by Chad Millman
No one did. Roy, the Chargers strength coach, went on to jobs with the Chiefs, Raiders and, from 1973 to 1975, the Cowboys. His successor in Dallas, Bob Ward, once estimated that 25 percent of his team, “maybe more,” used steroids. But eventually, they’d all learn. Webster died of a heart attack at fifty. Jim Clack died of a heart attack at fifty-eight. Steelers defensive lineman Steve Furness, a suspected user, died of a heart attack at forty-nine. There were other players, on other teams—known steroid users—whose lives ended just as quickly and tragically. Ex-Raider Lyle Alzado believed his steroid use caused the brain tumors that eventually killed him. Bob Young, an All-Pro lineman with the Cardinals in the 1970s and an admitted user, collapsed from a heart attack at fifty-two. Courson, who bench-pressed 600 pounds at his strongest, was diagnosed with a heart ailment at the end of his career and became a staunch opponent of the drug. He wrote a tell-all about his use, testified before Congress, and did hundreds of presentations to high schools and colleges every year. Right up until he was killed at fifty, crushed while trying to save his dog from a falling tree that he had just chopped down.
But even amidst the confusion, there were moments to build on. That year the Steelers drafted a quarterback from the University of Minnesota named Tony Dungy, whom they had decided to convert to safety. The day he got off the shuttle bus and arrived at the William Penn Hotel for team meetings that spring, he ran into a guy in a cowboy hat who sized him up and said, “You look like a rookie.”
“I am,” Dungy responded.
“I’m Mel Blount,” the Pro Bowl corner said. “Let me know if you need anything.”
During camp Dungy backed up Donnie Shell, who, rather than shun the competition, invited the rook into his dorm room to talk about that day’s practice. “I would sit there at night and ask questions,” says Dungy. “He was explaining what you should do, and no one was worried about losing their job. They all wanted to get everyone ready to play because anyone might help. The offensive guys would come up after a play in practice and tell you how to line up.”
Dungy took note of the way Noll managed his practices and his players. “We had a wide variety of personalities on that team,” says Dungy. “And that was his thing—he wanted you to be an individual as long as you functioned within the team concept. He didn’t try to pigeonhole everyone. You could do it in your own way with flair as long it worked with the team.”
The teaching was constant, even for a sub like Dungy, a converted offensive player who made more mistakes than plays. “I would come off the field and he would ask me where my eyes were, and what was I thinking, and I know you know what to do but why didn’t you get it done,” says Dungy. “There was nothing accusatory, just questions to make me think about how to improve.”
The Steelers did win their division again, but had the AFC’s fourth-best record. And it was indicative of their season that the historical footnote that emerged from that season was this: On October 30 against the Oilers, after Bradshaw and Kruczek were injured, Dungy was called upon to be the emergency quarterback. He already had an interception in the game as a backup safety. Then he threw one, too, becoming the only player since the AFL-NFL merger to accomplish that feat.
46
ON CHRISTMAS EVE 1977, ALMOST A YEAR AFTER ED SADLOWSKI lost the USWA election, Pat Coyne was out of a job. While Sadlowski settled back into a position as a rep for District 31, Coyne relied on his wife’s salary as a grade-school music teacher. It was enough to pay the utilities and put tuna casserole on the table for his four kids. But his oldest daughter was a senior in high school and applying to the most expensive private colleges in the country. And she was smart enough to get accepted. How was he going to tell her she couldn’t go? He had to keep it together not only for his family, but the steelworkers who kept showing up asking, “What am I going to do now, Pat?”
Pittsburgh’s steelworkers were barely hanging on. In October, USWA president Lloyd McBride went to Washington to meet with Jimmy Carter and his administration to complain about foreign imports. At a press conference prior to the meeting, McBride described Carter’s attitude toward the steelworkers as “aloof.” Carter wasn’t all that interested in meeting with him in the first place, but relented after McBride reminded him that his union helped put him in office. “Our union has been suffering the most dramatic loss of jobs in the union’s history,” McBride told the press afterward. Asked to be more specific, he added, “Sixty thousand members of the union are receiving assistance from the federal government,” a polite way of saying food stamps.
Steelworkers would come by the Coyne’s at all hours of the day and night, half in the bag and weepy. Ever the big wheel, Coyne would lend them money he couldn’t spare.
On Sundays, Coyne’s house would fill with guys from all over western Pennsylvania. They’d bring Mickey’s wide-mouth malt liquor and cheap potato chips, smoke nasty cigars, and watch Coyne rage at Terry Bradshaw on the console color television in the basement. One of the regulars, Pete Mamula, never tired of telling the story of when he and Coyne first met at the downtown Oyster House. “We’re all sitting there and this huge figure steps up to the bar and lines up five shots of John Jameson whiskey. He takes out his Zippo and lights them, then knocks ’em back one after the other. The whole joint loved it! Coyne’s drinking fire!”
If it was a 1:00 kickoff, Coyne’s wife would make chipped-ham sandwiches for halftime and the guys would be out by 5:00. But late games were a problem. The 4:00 kickoffs tended to push into the dinner hour. Coyne insisted that his family eat together every evening, so he’d pull an old black-and-white set into the dining room and everyone would watch the game from there.
With its struggles and a 9-5 record, the 1977 Pittsburgh Steeler season did not lighten Coyne’s load. But somehow the team scratched and clawed its way to an AFC Central title. The Steelers flew to Denver to play the Broncos in the divisional playoffs. But the game would be played at 4:00 on Christmas Eve. In a rare moment of reason when it came to the Steelers, Coyne suggested that they have dinner afterward, a few hours before midnight mass.
Coyne slapped his hands together and led a round of “Here we go, Steelers, here we go!” right before kickoff. His face flushed red throughout the back and forth battle, his blood pressure rising and falling with every series of downs. Franco ran for a touchdown and even Bradshaw got over the one-yard line. To the guys in the basement, the Broncos were a soft team built on “Orange Crush” marketing hype. They weren’t as supercilious as the Miami Dolphins or as purely evil as the Dallas Cowboys, they were simply vacuous.
The score was tied deep into the game. The steelworkers had faith that the Steelers would pull through. But then Bradshaw threw an interception. And then another. Broncos 34, Steelers 21. Like the blast furnaces along the Monongahela, the men in Coyne’s house, the out-of-work fans wasting away in the Iron City, wondered if the Steelers had lost their fire.
It made Pat Coyne tremble with rage. His town was desperate for winners.
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WITH DORSETT, THE COWBOYS OFFENSE WAS UNSTOPPABLE. Opposing defenses that committed to stopping him put a man in every rushing hole. They might slow him down, but it would leave opponents susceptible to Roger Staubach and his fleet cadre of receivers—Drew Pearson, Golden Richards, Tony Hill, Butch Johnson, and tight end Billy Joe Dupree. With play-action-fake handoffs to Dorsett, the defense would attack the line of scrimmage, freeing up receivers downfield and sideline to sideline. When the defense adjusted to shut down the passing game, Dorsett would run wild.
The Cowboys barreled through the 1977 playoffs. Dorsett ran for 156 yards and three touchdowns on the way to Super Bowl XII. It would be played in the same stadium that Pitt won its national championship just a year before—the Superdome in New Orleans. Like Super Bowl VI, the Cowboys defense dominated the AFC champions (the Denver Broncos), and after a jittery start, the offense performed with Landry precision. Dorsett ran for the first touchdown of the game and then settled into a steady rh
ythm, finishing with sixty-six yards on fifteen carries. The Cowboys won their second championship with ease, 27-10.
A jubilant Gil Brandt, the one who had predicted a Super Bowl win after the draft, spoke for the franchise. “We realized we were never going to win the big games without a great tailback. Tony Dorsett is the ingredient that made us champions again.” Dorsett knew it, too. Even with Dallas’s hate-and-now-love relationship with him, he held the cards. “The Cowboys needed me as much as I needed them. But I knew and they knew that I could not be controlled. That gave me a lot of leverage as an athlete and a person. And I liked having that leverage.”
OVERTIME
1978-1979
48
STEELERS PRACTICES WERE WIDE-OPEN AFFAIRS. REPORTERS strolled the sidelines, casually making notes of a botched play, or a player who looked tired, or a new wrinkle in the game plan. Access to the locker room was just as liberal. Before practice, after practice, whenever reporters wanted to, really, they could stroll in for a chat with the players. Noll gave his one press conference on Monday and preferred not talking to reporters again until after the game on Sunday. “He was glad to give us access so we wouldn’t bother him,” says former Post-Gazette writer Vito Stellino. “Joe Gordon would hand out the home phone numbers of the players on a mimeographed sheet at the start of the year.”
As camp neared in 1978, the story reporters focused on was how the NFL’s new rules would impact the sticky-fingered, beat-’em-up style of Pittsburgh’s defensive backs and its run-heavy offense. The dictates had been the brainchild of Tex Schramm, designed from his perch as head of the competition committee. Before the 1977 season, rules outlawing the head slap and bumping a receiver more than once during his pattern had been enacted. Then, before the 1978 season, the rules committee stipulated that a defensive back’s bump could only be within five yards of the line of scrimmage. It was referred to as “the Mel Blount” rule. Everyone assumed Schramm had created it to keep the Steelers from ever winning again.
But one player saw the changes as an opportunity. “I think a quarterback will now be able to adjust to his routes and maybe get rid of the ball a little quicker,” Bradshaw told the Pittsburgh Press that summer. “I think you’ll have the same basic coverages, but I think the bump-and-run will go out the window. This is gonna stop all the people laying all over the receivers’ backs. And that could definitely help me, because a lot of times what has held us up is receivers getting jammed by a cornerback who is all over him.”
When Pittsburgh won its first two titles, Bradshaw knew his defense was stout enough and his running game strong enough that he didn’t need to win games with his right arm. But in 1978, two seasons removed from the Steelers’ last title, he decided to take control of his team. He recognized that his defense was aging—Greene and Greenwood were in their tenth seasons, Blount was in his ninth, White, Ham, and Holmes were in their eighth—and that Franco Harris had been slowed by nagging injuries. Instead of managing games, he was going to win them. “The team morphed a little bit,” says Ted Petersen, the former offensive linemen. “Bradshaw started taking the reins.”
And Noll, for so long his quarterback’s biggest critic, understood this. The chill between them didn’t quite thaw, but Noll was always a pragmatist. In the first half of the decade, NFL rules gave an advantage to defensive linemen and the running game. Now they favored more wide-open offenses and a strong-armed quarterback. As a fully formed human being, a connoisseur of wine, a pilot, a scuba diver and, once, a guest conductor of the Pittsburgh Symphony, Noll could adapt.
Which is why, on the first play in the first training-camp practice of 1978, Bradshaw threw a pass. Reporters made a note of it.
The entire vibe at camp that year was different than the year before, and not just because Bradshaw had Noll’s permission to let loose. There were no holdouts, no lawsuits, no “distractions,” as Dan Rooney called them. “This camp is about football, not gossip,” said Joe Greene. “Everything that’s happening in this camp is about football. We’re going to be going about our business, what we’re being paid for.”
“I sensed the atmosphere being different than my rookie year,” says Dungy. “After two weeks of training camp I could tell it was going to be a special year. I called my mom and told her I think we are going to the Super Bowl.”
It wasn’t just Bradshaw who felt emboldened by the new rules. His two receivers—Stallworth and Swann—had already shown what they could do with defensive backs draped all over them. Swann’s gift of flight had been proven. And in 1977, Stallworth averaged nearly eighteen yards per catch. But in the seasons prior to that, Stallworth, the fourth-round pick out of Alabama A&M, had come along more slowly than his first-round, big-school counterpart. In their second years, Swann had forty-nine catches, eleven touchdowns, and a Super Bowl MVP award, while Stallworth had just twenty catches. In their third years, Swann had ten starts and Stallworth just three. “In the beginning they didn’t get along and there was competition,” says Joe Gordon. “And early on Stallworth resented that Swann got more attention and balls.”
The two were opposites in nearly every way. Stallworth was 6’2”, 191 pounds of lean muscle. He was faster than the compact Swann, who was barely 5’11” and weighed 180 pounds. And while Swann earned his fame by making acrobatic catches against one-on-one coverage, he earned his money by using his smaller body and pitter-patter feet to sneak through the middle of the defense. Stallworth had no qualms about stretching across the field, but with his big body and long strides, he excelled at sideline routes. “The difference [between them] was that when Stallworth caught the ball and got a step,” Bradshaw wrote in Looking Deep, “you weren’t going to catch him.”
Their personalities seemed to match their games. Swann was tenacious, the guy who bounced back up and told you how great he was because he never doubted it. Off the field he dressed like a first-round pick, talked like a first-round pick, and carried himself like a first-round pick, long after he had actually been a first-round pick. He had been a public relations major at USC, and had chosen that school because the highly touted quarterback he teamed up with in high school had gone to Stanford; he wanted to be on his own, to prove to people that he was the great receiver, not just the guy catching this particular quarterback’s passes. “Lynn looked at himself as a national figure,” says Gordon. “He was more receptive to national media than to Pittsburgh’s.”
Stallworth didn’t want the attention; he wanted the ball. Making catches was the only way to prove, as a kid from a small black college, that he belonged as he knew he did. He quietly seethed when Bradshaw, a right-handed quarterback, naturally looked left, the direction Swann usually lined up. One afternoon after a Steelers win, he mentioned to Noll how few passes he caught and Noll told him, “John, it’s not about you catching a lot of passes, it’s about the fact that we won.” Stallworth replied, “I’d like to think we could achieve both.”
The job of receivers is inherently lonely. They line up at the edge of the field, endure hand-to-hand combat with the man covering them, run at full capacity for ten or twenty or thirty yards or more, and can only hope the quarterback sees them in the three seconds he has to unload the ball. They lack any control over their destiny, unless they scream, jump up and down, and demand they get the ball, like a six-year-old. Which is why, in nearly every huddle, Bradshaw heard from both of his receivers that they were open and he should be looking their way. “They competed against one another,” says Petersen. “They liked each other, but they both wanted to be the go-to guy. Bradshaw used to say how much he loved throwing to Jim Smith, who was the third guy in passing situations. He was just getting their goat and keeping the rivalry going. ‘I just love throwing to Smitty,’ he’d say, to keep that fire burning.”
Their early rivalry, at least the one Stallworth had with Swann, grew into grudging respect and then outright friendship as both receivers developed distinctive roles. It helped that, in 1978, it became clear early on there wo
uld be plenty of balls to pass around. Bradshaw threw a pair of touchdowns in each of the Steelers’ first three games, all wins. The Steelers went six games before they had more rushing yards than passing yards. And in that seventh game, the difference in yardage was only fifteen. It wasn’t until the eighth week of the season, after a franchise-best 7-0 start, that the retooled, pass-happy, Bradshaw-led Steelers finally lost. “I think Bradshaw’s more confident that he’s ever been before,” Noll said about Bradshaw that September. “That makes a difference.”
Everyone got a turn in this system. When starting tight end Bennie Cunningham was lost for the season because of a knee injury, another class of 1974 stalwart, Randy Grossman, stepped in. He’d finish the year setting a team record for catches by a tight end with thirty-seven, in just ten starts. Stallworth caught forty-one balls, nine touchdown passes, and averaged 19.5 yards per catch. Swann had sixty-one catches and eleven touchdowns. And Bradshaw threw for a career-high 2,915 yards and twenty-eight touchdowns, and completed more than 56 percent of his passes. All of this earned him the league’s MVP award.
Because of Bradshaw, because of his offensive fireworks, the Steelers beat regular-season opponents by an average of more than ten points per game that season.
But, despite winning fourteen games, they weren’t perfect. They led the league with thirty-nine turnovers, twenty of them coming off of Bradshaw interceptions. And when the quarterback slumped, it didn’t take much for him to find those dark places. “I doubt I’ll ever be able to look in the mirror and say I’m the best quarterback in football,” Bradshaw said one afternoon. “Maybe it’s because of my personality. I think I have charisma, but I don’t think I’ll get the recognition. First mistake I make, I’ll be battered for it. I lose my greatness when I have a bad game. I go back to being a dummy.”
