Dan Rooney (15 page)

The press called Pete the “boy commissioner.” He was six years my senior and in some ways seemed like an older brother. After the meeting, we had a good talk. I asked if I could do anything for him, if he needed anything. Although he didn't need much help from me then, as the years passed we formed not only a close working relationship but a friendship that spanned the rest of his career (1960-89) and until his untimely death in 1996. Pete Rozelle was a man of honor, and more than any other commissioner, he is responsible for the NFL we know today.

 

 

But the Rozelle era got off to a rough start. At the Warwick Hotel in New York—the very first meeting following his election—the agenda called for Pete to lay out for the owners his plans for the league, and especially our future relationship with television networks. Even at this early date, the owners recognized television was the key to future profits, so a lot was riding on the commissioner's leadership. George Marshall, however, had his own self-serving television agenda, one that would allow him to cut deals without league interference. He was definitely not on the same wavelength as Rozelle. Marshall told us he didn't think the kid was up to the challenge—and he set out to prove it.

When Pete called the meeting to order, Marshall was absent. Just as we dispensed with the preliminaries, the door opened and in strode
Marshall in his pajamas, robe, and slippers. I tell you, it was bizarre, though no one said a word. With a flourish he plunked himself down in a chair at the end of the table, right next to Rozelle.

When Pete began his formal presentation, George interrupted him: “That's not right!” Pete continued. George interrupted a second time: “You're wrong there!”

Without emotion, Pete turned to his rude antagonist. “Mr. Marshall, would you give me the opportunity to complete my remarks?”

“Go ahead, be my guest,” George replied with a wave of his hand, then stared at Pete, never moving, not taking notes, as the commissioner finished his report.

When Rozelle concluded, George stood and attacked every point, one by one. To emphasize his argument, he wagged his finger in Rozelle's face. There he was, ridiculous in his bathrobe and slippers, and the owners listening to him as though this was nothing out of the ordinary. But it was extraordinary, even for Marshall. He was deliberately attempting to unnerve and intimidate our young new leader. As goofy as Marshall looked and behaved that day, it would have been a mistake to underestimate him. He had a mind like a steel trap and a personality like a pit bull. George really did a number on Pete. Some men would have broken down under such pressure, but Pete never flinched. By the end of the meeting, everyone knew Rozelle was going to make it as commissioner.

I knew television would be a contentious issue. The twelve teams had all cut their separate deals with the networks. The Colts and the Steelers went with NBC. Marshall had an independent network called Washington South. Cleveland also had its own independent network, sponsored by a beer company, stretching from Texas to the eastern states. The majority of the teams went with CBS, but each had negotiated a different fee schedule, from $75,000 (Green Bay) to $175,000 (New York). The big market clubs, like New York and
Chicago, refused to share their revenues with the smaller market clubs, like Green Bay and Pittsburgh.

It seemed obvious to Rozelle, my father, and me that a package deal—an exclusive contract with one network—would generate more money for the league. It would also allow the smaller clubs to share in the profits and thereby remain financially solvent and competitive on the field. Halas, Marshall, the Maras, and Dan Reeves of the Los Angeles Rams resisted the idea of putting together a biddable package.

At Pete's election the year before, I had a chance to talk to Dan Reeves at the Seaview Hotel in Miami. Reeves said, “If there's going to be a package deal, then the big markets should get more money. There's a couple of ways we can do this.”

“There's only one way we can do this,” I replied, “and that's to divide the money evenly.”

He said, “You'll never get the votes to pass that—it's just not going to happen!”

And I shot back, “Then you'll never be on TV and there won't be any television in this league!”

“What are you talking about?”

I said, “When you come to Pittsburgh to play, we won't put you on—the game won't go back to Los Angeles. We have every right in the world to do this.”

“Then you won't get any money,” Reeves pointed out.

“Then neither will you! You won't get a dime, and you've got more to lose.”

Reeves found this humorous and used to call me “Dirty Dan” over his shoulder. Later, I learned, he told some of the other owners, “That Rooney kid is the toughest guy I've ever met.” I was twenty-eight at the time, and though I wasn't a kid, these men still called me “Danny.” They were my elders—my father's age or older—but they did respect me, even if they didn't call me “Mr. Rooney.”

But a week later, in the elevator of the Roosevelt hotel in Pittsburgh, a player behind me said, “Pardon me, Mr. Rooney,” and I turned to see if my father was in the car. He wasn't. The player was addressing me. That made an impression on me. At one of our sessions, Vince Lombardi turned to my father and said, “Danny's talking a lot, isn't he?” Dad smiled. Both of them recognized the young Turks—Rozelle and I—were willing to speak up when necessary.

 

 

About this same time, we started calling my father the “Chief.” I've talked to my brothers about this and none of us can remember precisely when this occurred, but we all agree that the twins, John and Pat, were responsible for coming up with the name. Most likely it was Pat; he was always inventing playful nicknames.

People think the title “Chief” was inspired by the 1950s
Superman
television series, which featured Clark Kent's editor, Perry White, a silver-haired, cigar chomping, no-nonsense guy, whose decisions were always final. It makes sense, but it just isn't so. The twins simply used the name “Chief” to describe the top guy, the ultimate authority. It's possible that subconsciously Superman's “Chief” entered their minds, but it was not a direct reference.

At first only family members referred to Dad as the Chief, but never to his face. One of my earliest memories of Pat using “Chief” was when he and my father had a disagreement over soccer. Pat and John thought it would be a good idea to get into the soccer business, and we did for a time in the mid-1960s. But Dad couldn't see its appeal. “What do you mean, you can't use your hands? That game will never catch on in Pittsburgh!” Pat, under his breath, said to me, “The Chief has made his decision: no soccer.”

Over time the name caught on—it was a perfect fit. And by the late 1960s you heard “Chief” spoken in family circles, locker rooms, and
even among sportswriters. Today, my father is known as the Chief around the world. But before the name was commonly used in the Steelers organization, people referred to him as the “Prez.”

 

 

Back to the NFL and television. I was present when we discussed television at the 1961 league meeting. Rozelle led the charge. He had spent much of the past year developing a television plan that would guide the future of the NFL. He showed how the league had already used the medium to better advantage than any other sport, but without a comprehensive plan football could lose its edge. He enlisted Vince Lombardi and my father to convince the Mara brothers that a package deal was in the league's best interest. Wellington and his brother Jack remained unconvinced. Our side wouldn't budge either.

The discussions grew heated. At one point, Jack turned to my father and said, “How can you do this and call yourself a Catholic?”

Instantly, Dad flared, “Don't you ever question my religion!”

I thought I was going to have to jump between them. Dad knew how to fight, and Jack Mara wouldn't have had a chance. My father was a pretty easygoing guy most of the time, but there were a few things that set him off. This was one of them. They calmed down, but I never again heard Jack bring up religion in a league meeting.

At Dad's urging, we finally agreed the league would put together a biddable package and contract with a single network. The revenues would be shared by all teams equally. In addition, the owners authorized the commissioner to negotiate the contract on our behalf. We also agreed to continue the existing home blackout policy. Plus, every road game would be broadcast back to its own home market.

This represented a great step forward for the NFL. Unfortunately, U.S. District Court Judge Allan K. Grim disagreed. He ruled the NFL's package deal violated federal antitrust laws. This forced the
league to go political. Rozelle was up to the challenge, and mobilized the owners to lobby their congressmen and even President Kennedy. In addition, the league satisfied concerns raised by the NCAA by agreeing not to broadcast NFL games on a network on Saturdays during the college season.

On September 30, 1961, Kennedy signed the Sports Broadcasting Bill, which gave professional football a limited exemption from antitrust laws. Within three months, Rozelle signed CBS as the NFL's first exclusive national television contractor. The league would get $4.65 million each year for two years.

We were pretty proud of this deal and the one three years later, which netted the fourteen NFL teams $14.1 million a year for two years from CBS. Then we learned the AFL owners had negotiated an even more lucrative TV contract.

My father pointed out to me at the time, “You will rue this day!” and I asked him why. He said, “Everyone will be telling you how to run the league, asking for money. You will have agents, the television networks, and Congress trying to get involved.”

Something had to be done. It was time to negotiate in earnest a merger between the two leagues.

 

 

During this period I wasn't focused just on television contracts and possible mergers. By 1962 our family had grown considerably. Patricia and I tried to get away with the kids in the summer, even if only to nearby Ligonier or Shamrock Farms, Dad's horse farm in Winfield, Maryland. That year, we decided to organize a family vacation that combined recreation and educational opportunities. Of course, looking back, I probably went a little overboard. The centennial of the Civil War (1961-65) captured my interest, and I began reading Bruce Catton's award-winning series of books. Then I got out the road
maps and charted a thousand-mile road trip. The kids—Art, Kathleen, Rita, and Pat—all had reading or, in the case of the younger ones, coloring assignments (state flags, uniforms, state seals, etc.). Baby Dan was too small to go, so we left him home with Grandma Regan. We took Patricia's younger sister Rita along to help ride herd and packed everyone into our station wagon.

First stop: Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, where John Brown and his antislavery raiders captured the U.S. Arsenal in 1859. The opening shots of the Civil War were fired here (although historians might contend the first shots were fired at Ft. Sumter in 1861), and we took refuge from the rain in the same firehouse that had sheltered Brown and his men from U.S. troops, who were led, strangely enough, by Robert E. Lee and J.E.B. Stuart. On we marched to the Antietam Battlefield, then to Washington, D.C., where we saw every site from the Washington Monument to the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, where Father Dan was ordained. The rain came down hard as we drove off to Manassas and the Bull Run Battlefield, where young Artie was awed by the gigantic equestrian statue of “Stonewall” Jackson. “Look, there stands Jackson like a stone wall,” he read on the bronze plaque at the base.

“Hey, Dad, why did Colonel [Bernard] Bee say Jackson stood like a stone wall?” he asked. “Was it because he was too scared to move?”

I said, “No, it was that he and his men were too brave to run.”

For the rest of the trip we heard “Look! There stands Jackson like a stone wall!”

At Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Spotsylvania, Richmond, and Petersburg the statues and cannons became a blur. Jackson followed us, it seemed, always holding his ground. On we went, through fearsome summer storms (it must have rained every day) on a side trip to the 1600s and 1700s, Jamestown and Williamsburg, where the kids marched with redcoats down the Duke of Gloucester Street to the music of fifes and drums.

Off we went to Virginia Beach, where it stopped raining long enough for us to wade in the surf. That evening Artie learned to swim in the Hilton Hotel pool and made a big splash with his “cannonballs” from the diving board. Back in the station wagon again we headed home by way of Gettysburg for one last charge. By this time we had exhausted our supply of Civil War songs, coloring books, puzzles, car games (counting cows, license plates, car colors), and good humor. It had been a memorable journey, the first of many family expeditions.

 

 

I attended the 1963 dedication of the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio. I remember thinking at the time that Pittsburgh had as much right as Canton to be the home of the Hall of Fame, since pro football began in Pittsburgh in 1892. But the Canton people had a legitimate claim, since the NFL was born there in 1920 at the Hupmobile dealership. In any event, the Canton people did a bang-up job.

It must have been tough deciding who would make the cut for that first class. The selectors made it a point to honor the men who helped found the league: Bert Bell, Joe Carr, George Halas, Curly Lambeau, Tim Mara, George Preston Marshall, and, of course, Jim Thorpe, the league's first president. In addition, the selectors recognized some of the early greats of the game: Sammy Baugh, Dutch Clark, Red Grange, Mel Hein, Pete Henry, Cal Hubbard, Don Hutson, Johnny Blood, Bronko Nagurski, and Ernie Nevers. In 1964 my father proudly accepted the honor of his selection in the second class of inductees, alongside Jimmy Conzelman, Ed Healey, Clarke Hinkle, Link Lyman, Mike Michalske, and Brute Trafton. I can remember few honors he treasured more than his induction into the Pro Football Hall of Fame.