker Bryan Hinkle were talented and dependable professionals, and that year's draft added four players who would become starters—offensive tackle Leon Searcy, linebacker Levon Kirkland, nose tackle Joel Steed, and safety Darren Perry.

In 1992, Bill's first year as head coach, the Steelers went 11-5 and won the AFC Central Division for the first time in eight years. Cowher joined an exclusive group of rookie coaches to win eleven
games in their first season. Although we lost in the division playoff game to Buffalo, the Associated Press and
Sporting News
named Bill the NFL's Coach of the Year. Dapper Dan Charities also named him Pittsburgh's Man of the Year. “The bottom line was: I wanted it to be a tough football team,” Cowher said about the 1992 Steelers. “I wanted to be able to play defense, and I wanted to be great at special teams, because I always thought that being a tough football team was important. I just felt that's how you played the game.”

The following year we went 9-7, and in 1994 the team really blossomed under Cowher and his staff. Our 12-4 record energized Pittsburgh and the Steelers Nation. That team did so many good things—it had the best record in the AFC and beat Cleveland three times, including once in the playoffs. But our season ended up three yards short of Super Bowl XXIX when Neil O'Donnell's fourth-down pass from the 3-yard line fell incomplete. San Diego won, 17-13, and went on to play in the Super Bowl.

Then in 1995, after finishing with an 11-5 record and winning our division again, we were back at Three Rivers Stadium playing in another AFC championship game. “Three More Yards!” had become the fans' slogan, and this time we held on to defeat the Indianapolis Colts, 20-16, when Jim Harbaugh's Hail Mary pass dropped into the end zone incomplete. We were off to Super Bowl XXX.

This was a different kind of Steelers team—Cowher had built our offense around the pass instead of the running game. Bill had kept them close, even through the adversity suffered at the beginning of the season when Rod Woodson blew out his knee and didn't play again until the Super Bowl. Again we faced a tough Dallas team, one that had won two Super Bowls over the three previous seasons. The media thought the Cowboys couldn't be beaten. And Dallas came out strong, building a 20-7 halftime lead, largely because our players seemed awestruck at being in the NFL's big game. But our defense dug in and took the game to the Cowboys, pulling within three
points, 20-17, by the fourth quarter. We forced a Dallas punt, and during the TV timeout, both Bill Nunn and I noticed the Cowboys defensive players were bent over, their hands on their knees, exhausted. I thought we could put them away if we ran the ball, but we had gotten that far throwing and the coaches thought we should stick to our game plan. We were driving with four minutes to play, when Cowboys cornerback Larry Brown intercepted a Neil O'Donnell pass on our 39-yard line and returned it to the 6. Two plays later the Cowboys ran it in for a touchdown to clinch a 27-17 victory. We had come so close, but the team and the Steelers fans would be denied a fifth Lombardi trophy.

This disappointment didn't stop us. Bill Cowher's teams continued to win. We went to six straight playoffs, which tied an NFL record first set by Paul Brown, and this success awakened the Steelers Nation. The fans and the media talked about “Cowher Power,” and wherever we played around the country, thousands of faithful fans greeted us, twirling their Terrible Towels.

Back in Pittsburgh—just two weeks before H. J. Heinz Company chairman Tony O'Reilly broke ground for the new home of the Pittsburgh Public Theater, later named the O'Reilly Theater—an ugly side of America made its presence known in the city. On April 5, 1997, the Ku Klux Klan received a permit from the city to hold a rally in front of the City-County Building on Grant Street. Many local citizens were incensed that the city would close Grant Street, the main thoroughfare downtown, for the Klansmen to hold their demonstration. The situation proved intolerable to Franco Harris, now retired and living in Pittsburgh. Franco knew about discrimination firsthand. Not only had his father suffered racism growing up in Mississippi, but his mother's Italian family had been interned in Nazi slave camps during World War II.

The day before the rally, I received a phone call from Peg Mc-Cormick in Mayor Tom Murphy's office. Franco was staging a sit-in
on the steps of the City-County Building. She asked if I might come down and talk to him. The mayor believed Franco might be in danger, and his presence might incite the Klansmen to riot. I told them, “I can't tell Franco what to do. He's got to do what he thinks is right.” But I agreed to go downtown and talk to him. Joe Gordon drove and dropped me off outside the police barricade that had been erected in anticipation of the Klan demonstrators, who were expected in the morning. The police let me through. I went up the steps to where Franco was sitting, leaning against one of the granite columns. He had food and water, and intended to sit there all night until the Klan arrived the next day. I sat down next to him, and we talked. I told him he was doing a brave thing by being there.

Franco said to me, “I have a hard time letting Nazis take over America.” He recounted his mother's experience in a Nazi prison camp. He was outraged that the KKK would come to our town and spread their message of hate. “In Germany, they tried to ignore the Nazis and you know what happened. I'm just saying they can't have Pittsburgh, that's all.”

I agreed with him but pointed out that if a riot started with him in the middle of it, the Klansmen would get a lot more press than they deserved. Franco expressed his dismay that the city had even issued the Klan a permit. “Why didn't they just refuse and tell those sheet-wearing cowards to take a hike?” I told him the law protected the Klan's right to freedom of speech and assembly, and they could not be denied.

We talked for quite a while and nobody bothered us. We were alone behind the barrier. I told him Bishop Wuerl and religious leaders of all denominations planned a counterdemonstration the next day, and I asked him if he would consider joining that demonstration instead of confronting the Klan here on the steps. I told him I would go with him. Franco said he'd think about it, and soon after I left he packed up his belongings and quietly departed.

I can't tell you how much respect I have for Franco. He is a deeply principled man, and I admired him for his stand against the Klan. I was reminded of something my father said at the Steelers fiftieth anniversary banquet. He said, “I could never figure out why a person could dislike another person because of his color, whether he was red, yellow, black, or white, or whether he was a Jew or a Protestant or Catholic. I often thought of what God would think of us for thinking in such a manner.”

The Klan rally fizzled in the rain the next day. Only thirty-nine Klansmen dressed in robes or storm trooper uniforms showed, and very few spectators appeared. Peaceful counterdemonstrations were held around the city. I did go to the religious rally and spoke against injustice. The largest rally at Market Square, five blocks from the Klan demonstration, drew more than three thousand people. Pittsburgh's not perfect, and we still have our share of racial intolerance, but I was proud of our city that day.

 

 

I also was proud to help our community resolve a dispute that was standing in the way of more jobs for the region. In 1999 the H. J. Heinz Company was planning a major expansion of its plant on the North Side, and it needed the adjacent property to build a warehouse and a distribution center. That property was occupied at the time by the Pittsburgh Wool Co., owned by Jeff and Roy Kumer, and the sticking points were the price for the property and the relocation of Pittsburgh Wool Co. The community needed the Heinz expansion because of the jobs it would create, but it also didn't want to lose the Pittsburgh Wool Co. and the people employed there.

I knew the Kumer family personally, and so I became involved in negotiations that also included Heinz executives and representatives of the City of Pittsburgh. After much back-and-forth discussion
among the parties, I was able to negotiate a settlement, but not until I convinced the Heinz people to make the Kumers realize that this was the final offer. The Kumers then accepted the deal. Heinz got the property for its expansion, Pittsburgh Wool Co. was relocated to a nearby building, and the Kumers got a fair settlement for their 116-year-old building plus relocation assistance for their five tenants. Pittsburgh Mayor Tom Murphy said at the time, “This is good news for all of us.” And it was.

 

 

Patricia and I, along with our children Art, Dan, and Duffy went to Atlanta for Super Bowl XXXIV in late January 2000. The St. Louis Rams and Tennessee Titans faced each other in what proved to be an exciting game. But even more exciting for me was the telephone call I got on January 29, the day before the game. Art and I were in a hotel suite near the Georgia Dome interviewing Jerry Angelo, a candidate for Steelers director of football operations.

Super Bowls are a good time to conduct business, because most of the people in the NFL are there—coaches, players, and staff from teams in the league. Tom Donahoe, a former Steelers scout, had been promoted to director of football operations when we hired Bill Cowher in 1992, and even though we enjoyed some fine seasons during the time they worked together, their relationship had deteriorated to the point where a change had to be made. In 1999 the team finished 6-10, our second straight losing season after six straight in the playoffs. Tom and Bill disagreed over many things, especially who had the greater say—the coaches or the scouts—over player personnel. Bill didn't want Donahoe in the coaches' meetings because he thought Tom was a spy. Tom thought Bill was finished as an NFL coach. We went back and forth over this for some time, and then we decided we had to keep the coach. You have to let the head coach do
his job. It was a tough decision to make, but I'd been there before and believed it was the right move. And things turned out for the best. Wellington Mara recommended Donahoe to Buffalo Bills owner Ralph Wilson, and Tom later became president of that club.

So in the middle of the interview, the phone rings and it's Patricia on the other end of the line. She said, “Dan, they're looking for you—call Joe Horrigan at the Hall of Fame meeting.”

I went into the next room and called Joe. He said, “Dan, I'm happy to say you've been selected for induction into the Pro Football Hall of Fame. There's going to be a press conference in two hours. You've got to be there!”

Of course, I was delighted and called Patricia back right away. Atlanta had just suffered the worst ice storm in memory and you couldn't even get a cab because cars were sliding sideways. Our son Dan and daughter Duffy helped us as we walked the half-dozen blocks on ice-glazed sidewalks, and we arrived just in time for the press conference.

Induction into the Pro Football Hall of Fame is a great honor. It represents the pinnacle of any NFL career, whether you're a player, a coach, or the president of a franchise. I remembered back to the day my father was inducted, and it occurred to me there was only one other father and son to receive such an honor—Timothy and Wellington Mara.

On July 29, 2000, busloads of Rooneys, Steelers, and friends descended on Canton, Ohio, for the annual Pro Football Hall of Fame enshrinement ceremony. The rest of the Class of 2000 included three 49ers—Joe Montana, Ronnie Lott, Dave Wilcox—and Raiders defensive lineman Howie Long. Joe Montana, of course, was a Western Pennsylvania guy, a standout quarterback at Ringgold High School in Monongahela, a town located just south of Pittsburgh. The Hall of Fame hosted a private reception for the inductees, and I got a chance to talk to Joe and the other guys and enjoyed meeting their wives and children.

But I was pleased and thankful when it came time for Joe Greene to present me to the Hall of Fame. When I called Joe to ask him if he would do the honors in Canton, there was dead silence on the other end of the line. Then he said, “I thought you would have Chuck.”

Joe and I had a special bond. We'd been through a lot together, and I always believed Joe Greene represented the spirit of the Steelers better than any other player. Here's what he said on the day of my induction: