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Man of Steel

Pittsburgh Steelers icon Dan Rooney lives by simple principles: Faith, family, football and fatherland

Step through the door of the old, two-story brick home on North Lincoln Avenue, pivot to your right, and you can picture the patriarch of the first family of American football, Pittsburgh Steelers founder Art Rooney, tipped back in his recliner near a window in the front parlor, admiring a swirl of smoke as it rose from his cigar.

{podcast}

SBJ Podcast:
Senior writer Bill King and Executive Editor Abraham Madkour talk about Dan Rooney's many passions and what he has meant to the game of football.

The chair is gone now, but the rest of the room is mostly as Dan Rooney remembers it from his boyhood. There is a fireplace. And a wall of shelves, lined with books.

It was his parents’ home, and now it is his.

SBJ/SBD Lifetime Achievement Award:

Dan Rooney

Photo by: AP IMAGES


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Rooney Rule: Just do the right thing
Love Of Homeland: Rooney's service to Ireland

Art and Kathleen Rooney bought the 12-room house in 1939, when Dan was 7. He remembers dashing out the back door with his four younger brothers, playing war in the large backyard. And how his father flooded the back so they could play hockey in the winter.

It is here that the Rooney brothers came a few weeks after their father died 26 years ago, with the intent of dividing some of his personal effects. Being Rooneys, they decided to hold a draft. They gathered around a table in the dining room. As the eldest, Dan had the first pick.

“That was a bad thing, a bad day,” Rooney says now, still uncomfortable with the memory. “They thought we were going to cut everything up. But I just couldn’t take it. I left them and went out and made phone calls in the other room. After a while, I came back and I said, I’ll buy this place.”

And so he did. At the start, he and his wife, Patricia, did it to make sure that the house was preserved. Their daughter and her family lived in it for a few years. When they relocated to Boston, Patricia suggested to her husband that they move back to the old neighborhood.

And so the Rooneys sold their house in the suburb of Mount Lebanon and returned to Pittsburgh’s North Side, where they were raised and fell in love. They renovated and restored the house, updating the kitchens and bathrooms, adding an attached garage and a sunroom, and peeling back carpet to reveal hand-crafted hardwoods that were unique to their time.

“Much of it is restored to the way it would have been years ago,” Patricia said. “But we’ve also done the things that make it our home.”

The thing about this house on North Lincoln Avenue — its location is extraordinary. The neighborhood has ebbed and flowed over the years. The street known as Millionaires Row before the Depression is only a few blocks from a park that until recently was home to drug and gang activity. This side of Pittsburgh is on the rebound, but it still has a ways to go.

Still, it has something that makes it sacred ground to the Rooney family, something that goes beyond its heritage. It is within walking distance of Heinz Field. Before that, it was within walking distance of Three Rivers Stadium.

So, you see, for decades, two and then three generations of Rooneys have maintained this game-day routine. They gather in the front parlor, and then out the door they go, up the street, around the corner, past the Wendy’s and up two blocks. They walk under a highway overpass and emerge into a sea of black and gold.

When Steelers fans see the Rooneys coming, they wave and honk their horns.

“They see Dan and they may ask to take a picture with their cellphone, but people are usually nice and polite,” Patricia said. “It’s something, really. It’s like he’s the mayor.”

The mayor. There it is, the Rooney humility that those who have crossed paths with them often describe.

Dan Rooney would be like the mayor, if the mayor were not only respected, but adored. If he were selected, rather than elected.

And if the mayor served for life.


Jesus answered and said to them,
“Amen, amen, I say to you, the Son cannot do anything on his own,
but only what he sees the Father doing;
for what he does, the Son will do also.
For the Father loves the Son
and shows him everything that he himself does,
and he will show him greater works than these,
so that you may be amazed.”

In a pew near the back of St. Mary of Mercy, a Roman Catholic church that serves Pittsburgh’s downtown business district, Dan Rooney sat listening to a Wednesday morning Gospel that, though read that day in parishes throughout the world, sounded as though it might have been tailored to him.

Yes, it was about the biblical Father and Son.

But, seeing him here, thinking about how he has come to Mass each morning for decades, no matter where he is, just as his father did before him; of how he made so much of the franchise that was entrusted to him by his father; of how he brought his own son into the business, and how together they made it into even more than it had been before — well, Dan Rooney can scream all he wants about

Dan Rooney — above with his father, Pittsburgh Steelers founder Art Rooney Sr., in 1966 — has been at the helm of the most successful NFL franchise, and arguably the game of football itself, since the 1970s, with the Steelers appearing in eight Super Bowls and winning six of them.
Photo by: AP IMAGES (2)

how it is preposterous, and perhaps even a tad sacrilegious, to make the connection between the Gospel of the fourth Wednesday of Lent and the Rooney men, but go back and read it. Read it again and see if you can’t help doing the same.

There is no telling Dan Rooney’s story without addressing his faith.

Mass is how he begins each morning. When in Pittsburgh, he goes to St. Mary’s, because the only weekday Mass in his own parish — St. Peter, where he was schooled and married and which he can see from his house — is at noon. Part of the preparation before most trips out of town includes finding the most convenient option for Mass.

On most weekday mornings, Rooney heads from church to the Steelers offices, where his arrival sets off a steady stream of “Morning, Mr. Rooney” as he makes his way from the front door to his corner office, which overlooks the practice field on one side and the Monongahela River on the other.

Rooney, 81, can tell you stories about the Steelers, but he also will tell you stories about the river, or anything else Pittsburgh that you might want to know. Like, for example, that the Steelers complex is built on what once was the site of the J&L Steel Mill, and that the nearby Hot Metal Bridge got its name because it was used to transfer vats of molten steel.

Rooney cares deeply about his family and about his faith, about his ancestral homeland of Ireland and about Pittsburgh, the only city in which he has lived. And, Lord, does he care about the Steelers.

His father, fondly known as “The Chief,” had other sporting passions. Truth be told, Art Rooney preferred baseball to football. He was an accomplished boxer who ended up making a decent go as a fight promoter. He loved playing the ponies and was known widely for his handicapping, so much so that he once went on a run that made the papers in New York.

To Art Rooney, the Steelers were a great thing.

To Dan Rooney, they were the only thing.

Growing up, he sometimes would go with his father to the Steelers offices, then a humble space located off the lobby of the Fort Pitt Hotel.

“It was an interesting place,” Rooney said, flashing back to the place he’d visit in his early teens. “The office was in the back, so it was separate. But it was a hotel. And they had a great dining room downstairs. We were on the first floor, and they had a window that went right out to the sidewalk. If the window was open in the summertime, people would climb right in through the window instead of walking all the way around.”

This was the world Dan was raised in. While he relished time around the team with his father, The Chief spent many of his days on the road, at racetracks and ballparks and meetings. As the eldest of five brothers, Dan was expected to be the man of the house in his father’s stead. It was a role that he embraced.

Rooney was around Steelers practices and training camps from the time he was a small boy. He was the water boy and worked the locker room, putting gear in lockers and picking up towels. By the time he reached college, he was the training camp manager. Soon after Rooney graduated from Duquesne, he went to work for his father at the Steelers.

As the league grew, Dan’s responsibilities broadened. The Steelers coach was the mercurial Buddy Parker, who gained favor with The Chief largely because he took the Steelers from moribund to mediocre. He came with a résumé, having won two NFL titles with the Lions.

Because Parker viewed the league office as an enemy and a nuisance, Dan became its conduit to the Steelers on

Rooney, shown at top with The Chief during the 1970 draft that produced Steelers quarterback Terry Bradshaw, hired Chuck Noll as coach in 1969. That decision led to four Super Bowl titles in six years. With those trophies in 1980 are (above, from left) Dan, Art, Noll and Art Jr.
Photo by: AP IMAGES (2)

most matters. He leaned on his father for some decisions, but increasingly made them himself.

By the time he was 32, he was running the day-to-day operation and making his bones with the other owners.

He faced what was a defining moment when he clashed with Parker on a roster move one too many times. Parker threatened to quit. Rooney told his father they should let him. The Chief said he’d support his son’s decision, but he’d better be right. With a record of 51-47-6, Parker was the only winning coach in team history.

Dan often is identified as the man who hired Chuck Noll in 1969, turning around what had mostly been a sad sack franchise. But it wasn’t immediately clear it would work out as it did.

After firing Parker in 1964, the Steelers went 2-12 under an interim coach, then won 11 games over the next three years under Bill Austin, whom they hired on the recommendation of Vince Lombardi. When it became clear to Dan that Austin had lost the team during his third season, he went to his father to ask for the latitude to make another coaching move.

He got rid of Austin, replacing him with Noll, who was Don Shula’s defensive coordinator with the Colts. In his first season in Pittsburgh, Noll went 1-13.

Think about that. Rooney fired the coach his father liked, then the team went on to win just 14 games across five seasons under three coaches.

Don’t make a mistake, The Chief had said. And yet, when Noll won only one game in his first year, Dan didn’t waver.

“People would probably say, ‘You had all these clucks and now you’ve got a guy winning one game the whole year, and you’re saying you gotta keep him,’” Rooney said. “But [Noll] never lost the team. They always believed that what he was doing was the right thing, versus what they went through before.”

Turns out Rooney had the same nose for coaches that his father had for thoroughbreds. Noll won his first of nine division titles in his fourth season and his first of four Super Bowls in his sixth. Noll’s replacement, Bill Cowher, won the division eight times in 15 seasons, making two Super Bowls and winning one. Mike Tomlin, entering his eighth season after replacing Cowher, has won three division titles and a Super Bowl, and hasn’t had a losing year.

After that first Super Bowl title, in 1975, The Chief made official what everyone around the NFL already knew. Already running the franchise, Dan became the Steelers’ president.

It couldn’t have been easy to endure those early years, hitting the skids when entrusted with a team that briefly appeared to have turned things around. If it was torturous, Rooney won’t let on.

“Let me say this: I always enjoyed the game,” he said. “So even when we weren’t doing well, it wasn’t terrible. My father and I, we said we’re going to get this going if we just keep doing things right. People might say, ‘Right? What’s that mean?’ But if you do things right, and that’s your idea of what you’re going to do, your decisions are going to most likely be OK.

“Unless you’re a real cluck.”


“I just feel it’s important to be involved. The league is the whole thing.”

— Dan Rooney, while eating lunch in the cafeteria 
at the Steelers’ headquarters on April 1, 2014

The first time Carolina Panthers owner Jerry Richardson phoned the U.S. Embassy in Ireland to speak with his friend, he asked for him in the same manner he has for years.

“Can I speak to ‘Crash’ Rooney?” Richardson said.

“Pardon me?” the receptionist responded.

Richardson broke into a high-pitched laugh as he recounted the conversation, accented by a Carolinas version of an Irish brogue.

He gleefully explained to the staff member that he was looking for the ambassador, whom he has called “Crash” ever since 2000, when Rooney was forced to ditch his single-engine plane in the grass when his landing gear failed on the way home from training camp.

“By the time he left,” Richardson said, “everybody there knew why I called him ‘Crash’ Rooney.”

Seated behind a small table in front of a grandfather clock in his Charlotte home, where he was recovering from Achilles surgery earlier this month, Richardson clearly enjoyed talking about Rooney, his closest friend in the NFL.

The only NFL owner to have played in the league, Richardson began speaking with Rooney frequently while he was working to get an expansion team, a process that took more than six years. When another ownership group emerged in the quest to bring a team to Charlotte, Rooney counseled him on how to navigate the political complications.

Once Richardson was in and attending meetings, he and Rooney became fast friends. Rooney’s son, Art II, the Steelers’ president since 2003, likes to remind his NFL brethren of a philosophy that is core to the Rooneys’ view of ownership: That the business of football should not get in the way of the sport of football. Richardson sees the league similarly. He was so taken by the way the Rooneys ran the Steelers, he modeled his new franchise after them.

Photo by: NEWSCOM
Through the last 20 years, Richardson and Rooney frequently have worked together on shared interests, such as labor negotiations and stadium finance. They co-chaired the committee that selected Roger Goodell as commissioner in 2006.

Not long after Richardson landed his franchise, he and Rooney bought a Kentucky Derby PSL together, which they shared over the years with family and other friends, such as Giants owner Wellington Mara. Churchill Downs was a favorite haunt of

No matter with which generation of NFL owner, Rooney — above with Patriots owner Bob Kraft (top right) in 2011, and above with then-Browns owner Art Modell (left) in 1978 — has always had a political knack for getting things done at the league level.
Photo by: GETTY IMAGES

The Chief, who attended his first Derby in 1926 and never missed one, continuing even after he stopped making road trips with the Steelers.

“He and I are essentially the only people I know in the NFL who were around when Bert Bell was here,” Richardson said, summoning the name of the former commissioner who also owned a piece of the Steelers at one point. “Now you think about that. I’m in a room with 32 owners. They may know the name, but they don’t really know Bert Bell. But I played. And I heard Bert Bell talking to us in the summer at training camp about our conduct. And, of course, Dan grew up around that. So when we talk about the NFL, we talk in a different context.

“I remember when we got paid $50 per preseason game. Things like that, my newer brethren, they don’t have a clue what we’re talking about.”

The more savvy NFL insiders will tell you that the most important thing for an owner to master in order to be effective in the league is the rule of 24 and 9. It takes 24 votes to advance an idea and nine votes to block one.

Rooney is the master of 24 and 9.

“We don’t always agree, but we often do,” Richardson said. “If Dan Rooney and I agree and are behind something, it’s likely the Maras are. And it’s likely the McCaskeys are. Now, where do you think that’s likely to end up?”

Bengals owner Mike Brown has witnessed this phenomenon for six decades, going back to the days when his father was head coach of the Cleveland Browns. Brown and Rooney first crossed paths about 60 years ago, at an NFL meeting at a Miami Beach hotel that long since has been torn down. Their fathers sat around a table in the center of a small conference room off the lobby. Brown and Rooney sat in plush chairs, against the wall, listening and watching.

“We’ve just had the necessity of dealing with each other and over time we have come to have what I think is a true friendship,” Brown said. “I admire him. I like him. I respect him.”

Brown and Rooney have crossed swords many times over the years. Brown won’t get into specifics because “it would violate a privacy.” But he recalled one time that Rooney “ripped him apart” in the meeting room when they differed on an issue. Rooney made it a point to find him in a hallway the first time there was a break, just to affirm that they would remain friends.

“If it was an issue that was important to him, he’d dive into it at the league office level and with owners,” Brown said. “He would pick his spots. He didn’t get into every cat-and-dog fight — and we have a lot of those. But when it got important, he would dive in. And he would try to get something put together that would work. He has a political instinct that seems almost ingrained that goes beyond anything I ever could claim and really goes beyond almost anybody in the league. And that’s his secret. He’s a natural-born political person.

“That’s where he shines.”

Rooney wasn’t deeply involved in many of the league’s commercial endeavors, such as television contracts or licensing. But on matters that he sees as core to the NFL, such as expansion, realignment, commissioner hires, rules, new stadiums and anything else that might affect the operation of an NFL franchise, Rooney frequently has been intimately involved.

Never was Rooney’s sway more evident than when he pushed his fellow owners to pool funds to build and renovate stadiums. Creating such a fund, known at its start in 1999 as the G-3, required each team to cede an equal amount of its TV money — reverse revenue sharing, as its opponents described it.

To bring those opponents to the table, Rooney crafted a plan that treated the six larger market teams differently than those in midsized or smaller markets. When it came time to call for a vote at a league meeting, Rooney gathered all the owners who came in a day early at dinner, where he put on his final push.

“He just said, ‘It has to be done,’” said former Commissioner Paul Tagliabue. “If it’s not done, we’re going to have more and more owners using the excuse of a poor stadium to move their franchise. And we have to stay in the room until it gets done, because we can’t keep falling behind the other sports in terms of our facilities and stadiums. There is no solution in terms of letting people move.

“He had the attitude that we weren’t leaving the room until we got an agreement. We’re going to do something on this kind of a problem because it’s critical to everybody and it’s the right thing to do.

“You know, that was sometimes his argument. It wasn’t a fancy economic argument. It was just the right thing to do for everybody.”

NFL teams built or renovated 25 stadiums in the 14 years that Richardson chaired the stadium committee. To access league financing, each of those had to be presented individually for a vote. Every time, Rooney helped Richardson wrangle owners with a reminder that league financing was “the right thing.”

“He doesn’t just pursue his own agenda,” Brown said. “He pursues the league’s best interest. People know that, so they listen to him.”

That’s why Richardson responded the way he did when he heard the news that Rooney was accepting the appointment as U.S. ambassador to Ireland in 2009.

“I didn’t like it and told him in no uncertain terms,” Richardson said. “What the [heck] are you thinking? You’re leaving me alone.”

As much as anything, it was the timing that troubled Richardson. In 2006, he and Rooney disagreed on the extension of a labor agreement that the owners would come to regret within a few years. Richardson argued for labor peace “at any price.” While Rooney frequently was seen as the voice of compromise with the players union, he wanted to hold a harder line this time. Richardson swayed him, and the owners agreed on a deal that would maintain the status quo, even as new stadiums were changing the economics of the game.

Richardson suspected they might be headed for a labor war. He regretted not listening to Rooney a few years earlier. He wanted him in his foxhole, not only as an asset in discussions with the union, but to help maintain unity in an increasingly disparate group.

Rooney, shown with Roger Goodell in September 2006, has been Goodell’s NFL mentor and co-chaired the committee that spearheaded his election as commissioner one month earlier.
Photo by: GETTY IMAGES

“He’s motivated for the right reasons, always, and we all know it,” Richardson said. “I can’t think of anything that … would motivate him, financially or any way, other than that. He’s motivated for truly what he thinks is the best for the league. So you start out with a trust factor. Over time, if you mislead people, they find out about it. When they find out your true colors, you lose more and more credibility. As far as I know, he hasn’t lost any credibility over anything, ever.

“Some of the things that are presented to us we know is not best for everybody. It’s going to serve some better than others. That’s obvious. I can’t think of any time where he’s taken a position that’s going to serve him better than the greater good. But I can give you a long list of those that have.”

It is that track record that served the league well in 2006, when Tagliabue decided it was time to move on. The history of the selection of NFL commissioners has been an arduous one. Pete Rozelle’s election took eight days and 24 ballots. Tagliabue’s dragged on through three different search committees, and a series of votes taken at three separate owners’ meetings. Rooney lived through both of those fiascoes and was determined to make sure there wasn’t a third.

When the time came to replace Tagliabue, there was an agreed upon process, managed by a committee headed by Rooney and Richardson. Rooney made sure that they stuck to it. Goodell was elected in one day, after five ballots. Rooney, who is Goodell’s NFL mentor, favored him from the start.
  
“You think about how many commissioners when the ballots began got elected in one day in professional sports?” Richardson asked rhetorically. “Well, that just sort of gets ignored. But why is that? The reason is primarily Dan and the credibility he had with the membership. That’s a big deal. It’s a big deal for Roger because he didn’t want to start having gone through nine months of voting and all the acrimony that comes with it. And [Dan] and I both agreed that we needed to avoid that at all costs. That was a big deal.”


As the five Rooney brothers grew into adulthood, each assumed a role in the family’s array of businesses, dispatched at the discretion of The Chief. Dan and Art Jr. held responsibilities with the Steelers. Tim ran Yonkers, the harness racing track. Patrick headed the Palm Beach Kennel Club. John ran a Philadelphia track for a bit, but left to oversee the family’s oil and gas holdings, which, Dan jokes, “put my kids through college when the team wasn’t doing so good.”

When The Chief died in 1988, he passed his 80 percent stake in the Steelers on to his sons in five equal shares of 16 percent.

The resulting ownership structure ran afoul of NFL rules on two fronts. Though Dan operated the team largely outside the input of his brothers by then, he didn’t have the 30 percent interest that the NFL generally requires of a controlling owner. None of the brothers did.

Because the NFL is chock full of teams that have been passed from one generation to the next, the Rooneys likely could have fended off that issue. But the family’s gaming industry holdings raised concerns.

The brothers always had operated the other businesses separately. Dan said he expected they’d be able to navigate exceptions to league rules.

“We didn’t see it coming,” he said. “Before my father passed, we had the other tracks. So these guys were doing the things they were doing and it didn’t seem to be a problem with the league. Well, eventually it became one.”

So in 2008, Dan drafted a plan that would both give him control of the team and allow his brothers to maintain their interest in the pari-mutuel ventures and hold on to smaller stakes in the Steelers. He and his son, Art II, offered to buy shares from the other brothers — 5 percent from each initially and another 6 percent over the following 10 years — taking on debt to finance the purchase.

While that suited Rooney’s brothers as a concept, they were taken aback by the price. The offer valued the team at $700 million, which was well short of what they thought the market would bring.

Explaining that they needed to do what was best for their heirs, the brothers sought an outside valuation from Goldman Sachs, which set the team’s worth at $800 million to $1.2 billion. The brothers also quickly landed a suitor willing to pay in that range, billionaire hedge fund manager Stanley Druckenmiller, a Steelers season-ticket holder who pledged to leave the Rooneys to operate the franchise as they always had — so long as they sold him enough shares to give him more than 50 percent.

In July 2008, Druckenmiller tendered a cash offer of $537 million for 64 percent of the team, or about $135 million to each of the four brothers other than Dan, putting the overall value of the team at $840 million. Again, it was contingent on him acquiring more than 50 percent.

That set up an interesting and, from the Rooneys’ perspective, somewhat unpleasant dynamic.

In order for them to parcel together more than 50 percent, all four of the brothers would have to sell at least some of their shares, since their cousins who owned the remaining 20 percent of the team made it clear they had no interest in selling.

That meant Dan had to persuade only one of his brothers not to sell to Druckenmiller in order to squash the deal. It appears, fortunately, that while the brothers tussled, it never came to an out-and-out knife fight.

Late in August, the four met with Druckenmiller in New York to discuss his offer. The next day, they met with Goodell, who delivered a none-too-subtle message. If Dan didn’t want to sell, they shouldn’t expect the owners to approve it.

The brothers agreed that their preference was to keep the team in the hands of Dan and Art II.

Rooney, with his son, Art II, in 2011, has had to fight to keep the Steelers in recent years.
Photo by: AP IMAGES

For all that Rooney accomplished while running the Steelers, and that Art II has achieved as his successor, it was their work over the next year that may have been their most striking achievement.

It required persuading the other Rooney heirs to accept a smaller amount than Druckenmiller offered — one based on a valuation of $800 million, rather than his $840 million — and to take it in payments spread out over as much as 10 years rather than in upfront cash. It required them to find investors to replace the brothers who chose to sell the Steelers rather than divest from the racetracks. It required them to take on $250 million in debt. And it required them to persuade the NFL to approve the deal, even though it exceeded the league’s debt limits.

And they had to do all of this in 2008, in the teeth of a recession, with investors scarce and credit locked down tight.

“It was a big step to say no [to Druckenmiller], because that meant we had a lot to do,” Dan said. “We had to take on debt. Take care of my brothers. Bring in partners. We’re doing OK. Came out of it OK. But it was a difficult time.

“You ask me if I ever really considered I’d sell. I never considered that I wanted to. But I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t be forced to.”

Art II remembers the chilling talk he had with his father after Druckenmiller made the offer, when it became clear what would be required to counter it. Not only would he have to put together a group, but he would have to do it on a time clock. Worried about tax law changes, his uncles wanted the sale closed by year’s end.

Some of Dan’s close friends suggested that he accept the realities of a generation of owners who inherited a business they couldn’t afford to keep, sell the team and stay on in whatever capacity Druckenmiller offered.

But Dan knew that, no matter what powers Druckenmiller promised, the Rooneys no longer would own the team.

“It was a hard conversation I had with my father,” Art II said. “It was just the reality of the situation. We had to talk about what the options were. The fact that we didn’t have full control over what was going to happen. I think it was probably, for my father in particular, hard to even imagine that we might not be part of it at some point.

“That’s something neither one of us wanted. We kind of understood that was one of the cards in the deck, but that wasn’t what we were going to just settle for. We were going to take our shot.”

The deal, as eventually consummated, would add 10 new investors. Dan and Art II together would own 30 percent of the team. They, and Art Jr., would divest of what racetrack ownership they still held. Art Jr. and John would keep about half of their stakes in the Steelers. Patrick would keep 3 percent, held in trust. Tim would sell all his shares.

NFL owners approved the restructuring unanimously at a meeting in December. The deal closed the following September, just in time for the Steelers’ first home Sunday of their 77th season, all under the Rooney family’s control.

Staring out at the practice field from the Steelers’ offices last month, Art II tried to envision what it would have been like for his father if that were no longer the case.

“My guess is that there are very few, if any others, in the history of the National Football League who were as devoted to it as he has been,” Art II said of his father. “There were guys, George Halas and Wellington Mara are two, where the National Football League was their life. And that’s my father. Different from my grandfather. My grandfather had other interests in his life. This was only one of several very important things in his life. Whereas my father, this is it.

“This is it.”

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