Art Rooney had seen some things in his life. “The Chief”, as he was lovingly referred to, was one of nine children born to a saloon owner. From a young age, Rooney established himself as a multi-sport star: an amateur boxing champion, minor league baseball player and a halfback at nearby Duquesne University (on a field that now bears his name). Rooney’s legend was established in one weekend in 1936 on the racetracks of New York, when he allegedly parlayed a $500 bet into $300,000. Rooney used a small portion of his winnings, $2,500, to bring one of his dreams to life by establishing a professional football team in the city of Pittsburgh. That franchise grew through nearly 40 years of predominately awful football. They were the “lovable losers” of the NFL. They were such bad talent evaluators that they actually cut or traded away three Hall of Fame quarterbacks. THREE. That doesn’t even include Jack Kemp, who the Steelers cut in 1957 and went on to be an AFL MVP and 7-time All-Star.
Like I said, Art Rooney had seen some things. But this story isn’t about that. It’s about the one moment in Steelers history that he didn’t see.
December 23rd, 1972. The upstart Steelers trailed the John Madden led Oakland Raiders by a score of 7-6. It was fourth and 10 on the Steelers own 40 yard line. 22 seconds left. For Art Rooney, it was a frustrating growing pain. He knew he his team had a great future, but this was not to be the year. Rooney left his box, got in his elevator and was descending to the field to congratulate his team on a good season, even if they came up short. After all, what chance did the Steelers really have? It was an icy day, and even if by a stroke of luck the Steelers got a first down, a field goal would have been next to impossible. Better luck next season.
While his boss was preparing to consol the team on their loss, Steelers coach Chuck Noll had one more play to call. He went with 66 Circle Option. Bradshaw’s main target on the play was a rookie receiver named Barry Pearson, a kid who had never caught an NFL pass. They broke the huddle, serenaded by the more than 50,000 plus fans that had risen to their feet, as if by their own will they could create a miracle.
Set behind Bradshaw in the backfield was a rookie running back named Franco Harris. The Steelers #1 pick in the draft that year, Harris had orchestrated a sensational freshman campaign, amassing over 1,000 yards rushing and 10 touchdowns. No matter the gaudy stats, the eventual Rookie of the Year would be remembered for something else entirely.
Bradshaw took the snap, and was almost immediately forced to evade the pass rush of Raiders end Tony Cline. Chaos was brewing around him. The Raiders rushed at Bradshaw with a desperation that is exclusive to playoff football. Terry gamely kept his eyes downfield and uncorked a laser into the middle of the field towards Steelers running back John “Frenchy” Fuqua, who had come open for the shortest of seconds. One of the most feared tacklers of all time, Jack Tatum, a man who had been dubbed “The Assassin”, was there to greet Fuqua and the football at the same time. It was a violent collision, with the ball, Tatum and Fuqua meeting each other at near-terminal velocity.
Fuqua crumbled to the ground. The game should have been over. But by some minute, infinitesimal chance, the ball ricochets off both players and is thrust up in the air and viciously back towards midfield.
By all means, Franco Harris was out of the play. Once Bradshaw was in trouble, Harris ran downfield to provide a desperation outlet. Bradshaw never saw him and elected to put his trust in Fuqua. Franco didn’t even have time to process what was going on around him before the football came into Harris’ path, though it was destined for his hands all along. Before ball met ground, Franco pulled it in, looked up, and saw almost nothing but green. On a frozen field, no one could have stopped Harris.
Most Raider defenders had simply gone towards Fuqua. It was only natural. Jack Tatum, who must have thought he made the play that would advance his squad to the Conference Title game could only turn and watch Harris bolt down the field in stunned disbelief. Raiders end Phil Villipiano (who has made a second career out of claiming he was clipped on this play) pleaded his case to the referee, but to no avail. It simply wasn’t the way the game was supposed to end for the Raiders.
For Harris and the Steelers, it’s a seminal moment in history. Even though the Steelers never made it to the Super Bowl in 1972, that play set in motion the 1970s Steeler dynasty, which is arguably the greatest in NFL history. The Immaculate Reception immortalized Harris (when you’re in the center of Pittsburgh International Airport, you’re greeted by two statues: George Washington and Franco Harris). For Steelers owner Art Rooney, in one elevator ride he went from “loveable loser” to soon-to-be champion.
40 years on from that moment, it still rekindles butterflies for those who lived through it. The Steelers have gone on to be the most successful franchise in modern times, winning 6 Super Bowls. Art Rooney saw four of them, before passing away just before the start of the 1988 season. Franco Harris retired as the second leading rusher of all-time. If you ask Franco about that play today, he’d tell you that he was simply in the right place at the right time. For Mr. Rooney however, he would never be able to say the same.
