Dan Rooney (25 page)

I shut everything down, got out of the plane, and stood on the wing surveying the damage. When the firefighters pulled up with their lights flashing, I figured I'd better get out of the way. They soon saw there was nothing they could do—no fire or dangerous fuel leaks. The EMTs wanted to take me to the hospital in the ambulance.

“Hey, I'm fine. There's no problem,” I protested as they took me into the ambulance to make sure I was okay.

They drove me to my hangar, and I called Dr. Yates, my aviation medical examiner, to try to get him to tell the EMTs I didn't need to go to the hospital. He convinced them that if I said I was okay, I was okay.

Then I called home. “Patricia,” I said, “I just crash-landed the plane, but I'm all right.”

“You did what?” she asked.

“Yeah, the electrical system went out,” I explained to her. “They shut the whole airport down while I was flying patterns.”

Jerry Richardson, my friend and owner of the Carolina Panthers, started calling me “Crash.” If that was the worst of this incident, I could live with it. Besides, “Crash Rooney” had a certain ring to it.

Some members of the family don't like to fly with me because of stories like this. Once our son John flew back home with me from Chuck Noll's place in Fort Meyers, Florida. On that flight we had to keep climbing higher to try to get above the clouds.

“We've got to get down,” John said when we were cruising at 12,500 feet, “I'm getting sick.”

To go down I had to find a hole in the clouds. “See if you can find an airport down there,” I said. He got even more alarmed, and his face whitened. But we descended safely and landed in Raleigh, North Carolina.

After we took on fuel and had something to eat, we took off again. I assured John that it would be smooth flying from here on out. But then, just as we took off, the passenger door popped open. I had to return to the ground to close it and latch it properly. In landing, I hit the nose wheel a little hard. The damage was slight, but John always said this one trip kept him from flying again. John's very bright and is mechanically inclined. He'd make a great pilot but prefers to have his feet firmly on the ground.

Our daughter Rita, an attorney living in Boston, is an excellent pilot. She has a license and her instrument rating. Rita flew a lot when she lived in Pittsburgh. I think my daughter Joan would make a good pilot. My flying skills have come in handy in getting around to league meetings and events, but there's more to it than that.

There's nothing like the sense of freedom that comes with flying. I love soaring over the beautiful Western Pennsylvania countryside, enjoying the sight of the rivers, the forested hills, and coal-patch communities below.

I guess I'm a creature of habit. I have followed the same work schedule for nearly sixty years, whether the team is winning or losing. Six days a week, I go to my office. On the seventh day, if we're playing an away game, I travel with the team. I like everything about my job, the excitement and even the challenges of personnel and league politics. Football and the Steelers have taught me lessons about perseverance, the belief in possibilities, the expansion of boundaries, the kindness of people, and the unpredictability of life. The Steelers have been part of me since the day I was born.

 

 

And so has Ireland.

My father, the son of Irish immigrants, talked about Ireland when I was young. He spoke of generation-long wars and economic struggle. Martin Regan, Patricia's father, also told us stories of Ireland when we were courting. Through the Irish songs he sang, we became interested in Irish music. Aunt Alice McNulty could dance some of the Irish jigs, reels, and step dances. To us these songs and dances were strangely Irish, and we were fascinated by what seemed to be a foreign culture. Patricia's mother, Mary Duffy Regan, busy raising a large family and adjusting to a new culture, didn't talk much about Ireland. But she connected with our daughter Kathleen. For hours on end, she told Kathleen the traditional stories she had learned as a girl.

Kathleen loved Irish myths and lore, and participated in St. Patrick's Day events with our Irish-American friends. She wanted to know more and became the first of our children to return to our native land. In the mid-1970s she visited with a girlfriend. They first went to Derrinabrock in County Mayo, the ancestral home of Patricia's Regan relatives. County Mayo is the westernmost of the Irish counties. All of the villages are small and Derrinabrock is no exception. There are a few farms, a church, and one pub. She was enchanted by the
thatched-roofed cottages and the deep green of the hills and fields. She studied at Killkenny and learned much about Irish culture.

Later, when our entire family first visited Ireland, the relatives ran from their house, passed me by, and went directly to Kathleen. “Welcome home,” they said. It was quite a homecoming.

On our first visit to Ireland, we traveled with Lou Spadia, president of the San Francisco Forty-Niners and his wife, Maggie. The biggest town in the area we visited was Ballaghaderreen in County Roscommon. Ballaghaderreen is large enough to boast a few shops and a school. We searched to find the road to Cloontia in County Mayo, where Patricia's mother grew up, but couldn't find it. So we called back and talked to Patricia's mother in Pittsburgh. She told us where to look, but we still couldn't find Cloontia. Ready to give up, we went into a pub and talked with the girl behind the bar about our problem. “I know some Regans,” she said.

She took us to Cloontia and introduced us to a lady whose last name was Gallagher. Patricia's aunt Maggie was married to a Gallagher, and it turned out this woman and Patricia's aunt Maggie Duffy were sisters-in-law. After we told Mrs. Gallagher who Patricia was, she took us to the Duffy's thatched-roof cottage where the family had lived for 150 years. Here, Patricia met her grandmother, Mary Duffy. At first she thought Patricia was her own daughter. Patricia was the first family member from America to return to Ireland since her mother left.

The thatched-roof, two-room, one-window cottage was very dark inside. I opened the window and sat next to it so that the full light came in. It shone on Patricia and her grandmother, who lay in what they called a kitchen bed so she might be near the light and heat of the fireplace. Patricia's grandmother stayed in the bed most of the time. They talked for hours and I took a great photo of the two together. It was a heartwarming and timely reunion. Her grandmother died the following February.

Next we went to see Patricia's uncle Thomas Regan, who had visited the United States and spent time in Pittsburgh in the 1920s. He was the best man in the wedding of Patricia's parents and loved talking about Yanks and his visit to America.

 

 

During this first trip in 1971 we got to know Ireland, reconnected with family, and made many new friends. We didn't get back in 1972—the year the Steelers drafted Franco Harris—but we've been returning regularly since then.

It wasn't until we met the charismatic Irishman Tony O'Reilly that the Chief decided he needed to visit the Emerald Isle himself.

In the summer of 1975, following our Super Bowl victory, Tim and I brought Dad with us on his first visit to Ireland. The Rooneys originated in Newry, County Down, a small town about thirty-five miles south of Belfast, Northern Ireland. His father was actually born in Wales, where his grandfather had gone to find work. When asked, “Doesn't that make you Welsh?” he would always say, “If a cat gave birth in an oven, would you call her kittens biscuits? The Rooneys are Irish through and through.” My father was proud of his Irish roots, but he was even prouder to be an American.

Tony O'Reilly became an important part of our lives. In 1974 this Irish rugby hero became the second non-Heinz to head the Pittsburgh-based Heinz Company—the ketchup empire. When Tony arrived in Pittsburgh, Merle Gilliand, president of Pittsburgh National Bank (later first CEO of PNC Bank), had a party at his house. “You must meet some of our Irish people,” Merle told Tony, and invited Patricia and me.

These are the first words Tony said to me: “I always liked American football. I think I could play. Do you mind if I worked out with the boys?”

Assuming he was talking about running or exercising, I told him a workout could be arranged. When I explained to him what the practice involved, he said, “No, I want to go out and play with the pads and run the plays!”

“Tony, you're thirty-three years old,” I said. “You're beyond your playing days. You don't start playing American football at thirty-three, that's when you quit.”

Tony never did put on the pads and mix it up with the team, although he was quite an athlete, tall and fast. I think he would have made a better receiver than the running back he thought he could be.

At Merle's party, Tony and I began what would become a long friendship—and the beginning of the Ireland Fund. The Royal College of Surgeons in Ireland had asked Tony to hold a fund-raiser. So Tony proposed to me, “Dan, why don't we honor your father with a banquet?”

I agreed, and we planned a dinner to be held at the Waldorf Astoria in New York at the end of the 1974 football season. As it so happened, this was the season the Steelers won Super Bowl IX. After our victory in January 1975, the dinner took on new importance. Tickets were in demand. In fact, it was a sellout. On the night of the dinner, I looked up and saw the packed ballroom and a standing-room only crowd on every level above.

“This is really big,” I said.

Delighted with the turnout, Tony agreed, “Yes, we've raised far more than I ever expected. We can help the Royal College of Surgeons and have enough left over to help three or four more Irish charities.”

I told him, “Sure, that's a good idea, but we've got to keep this banquet going, year after year.”

The next day we drew up the plans for the annual Ireland Fund dinner. It grew to be the most successful fund-raiser of its kind, although the first couple of years were a little slow. The finances were
tight. Tony would always say we had the second Ireland Fund dinner to pay for the first.

At one of our early dinners, a distinguished older man said he would give us a $100,000 donation if we let him speak at the banquet. We needed the money, so we let him talk. He told a long-winded story and bored us to tears. Pete Rozelle, who attended the dinner, said the story wasn't worth the $100,000. To make matters worse, the man had a young wife who nixed the payment the day after the banquet. We received nothing and learned an important lesson about fund-raising and dinner speakers.

Some people wanted to use the Ireland dinner for political purposes. We resisted this. One banquet took place at the same time the world learned of the death of IRA activist Bobby Sands. Sands had died in a British prison following a lengthy hunger strike, and emotions ran high among many Irish people around the world.

Bill McNally, the Ireland Fund's director, got the New York police and Waldorf hotel security to guarantee the safety of the lobby and hall for our high-profile patrons. The situation was tense. I went out and talked to a few of the pickets. McNally agreed to seat Chuck Daly—a former aide to President John F. Kennedy and one of the organizers of this dinner—at a table near the podium in case of any outbursts.

Halfway through dinner, a nun wandered in and made her way to the stage where a band was playing beside the podium. Suddenly, she dashed up the three steps and half ran to the podium. She pulled the mike down to her level and launched into an IRA denunciation of British rule in Ireland. The bandleader ordered his crew to crank up the music. She began shouting in a desperate, shrill voice. This all happened in less than a minute.

Chuck Daly jumped up onto the stage, motioned to the band to stop, and approached her. She was trembling and her eyes were watering. Her shaking hands held a sheaf of notes that looked to me like
a telephone book. Chuck put his hand over the mike and spoke to her calmly, “Sister, no one in this hall wants to hurt you. I know how you feel. I'll ask the band to stay quiet if you agree to say only a few more words, and then let us get on with this peaceful dinner where everyone is just trying to help Ireland.”

She looked up at him and asked, “Promise?”

“Yes, if you keep it short.”

“I will.”

She spoke for less than two minutes, then left the hall. It was sad to see her go, but we knew we couldn't solve all of Ireland's political problems. I felt like crying.

 

 

Through the years there have been many organizations dedicated to raising money for Ireland. Some of these were charitable and humanitarian, others were not.

Just a few months before his death in 1963, President Kennedy joined with Irish President Eamonn de Valera to form the American Irish Foundation. Its mission fostered connections between Americans of Irish decent and their native country. But many Americans confused this organization with our Ireland Fund. I believed we could have a greater impact if we merged with the American Irish Foundation. One big organization would be more effective than two smaller ones. I asked Tony O'Reilly what he thought of the idea. He agreed wholeheartedly. I called John Brogan, the president of the American Irish Foundation, and asked him if he would be interested in combining our efforts. He was willing to talk.

I arranged to meet him at Westchester County Airport. I flew and he drove. We discussed the proposition at a little lunch table in the airport's dining area and agreed to set up a committee to work out the details. John appointed Billy Vincent, president of the Ireland Fund
of Monaco. He, along with Richard Anthony Moore, American ambassador to Ireland, and Brian Burn, who lived in San Francisco, worked diligently to hammer out the details of the merger. I appointed Walter Dumphy, Bill Burke, and Chuck Daly.