Dan Rooney (10 page)

Patricia and I had to see to all the team's needs, including getting the boys to the games. We piled kids and equipment into our beat-up Chevy station wagon. It must have looked like a clown car, but we made it work. We sewed numbers on old, repaired Steelers' jerseys, which had to be altered for the little guys. I painted the receivers' helmets white so the quarterback could see them, and the linemen's helmets green so he'd know they were ineligible to catch passes. Patricia asked the family living in the apartment above us if we could use their washing machine. She wanted to dye a batch of uniforms. She filled up the machine with green dye and crammed in twenty pairs of pants. The pants turned green all right, but you can guess what happened the next time our neighbors did their wash. For weeks after that, we saw their green-tinted sheets and underwear flapping on the clothes-line outside our apartment. But they were Irish, too, so nobody seemed to mind.

 

 

My first season coaching went well. St. Peter's won nine games and lost only one. The loss came from St. Joseph's and Coach Danny McCann—he was a real character and I know played a ringer or two. The most frustrating part of coaching these youngsters was that I knew too much about the game and expected too much of the boys. I always wanted to kick the ball in obvious kicking situations, but they didn't always have the leg for it. I also tried to teach them a “gap-8”
defense, which required great discipline: the players had to stick to their positions and not get distracted. Unfortunately, the rival coach at St. Cyril's also knew the gap-8 and mowed us down with his bigger players. Once I figured out how to use the talent we had, we started winning. We even beat St. Bernard's, the powerhouse of the league.

I was proud of my boys. They never cried, and they learned to take their losses like men. Those kids didn't know it, but I was learning as much from them as they were from me. These lessons would stick with me the rest of my life and prepare me for my career with the Steelers.

While I was coaching at St. Peter's, Father Campbell was keeping an eye on me. He continued to counsel me on spiritual matters, while I advised him on the sports program at the school. I remember when the new gym was built. No provisions had been made for installing backboards on the basketball court. Father Campbell asked me to put them up, attaching them directly to the wall at both ends of the court. But I knew they couldn't be hung that way, because the players needed to run under the basket. When Father Campbell saw us installing them two feet away from the wall, he asked, “What are you doing?”

When I explained the rules of the game to him, he said, “You don't know anything about basketball. You're a football player!”

“Were putting them up right,” I countered.

“No you're not!”

“Well,” I said, laughing, “we have a book that tells us where the baskets go.”

“The book is wrong,” he said, “but go ahead and do it your way, but don't make a mistake.” He reminded me of my father.

Father Campbell was a great man and a real inspiration to me. He instilled in me the confidence I needed to run a sports program. I may have given up any hope of being a priest, but he taught me the importance of give and take in working with people.

My coaching at St. Peter's, under Father Campbell's guidance, gave me the opportunity to work with children. I remember 1952 was a busy year for me. I was a junior at Duquesne taking a full load of classes, working part-time jobs, and acting as manager for the Steelers summer training camp. That year our first son, Art II, was born—another major milestone for the Rooneys and a time of celebration for our extended families. To me, having a family has been more important than anything else in life. More important than lifting the Lombardi Trophy over my head at the Super Bowl or being inducted into the Hall of Fame.

While I attended Duquesne and began a family, Johnny Unitas, a year behind me in school, explored several universities with strong football programs. First, Notre Dame looked him over, but the coach there told him, “I like what you do, but you're so skinny! I mean, you're five eleven, and a hundred thirty-some pounds—we're liable to be sued for manslaughter if we played you.” Turned down there, Johnny went to Indiana University in Bloomington with the same result—they didn't want him. All the coaches thought he had talent but believed he just wasn't big enough to survive in a top-flight college football program. They suggested he try Ivy League schools which, with their smaller players, might be able to use him. But Johnny knew in his heart that his academics weren't up to Ivy League standards. The University of Pittsburgh, in his own hometown, offered him a scholarship. So with my friend Richie McCabe, he went to take the entrance exam. Richie passed, but Johnny didn't, something that bothered him for the rest of his life.

Finally, the University of Louisville in Kentucky, not known as a big-time football school, picked him up in 1951. Coach Frank Camp started the gangly freshman quarterback in the fifth game of the season against St. Bonaventure. Johnny's team gave this strong football school a run for its money, losing only in the final seconds by a field goal. Despite the loss, Unitas led Louisville to a winning season. The
university deemphasized football the next year, however, and reduced the size of the squad to only nineteen, requiring players to play both offense and defense. In the single-platoon system, the rules allowed for the substitution of only one player, usually the quarterback, but Johnny excelled at defense, too, hauling in more interceptions and making more tackles than any other player. He carried Louisville on his broad but skinny shoulders.

At first Johnny was placed on academic probation, but once he settled in, he applied himself to his studies and turned into a better than average student. Despite his obvious football talent, the Louisville team couldn't compete with other schools. By the time he graduated in 1954, the team's record was undistinguished, but Johnny racked up 3,000 yards in passing, despite the fact he spent much of his senior year on the injured list. A hairline fracture of his right ankle limited his playing time, forcing him to wear high-top shoes that became his trademark in later years.

When the 1955 NFL draft took place in January, Unitas wasn't on anybody's—not the coaches' or the sportswriters'—radar.

At that time, Ray Byrne and I managed the draft for the Steelers. Ray was a part-time undertaker at his family's funeral home, and the butt of many jokes. People would ask, “What are you doing, drafting a bunch of stiffs?” But we had a good system. Ray was a thorough researcher, corresponded with all the college coaches, and kept detailed records of all the players. I'd telephone the top kids around the country, using the operator as a kind of secretary to connect the calls. Weeks ahead of time, we developed our priority list and strategy for our draft picks. Of course, we ran these by Dad and Walt Kiesling, whom Dad had brought back to coach in 1954, but by and large they deferred to our judgment.

Now, the Steelers already had three quarterbacks. The starter, Jim Finks, was pretty good—in 1952 he had thrown for 2,307 yards and led the league with twenty touchdowns. His backup, Vic Eaton, was a
versatile player who could do just about anything but wasn't outstanding in any position. In 1953 Wellington Mara, owner of the Giants and my father's good friend, had revealed that New York hoped to acquire quarterback Ted Marchibroda, the St. Bonaventure and University of Detroit standout, if he was available. So Dad snatched him up in the first round that year, even though we knew he would sit out two years for compulsory military service and rejoin the team in 1955.

The Steelers were now quarterback rich. Even so, as the draft unfolded I kept an eye on Johnny Unitas. I knew he had great talent. With his wiry strength and those big hands he could fire a football like a bullet and knock down any receiver who wasn't ready for the power of his passes.

By the ninth round, Johnny still hadn't been selected, so I told Ray Byrne, “We gotta get this guy now 'cause we don't want him playing against us.”

Kiesling thought we were nuts. Though Johnny's six-foot-one-inch frame had filled out with 170 pounds of muscle, he still looked scrawny. But it didn't make any difference. Kies didn't like him, believing he was “too dumb to play.”

We took him anyway, the 102nd overall draft pick. Can you believe it? The best quarterback in the history of football, and we got him in the ninth round for $5,500. Given Kiesling's dislike for him, that money wasn't a sure thing.

Just weeks before the draft, Johnny had married his high school sweetheart, Dorothy Jean Hoelle. Dorothy wisely advised that they should move in with her mother in Pittsburgh to save rent money. They really didn't know where their next meal would come from. The Steelers contract seemed a blessing, but it wouldn't kick in until the season began, so John worked a construction job between college and the opening of the Steelers camp in July.

When camp opened, Johnny and Dorothy were expecting their first child. Patricia and I now had three children: Art, Patricia, and
Kathleen. I was working hard, juggling babies and jobs. I was so busy Dad thought I should give up my volunteer coaching job at St. Peter's, even though he knew how much this meant to me. But he was right; I had too much on my plate. At the camp I was negotiating contracts, taking care of all the logistics, and working out the game schedules with Kiesling.

I'll say this about Kiesling. He was a real football mentor for me; he knew the game inside and out. In his playing days, he was an ox of a man whose leather helmet never looked quite big enough for his enormous head. He was a legitimate Hall of Famer as an offensive tackle, and a lot smarter than he's given credit for. He was an extremely able mathematician, and it always amazed me how he could work out complex calculations in his head. At the same time, that head of his was awfully hard. When he got an idea, he latched on to it like a pit bull and no one could change his mind.

Unfortunately, he had made up his mind about Unitas—even before camp began. I was responsible for drafting him, but that didn't mean Kies was going to play him, a fact that became painfully clear as the summer progressed. Every day Johnny showed up on time, eager to play and show what he could do. He would have his uniform on, helmet in hand, standing on the sidelines. He'd do the exercises and run with the team. He did his homework and learned the plays, but Kies never let him take a snap. For some reason he thought John wasn't smart enough to quarterback a team in the NFL. Just a dumb kid from Mt. Washington. Jim Finks and others had taken to calling Johnny “Clem Kadiddlehopper,” after the goofy country bumpkin made famous by comedian Red Skelton on his popular television show.

I didn't see all that was going on that summer because I wasn't out on the field, but my brother Tim and the twins, John and Pat, were out there every day watching the players and following their progress. Especially Unitas. At the end of the day, Johnny stayed on the field
and ran the boys through the passing plays that the team had just practiced. My brothers were all good receivers and were amazed at the precision of his passes and power of his arm. They came to me all the time, talking about how good he was. They had watched the other quarterbacks—Finks, Marchibroda, and Eaton—and believed that Johnny was the best of the bunch, hands down. They urged me to talk to Kies, and I did.

But remember, I just turned twenty-three and I'm arguing with a guy, a Hall of Famer, mind you, who's twice my age and who had taught me just about everything I knew about professional football. My father's admonition to “let the coach . . . coach” rang in my ears as I pleaded with him to give Unitas a chance. Nothing doing. Kies could not be persuaded.

Finally, I saw it was no use and gave up, but my brother Tim didn't. He was furious and hand-wrote a twenty-two-page letter to Dad. My brother Art was in the office when the letter arrived. He said Dad just shook his head as he read through the pages of Tim's diatribe. “That fresh punk thinks he's some sort of football expert,” he said, then wadded up the letter and banked it into the trash can against the wall. Art allowed that Tim had a point, but Dad wouldn't hear it. “I like John, too,” he said, “but Kies is the coach, let him do his job.”

It might have been better to have let Kies cut Johnny at the beginning of camp rather than stringing him along through the final preseason game before letting him go. Now he didn't have a chance to sign on with another team, at least for that year. I know Johnny unloaded on Kiesling when the coach asked him to turn in his notebook and clear out. He told Kiesling that it wouldn't have been so bad to have been cut if he had screwed up, but he never had a chance to show what he could do. Kies said that in a thirty-three-man squad, he couldn't afford to have four quarterbacks. Someone had to go, and he had to stick with the more experienced men. Johnny never forgave him.

Without any prospects in the NFL, Johnny grabbed a job on a pile-driving crew at a steel mill in Aliquippa. He also signed on with the Bloomfield Rams, a semi-pro sandlot team in the Steel-Bowl Conference. They played at Arsenal School in Lawrenceville, on a grassless field covered with gravel and lead musket balls that still remained from the explosion of Allegheny Arsenal at that very site during the Civil War. The conditions were brutal. I can't imagine how hard it must have been for him, with his wife and new baby, his hopes for an NFL career crushed.

Sometime later that year, I was driving my father and Kies down West Liberty Avenue on Pittsburgh's South Side in the old Chevy station wagon. Dad was in the front and Kies in the back. A car sped past us. I recognized Unitas's distinctive flat-topped crew cut and prominent ears.

“That's John Unitas in that car,” I said.