Dan Rooney (7 page)

When the war ended in 1945, the men came streaming home and the Steelers began the rebuilding process, now under new head coach Jim Leonard. The 2-8 season convinced Dad that the team needed a real coach. In the past he had been content to hire friends and cronies, guys he could hang out with and who didn't take their card playing too seriously. Now he set his sights on Jock Sutherland, the legendary University of Pittsburgh gridiron master.

Dr. John Bain “Jock” Sutherland came from Scotland, attended the University of Pittsburgh, and graduated with a degree in dentistry. The first football game he ever played at Pitt was coached by the grand old man of American football, “Pop” Warner. Jock's real talent was not as a player, or a dentist for that matter. He was a natural-born coach. In 1919 he took charge of the football program at Lafayette College, a tiny school in Easton, Pennsylvania. In the five years he was there, he never had a losing season. In 1923, his last year at Lafayette, sportswriters named his 9-0 team the best college team in the country.

When Pop Warner resigned at Pitt, Jock Sutherland took the helm and steered the Panthers to fifteen years of dominance. Four times his teams went undefeated, and three times received the country's number-one ranking. Sutherland's single-wing attack overpowered defenses and the Pitt juggernaut rolled over all opposition, until the university's administration determined to deemphasize the football program in order to focus more attention on academics. Pitt would not attain national standing again until 1976, under Coach Johnny Majors.

Jock turned to the NFL, coaching the Eastern All-Stars against the New York Giants in 1939, then signed the following year with the ne'er-do-well football Brooklyn Dodgers. In two seasons he turned the club around, finishing a strong second behind the Eastern champs, the Washington Redskins.

In late 1941, the war interrupted Sutherland's pro coaching career. He accepted an active duty commission in the Naval Reserve and served ably until 1945. That's when Dad and Bert Bell caught up with him and talked him into taking on the Steelers. Jock played hard to get, but the co-owners double-teamed him. He didn't have a chance. Dad and Bert signed Jock to a five-year deal that included a big salary, options, and profit sharing. This was a turning point for the Steelers. George Halas remarked that Sutherland's hiring was not only good for the Steelers but a great step forward for the league. The day after the newspapers reported that Sutherland had signed with the Steelers, season ticket sales went through the roof, from 1,500 the previous year to 22,000 in 1946.

Jock Sutherland's first Steelers training camp began in mid-August, 1946, at the municipal field just outside Hershey, Pennsylvania. I was there. Already there was a fall crispness in the air enhanced by the sweet smell of chocolate that permeated everything for miles around the Hershey factory. Everyone was excited about Dr. Sutherland—that's what we called him, no one called him Jock to his face—and the new brand of leadership he would bring to the team.

We were a little worried, too. Frank Scott, the equipment man, was in awe of the man and could barely function in his presence. Just an hour before the first practice was scheduled to begin, Frank came to me with a look of sheer terror in his eyes.

“I can't find Dr. Sutherland's blackboard!”

Everybody knew that the blackboard was an extension of Jock's being, the very symbol of the man. He used it on the field to diagram every play, offense or defense.

“What do you mean you can't find the blackboard?” I asked.

“I've lost it! It must be back in Pittsburgh!” he moaned. “You gotta help me—can you drive?”

Now, I'm only fourteen at the time, but I tell him, “Sure I can drive, but I don't have a license.”

Without hesitating, Frank pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and pressed it into my hand.

“That doesn't matter. Get to the department store as fast as you can and buy a board. There's no time to lose!”

I took off in Frank's old Ford and drove for town. I was a little nervous driving through the heavy downtown traffic—I'd only driven a car for short stretches in the country on family trips to Ligonier—but I found the department store okay, illegally left the car in a loading zone out front, dashed through the glass doors like a madman, and asked the first person who looked like a clerk where the blackboards were. I was directed to the basement, where I found just what I was looking for: a wood-framed blackboard about two feet by three feet, and a big box of chalk. I paid the seven bucks, threw the board in the backseat, then drove through the traffic back to camp just as Dr. Sutherland and the players jogged onto the field. Frank Scott was the happiest man I'd ever seen. He hugged me and told me to keep the change, then nonchalantly propped the blackboard up as if it had been there all the time. I'd saved the day and made thirteen dollars to boot. The Steelers used that same blackboard for the next fifteen years.

Jock turned the team around, all right. We went 5-5-1 in 1946, and in 1947 he led us to our best season ever, 8 wins and only 4 losses. We tied the Eagles for the Eastern Conference championship. On the off-week before the playoff game, our players struck for more pay. Jock and Bert held firm and would make no concessions. The players lost their bid for more money, and what's more lost their focus. The Eagles beat us and went on to the championship game.

Jock brought to the Steelers not only his commanding presence and strict discipline, but also his single-wing formation. Bert Bell introduced to the team the Chicago Bears-style T formation back in 1941, and the coaches who followed him—Donelli, Kiesling, Neale, Handler, and Leonard—stuck with it. But Sutherland was a firm believer in Pop Warner's single-wing, a run oriented offense in which the center snapped the ball to one of two backs. By 1946 the single wing was popular only with youth football and a few college teams, because most of the pros had abandoned it for the T formation. Despite the trend away from this old style of play, Jock made it work. I remember we had some great players that year: Halfbacks “Bullet” Bill Dudley and Johnny “Zero” Clement, tight end Elbie Nickel, and receiver Val Jansante.

I loved being out there, loafing with the players and working with the team. I did whatever needed to be done and didn't get paid much to do it, but I felt part of the team—I was a Steeler.

JOHNNY U AND ME

 

THAT'S THE HEADLINE that appeared in the
Pittsburgh Press
in the summer of 1946, soon after I graduated from St. Peter's grade school. While playing both halfback and quarterback on the sandlot, our team posted a winning record. The coach always told me I was one of the fastest boys in the school, and I was big for my age, tipping the scales at more than 135 pounds and standing five feet eight inches tall in my bare feet.

But as for solving North Catholic's halfback problems, that was a tall order. All this attention embarrassed me, and I took a lot of ribbing from my friends and teammates: “Who is this guy who thinks he's a star?” I wondered whether one of my father's reporter friends had written
the story. As the Steelers' water boy, I'd met and gotten to know most of the sportswriters on the sidelines during practice. I guessed these guys were just having some fun at my expense. Even if it was a put-up job, the headline made me want to prove that I really was a good football player. I wanted to show what North Catholic could do.

Let me tell you something about Pittsburgh and Western Pennsylvania football. More great football players and coaches—from sandlots to the pros—hail from this region than from any other place on earth. Sportswriters have named Pittsburgh the “Cradle of Quarterbacks.” More than forty NFL quarterbacks have come from the area, including such Hall of Famers as George Blanda, Jim Kelly, Dan Marino, Joe Montana, Joe Namath, and, of course, maybe the greatest quarterback of all time, Johnny Unitas. Willie Thrower, the first African American quarterback to play in the NFL, came from New Kensington, just up the river from Pittsburgh.

Why Western Pennsylvania—is it something in the water? I don't pretend to have all the answers. But I do know that the people of our region take their football seriously. They know and love the game. The hard-working people, many of immigrant stock, adopted the game and made it their own. The sport that evolved in Western Pennsylvania bore little resemblance to the high-brow college game that came from Princeton and Yale at the end of the nineteenth century. Western Pennsylvania-style football was physically tough, straight-ahead, and hard-hitting, reflecting the often brutal and sometimes violent realities of work in the steel mills and coal mines. Dad believed the tradition here was “Jock Sutherland, rock'em-sock'em coal miner football,” which provided the people with a safety valve to blow off pent-up steam.

In this densely populated, urban industrial environment, each mill and mine forged its own self-reliant community, its own school, and its own football team. Every Friday night these schools filled their stadiums with thousands of spectators, fifteen, in fact, for every student
enrolled in the school. They cheered as loud for a good block as for a good catch or run. They were knowledgeable, they understood the subtleties of the game, and God help the officials who made the wrong call.

It wasn't just a game—it was an obsession. And from the 1930s to the 1960s and beyond, Western Pennsylvania became a football factory, turning out each year hundreds of outstanding athletes bound for colleges and universities coast to coast. For many of these sons of mill and mine workers, football was the only ticket out of the hard industrial world of their parents.

Competition between the schools was intense—Monaca Indians vs. Rochester Rams, Aliquippa Quips vs. Ambridge Bridgers, Charleroi Cougars vs. Monessen Greyhounds, Westinghouse Bulldogs vs. Pea-body Highlanders, Clairton Bears vs. Duquesne Dukes, and, of course, Central Catholic Vikings vs. the North Catholic Trojans. Often separated by only a hill or valley, rivalry between these schools brought the quality of play to a level unknown in other American cities. While New York and Philadelphia may have had the tax base and population density of Pittsburgh, they never had the real estate necessary for stadiums and practice fields that teams in Western Pennsylvania enjoyed.

Whatever the reasons, it seems to me, the stars aligned perfectly to make Western Pennsylvania the place for football to evolve into America's passion. And every able-bodied boy of my generation dreamed of becoming a football player, not just to suit up and be on the field, but to excel—and win.

 

 

All that summer of 1946 I lived and breathed football, working at the Steelers camp with Coach Jock Sutherland. It was hard labor but I enjoyed it, moving the team equipment on and off the field every day, lugging the heavy rag-stuffed tackling dummies, and dragging around
canvas laundry bags. In addition, I exercised every day—pushups, sit-ups, pull-ups, running, and throwing footballs for accuracy and distance. And I continued to play sandlot games on Monument Hill against teams like the Mt. Lebanon Bulldogs, organized by Bob Prince, the future voice of baseball's Pittsburgh Pirates. By summer's end I was in top physical condition. I may not have been the biggest or the best player entering North Catholic that fall, but I was sure in better shape than any other boy.

North Catholic was a huge school with an active athletic program where football came second only to God, though I suppose the Marianist brothers would argue that academics ranked pretty high, too. But if you asked any boy on campus, he'd set you straight: football was tops.

The first day of tryouts, however, took me by surprise. For some reason I didn't realize that I'd have to run against the other boys to qualify for the team. The coaches weren't going to automatically place me on the squad just because of a headline. As I walked by the practice field with my new books, Coach Al Lesniak, who was supervising the 40-yard qualifying race, spotted me.

“Rooney, why aren't you running with the rest of the boys? Get out here!”

“But Coach, I'm not dressed for it.”

“Don't give me that! You think you're too good to try out for the team? Drop your books and line up!”

I felt awkward and a little nervous being out there, since I hadn't counted on running that day. I wanted to do my best, but I felt all the other boys would have an advantage dressed in their gym gear and football shoes. I lined up wearing my regular school clothes: leather-soled oxfords, slacks, dress shirt, and a tie.

The whistle blew and I took off like a rocket, tie whipping back over my shoulder. When I crossed the finish line, I looked around and found myself all alone—I'd outrun the field.

This success kind of went to my head, so much so that the other guys gave me a hard time, “You really think you're a big shot, beating everybody, don't you!”

Their taunts bothered me, and that night I had a hard time sleeping. But the next day when I got to school everything was fine, especially when I discovered a complete uniform, from helmet to cleats, laid out for me in the locker room. Coach Lesniak had named me the starting halfback of the North Catholic Trojans' freshman squad. I've never been so proud of a uniform—not since the Rooney 98s—white jersey with a black number 11 emblazoned on the back, and white pants with black, high-top shoes. The first time I saw myself in the mirror decked out in full pads and uniform, I thought I was something, a real football player.

After just a few weeks, Joe Thomas, head coach of the junior varsity team, noticed me on the freshman squad. At our first practice, Thomas instructed the freshmen, talked about X's and O's, and shot questions at us. “Okay, who knows what the strong safety does?”