Owney McManus can't deliver his Rooney address anymore. Not so many Monday nights ago he died—died, he would want it recorded, after suffering a stroke while playing pinochle with Father James Campbell and that scoundrel, Art Rooney.
In his office at the Roosevelt Hotel the other day, Rooney leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on the desk and looked up at three pictures of players that hang on the wall—photographs of Whizzer White, Bill Dudley, Johnny Blood. "Slow down," Owney McManus had said, and for just a moment Rooney seemed to be slowed down and reflecting.
"The Steelers never had a more loyal fan than Owney," he said. "And I did much like beating him at pinochle. But more than that or winning the Kentucky Derby, I'd like to see the Steelers win an NFL championship. What a thing that would be for all of us who have waited patiently so long. Heaven knows that after 30 years we ought to have the law of averages working in our favor. Maybe if we had just some little extra spark of inspiration or—" He stopped and took his feet down off the desk.
"I wonder," he said slowly, "if a transfer back to Pittsburgh could be arranged for that reverend who brought us all the luck against the Giants—Jack Slee, the Episcopalian?"