The Play that Changed a City
In 1972, Pittsburgh was dominated by two things: steel and sports. For the fans who entered Three Rivers Stadium on Dec. 23 for the Steelers’ first-ever playoff game, little did they know that one industry would soon fade away, and another would soon be
They walked with heads held high, harboring dreams imagined in black and gold, marching to the peculiar orders of the times.
A movement was beginning. That day, 50,000 people passed through the doors of Three Rivers Stadium, the massive concrete structure looming just west of Pittsburgh’s infamous Bridge to Nowhere, this time hoping that the Steelers, after 40 irrelevant seasons, were finally taking them somewhere worth going.
Each person in the stadium had his or her own dramas outside of it. There was the war that would not end, the intensifying of racial tensions and, for those who were paying close attention, the fear that those hulking mills that lined the rivers were not going to be needed forever. But the Steelers were hosts to the Oakland Raiders in the NFL playoffs, and such pressing matters could be thrust to the back burner for the good of Pittsburgh.
On Dec. 23, 1972, at 1 p.m., the clock stopped ticking.
It suddenly wasn’t important that Jim Palochik, who sat next to his wife, Karen, near the 45-yard line, had just returned to his hometown of Arnold, Pa., from a one-year stint as a helicopter
ABOUT THIS SERIES
The Steelers open their 80th season today, the 40th since the Immaculate Reception, that one remarkable play many believe was one of the best in the history of the NFL. It neatly divided the team’s fortunes into the woeful 40 years before, and the championship years after. The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette today begins a season-long look back at that play and its impact on the city and the team. Look for a story in each Sunday’s Sports section beginning next week that revisits that moment from the point of view of players from the Steelers
and the Raiders as well as fans and team officials culminating in coverage on Dec. 23, the 40th anniversary of the Immaculate Reception.
pilot in Vietnam, followed by two years of duty in Germany. Palochik, whose father was a welder in the mill, never questioned whether he should fight for his country, and his loyalties didn’t waver even after his co-pilot died in battle.
“The way my parents raised me was to respect and honor your country,” Palochik recalls, “and don’t do anything to embarrass your name.”
The real soldiers were joined by fictional ones. Although Al Vento had fought in Korea, he was now one of the leaders of Franco’s Italian Army, the boisterous fan club born in East Liberty to honor Steelers rookie running back Franco Harris in the name of their homeland. Vento, a pizza shop owner, and the boys would whip up two dozen sandwiches for each home game and sneak in two bottles of wine. The security guards didn’t catch on, or, maybe, they just didn’t care.
The Italian Army, wearing army helmet liners and waving their country’s flag, filed into their seats near the 28-yard line for the biggest game in Steelers history. Lord knows, they’d seen enough ugly football over the years.
“They were so bad,” Vento recalls, “every once in a while we cheered the other side.”
But nobody wanted a win as much as Art Rooney Jr. His father, Art Sr., Steelers founder, had entrusted him with scouting collegiate players, and Art Jr. had put this team together. Still, as he took his seat, he was keeping his expectations low.
“I was worried we were going to make fools of ourselves,” Art Jr. recalls. “It was not General Patton-like.”
Across Western Pennsylvania, though, people already felt like winners. At mills, steelworkers listened to the game on the radio as they worked an unfortunately timed Saturday shift. Because of the NFL’s blackout rule, which took the game off Pittsburgh television sets, thousands of diehards drove to Ohio and Northern Pennsylvania to watch.
Steeler Mania was starting to take hold, but in 1972, it was hard to escape the darkness. That morning’s Pittsburgh Press told of a hostile leadership takeover of the United Mine Workers, bombings in North Vietnam and a catastrophic earthquake in Nicaragua that would, just days later, bring unexpected pain to Pittsburgh. Star Pittsburgh Pirates outfielder Roberto Clemente died in a plane crash while delivering aid to the country.
But first, there was a football game to be played. By the end of it, hearts would be broken and put back together, the movement would be salvaged, and the clock would start ticking again.