the Internet, or
Monday Night Football
, my exposure to other teams was limited to the daily newspaper and football magazines.
One late November Sunday morning when I was seven, I asked my dad if we would be rooting for the Browns that afternoon. My father was born and raised on the Iron Range in Minnesota, so he had more allegiance to the University of Minnesota, Bronislau âBronkoâ Nagurski, and the Duluth Eskimos barnstorming team thanhe did to the Browns. He paused and then told me about the man who played quarterback for the Steelers, the Brownsâ opponent that day. âHis name is Bobby Layne,â my dad said, âand he believes he can do anything.â
I wasnât convinced, especially considering the Browns were 6â2 and the Steelers 3â4â1, and my doubts were justified as Cleveland clung to a 20â14 lead in the final minutes. But then the man who would be dubbed âLast-Minute Layneâ in the
Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
the next day began working his two-minute magic as my dad and I watched on our black-and-white TV. 2 Two pass completions, a penalty, and a run put the Steelers on the Brownsâ 17, and with only forty seconds left, Layne hit Gern Nagler under the goalpost with a touchdown pass.
Pennsylvania governor David L. Lawrence was the preeminent fan among the estimated 10,000 Steelers diehards who made the three-hour trip from Pittsburgh to Municipal Stadium on the shores of Lake Erie, and his reaction was duly noted by the
Post-Gazette:
âThe governor cast aside dignity for a brief moment in the press box by throwing his hat high in the air and announcing to one and all: âThat was the greatest play of all time.ââ 3
A bit of an exaggeration, even for a politician, because the only great plays for Pittsburgh in the previous twenty-six years of the Steelersâ existence had been performed downtown at the Nixon Theater. In that time span, the Steelers had experienced only five winning seasons and only once made it to a postseason game. But the heroics were plenty impressive to a seven-year-old, and when Layne kicked the extra point that gave the Steelers a 21â20 victory, he converted me into a Bobby Layne fan and a Pittsburgh Steeler rooter. I would always remember that day, November 22, 1959, but I could never imagine that the afternoon four years later, to the day, would be even more memorable.
Over the next couple of years, my dad took me to Forbes Field to watch the Vince Lombardi Packer teams, which were evolving into a powerhouse; the expansion Cowboys team led by young quarterback Don Meredith and coached by Tom Landry; and the team that I grew to hate, the Browns, powered by Jim Brown. I struggled in my heartâprobably as much as the players did on the fieldâthrough a 5â6â1 season in 1960, and then a 6â8 record in â61 before the Steelersâ second-place finish in â62, at 9â5, allowed me to dream that they could win the Eastern Conference in â63.
On a Friday afternoon, November 22, 1963, I was in school, watching the hands on the clock inch toward 3:15 p.m., and eagerly looking forward to a trip to Forbes Field in less than forty-eight hours to watch the Steelers play the Western Conference leader,the Chicago Bears, when the bell rang, dismissing us for the weekend. I was almost to the door when someone rushed up and announced that President Kennedy had been shot.
My brothers and I attended a very small private school in downtown Youngstown, which, in a spooky coincidence, was named the Kennedy School, after the schoolâs headmistress. We studied current events all year through the newspaper, so we had scrutinized the 1960 Kennedy-Nixon presidential race, especially when the rivals campaigned fiercely in Youngstown, a key industrial city in a pivotal state. We even held our own mock election.
I remember an older schoolmate who cried over news of the assassination. I did not. I
Monday Night Football
, my exposure to other teams was limited to the daily newspaper and football magazines.
One late November Sunday morning when I was seven, I asked my dad if we would be rooting for the Browns that afternoon. My father was born and raised on the Iron Range in Minnesota, so he had more allegiance to the University of Minnesota, Bronislau âBronkoâ Nagurski, and the Duluth Eskimos barnstorming team thanhe did to the Browns. He paused and then told me about the man who played quarterback for the Steelers, the Brownsâ opponent that day. âHis name is Bobby Layne,â my dad said, âand he believes he can do anything.â
I wasnât convinced, especially considering the Browns were 6â2 and the Steelers 3â4â1, and my doubts were justified as Cleveland clung to a 20â14 lead in the final minutes. But then the man who would be dubbed âLast-Minute Layneâ in the
Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
the next day began working his two-minute magic as my dad and I watched on our black-and-white TV. 2 Two pass completions, a penalty, and a run put the Steelers on the Brownsâ 17, and with only forty seconds left, Layne hit Gern Nagler under the goalpost with a touchdown pass.
Pennsylvania governor David L. Lawrence was the preeminent fan among the estimated 10,000 Steelers diehards who made the three-hour trip from Pittsburgh to Municipal Stadium on the shores of Lake Erie, and his reaction was duly noted by the
Post-Gazette:
âThe governor cast aside dignity for a brief moment in the press box by throwing his hat high in the air and announcing to one and all: âThat was the greatest play of all time.ââ 3
A bit of an exaggeration, even for a politician, because the only great plays for Pittsburgh in the previous twenty-six years of the Steelersâ existence had been performed downtown at the Nixon Theater. In that time span, the Steelers had experienced only five winning seasons and only once made it to a postseason game. But the heroics were plenty impressive to a seven-year-old, and when Layne kicked the extra point that gave the Steelers a 21â20 victory, he converted me into a Bobby Layne fan and a Pittsburgh Steeler rooter. I would always remember that day, November 22, 1959, but I could never imagine that the afternoon four years later, to the day, would be even more memorable.
Over the next couple of years, my dad took me to Forbes Field to watch the Vince Lombardi Packer teams, which were evolving into a powerhouse; the expansion Cowboys team led by young quarterback Don Meredith and coached by Tom Landry; and the team that I grew to hate, the Browns, powered by Jim Brown. I struggled in my heartâprobably as much as the players did on the fieldâthrough a 5â6â1 season in 1960, and then a 6â8 record in â61 before the Steelersâ second-place finish in â62, at 9â5, allowed me to dream that they could win the Eastern Conference in â63.
On a Friday afternoon, November 22, 1963, I was in school, watching the hands on the clock inch toward 3:15 p.m., and eagerly looking forward to a trip to Forbes Field in less than forty-eight hours to watch the Steelers play the Western Conference leader,the Chicago Bears, when the bell rang, dismissing us for the weekend. I was almost to the door when someone rushed up and announced that President Kennedy had been shot.
My brothers and I attended a very small private school in downtown Youngstown, which, in a spooky coincidence, was named the Kennedy School, after the schoolâs headmistress. We studied current events all year through the newspaper, so we had scrutinized the 1960 Kennedy-Nixon presidential race, especially when the rivals campaigned fiercely in Youngstown, a key industrial city in a pivotal state. We even held our own mock election.
I remember an older schoolmate who cried over news of the assassination. I did not. I
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