tradition here was âJock Sutherland, rockâem-sockâem coal miner football,â which provided the people with a safety valve to blow off pent-up steam.
In this densely populated, urban industrial environment, each mill and mine forged its own self-reliant community, its own school, and its own football team. Every Friday night these schools filled their stadiums with thousands of spectators, fifteen, in fact, for every student
enrolled in the school. They cheered as loud for a good block as for a good catch or run. They were knowledgeable, they understood the subtleties of the game, and God help the officials who made the wrong call.
It wasnât just a gameâit was an obsession. And from the 1930s to the 1960s and beyond, Western Pennsylvania became a football factory, turning out each year hundreds of outstanding athletes bound for colleges and universities coast to coast. For many of these sons of mill and mine workers, football was the only ticket out of the hard industrial world of their parents.
Competition between the schools was intenseâMonaca Indians vs. Rochester Rams, Aliquippa Quips vs. Ambridge Bridgers, Charleroi Cougars vs. Monessen Greyhounds, Westinghouse Bulldogs vs. Pea-body Highlanders, Clairton Bears vs. Duquesne Dukes, and, of course, Central Catholic Vikings vs. the North Catholic Trojans. Often separated by only a hill or valley, rivalry between these schools brought the quality of play to a level unknown in other American cities. While New York and Philadelphia may have had the tax base and population density of Pittsburgh, they never had the real estate necessary for stadiums and practice fields that teams in Western Pennsylvania enjoyed.
Whatever the reasons, it seems to me, the stars aligned perfectly to make Western Pennsylvania the place for football to evolve into Americaâs passion. And every able-bodied boy of my generation dreamed of becoming a football player, not just to suit up and be on the field, but to excelâand win.
Â
Â
All that summer of 1946 I lived and breathed football, working at the Steelers camp with Coach Jock Sutherland. It was hard labor but I enjoyed it, moving the team equipment on and off the field every day, lugging the heavy rag-stuffed tackling dummies, and dragging around
canvas laundry bags. In addition, I exercised every dayâpushups, sit-ups, pull-ups, running, and throwing footballs for accuracy and distance. And I continued to play sandlot games on Monument Hill against teams like the Mt. Lebanon Bulldogs, organized by Bob Prince, the future voice of baseballâs Pittsburgh Pirates. By summerâs end I was in top physical condition. I may not have been the biggest or the best player entering North Catholic that fall, but I was sure in better shape than any other boy.
North Catholic was a huge school with an active athletic program where football came second only to God, though I suppose the Marianist brothers would argue that academics ranked pretty high, too. But if you asked any boy on campus, heâd set you straight: football was tops.
The first day of tryouts, however, took me by surprise. For some reason I didnât realize that Iâd have to run against the other boys to qualify for the team. The coaches werenât going to automatically place me on the squad just because of a headline. As I walked by the practice field with my new books, Coach Al Lesniak, who was supervising the 40-yard qualifying race, spotted me.
âRooney, why arenât you running with the rest of the boys? Get out here!â
âBut Coach, Iâm not dressed for it.â
âDonât give me that! You think youâre too good to try out for the team? Drop your books and line up!â
I felt awkward and a little nervous being out there, since I hadnât counted on running that day. I wanted to do my best, but I felt all the other boys would have an advantage dressed in their gym gear and
In this densely populated, urban industrial environment, each mill and mine forged its own self-reliant community, its own school, and its own football team. Every Friday night these schools filled their stadiums with thousands of spectators, fifteen, in fact, for every student
enrolled in the school. They cheered as loud for a good block as for a good catch or run. They were knowledgeable, they understood the subtleties of the game, and God help the officials who made the wrong call.
It wasnât just a gameâit was an obsession. And from the 1930s to the 1960s and beyond, Western Pennsylvania became a football factory, turning out each year hundreds of outstanding athletes bound for colleges and universities coast to coast. For many of these sons of mill and mine workers, football was the only ticket out of the hard industrial world of their parents.
Competition between the schools was intenseâMonaca Indians vs. Rochester Rams, Aliquippa Quips vs. Ambridge Bridgers, Charleroi Cougars vs. Monessen Greyhounds, Westinghouse Bulldogs vs. Pea-body Highlanders, Clairton Bears vs. Duquesne Dukes, and, of course, Central Catholic Vikings vs. the North Catholic Trojans. Often separated by only a hill or valley, rivalry between these schools brought the quality of play to a level unknown in other American cities. While New York and Philadelphia may have had the tax base and population density of Pittsburgh, they never had the real estate necessary for stadiums and practice fields that teams in Western Pennsylvania enjoyed.
Whatever the reasons, it seems to me, the stars aligned perfectly to make Western Pennsylvania the place for football to evolve into Americaâs passion. And every able-bodied boy of my generation dreamed of becoming a football player, not just to suit up and be on the field, but to excelâand win.
Â
Â
All that summer of 1946 I lived and breathed football, working at the Steelers camp with Coach Jock Sutherland. It was hard labor but I enjoyed it, moving the team equipment on and off the field every day, lugging the heavy rag-stuffed tackling dummies, and dragging around
canvas laundry bags. In addition, I exercised every dayâpushups, sit-ups, pull-ups, running, and throwing footballs for accuracy and distance. And I continued to play sandlot games on Monument Hill against teams like the Mt. Lebanon Bulldogs, organized by Bob Prince, the future voice of baseballâs Pittsburgh Pirates. By summerâs end I was in top physical condition. I may not have been the biggest or the best player entering North Catholic that fall, but I was sure in better shape than any other boy.
North Catholic was a huge school with an active athletic program where football came second only to God, though I suppose the Marianist brothers would argue that academics ranked pretty high, too. But if you asked any boy on campus, heâd set you straight: football was tops.
The first day of tryouts, however, took me by surprise. For some reason I didnât realize that Iâd have to run against the other boys to qualify for the team. The coaches werenât going to automatically place me on the squad just because of a headline. As I walked by the practice field with my new books, Coach Al Lesniak, who was supervising the 40-yard qualifying race, spotted me.
âRooney, why arenât you running with the rest of the boys? Get out here!â
âBut Coach, Iâm not dressed for it.â
âDonât give me that! You think youâre too good to try out for the team? Drop your books and line up!â
I felt awkward and a little nervous being out there, since I hadnât counted on running that day. I wanted to do my best, but I felt all the other boys would have an advantage dressed in their gym gear and
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