Dan Rooney (18 page)

SUPER STEELERS

HIRING CHUCK NOLL was the best decision we ever made for the Steelers. You can trace the origin of the Super Steelers of the 1970s to the moment I called Chuck following the Jets victory over the Colts in Super Bowl III, January 12, 1969. To become world champions, we needed a coach with the right combination of vision, intelligence, and leadership: someone who could teach us how to win. Over the past ten years, we'd had three coaches, and while all of them had some talent, none of them brought together in one package everything we needed.

We thought we had a winner in Buddy Parker when he took over the team in 1957. He'd won two NFL championships as coach of the Detroit Lions. He was a real football guy, an excellent tactician, and by 1964 already the winningest coach in the Steelers' thirty-two-year history.

But Parker could be unpredictable on and off the field. He hated rules and regulations, and he fought authority, from Bell and Rozelle to my father and me. He refused to play rookies because they made mistakes. His players both respected and feared him. Parker could not earn their loyalty because he traded them at the drop of a hat. In fact, he traded away the team's future with his mismanagement of the draft. For these reasons, his players never developed the closeness that is essential in a championship team.

After our poor 5-9 showing in the 1964 season, I'd warned Parker not to cut or trade without my approval. But during the 1965 preseason, he continued his erratic cutting and trading. I could not have made our policy more clear, but Parker wouldn't listen. He wasn't about to take orders from an owner, let alone the son of an owner only half his age. In the past, he'd gone around me in order to get the answers he wanted from my father. But things had to change—I was running the daily operations of the team. Immediately following a preseason game at Brown University in Rhode Island, Buddy called to tell me he planned to trade defensive end Ben McGee (McGee went on to become a two-time Pro Bowler for the Steelers).

I said, “Don't do anything tonight. Let's talk about it in the morning.”

Buddy shot back, “You don't understand. I've made up my mind—I'm gonna do it. And if you don't like it, I'll resign.”

“I think you better reconsider that, too. Let's sleep on it.”

But Parker was insistent—it was a power play. He wanted to prove that he had control. I felt the time had come to stand my ground.

He kept pushing. “I'm the coach,” he said, “you can't tell me what to do.”

“I told you to check with me first before making a trade, but you say you won't. I can't allow that.”

“I can't work like this. Maybe it's better if I leave.”

“I'm sorry, then, Buddy. I'm going to have to accept your resignation. But it's late. We'll meet in the morning.”

That night Dad and I discussed the situation. He said, “Maybe you should think about it. I hope you know what you're doing—don't make a mistake.”

Was I making the right decision? We were two weeks away from our regular season opener against Green Bay. But I knew in my heart the team needed to rebuild with fresh talent—we'd never do it with Buddy at the helm.

The next morning, Buddy saw I wouldn't back down, and I accepted his resignation. The next day, after talking about it with the Chief, I notified Mike Nixon, our assistant coach, that he'd be running the team this season. Nixon was a Western Pennsylvania guy and a University of Pittsburgh graduate who had played and coached under Jock Sutherland. Mike had gone on to coach at Notre Dame and with the Washington Redskins. He was no slouch, but I knew he wasn't the man to take the Steelers in a new direction. But as an interim head coach, with only days to go before the first game of the season, I figured we had little choice but to keep him on. We'd review his position at the end of the season.

Nixon was a disappointment, and we had one of our worst seasons in years, 2-12. We needed a new coach, and this time we weren't going to hire just anyone. The process would be thorough and thoughtful. I scoured the country in search of coaching talent, professional and collegiate, and came up with five good prospects. I called Bill Austin, assistant coach for Los Angeles, who had once served as assistant coach under Vince Lombardi during the Packers' glory years. I asked him to come to Pittsburgh for an interview. Austin had played seven years for the New York Giants before going to Green Bay.

Bill interviewed well. He seemed like a guy we could get along with, so my father called Vince to get the inside story. Lombardi thought the world of him, and said he'd make a terrific head coach.

That was enough for Dad. “Let's hire him!”

“Wait!” I said. “This is only our first interview. Let's take a look at the other guys.”

“If Vince says he okay, let's take him!”

That's the way my father operated. If he could, he'd hire a friend. If he couldn't, a recommendation from a friend was often good enough.

And so we hired Bill Austin. Sure, I was running the team, but the Chief was the boss. When he stepped in to make decisions like this, I sometimes joked with him: “What are you doing, pulling out your stock certificate on me?” We'd laugh about it, but his decision was final.

I was trying to bring the Steelers into the modern era, and I knew the right coach was the key. In this case, the hiring process had been disrupted. It was a single interview; the Steelers deserved better.

The Chief liked to loaf with the coaches and talk football and everything else under the sun. When making a decision about anything, my father had a tendency to give equal weight to all opinions. His world was a perfect democracy—one man, one vote. For instance, some guy who just happened to be in the room—his driver, the groundskeeper, a custodian, a North Side crony, or his accountant—would offer advice, and Dad would listen. If there were five people present, there'd be five votes. I used to say to him, “That doesn't work. This guy is a good guy, but he doesn't know anything about what were talking about.” When it came to football, this tendency to listen to just anyone drove me crazy.

Dad didn't take football as seriously as I did. His passion was baseball. Everything revolved around baseball. Whenever we went on long drives, he would fiddle with the radio dial constantly trying to tune in a baseball game. It didn't matter what team—any game would do. He'd settle for static on a baseball station rather than listen to a crystal-clear football game. The Chief was a great boxer and a good football player, but baseball was his game. When push came to shove, baseball always won out.

During Austin's three-year coaching career with the team, both the Steelers and the Pirates contracted with KDKA Radio to broadcast games. My father was fine with this arrangement, but I couldn't stand it, because the Pirates would push us off the air whenever the teams were scheduled to play at the same time. When that happened, the Steelers would be forced to an FM or a short-range, 5,000-watt station. I remember once the Pirates had to play a makeup game on a Sunday at the same time our game was scheduled. KDKA called me and said they wanted to bump the Pirates and air the Steelers game.

I told them, “Great! We've been waiting years for this!”

But then Jim Herron, the Pirates' business manager, called Dad and put the pressure on. Now, Dad's office was next to mine, and I remember arguing with him about it.

He said, “You can't interfere with the baseball game.”

“But this means the Steelers have arrived. KDKA wants to get the better ratings. We've got more fans than baseball!”

“You can't do it. It's baseball.”

He told me I just didn't understand, and he was right. I could never understand his unswerving devotion to baseball. In his mind, it would always be America's game.

 

 

In the three seasons Austin coached the Steelers, the team went 11- 28-3. He modeled his coaching after the legendary Lombardi, but Austin was no Lombardi. He could execute Lombardi's instructions, but as head coach of the Steelers, he was over his head and didn't have the creative spark that outstanding coaches have. He put great stock in the Knute Rockne-style locker room pep talk—“Win this one for Mr. Rooney” or “Win this one for Pittsburgh”—but he never inspired the team. Andy Russell once told me that some of our players on those Steelers teams who had been in Green Bay when Austin was
an assistant there remembered the rah-rah speeches he gave in Pittsburgh were the same—verbatim—as the ones Lombardi gave the Packers in Green Bay.

Austin had a knack for reading defenses and could occasionally exploit weakness and come up with big offensive plays. He was tough, and believed in hard-hitting, basic football. And because his background was as an offensive line coach, our line did show some improvement. But he beat the players up in practice. Many of them were out of shape, especially since Austin did not advocate weight-training, arguing in favor of intense drills. He believed an athlete could “play himself into shape”—but he had to play all-out in practice in order to effectively simulate real game conditions. This took its toll on the players, who began to dread practices. Injuries mounted.

I remember the day Austin lost the team. It was a hot, humid afternoon at St. Vincent during summer camp. Austin didn't feel the players were giving their all. He didn't like the team's performance or its attitude. In a misguided effort to regain control, he pushed every man to his limit. He demanded they play the whole scrimmage with the intensity of a goal-line drill—all-out, full speed, as if it were a real game.

This scrimmage resulted in a number of serious injuries, not to mention minor bruises and sprains. Among the wounded were some key players. Linebacker Bill Saul wrecked his knee and his career. Defensive tackle Ken Kortas's sprained ankle nearly knocked him out of the opening game and slowed him down for the rest of the season. Jim “Cannonball” Butler's damaged knee sidelined him for most of the season and severely handicapped the Steelers' running game. Defensive back Paul Martha made a hit that split his helmet down the middle like a cracked nut, leaving him with a concussion and a serious cut over his right eye.

That's when Austin lost the team. The players no longer had confidence in their coach. Austin responded the only way he knew. He threw tantrums and publicly berated players. The team's discipline
deteriorated on and off the field. Drinking by some of the players became a problem.

Bill Austin is the only coach I felt I had to yell at. On Mondays, after games, we'd be in the Roosevelt Hotel or the deli next door, and I'd say to him, “You have to run the ball!” or “What was your thinking when you passed deep on second down!”

This kind of second-guessing wasn't me, but I knew I had to do something to get us back on track. We lost not because we didn't have good players. Remember, we had guys like linebacker Andy Russell, running back Rocky Bleier, guard Sam Davis, defensive back Paul Martha, and punter Bobby Walden.

Austin had lost the team, and I knew I had to make a change. By the end of the 1968 season, I had already begun the search for a new coach. I didn't tell Austin, but he must have seen the handwriting on the wall. With the season's 2-11-1 record, he should have.

The day after the last game of the season, I planned to meet with Austin to tell him we couldn't use him anymore. But before I left for the office, Patricia informed me that it was time to take her to the hospital for the birth of our ninth child. We arrived at the Mercy emergency room entrance, where Dr. Datillo greeted us. By now he was an old friend—he had delivered Duffy, John, and Jim—and we had great confidence in him. This was going to be a busy day. Doctor Datillo said, “Don't worry. You've got plenty of time to go to the office and take care of business. In the meantime, Patricia and I will take care of things here.”

At the office, Austin was waiting for me.

“I'm sorry Bill, it just isn't working out,” I said. “Thank you for coming to Pittsburgh and for your three years with the Steelers, but we're going in another direction.” He seemed to know what was coming and was very gracious.

We talked for a while, and I felt comfortable enough with him that I called a press conference for the afternoon. I invited Bill to the conference
and gave him an opportunity to speak after I announced there'd be a coaching change. It all went well, and Bill and I parted on good terms.

Just as the reporters rushed off to file their reports, my secretary, Rene Seavy, came in and said the doctor was on the line. “Dan, you have a beautiful, little girl.”

I drove over to the hospital to see Patricia and baby Joan. Everything had gone fine. Looking into Joanie's face for the first time reminded me what's important in life. At times football consumed me, but the miracle of our nine children—Art, Pat, Kathleen, Rita, Dan, Duffy, John, Jim, and Joan—mattered more to me than anything. Family, Faith, Football—those are my priorities. As future events would unfold, I'd have to work to keep things in perspective.

 

 

On Monday, January 13, 1969, the day after Super Bowl III, Chuck Noll and I met for the first time. We talked for more than two hours. Noll's general knowledge of football and his specific knowledge of the Steelers' strengths, weaknesses, and potential struck me as extraordinary. I mean, it's the day after the Super Bowl, with all the attendant hype, hoopla, and pressure, and he's telling me details about our offense and defense I would have thought only our own coaches would know. He pointed out that the Steelers had traded away their future. He thought the way to build a championship team was through the draft. Get young, raw talent, then teach the fundamentals of the game. Above all, he counseled patience. He knew it would take some time to rebuild the team and instill in the players a winning attitude. It was clear from this very first meeting that Noll was not about building a good team—he wanted nothing less than a Super Bowl championship team.