My brother wanted to know why I hadn’t written anything about Franco Harris, who died earlier this week. Good question.
Didn’t you like him? he inquired.
It’s not that, it’s just being ill and tending to watching granddaughters and shoveling snow, etc., gives one limited time.
But, considering how almost everyone else in the world who ever as much as stood close to Franco has chimed in on the Hall of Fame running back’s death, why not me, too? Here goes.
One of the accidents of life allowed me to do Steelers coverage in the midst of their Super Seventies. I was a young sports writer at the Johnstown newspaper on a staff of older guys who didn’t want to travel for road trips – or drive to Pittsburgh for that matter.
Me and the other young staff guy of the moment – at first Bud Shaw, later Bob Gretz – split coverage of the Steelers, Pitt and Penn State in football season, as well as the Pirates in baseball season.
Amidst the comings and goings of the other young staff members, I ended up covering Pitt in the Tangerine Bowl vs. North Carolina State, Penn State vs. Alabama in the Sugar Bowl for the national title, and the Steelers in Super Bowl XIII, all in about a four-week span of late 1978, early 1979.
The Steelers beat Dallas in that Super Bowl, played in the aging Orange Bowl in Miami. You might recall Harris exploding up the middle on a 22-yard touchdown run that put the Steelers in command.
It was vintage Harris, a big moment in a big game. The man was huge for a running back of the times, standing 6-2, 230 pounds, but possessing a great straight-line burst of speed.
Harris rushed for 354 yards in four Super Bowl appearances, a record that still stands. Among a constellation of stars on those Steelers Super Bowl teams of the 1970s, Harris was a prominent point of light.
The franchise began winning when he arrived, and stopped for a time when he left.
My most vivid Harris memories are centered on Latrobe’s St. Vincent College, the preseason training home of the Steelers back in the day.
Harris was a relatively quiet man, not at all like the quote machine that was Terry Bradshaw. One day at training camp I got the OK from Steelers PR guy Joe Gordon to descend a few floors at Bonaventure Hall and interview Franco. He knew I was coming, Gordon said.
When I got to his room – back then players shared sparse door rooms and a communal bathroom for the floor – Harris was not there. I was directed to that bathroom.
When I arrived, Franco was brushing his teeth. I offered to wait. No, he said, let’s do it.
I tried, but gave up when the combination of his soft voice and the working toothbrush made it impossible to distinguish was he was saying.
Not that many years later, 1984 to be exact, Franco was holding out for a pay increase and in one of those post-practice sessions with head coach Chuck Noll at St. Vincent, the topic was broached.
“Franco who?” said Noll, perfectly understandable Grinch-like commentary if one knew Noll and his unwillingness to express emotion.
But the words reverberated. Harris was cut and eventually signed with Seattle for a brief-uneventful season before retiring.
Harris had been in the news a lot recently with the planned commemoration of his Immaculate Reception– considered the most iconic play in NFL history — and Steelers plans to retire his No. 32 jersey this weekend.
It is fittingly ironic that the low-profile Harris, who was 72 years of age, will be there only in spirit for this final honor.
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