Dan Rooney by Dan Rooney

Eagles-Steelers flip was a result of Bert’s financial difficulties and my father’s desire to help him out.

    Now, I was just a kid when this was going on. My mother tried to explain these dealings to me, but no matter what she said, I fretted about Pittsburgh losing the Steelers.
    Mother got Dad on the phone and said, “You’d better talk to Danny, he’s worried you’re going to sell the team.”
    I listened while they talked for a while.
    Finally, Mother said in a firm voice, “No, I think you should talk to him.”
    So she handed the phone to me, and Dad said, “Don’t worry, Danny. We’re not going to sell the team. This is just something we have to work out.”
    To this day, the complexity of this crazy deal makes my head spin. But I can tell you, I was sure relieved when Dad told me he wouldn’t sell the team. Then and there, I realized just how much football meant to me.
    I was nine years old when all this happened. I played football every day after school. In fact, we called our sandlot team the “Rooneys.” Joe Goetz, the man who sold Dad uniforms and equipment for the Steelers, fixed us up with brown jerseys with “Rooneys” printed on the front and a big number on the back. I can’t tell you how excited we were when the jerseys first arrived and we pulled them from the box. The first one out was number 98. This was Michigan all-American Tommy Harmon’s number and we all wanted it. Then Art pulled out a second shirt, and it had the same number: 98. The kids began pulling out the jerseys—all had 98 on the back. Every single shirt had the number 98 printed on it. Did Goetz’s supplier make a mistake? No, there was no mistake. Goetz had an oversupply of Tommy Harmon shirts and he just wanted to get rid of them. At first we didn’t know what to do. But then it came to us. We’d call ourselves the “Rooney 98s.”
    In the off season I worked out by hitting the tackling dummies my father stored in the basement, along with all the other Steelers equipment. One day, I got a little rambunctious and dove for an
overhead pipe, intending to swing into the dummy feet first. But I missed my grab and came down hard on the cement floor. Off to Mercy Hospital we went, where the doctor set my broken left arm. My mother was nearly in tears, but I got her to take a picture of me, my arm in a sling, bruises all over my face, and a leather Steelers helmet on my head. I looked like a pretty tough customer, and it’s still my favorite picture.
    During the season I spent every available hour as the team’s water boy. I’d do anything and everything I was asked: carry water, sweep the locker room, paint helmets, run errands.
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    For the 1941 season, Bert Bell coached the Steelers. It was a disaster. After four losses in a row, Bert called my father and said, “We gotta do something drastic!”
    Dad said, “I know, Bert, did you ever think of changing coaches?” Dad knew this would be a hard decision for his friend and partner—football was his life.
    The next day, though, Bert made a little speech to the press. “I believe it to be in the best interests of the Pittsburgh fans that I resign.” With that, he moved into the front office with Dad and together they hired Duquesne University head coach Aldo “Buff” Donelli. But Donelli didn’t leave Duquesne—he split his time between the two teams. NFL commissioner Elmer Layden got wind of the deal and voiced his displeasure in no uncertain terms. While Buff’s Dukes racked up victory after victory, his Steelers suffered defeat after defeat. The Steelers began to question Donelli’s allegiance. On one game day, the players asked, “Where’s the coach?” The response came back, “He’s out of town with the Dukes!” This was the final straw for Layden, who demanded that Donelli make up his mind.