A Pittsburgh Gamble

"What’s up, Dad?"

"Nothin’. Just relaxin’."

Dad looked well rested and content. Terry decided to sit for a while. The cool breeze was inviting. The smoke smelled great. He breathed deeply.

"How are you feeling?"

Dad took a long puff on the cigar.

"Oh, I’m fine. Just a little tired sometimes. Couldn’t sleep. Slept too much this afternoon." He looked at his cigar. "This is my first one since the-- heart attack."

Terry laughed. "Smells great."

Johnny took an even longer puff, obviously enjoying it. He turned to Terry and said,

"It’s almost midnight. Happy birthday, son."

"Thanks, Dad," Terry answered, shaking his head. "I can’t believe I’m thirty."

"You can’t believe it?" Johnny shot back. "Think how old I feel, having a kid that’s thirty."

Terry smiled. Johnny blew out cigar smoke and said,

"Thirty’s gettin’ up there, you know. Ya gotta start gettin’ somethin’ together. Ya gotta get somethin’ goin’ in your life, kid. Ya gotta make some plans--"

Here we go. Everyone seems to feel a need to lecture me these days.

"You think I don’t know that, Dad?"

The breeze blew through the trees that lined the street. Streetlights reflected off of the parked cars that took almost every bit of space on the street. Johnny patted his heart.

"With this heart thing a man gets thinkin’. I’d like to see you do something about it. And you oughtta go to church. That might set you on the right track."

Terry shook his head, smiling. He’s back.

"Ah, Dad."

Johnny backed off.

"All right, all right. I’m done preachin’. I had to say it. Change the subject. What about the Bucs?"

Terry relaxed. I think I’ve had enough lecturing for one day.

"They blew it. Bad year. They’re probably not going anywhere next year either. Too many problems."

"Yeah, I think you’re right," Johnny agreed.

Johnny crushed the cigar butt in the ashtray. Terry noticed that it was the second butt. I wonder if it’s OK for him to smoke. Cigars should be all right – no inhaling. Terry waxed philosophical.

"Not like the seventies. We were in the playoffs almost every year when I was a little kid. That seventy-nine series was the best."

Johnny sat back in his rocker, looking into the air.

"Nineteen-sixty was the best. Nothing will ever equal that."

"What about seventy-nine? And seventy-one?" Terry argued. "Those were super teams. In seventy-nine the Pirates and Steelers both won it all. Now that’s something!"

Maybe I should back off, not get him excited with his heart condition. Johnny stayed calm, brow furrowed in reflection.

"Yeah, but there was never anything like sixty. It had been so long. Ya see, you grew up in the seventies and eighties, when Pittsburgh was winning everything. Steelers, Pirates, even Pitt was a top team every year. But in nineteen-sixty we hadn’t won anything. The Steelers had never won any kind of title in how many years? The Bucs had last won a pennant in twenty-seven. They lost four straight that year to the Yankees in the World Series, who had Babe Ruth. This was all before you were born. We were the Smoky City then. It was a dirty, industrial city. We had a loser’s image. Sure, we had some good fighters once-- Conn, Zivic-- shit, we held five of the eight world titles at one time. I think it was forty-one. But our teams never won the big one. Never."

His father’s eyes were alive, flickering in the moonlit night.

"In nineteen-sixty, all of a sudden, the Bucs started winning. They weren’t the greatest talent. Solid, but not like the Yanks, or the Braves. But they had heart, Terry. Godd**mit, that team had heart. You just knew they were gonna pull it out somehow. And it wasn’t like today, where guys move around every few years for millions of dollars. You knew who played for your team."

This is good for him, remembering. Johnny sat quietly for a few minutes, then continued. It almost seemed like he was talking to himself.

"We won the pennant, and played the Yanks in the World Series. Nobody gave us a chance. They had Mantle, Maris, Yogi, Whitey Ford-- Christ, half the team’s in the Hall of Fame now. They beat the hell out of us in three games, and we nipped them in four."

Johnny smiled to himself, then turned to Terry.

"Mantle hit one in the second game that went six hundred feet. I think they beat us sixteen to two. But when Maz hit that homer to win the seventh game, that was something. The city was on fire."

His eyes were so alive that Terry knew he wasn’t going to die. Not any time soon. He was better. It was OK to argue.

"It was on fire for the Super Bowls, too. People were just as fired up then."

Johnny shook his head negatively.

"I’m tellin’ ya, there was never anything like sixty. When Maz won it-- that was the greatest. There’s never been anything like it."

Johnny looked into the moonlit night, still enjoying the memory. Terry noticed the aging skin, the graying hair. But the eyes were vibrant.

"Come on, Dad. The Steelers winning all those Super Bowls was the greatest thing ever in Pittsburgh. A team that hadn’t won a championship – ever – goes and wins four Super Bowls. They make nineteen-sixty look like nothin’."

Johnny nodded.

"Yeah, they were great, but not like sixty, believe me. You weren’t there."

"The Pirates won the Series in seventy-one and seventy-nine, too. Those teams were better than sixty."

"The sixty team had heart, Terry. And that was before millionaire salaries."

"You think the Steelers didn’t have heart? Four Super Bowls? What happened to the Pirates after sixty? Nothing."

Johnny gripped the arm of his rocker and focused his blue eyes directly at Terry.

"They were Pittsburgh. The real heart of Pittsburgh."