Elmer's Brother

I'm originally from eastern Ohio and grew up a huge Steelers fan. They've always been viewed as a blue collar team. I was working in Pittsburgh during the fall of 2004 when my son and I were able to attend a game at Heinz Field. We made a great memory.

The franchise was as much a part of the city's fabric as the steel that rolled out of the factories or the coal that was chipped out of the neighboring mines. It belonged with the neighborhood taprooms and fit in with the shady, backroom political climate. Pittsburgh was a tough town, and a rotten football team that kept coming back for more was all right. While everybody else in the country made fun of the team -- and the city -- the locals kept hoping. Kept dreaming.

Of course, it was easy to root for the Steelers if you knew Art Rooney. And everybody in Pittsburgh knew Art Rooney. Or so it seemed. The beloved Steelers owner, who bought the team in 1933 for $2,500 after a particularly lucrative day at the racetrack, was Pittsburgh. He even had his own smokestack -- his ubiquitous cigar.

Rooney is called a saint by some, a designation he disputed, for good reason. It's hard to be celestial when you love the racetrack, don't mind getting into a fistfight and know how to navigate the oiliest political circuits. But Rooney was genuine. And in Pittsburgh, that's the best currency you can have. There are hundreds of stories of his financial largesse, but his greatest generosity was with his time and spirit. Rooney could connect with anyone, and he did it in an authentic way. He didn't glad-hand the people for good public relations. He cared about them. He cared about Pittsburgh. And when the man at the top acts like that, you can bet the people at the bottom notice.

Until he died, in 1988, Rooney was the Steelers' symbol. If the team wanted to unveil a mascot, it had better wear bulletproof-glass spectacles and chomp a stogie. Pittsburgh was able to identify with the Steelers because Pittsburgh could identify with Rooney. And even if the team stunk, it didn't matter. For a town that had to live with its image as dreary and depressed -- the Pitts, as it were -- it was good to have a guy like Art Rooney around, if only to make sure people were smiling.

Even when the post-WWII edict came down for the mills to filter out the nastiest pollutants --the ones that would stick to the nose of folks with oily skin, and the "Renaissance" came to Pittsburgh -- the Steelers still struggled. While the Pirates won the '60 World Series on Bill Mazeroski's magical homer, Rooney's Heroes gained little traction. They came close to winning the Eastern Conference in '63, but a last-day loss to the Giants ended that dream. Meanwhile, the Packers forged a 1960s dynasty and a similarly unique bond with their blue-collar town. The Steelers had the connection with the people but not the wins. Until Chuck Noll showed up, that is.

During his coaching tenure with the team (1957-64), Buddy Parker said that when Pittsburgh finally got lucky, "it'll be lucky for 10 years." He was right. The first stroke of good fortune came in 1969, when Pittsburgh hired Noll, a former messenger guard for the Cleveland Browns, as its head coach. Under Noll, the Steelers transformed quickly from doormats to champions, thanks to shrewd drafting and an on-field personality that matched their hometown. In 1972, Pittsburgh won its first division title, the AFC Central. (When the NFL and AFL merged, Cleveland, Baltimore and the Steelers joined the rebel forces in the new AFC.) That December, Pittsburgh's destiny changed forever when Franco Harris gathered in a deflected pass and dashed 42 yards for a touchdown that gave Pittsburgh a 13-7 playoff win over Oakland. That "Immaculate Reception" was more than just a miraculous end to a football game. It was signal that the bad times were over. After 40 seasons of futility, the Steelers were winners.

Delirium reigned throughout the city. Three Rivers Stadium was filled with ethnic enclaves of fans supporting their favorites. Harris, the son of Italian and African American parents, had "Franco's Italian Army." Fans of Ukrainian descent formed "Gerela's Gorillas," celebrating kicker Roy Gerela. And Polish American linebacker Jack Ham could count on "The Poles of Dobre Shunka," or "Good Ham." Like Pittsburgh, which seemed to have room for every nationality in its steel pot, so did the Steeler family embrace everybody, from southern-fried QB Terry Bradshaw to flamboyant back Frenchy Fuqua, who favored capes, Three Musketeer hats and once wore shoes that had goldfish swimming in the glass heels. The team had a little bit of everything. And what better way to personify a tough steel town than with a stout defense anchored by "Mean" Joe Greene and a middle linebacker (Jack Lambert) with no front teeth and the on-field soul of Vlad the Impaler.

Football had become the mortar that connected the whole western Pennsylvania region. The Pirates were still popular, especially since they won World Series titles in '71 and '79. But from the high school fields of Penn Hills and Upper St. Clair to the University of Pittsburgh and Penn State, football was the passion. Fans may have been divided by loyalties to high schools Friday nights and split between the Panthers and Nittany Lions Saturday afternoons, but there was no questioning their allegiances Sunday.

In 1974, the Steelers were finally on top. Led by Bradshaw, Harris and that bloodthirsty defense, Pittsburgh defeated Minnesota to win Super Bowl IX. In the champagne-soaked aftermath, linebacker Andy Russell handed the Lombardi Trophy to Rooney and said, "This one's for the Chief." When Rooney accepted the prize, he did so for every Pittsburgher who had suffered through the steel industry's decline and the hard times of being a Steelers fan.

One Super Bowl win led to another. And to two more. By the end of the 1970s, Pittsburgh was synonymous with championships. Noll never returned to the Big Game and after the '91 season, retired as one of the most revered figures in Pittsburgh history.

The Rooneys (sons Dan and Art, Jr. took over primary operation of the franchise in the '70s) turned to Bill Cowher to replace Noll. It was perfect. Here was a native Pittsburgher taking over the city's team, a former linebacker with a defiant chin who spit when he started talking excitedly. The Steelers have had a grand total of two coaches in 36 seasons. The Lions and Falcons have each had 11 during that period. And no world championships.

The lights are on in Pittsburgh, and this time the air is sweet, and the view is beautiful.