The Steel Curtain Comes Down

 So remember when I said that some people should go out on top, rather than hang around and be caught looking like a shadow of their former selves? When I heard the news that Franco Harris had died at the age of seventy-two, I pretty much figured that this was the guy who spent his career with the Pittsburgh Steelers and then moved on to basking in the Pennsylvania glory that would most lovingly be showered on the four-time Super Bowl champion running back. 

Turns out I forgot the eight games he played as a Seattle Seahawk. In 1984, after a lengthy contract holdout during training camp, Franco was cut by the team for which he became synonymous, and Franco took his talents to the Pacific Northwest. There he replaced an injured Curt Warner, and he continued to pursue Jim Brown's single season rushing record. When he arrived in Seattle, Harris needed just three hundred sixty-three yards to break it. 

Franco Harris ran for one hundred seventy yards in eight games for the Seahawks. After those eight games, he was cut by the team that had opened their doors for what they expected was a Hall of Fame running back. Their assumptions were correct, of course, but an average of just below three yards per carry wouldn't be enough to keep him around. 

After Seattle cut him, Franco Harris never played in an NFL game again. His time with the team was an asterisk on an otherwise stellar career. A lot of folks refer to this as "having a cup of coffee" with a team. Notable here since coffee is a lot of things, including bitter. 

Pittsburgh was preparing a celebration of Super Bowl sized proportions to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of The Immaculate Reception. This fabled moment in Steelers' history is known far and wide as one of the most famous plays in American football. In 1972, the Pittsburgh Steelers had not been to the playoffs in twenty-five years. In the moments before Franco Harris improbably scooped the ball up before it hit the turf of Three Rivers Stadium, it appeared as though the Steelers were headed for defeat. The last second carom allowed Franco Harris to snag a victory from the jaws of defeat, and propel his team to the AFC championship game. It would be a few more years before the Steelers would win a Super Bowl, but Franco was there when they did, and he was awarded the Most Valuable Player in that game. 

Throughout the seventies, Franco Harris was the Pittsburgh Steelers. If there is a heaven, he's probably wearing black and gold. He stomped on the Terra, real grass or AstroTurf. He will be missed. Even in Seattle.