The first time I ever met Chuck Noll, it was in the aptly-named beer room at St. Vincent College.
It was the summer of 1986. I was in my mid-20s and a rookie reporter on the Steelers’ beat, covering the team for a suburban Pittsburgh newspaper, the Valley News Dispatch.
Noll already had won 149 games and nine AFC Central Division titles by then and he was batting 1.000 in the Super Bowl, going 4-for-4.
The future Hall of Fame coach greeted me that hot July day with a hearty handshake and offered me a beer a few minutes later.
I was a bit taken aback, but quickly learned it was a daily routine back then, coaches and players meeting in the beer room after practice to swap stories and drinks. It was long before the invention of cell phones and selfies.
I don’t remember much else about my first meeting with Noll. I just know I was in awe of him. He was humble and forthright. He had an aura about him.
The six years I spent covering Noll and traveling on the team charter, the Steelers weren’t very good. Their record was 44-51, with just one playoff victory. Those dismal numbers ultimately led to Noll retiring.
Despite his so-so record in his last half-dozen years, Noll provided me with enough memories to fill a Lombardi Trophy.
He treated all reporters the same, whether they worked for the New York Times or Latrobe Bulletin. That is a rarity for a coach of his stature.
Noll offered deep insight into his team and life in general, if you were willing to listen.
And, hard as it is to believe, he may have known more about wine than football.
My second season on the beat – 1987 – was a particularly trying one for Noll.
Two games into the season, the NFL Players Association called a strike. It lasted 24 days, during which time the Steelers set up a replacement training camp with free agents and NFL rejects at Johnstown’s Point Stadium.
Noll also had to deal with the 95-day holdout of first-round draft pick Rod Woodson and he had that ugly incident where he shook his finger at Oilers coach Jerry Glanville and threatened to punch him out for deliberately trying to injure his players.
Things didn’t get much better for Noll in 1988.
The Steelers started 1-6 and injured quarterback Bubby Brister blistered the team during a question and answer session with fans in New Kensington. I was the only reporter present when Brister decided to let loose.
He said the team was so conservative on offense “we may as well punt on first down and get it over with.”
Brister then ripped into the defense.
“Anybody who watches the games knows we don’t have nil for a pass rush,” he said. “Anybody who can rush the passer, call the stadium. We need help quick.”
Regarding Noll, Brister said: “He’s not real fired up right now. He’s not a happy man.”
Noll certainly was not pleased with Brister’s stinging comments. He ordered Joe Gordon, the Steelers’ longtime public relations director, to call me the next day and get the tape. When I balked, Gordon asked if I could play Brister’s comments over the phone. After one minute, Gordon had heard enough. He told me to turn off my tape recorder.
Even though Noll wasn’t happy with my story, he never addressed it with me in person. But he did treat me a little differently than he had before.
When the Steelers’ record dipped to 2-10 later that season, I asked Noll a pointed question after an embarrassing road loss. “Coach, where does your team go from here?” His answer: “Back to Pittsburgh. You coming with us?”
Noll and the Steelers miraculously made the playoffs in 1989 despite being outscored 92-10 in their first two games. They earned a split in the postseason, beating the Oilers 26-23 in overtime in Houston before losing to the Broncos 24-23 in Denver.
That was Pittsburgh’s last playoff appearance under Noll.
There was mounting pressure on the Rooney family to fire Noll. They resisted, allowing him to go out on his own terms after the 1991 season.
In the midst of a four-game losing streak that year, Noll learned I was going through a divorce.
One day, he slipped into the media room at Three Rivers Stadium, handed me an envelope and walked away. He didn’t say a word.
When I opened it later that night, I discovered Noll had tucked $300 inside a handwritten note that read: “Hope this helps. Let me know if you need anything else.”
From that day forward, Charles Henry Noll was a full-fledged member of my Hall of Fame.
Follow Ron Musselman on Twitter @ronmusselman8.
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