For Harris, a tribute becomes a sad memorial

The Hall of Fame runner dies just before the 50th anniversary of his Immaculate Reception.

Franco Harris never would have said, “Why me?” On Wednesday a city and a multitude of friends and idolators closed their eyes and asked, “Why now?”

Harris died Wednesday at age 72. It was two days before the 50th anniversary of his Immaculate Reception, the most famous play in NFL history, a colossal case of luck meeting Harris at the crossing of preparation and opportunity, and the moment that gave the Pittsburgh Steelers the first playoff victory in their history.

It happened three days before the Steelers were to meet the Raiders, the descendants of the players who numbly watched Harris scoop glory out of defeat. That also was the day the Steelers were going to retire Harris’ No. 32, which seems as overdue as Harris’ death seems cruelly mistimed.

The Steelers won Super Bowls at the end of the ‘74, ‘75, ‘78 and ‘79 seasons. Fifteen of those players are in the Pro Football Hall of Fame, as are coach Chuck Noll and scout Bill Nunn. Owner Art Rooney and his son Dan are there, too. It isn’t worth trying to explain what the Steelers meant and still mean to a city where football dominates the bloodstream on all levels, or how bad they were before Noll showed up in 1969. Well, here’s one example: They got rid of Johnny Unitas, who was from Pittsburgh.

Anyway, the Steelers have hired only two other coaches since Noll, and they are Bill Cowher and Mike Tomlin, and they won Super Bowls, too.

Harris was an All-American at Penn State, where he teamed with Lydell Mitchell. Coach Joe Paterno said they both were willing to run through a wall, “except Franco would stop first and count the bricks.” He internalized almost everything and seemed too quiet and deferential to be a football player. Sometimes you’d see him hitch-hiking home after a Steelers game. But he also was 6-foot-2 and 230, a giant of his day, and not only had speed but vision and wiggle. Gene Collier of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette called his style “bicycling through traffic.”

With all that, he was available when the No. 13 pick came along in the 1972 draft. The top pick was defensive tackle Walt Patulski of Notre Dame, who lasted five seasons in Buffalo. Noll wanted Robert Newhouse, whom Dallas drafted, but was persuaded to take Harris, who is the only Hall of Famer in the first round of that draft and outgained Newhouse by nearly 6,000 yards.

Harris was the Rookie of the Year. He provided cover and support for Terry Bradshaw, the quarterback who had struggled to harness his unparalleled arm. He also was the line of demarcation, the reason that Joe Greene said he basically “was the Pittsburgh Steelers.” That Immaculate Reception team went 11-3, the first winning season in nine years. Beginning that season, the Steelers went 88-27-3 through 1979. In the previous eight seasons they were 25-70-3.

Harris had burrowed deep into Pittsburgh life. He was a Pennsylvania delegate to the 2008 Democratic National convention, and his son Dok finished second in Pittsburgh’s 2009 mayoral election. But when Harris threatened to hold out in 1984, the Steelers immediately banished him to Seattle, and he retired before the season ended. At the time, Harris was No. 3 alltime in rushing yards.

“He would only ask two questions,” said J.T. Thomas, an ex-defensive back and Harris’ teammate. “What can I do and what do you need?”

He was distinctive in other ways. His father Cadillac fought in World War II and, in Pisa, met a 17-year-old named Gina. They married, and when Franco emerged as a Steeler, his fans called themselves “Franco’s Italian Army.” They wore battle helmets to Three Rivers Stadium. This left out the Irish, who shrugged and began referring to Frank O’Harris. According to author Gary Pomerantz, Gina was at home listening to “Ave Maria” on the record player when Franco made his most famous catch-and-run, and she was praying for those, like the Steelers, who were struggling to overcome bad times.

Somewhere in the hereafter, Harris might run into John Madden, who died last Dec. 28, and that conversation might take a few turns. Madden, all the way to his final days, insisted that Bradshaw’s pass first hit receiver Frenchy Fuqua, who was being belted by the Raiders’ Jack Tatum, and that it shouldn’t count because, back then, two offensive players couldn’t touch the ball consecutively.

Harris had no ballhandling responsibility on that final play. He was supposed to block for Bradshaw, who had to go into scramble mode. “That showed you how well I was blocking,” Harris said. But in his mind, something kept telling him to follow the ball, a fundamental that Paterno had preached. So Harris ran toward Fuqua and Tatum, and instinctively he reached down and snatched it before it hit the ground. As the Raiders’ self-congratulations turned into a horrified daze, Harris cruised down the sideline, again going faster than he looked, and fans jumped over walls to start the party on the field.

A fan named Michael Ord took his girlfriend to a bar after the game. He stood on top of a table and proclaimed this was the Immaculate Reception. His girl thought that was so eloquent that she called a local TV station, and sportscaster Myron Cope mentioned it on the air. Few labels have adhered to an event so doggedly.

Fuqua later tried to sell cookies and called them “the Immaculate Confection,” and Derek Jeter’s classic relay flip in a 2001 Yankees-Oakland playoff game was later termed the Immaculate Perception.

New visitors to Pittsbugh International Airport often smile when they see Harris’ statue, in full Steeler garb as he reaches down for the ricochet. It is next to a statue of George Washington. Some Steeler fans thought it was absurd to pair them. After all, how many Steeler games did Washington win?

Earlier this year, a statue of Nellie Bly, the journalist who circled the globe in 87 days and thus beat Jules Verne by three, joined Franco and George, and Harris said he was honored that “the family” had grown. The real family takes up the Ohio, the Allegheny and the Monongohela and everything in their paths, and today it wonders why death was in such a hurry, since Franco never was.