In the Name of Cope

Happy Birthday Myron

[Mr. Cope would have turned 82 today. This article is posted here in memory of that great man. - jtf]

Retired broadcaster Cope can still get out a good 'Double Yoi!'

Sunday, January 22, 2006
By Chico Harlan, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
http://www.post-gazette.com

Robin Rombach, Post-Gazette
Myron Cope, retired broadcaster for the Pittsburgh Steelers, says he's the most boring person to watch a game with because he tries not to say anything except during commercial breaks.

He chooses solitude, for whatever reason. His chatterbox daughter Elizabeth, just five minutes down the road, stops by frequently, but never, this Steeler season, on a Sunday. His close circle of friends, even closer since his wife died in 1994, gathers around dinner tables in good times, hospital beds in tough times, but now, when the Steelers play football, they leave Myron Cope in the last spot they ever expected he'd wish for. They leave him alone.

Before this football season, Mr. Cope, who turns 77 tomorrow, retired. He retreated to his South Hills townhouse -- where the museum stock of autographs and photos lines his basement -- and watched the Steelers games from his living room, his only company being a $2,000 high-definition television and six remote controls, or five more than he can handle.

He owned upper deck season tickets, but he sold them to a friend. A spot always awaited him in the Heinz Field press box, but he tried that once on a Sunday in late September and drove home before the end of the first quarter. He thought, other times, about driving to a bar to watch his beloved team. "But I'd miss two out of every five plays," Mr. Cope figured. "I watch in silence, because I'm thinking as I watch."

Last Sunday, before the Steelers' playoff game against the Indianapolis Colts, Mr. Cope eased into his kitchen and removed the cellophane from a gift basket loaded with corned beef, turkey, lettuce, condiments, pasta salad and brownies -- enough food to sustain him for the next week. Pneumonia, grouch that it is, had overtaken his immune system for almost a week, sending him briefly to the hospital and offering only one consolation prize. His three sisters had ordered him this overstuffed gourmet basket. So Mr. Cope spread out the food and cut himself a sandwich, grinning because it trumped -- by a landslide -- the wieners usually made for himself.

On account of his prescribed antibiotics, Mr. Cope refrained from alcohol -- drinking, he said, would provoke dreadful side effects -- but his refrigerator held rows of Rolling Rock. "Do you want one?" he asked. His accompanying endorsement -- "It's damn good beer" -- seemed redundant, seeing how the brewing company, as a promotion to honor the broadcaster's June 2005 retirement, had printed Mr. Cope's face on its bottles.

In less than an hour, the Steelers would face the Colts, an opponent so powerful that most assumed the Steelers' season would dissolve into dust before sundown. More than 350 miles away from Mr. Cope's sofa, fans crammed into the RCA Dome, picking up white giveaway towels -- the requisite prop of playoff crowds. As creator and curator of the Terrible Towel, though, Mr. Cope had earned authority in denouncing such copycats. "Ha!" he said of the white imitations. "Those are only dust rags."

Earlier that morning, Mr. Cope had called a bookie and placed a $50 bet on the Steelers, 9 1/2-point underdogs. He then drove to Foodland and purchased some Perrier, which he'd drink when swallowing his pills and later belittle as swill compared to his favored beer.

When a Steelers fan, hoping to chat about football, rushed toward Mr. Cope in the Foodland parking lot, it reminded him of previous encounters, the kind that he loved. Like Thursday, when those two delivery men arrived at his townhouse holding his sisters' food basket. Well, one man held the food basket. The other simply presented his idle hands, admitting he'd tagged along for the chance to meet the man who answered the door.

"It's amazing to me," Mr. Cope said later. "Wherever I go, they'll say, 'How are you Myron?' Or, 'How's your health?' And they say it with such earnestness, by God, it's beautiful."

Minutes away from kickoff, Mr. Cope, an elfin 5 feet 4, curled into the corner of his sofa. He crossed his legs and his black corduroys rode upward, revealing pasty flesh. Punching several of the six remotes, he finally situated himself technologically -- the television fixed to CBS, volume turned down, and the radio tuned to the Steelers' flagship, WDVE-FM. There, he could listen to his old broadcast partners, Bill Hillgrove and Tunch Ilkin, inviting them into his living room as millions had done to him for 35 years.

Mr. Cope had entered his jackpot career as if taking a detour. He'd pursued free-lance stories in Pittsburgh and New York for the first half of his professional career -- the fulfillment of a writer's education -- but in 1970 a local program director who knew voices heard Mr. Cope's sparkplug pipes and told him that obnoxious was radio's new sound. Like that, Mr. Cope entered the broadcast booth as the Steelers color man. He devoted more than a generation to stories: He told them, chased them and preserved them.

In the first half of his professional career, he wrote prolifically, penning pieces for Sports Illustrated and True and the Saturday Evening Post. When the fascinating men of sports -- Muhammad Ali, Howard Cosell, Roberto Clemente -- told their stories, he had the best job imaginable: he sat back and listened.

Before typing his pieces, he spread all his notes across the floor, searching for a way to move beyond that terrifying and great moment when the story existed purely in his mind. He thrived like few other writers of his era. He mastered a style that would later mirror his oral storytelling -- he flowed from scene to scene in his narratives, lovingly riding tangents, as if train-hopping, but always returning to the original direction.

In 2002, he published a 225-page memoir, "Double Yoi!" But in recent months, his writing efforts have yielded frustration. He agonized for weeks, beginning and then re-writing passages that traveled nowhere, and he finally decided he'd lost his capacity.

"I had to face it," he said. "I lost my writing skills."

Suddenly, the Steelers were up, and so was Mr. Cope. Seven-zip, fourteen-zip. Ben Roethlisberger completed a downfield pass to Hines Ward, whose stiff-arm of a defender lengthened the play. "Oh oh oh, did you see that!?" Mr. Cope yelped. "Hines hit him right in the mush!"

He glanced at the photocopied rosters on his coffee table, then identified an injured Indianapolis player -- Nick Harper, already basted in lowbrow controversy thanks to an incident a day earlier, when his wife allegedly stabbed him in the right knee with a filet knife.

"What a weekend he's having!" Mr. Cope said, plowing on with excitement. "He gets slashed and then he's out of the game in the first quarter. That's worse than my bout with pneumonia. Oh, if I was in the booth ... how much fun I'd have with that.

"People always ask me if I miss it. There was a time last week against Cincinnati when the center snapped the ball wild, and Billy Hillgrove described what happened. And he said it was the [Bengals'] long snapper, Brad St. Louis. And I immediately wanted to yell, 'Brad St. Louis snapped that ball from Cincinnati to St. Louis.' But I couldn't. I wanted to rise to my feet, because that's what I would do in the booth. I wanted to yell about it; I mean, proclaim it! But if I did that now, I'd make a fool of myself in an empty living room. So at those moments, you see, I miss it."

Robin Rombach, Post-Gazette
The excitable Myron Cope familiar to generations of Steelers fans re-emerges during the action-packed fourth quarter of the Steelers-Colts game.

Solitude, of course, affords him one clear benefit -- neither his several dear friends nor his daughter could guilt-trip him about his smoking habit. Stubborn, his friends call him. Four years running of health problems, including a cancerous bump in his throat, never caused him to stop smoking. Before the required pneumonia antibiotics forced a brief pause, Mr. Cope, too, drank at roughly the same pace he set for himself when free-lancing in New York. His routine: A martini before dinner and a scotch in the evening, plus some of the free beer Rolling Rock distributed to him. A 2001 driving-under-the-influence charge and a resulting 90-day license suspension did little to change his habits.

And watching football, for the angst it stoked, only encouraged his urges. Still, at halftime, Mr. Cope pulled himself away from the sofa and the settling Marlboro smoke. The Steelers led, 14-3. "Who could have expected this?" Mr. Cope said. "That's a nice half, you betcha."

Mr. Cope only retired, the abridged story goes, because of a call from a friend. Joe Gordon, the former Steelers publicist, always promised he'd tell Mr. Cope honestly if he detected any drop-off in the broadcaster's on-air performance. In 2004, he noticed just that, and so he called on a Monday in June to tell him. And four days later, when Gordon mentioned it again in person -- "You're slipping, Myron" -- Mr. Cope paused for 10 seconds, said nothing and then nodded, "OK, that's it."

In the months that followed, he often felt tired. Problem was, he never felt retired. Publishers wanted a 5,000-word update for "Double Yoi!" -- they still want it, actually -- but Mr. Cope struggled to write. He dealt with merchandisers who wanted to sell his image and function organizers who asked him to speak, but mostly, he dealt with doctors, lots of them.

The first ones, almost four years back now, sought to explain the mysterious pains he felt in his upper legs. They performed surgeries, once implanting a battery in his belly, later removing it and trying something else. By March 2004, his life had devolved into 24-hour cycles of sickness. Finally, a bright mind at UPMC Presbyterian diagnosed the problem: Myron Cope had polymyalgia rheumatica, a disease characterized by muscle stiffness that was hell to pronounce and even worse to live with.

Doses of prednisone relieved the symptoms, but at the same time, he struggled with his vocal cords. In July 2004, doctors found a cancerous bump in his throat, and though the resulting operation removed the bump, it reinstated -- for a reason still unknown -- some of old muscle stiffness. That prompted him to switch doctors.

"Even now, I'm examined regularly," Mr. Cope said. "They stick a tube down me, it's a camera, and it takes pictures of my vocal cords, which come up on all these monitors. You can see my vocal cords in Technicolor."

The fourth quarter commanded the old color guy's attention. The final minutes of this football game had a way of forcing men toward their vices, so Mr. Cope, unable to drink, settled on his second vice, retreating to his kitchen and grabbing two chocolate chip cookies. The Steelers led, 21-10. When the referee ruled an apparent Peyton Manning interception incomplete, Mr. Cope cursed with dismay. The Colts maintained possession, and four plays later, the Steelers lead shrank to three.

"This is the first time in my retirement I've been nervous," Mr. Cope said. "I'm finding out what them fans go through."

Then, he watched the final, breath-stopping procession of plays, those now recounted in Pittsburgh as instant history: Jerome Bettis' goal line fumble; Ben Roethlisberger's tackle; Mike Vanderjagt's field-goal attempt with 21 seconds left.

As he offered thanks to God for a strong heart, the Colts kicker paced three steps back, hoping to tie the score. Mr. Cope rose from his sofa and jolted toward his television, eyes glued. The kick boomeranged off toward the right -- No good! No good! -- and he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling in blissful disbelief. The voices on the radio continued to roll, gathering excitement from this realization: The Steelers had pulled off one of the most profound upsets in recent playoff history.

But Mr. Cope, whose voice crystallized so many previous signature moments, only listened. He returned to the sofa, still quiet, and finally allowed, "I've never seen anything like this."

One of his friends called, and he spoke for less than a minute. The phone rang again -- his daughter. She wanted to talk. Mr. Cope didn't.

"They're just about to interview the Bus," Mr. Cope said, rushing his words. "I gotta go."

He hung up the phone, and like that, he was back in the world where he started: He sat back, and listened to some of the best stories he could imagine.

First published on January 22, 2006 at 12:00 am
Chico Harlan can be reached at aharlan@post-gazette.com or 412-263-1227.


Read more: http://www.post-gazette.com/pg/06022/641678-66.stm#ixzz1BrTyNjXv

Myron Cope - 'Deck The Broncos'

The 'Terrible Towel' that changes lives

In 1975, Myron Cope introduced the towel that united the Steeler Nation and now supports care at Allegheny Valley School

Sunday, August 30, 2009
By Robert Dvorchak, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
http://www.post-gazette.com/sports/


Chris Hondros/Getty Images

A member of the Pennsylvania National Guard sits on a Humvee draped with a Terrible Towel in January 2005 in Camp Habbaniyah, Iraq.

When some Tennessee Titans gleefully trampled yellow terry cloth last season -- scenes of which are being hyped by NBC to promote the Sept. 10 rematch at Heinz Field -- their coach said they were unaware of the story behind the Terrible Towel.

"They don't understand the significance or meaning of the Towel itself to the organization, the Steelers history or the Steelers fans," coach Jeff Fisher said at the time, adding that the episode "isn't a big deal to me."

Yes, the Terrible Towel is the battle flag of a city and its football team, and every quadrant of the Steeler Universe is about to throttle up to a setting of Full Towel when the NFL season kicks off.

But since 1996, at the behest of the late Myron Cope, royalties from the sale of hundreds of thousands of Towels have raised $3 million for a school that serves some of society's most vulnerable individuals -- those with severe intellectual and developmental needs who are unable to care for themselves.

"Myron's generosity has been a godsend, and that's no exaggeration," said Regis Champ, president and CEO of Allegheny Valley School. "Every time we sell a Towel, his legacy grows as our special benefactor, and our residents benefit."

The charitable contributions are earmarked for high-end wheelchairs, computer technology that gives voice to those who cannot speak, a mechanized lift in the swimming pool or something as mundane as fixing a leaky roof.

Outsiders may not be the only ones unaware of the story, however, and the powerful threads that connect two of the most colorful figures in the city's sports history.

In a hallway at the school's corporate center in Coraopolis, two displays hang side by side. One has a portrait of Myron Cope -- who had a Hall of Fame career as the color announcer on Steelers broadcasts -- and The Towel. The other depicts the late Bob Prince and his own icon, the Green Weenie, which benefited the school from its earliest days. And it was The Gunner -- as he was known during his Hall of Fame career when he was the voice of the Pirates -- who helped enroll Myron's son Danny into the school.

"Bob Prince raised a lot of money for Allegheny Valley School. It was his favorite charity. Our gymnasium and pool complex is named after him," said Mr. Champ. "This is a story of how Pittsburgh takes care of its own, which makes it the place that it is."


Michael Henninger/Post-Gazette

St. Clair hospital in Mt. Lebanon gave Terrible Towel blankets to all newborn infants in January 2008.

A legacy of voices

Allegheny Valley School was born in 1960 because an orphanage closed. When adoptive families could not be found for 10 children from the Pittsburgh Home for Babies, philanthropist Patricia Hillman Miller established the school.

"Bob Prince was a close friend of hers, and he was a founding member of the board of directors. Whatever money he made from the Green Weenie, he donated to the school," Mr. Champ said in a recent tour.

Baseball fans of a certain age will recall that the Green Weenie, like the Terrible Towel, had special powers, or so its inventor claimed. At crucial moments in a game during 1966, The Gunner would exhort fans to help the Pirates by shaking a green plastic hot dog at opponents. Honest.

The Terrible Towel, meanwhile, became part of the local sports scene in a 1975 playoff game. The blend of color and motion had special powers to lift the Steelers at crucial moments, or so its creator maintained.

Then fate brought the two icons together. In 1982, Mr. Prince heard through the grapevine that Mr. Cope was looking for a new school for his son, who had been living in Philadelphia. Diagnosed with severe mental retardation when he was an infant, the boy required 24-hour care.

There was some friction between the two ego-driven announcers. But when The Gunner pitched Allegheny Valley School as the place for Danny Cope, a friendship blossomed.

"After the ice was broken between them, they became fast friends," Mr. Champ said. "Suddenly, they were supporting each other by raising funds for AVS."

Life works in astonishing ways. Danny Cope, now 41, has never spoken a word in his life. The two best known benefactors of his school were known for their distinctive voices.


Lake Fong/Post-Gazette

A Steelers terrible towel hangs on a T-Rex model at the Pittsburgh International Airport in January 2006.

Quality of life

Early on, the Cope family came to grips with the heartbreaking reality that the demands of taking care of Danny were too much for them. His father placed him in a home, and it was thought that he would never have a productive life.

"He's pretty much in a world of his own," said Elizabeth Cope, 38, Danny's younger sister who has served as his legal guardian since she was 15. "He has many limitations, but the love isn't limited.

"You can get to know him. He laughs. He cries. And even if he's never spoken a word, he makes his feelings be known," she added. "He definitely has his own personality. He's his own person -- as much as my dad was almost. I know he feels loved."

She's working to get her brother a computerized device that will allow him to speak. Meanwhile, in the years that he has been at Allegheny Valley School, Danny developed skills that enable him to hold down a job, earning a small paycheck for sorting things like parts for electrical switches. He and three roommates live in a supervised home. He goes to some social events, but it would be a stretch to say that he understands what football is.

"Things changed dramatically for Danny. He's leading a quality life," Mr. Champ said. "Myron could not get over Danny's growth. His mind was at ease when he died."

When Mr. Cope passed away in 2008, his daughter draped his coffin with a quilt made from Terrible Towels that were sewn together by a fan. She chose the quilt because it represents the many different people who touched their lives.

"There aren't many things in life that bring people together, but the Steelers are one of those things," Ms. Cope said.

But she wrestles with mixed feelings because twirling towels remind her of the father she lost. Her mother, Mildred, died in 1994.

"There's a mixture of pain and pride," she said. "I miss my dad more than anyone will ever know. I miss hearing his voice at games. He was way more than a towel. But I know [the towel] helps the school, and I'm grateful for everything they've done. I wouldn't be able to take care of my brother myself. He's the only family I have left."


Kristine Ferrone waves the Terrible Towel while living on Devon Island inside the Arctic Circle as part of a Mars Society program.

A super donation

The Terrible Towel had become so popular that it was trademarked, mass produced and sold as an officially licensed product for 20 years.

Then one day in 1996, its creator visited the school that cares for his son and casually tossed a packet of legal papers across the president's desk.

Mr. Champ remembers the conversation like it was yesterday.

"He said, 'I'm giving you The Towel.' I said, 'Thanks, Myron, but I already have a couple of them.' Then he said, 'No, no. I'm transferring the trademark.' It took me one second to understand what he was doing and what it would mean for us. It was incredibly generous and thoughtful," Mr. Champ said.

The only instructions were to preserve the dignity of The Towel, and that the money from the royalties should be used to improve the quality of life of the school's residents.

"We take that responsibility very seriously. We owe it to Myron to do that," Mr. Champ said.

The school has grown into a statewide network, serving about 900 children and adults in nine counties. Its mission is to have them live with purpose and dignity and to function as independently as possible.

Allegheny Valley School operates as a Medicaid program with an annual budget of $130 million in federal dollars.

The Terrible Towel has provided $3 million extra in the past 13 years. When the Steelers won Super Bowl XL, it meant a windfall of $1 million in royalties from The Towel and related items. Spurred by the winning of a sixth Lombardi Trophy in February, this year's sales have approached that amount.

"Detroit was phenomenal. Tampa is close. We couldn't be more pleased," Mr. Champ said.

And the way Mr. Cope set up the legacy, all the marketing is done by the Steelers.

"We get a check from them every month," Mr. Champ said. "We could not have a better partner than the Steelers. They make us feel like part of their family. It's not a business deal. It's a family deal."


Lisa Kyle for The New York Times

Myron Cope, a longtime Pittsburgh broadcaster, was credited with creating the Terrible Towel in 1975.

Towel power

The last time the Steelers lost was Dec. 21 to the Titans. The lingering images involve Keith Bulluck and LenDale White doing the Tennessee two-step on the terry cloth, and Jevon Kearse blowing his nose in it.

Network analyst Bill Cowher said at the time that if he were still coach of the Steelers he'd keep the videotape handy for when the two teams meet again. "I know what I'm pulling out the night before the game," he said.

He's not the only one who sees a lesson in being careful about what you step in. Tackle Max Starks tucked the memory into the back of his mind.

"It's a matter of respect. I guess teams feel like they're getting back at us by beating up on a lifeless object," he said. "Their time will come. It's not exactly bulletin board material, but you don't forget."

Those associated with Allegheny Valley School and the Cope legacy are magnanimous about it.

For one thing, the desecration backfired, as did the act of Phoenix Mayor Phil Gordon wiping his nose in a Terrible Towel before the Super Bowl.

"No offense was taken," Mr. Champ said. "The stompers actually did us a big favor. That stomp got us a lot of national publicity. It did nothing but keep us in the public eye. I have to say thanks. It was one of the best things that ever happened to us."

Ill feelings aren't something that Elizabeth Cope wants to carry around either. "I am so not offended," she said. "This was something that happened in a football game. There was no evil intent. They didn't mean any harm to my brother or Allegheny Valley School or Bob Prince. They don't know the huge story behind the Towel."

Besides, look how things turned out.

"The Towel cannot be beaten. When you see all those people waving towels, it's like a wave of consciousness," Ms. Cope said. "There are some forces greater than ourselves. I think the Terrible Towel is one of those things."

Robert Dvorchak can be reached at bdvorchak@post-gazette.com.
First published on August 30, 2009 at 12:00 am

Related:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/30/sports/football/30towel.html?_r=1

Remembering Myron Cope

By Austin Murphy
Murphy's Law
http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/football/nfl/super-bowl/
January 29, 2009

If the seventh Super Bowl in Pittsburgh Steelers history seems just a little saner, more ordinary, a tad quieter than the previous six, it's because this is the club's first title game since the passing of one Myron Cope, the "Yoi!"-spouting radio legend and unofficial poet laureate of the 412, who died last February at the age of 79.

The Terrible Towel, created by Myron Cope, is a staple at every Steelers game.
Getty Images

While he didn't welcome the end -- Cope died of respiratory failure -- he wasn't overly afraid of it either, which is why he was able to joke about his imminent demise.

"The headline over my obituary," he would grouse, "is going to be: Towel Founder Dies."

That prediction, passed on by his close friend, the long-time Steelers p.r. man Joe Gordon, turned out to be wrong, but just barely. The AP's obituary on Cope didn't mention his best-known invention in its headline, although the Terrible Towel did make an appearance midway through the first sentence.

I first heard Cope's cacophonous voice as an elementary school student in the Pittsburgh suburb of O'Hara Township. My family had just moved from Colorado. It puzzled me how anyone who sounded like that could find work in radio.

But, as Steelers fans know, the man grew on you. Right up until the end of his career, Cope seemed incapable of an unoriginal sentiment. Jerome Bettis didn't break a tackle. "He shed that guy like he was a tsetse fly!" Cornerbacks didn't blanket wideouts. Rather, their coverage was so tight, "I'm tellin' ya -- he could tell whether the receiver used Listerine or Scope!"

Sawed off though he was, the 5-foot-5 Cope was larger than life in this city, in which he spent all but seven months of his life. I got to know him a little in the mid-'90s, while covering the NFL for SI. Cope was the most accessible icon I ever met. I can still hear him carping about the no-smoking policy in the pressroom at Three Rivers Stadium. "Go dahn the hall, they got a big portrait a' da Chief" -- club founder Art Rooney Sr. -- "and he's smoking a big stogie right there in da painting!"

Here's what fascinates me about Cope to this day: The man who did so much violence to the language with his voice -- it "could cut cement," he allowed -- composed some of the most elegant sentences in the annals of American sportswriting. His profile of Howard Cosell, whose immusical speech matched Cope's own, was included in SI's 50th Anniversary Book as one of the best pieces the magazine has ever run. Before he gained renown as "The squawking talisman of Steelers football" -- to use Post-Gazette columnist Gene Collier's inspired phrase -- Cope was one of the best sportswriters, ever. Much of his best work appeared in SI.

"He could talk to someone," former Pittsburgh Press sports editor Roy McHugh recalled for Collier, "and extract all the humor possible from that person."

That was precisely the strength of Cope's timeless piece with Alex Hawkins, the Baltimore Colt who made a cottage industry of being a perpetual reserve. ("How many players can you name who in ten years in the NFL played six positions," he asks readers, "and did none of them justice?") Channeling Hawkins, Cope than explains why Don Shula kept him around. "If I happened to turn up in the right saloon at the right time, I usually could talk Lou Michaels out of a fight before the cops arrived."

It is Cope's curse that the Terrible Towel has overshadowed all those great stories.

It was under some duress that he'd come up with the idea for what turned into Steeler Nation's most indispensable accessory. The year was 1975, and Cope was told by his bosses at WTAE, the Steelers's flagship radio station, to produce a gimmick before a playoff game with the Baltimore Colts.

"I'm not a gimmick guy," he replied. "Never been a gimmick guy."

The next part of the exchange, recounted by longtime Cope friend and Steelers beat writer Ed Bouchette of the Post-Gazette, went like this:

"You know your contract is up this year."

"I just became a gimmick guy."

The truth is, Cope wasn't above gimmickry, buffoonery or a bit of exaggeration, if thought it would make people laugh. There was his take, for instance, on one particularly violent tackle, in which a Steeler hit an opponent so hard, Cope insisted, "I swear I saw his mouthpiece fly into the third row! An old lady caught it on the fly, checked it for a fit and put it in her pocketbook!"

Even as he played to a blue-collar crowd, he couldn't disguise his grasp of culture, as evidenced in this classic exchange with longtime broadcast partner Bill Hillgrove:

Cope: "I'm telling you something -- Hines Ward looked like Nijinsky!"

Hillgrove: "Nijinsky?"

Cope: "Nijinsky! The great ballet dancer."

Hillgrove: "I thought he was a racehorse."

Cope (losing patience): "No, he ain't a racehorse! (Resigned) He's dead anyhow."

Hillgrove: "The racehorse or the ballet dancer?"

Cope: "Nijinsky!"

(They were both right: Nijinsky II, the horse, was named after Nijinsky, the Russian dancer.)

Cope's signature on-air exclamation, "Yoi!" expressed his delight in some pro-Steelers turn of events. Because a single "Yoi!" was sometimes insufficient, Cope took to multiplying them. "Double-Yoi!", in fact, is the name of his autobiography. While I have not read it, I have drunk deeply of his prose, and am here to tell you -- don't take this the wrong way, Pittsburgh -- that it goes down a hell of a lot easier than Iron City Beer.

Whatever your preferred malt beverage, raise a glass of it this Super Sunday to an absent friend, a short man with a huge gift for words both written and spoken.

Backtalk; AN IMMACULATE EXPLANATION OF THE TRUTH

By MYRON COPE
The New York Times
Published: December 21, 1997

What became of Amelia Earhart?

Where is Jimmy Hoffa buried, if not in Giants Stadium?

Have creatures from outer space really sampled New Mexico's tourism?

And then, yet another of the great unanswered questions of the 20th century: was Franco Harris's Immaculate Reception kosher?

Also: was it legal?

The Immaculate Reception will not be remembered as far into the future as the Catholic doctrine from which its name derived. Yet, thanks to the energies of NFL Films, which constantly feeds the appetites of television networks and syndicators, the catch by Harris, then a Pittsburgh Steelers rookie, revisits our screens to this day, heading toward its 25th anniversary this Tuesday as the most-publicized play in American sports.

Mary would be amazed, if not irked. Television is not giving us Bartoleme Estaban Murillo's timeless 16th-century painting, ''The Immaculate Conception,'' is it? TV is showing the Reception.

Ah, but Mary and Franco share. Some doubt the Virgin Birth (which, by the way, non-Catholics confuse with the Immaculate Conception). John Madden, then the coach of the victimized Oakland Raiders, doubts the Immaculate Reception.

Again, was it legal? It was. I know where the proof lies to this very day.

After the game, I dined with my wife, then drove to Pittsburgh's WTAE-TV studios to deliver a commentary on the game for the 11 o'clock news. Meanwhile, a Steeler fan in his late 20's, Michael Ord, was celebrating Harris's catch at a downtown bar, fittingly named The Interlude. Boisterous fans toasted the victory. Ord climbed upon a chair and, with a spoon, tapped his glass for attention. ''This day,'' he proclaimed, ''will forever be known as the Feast of the Immaculate Reception!''

Then, to a friend, Sharon Levosky, he suggested, ''Call Myron Cope.''

When my phone rang in the newsroom, I listened to Sharon and said: ''That's fantastic. Let me give it some thought.''

The Immaculate Reception? Tasteless? I pondered the matter for 15 seconds and cried out, ''Whoopee!'' Having conferred upon Harris's touchdown its name for 11 o'clock news viewers to embrace, I accept neither credit, nor, should you hold the moniker to be impious, blame. Whichever, I can lead you by the hand to the repository wherein lies the proof that Harris made a legal catch of Terry Bradshaw's pass.

But first, a refresher.

22 Seconds Left And 60 Yards to Go

On a Saturday afternoon, two days before Christmas 1972, the Steelers and the Raiders engage one another at Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh in a first-round playoff game, the winner to advance to the American Football Conference championship game. With 22 seconds remaining, the Raiders lead, 7-6. The Steelers' offense faces fourth-and-10 at its 40-yard line.

One of NFL Films's marketed videos is especially arresting. Bradshaw breaks the huddle, jogging to the line behind No. 56, center Ray (the Old Ranger) Mansfield. Whoops, was not Jim Clack centering for that play? True, but NFL Films had no particularly dramatic from-the-rear film of the Steelers breaking that huddle, so an earlier play had to do. The Old Ranger, who died of an apparent heart attack last year hiking down a mountainside in the Grand Canyon, is preserved for posterity. That's O.K. The revisionist Oliver Stone might have plugged in J.F.K. snapping the ball from a Hyannisport touch football game.

Anyhow, Bradshaw drops into the pocket but is soon chased backward and to his right by Horace Jones, the Raiders' right defensive end. Bradshaw slips Jones, who grazes a hand across Bradshaw's midsection, and desperately rockets a pass that travels 37 yards from his fingertips to the Raiders' 34. He has spied John (Frenchy) Fuqua, an undersized but talented halfback, hooking into the middle of the field, racing free. Raiders safety Jack Tatum, however, also has spotted Frenchy. Tatum abandons the tight end he was covering and advances upon Fuqua. At the instant the ball arrives, a fierce collision occurs.

Tatum said afterward: ''I thought I might have a chance for the ball, until he got in front of me. But when he did that, I just went for the man'' -- meaning Fuqua. Tatum, whose autobiography published years later was titled ''They Call Me Assassin,'' delivers a Tatum special -- a wicked right forearm that appears to strike Fuqua flush in the head.

At that moment, the ball emerges from the collision, flying back toward midfield. And here comes Harris.

Said Dick Hoak, the Steelers' backfield coach then and still today:

''Franco's assignment was to stay in the backfield and block the outside linebacker. If the guy didn't come, Franco was to try to chip someone, then get out for a pass.''

The Catch, And the Confusion


Harris finds nobody to block or even chip. He glances over his right shoulder and, seeing Bradshaw in trouble, gallops upfield. Little does he suspect that he is about to collect a priceless reward for good habits.

''From the day he came into the league that year,'' Hoak remembers, ''he ran 'em out. In practice, no tackling, he'd run clear to the end zone from 40 yards out. In games, he was always around the ball, whether he'd run a pass pattern or was blocking. If he ran a pass route to one side of the field and Bradshaw threw to the other side, Harris would run there.

''Maybe the pass would be batted into the air, or maybe there'd be a fumble. I tell our young guys in practice: 'Run to the end zone. Get to know it. Franco Harris did it every time and got to the Hall of Fame.' ''

Harris's simple explanation following the Steelers' victory? ''I started running to block if Frenchy caught the ball,'' he said.

But here comes the ball, and Harris cups it in his upraised palms, possibly as neat a shoestring catch as Roberto Clemente has made in this same stadium. Scarcely breaking stride, Harris points himself at the left corner of the end zone. The Raider defensive back Jimmy Warren angles in pursuit from the middle of the field. Inside the 15, Harris reaches back with a stiff-arm, fighting him off. At the 11, Warren lays hands on Franco's back. But he slides off, landing on his belly. As Harris crosses the goal line, a reported hundreds -- but actually, maybe not even a hundred, the estimate being significant, as we shall see -- pour onto the field.

But was this a touchdown? The referee does not signal touchdown.

The rule book at that time specified, as it no longer does, that for a pass to be legally caught, two players of the same team could not touch the ball consecutively. The National Football League frowned upon receivers playing volleyball. Thus, if Bradshaw's pass had touched Fuqua en route to Harris, it was not kosher. But if it had caromed off Tatum to Harris, fine.

Referee Fred Swearingen confers with his crew, particularly with Umpire Pat Harder and Back Judge Brian Burk, the two officials presumed to have had the best view of the Tatum-Fuqua collision. Remarkably, Swearingen then disappears into a Pirates baseball dugout, escorted to a telephone by a Steeler official, Jim Boston. Swearingen phones the press box and asks to speak to Art McNally, the N.F.L. supervisor of officials. Then, he emerges to throw up his arms. Touchdown!

Did Babe Ruth predict his 1932 World Series home run by pointing to Wrigley Field's center-field wall? Or was he merely gesturing, or not even doing that? History is a mess. Did Harris make a legal catch? How shall we ever know the answer? We will. Here.

And now, a word about the principals.

THE CORPULENT COACH

John Madden, head coach of the Raiders, described as more stunned than angry in the Raiders' locker room, declared, ''If the officials really knew what happened, they'd have called it right away.'' He had a point.

The next day, Madden spent a miserable Christmas Eve back in California, reviewing game film. He subsequently asserted that Bradshaw's pass could not have ricocheted off Tatum because Tatum had positioned himself behind Fuqua. Perforce, the ball had struck Fuqua.

But Madden was rationalizing. The Raiders' game film had cleared up nothing. (Nor had the Steelers'.)

Nonetheless, the Corpulent Coach plunged forward, charging that Swearingen had phoned the press box and asked McNally to review instant replay. NBC was televising the game, but not to Pittsburgh. Though the game was a sellout, Congress had not yet got around to pressuring the N.F.L. into televising home-game sellouts. Television carried the game into Three Rivers on at least one monitor, but the telecast played to the public only beyond a 75-mile radius of the city. Steeler fans, if sober, held their foul breath in Youngstown, Ohio, motel rooms.

Sneaking a Peek At the Instant Replay?


Instant replay remained 14 years away from being approved (for a time) as an officiating tool, so it could not be invoked by Swearingen or McNally. Yet Madden, furious, charged that McNally had stolen a peek at a replay.

Several days later, a United Press International article with an Oakland, Calif., dateline reported: ''Oakland writers said Steeler Public Relations Director Joe Gordon told reporters in the press box that the N.F.L. officials had made the decision from the replay.''

''That's a total fabrication,'' said Gordon, long regarded by pro football writers across the country as the nonpareil of N.F.L. publicists. He had answered the phone call from Swearingen and called McNally to the phone and stood by, hearing McNally's end of the conversation. Gordon said McNally never viewed a replay. He said Swearingen simply was checking with McNally to determine that his interpretation of the applicable rule was correct. If so, Swearingen had no business making the phone call. A high school official would have understood the rule.

Madden pressed on, taking an additional tack: ''There was no way they were going to call it any other way with all those people on the field. Somebody would have been killed.''

Hey, the stands had by no means emptied.

THE ASSASSIN

''I didn't hit the ball,'' Tatum said.

He is, of course, remembered as the man who delivered the blow to Darryl Stingley that put the New England receiver in a wheelchair for life. Stingley reviles him for afterward showing only a minimum interest in his, Stingley's, fate. If you depended on this man's testimony, would you put him on the witness stand?

THE FRENCHMAN

One of my Steeler favorites. John Fuqua, from Detroit, called himself Count Frenchy, claiming to have descended from a French count. To teammates and beat writers, he was simply ''the Frenchman.'' He confided that at weigh-ins at the start of training camp, he carried a 5-pound weight in his athletic supporter so as to make 180 pounds and avoid being cut.

Down through the years, he has insisted he knows whether it was he or Tatum who touched the football, but that he will reveal the truth in his own good time. About 10 years ago, in a Detroit hotel bar, the Frenchman urged me to write his autobiography. Short of time, I declined with thanks. Was it a book that would reveal the truth?

Forget it. The Frenchman has no idea whom Bradshaw's pass struck.

''Everything was dizzy,'' he at first told reporters crowding around his locker. Tatum's ferocious forearm had sent him sprawling.

The Frenchman seemed unaware of the rule that governed the Immaculate Reception. When reporters explained it to him, his mischievous mind cranked into action. ''No comment; I'll tell you after the Super Bowl,'' he said. The Super Bowl was a game the Steelers did not reach, going on to lose to Miami in the A.F.C. championship game.

Fuqua added: ''I'm not chopping down any cherry trees'' -- perish the thought that Count Frenchy would fib -- ''but no comment.'' Twenty years later, the Steeler free safety Mike Wagner opined about Fuqua: ''He doesn't know. How could he? He was getting drilled from behind.''

DIVINE INTERVENTION (POSSIBLY?)

The Rev. John Duggan, sojourning from Ireland to study in Boston for a doctorate in psychology, had made the acquaintance of several sons of the Steelers owner Art Rooney Sr. A good luck charm, they decided.

''Get him to the games,'' Rooney ordered.

Relatively young for a priest, his face cherubic, Father Duggan in this fateful season had attended 12 games, preseason included. The Steelers had won 11 of them. Saturday nights he conducted Mass for Steeler Catholics and candidly admitted he prayed for victories.

Friday, the day before the playoff game, he looked on as the Raiders took the field at Three Rivers to practice. Notwithstanding Father Duggan's collar, the Raiders suspected a spy and ordered him off the field.

Said the priest, in his rich Irish brogue, ''I consulted their manager, a Mr. Madden of all names, and told him I would speak to my superiors about this.''

You asked for it, Madden, and you got the Immaculate Reception. Harris, for his part, allowed in the dusk of that Dec. 23, ''I'd believed all along, but after today I believe in Santa Claus, too.''

Not far east of Pittsburgh, in a woodland favored by deer hunters, stands WTAE's 1,000-foot-high television tower and, about 150 feet distant, a squat, concrete-block, one-story, fenced-in structure. In the basement are stored film and videotape of times past. There lies my proof that the Immaculate Reception was legal.

In the early 1970's, I made my living writing for magazines, chiefly Sports Illustrated, but had been dabbling increasingly in broadcasting for WTAE radio and TV. I served as color analyst (and still do) for radio broadcasts of Steeler games and weekdays delivered sports commentaries on both radio and television. On Christmas Day 1972, two days after the Immaculate Reception, I obtained from our television newsroom the film of Harris's catch that one of our cameramen had shot. Neither it nor the excerpt from NBC's telecast had made it the least bit clear to audiences whether Tatum or Fuqua touched that football. I ran the film through a device called a viewer, slowly cranking the handle that allowed me to watch the film frame by frame, again and again, at a snail's pace. No question about it: Bradshaw's pass struck Tatum squarely on his right shoulder. I mean, I saw it.

Bradshaw's powerful arm (he drilled that pass), combined with the inflexible polycarbonate plastic epaulet that topped the right side of Tatum's shoulder pads, would account for the football rebounding a full 8 yards into Harris's hands. With great relish, I broadcast my findings. The film could not be televised frame by frame, so I simply related my findings in a commentary I scripted. That was that.

In today's age of advanced technology, to say nothing of valued collectibles, that film, I suppose, would have been made airable in slow motion and then placed in a safe. For my part, I had magazine and broadcast deadlines to meet and an A.F.C. championship game for which to prepare, so I simply returned the film to a newsroom shelf, from which it would in time be sent to WTAE's transmitter building for storage.

It lies there, proof of the legitimacy of the Immaculate Reception, but virtually unfindable.

''It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack,'' I am told by Bill Hillgrove, the Steelers' play-by-play radio broadcaster, who for many years has been the sports director of WTAE-TV.

All right, why?

''About 1977, our station went from film to videotape,'' Hillgrove said. ''In the film days, when Franco made his catch, TV people didn't think much about systematically filing stuff for the future. It was, 'Just get it on the air.' About two years after we went to tape, we became more conscious of future need, if for no other reason than legal purposes.''

But would not the Immaculate Reception film have been stored chronologically, by date? ''It isn't,'' Hillgrove said. ''See, we played that film from time to time for a while -- we'd get it from the transmitter, then send it back -- but each time we sent it back, it was added to all the stuff that preceded it. Who can remember when we last used it, let alone know a date? To go in there and find it, well, you'd have as good a chance of hitting the lottery.''

Absent the film, Madden might say I have concocted my story of viewing that film frame by frame. Would he be calling me a liar? If so, I would confront him and, to borrow a Madden trademark, pow! Then again, maybe not. I stand 5 feet 5 inches and 140 pounds.

A statue of Franco Harris greets visitors at the Pittsburgh International Airport.

The Hero And His Legacies

In early November, I had lunch with Harris, still a Pittsburgh resident and businessman. A huge, stately man, black on his father's side, Italian on his mother's, he wore a neatly cropped beard. Not long ago, he led a group that purchased Parks Sausage, a venerable but failed company in Baltimore.

''It's hard work,'' he told me, ''but we're getting near to turning the corner.''

The coming weekend he would be in Philadelphia to watch the Princeton-Penn football game. His alma mater, Penn State, would be playing Michigan at Happy Valley, where he wanted to be, but his son Dok -- not a football player -- had enrolled at Princeton. ''I've never attended an Ivy League game,'' Harris said, wincing.

Then, hesitantly -- but what father could resist mentioning it? -- he said, ''Dok made 1,600 on his S.A.T.'s.''

I told Harris about the film I had put through the viewer. ''Wow!'' he exclaimed. ''Can I see it?''

Sorry, Franco. Laying your hands on it is as unlikely as a second Immaculate Reception.


Myron Cope is a longtime sports commentator in the Pittsburgh area.

Cope was beloved, and he loved right back ... a commentary

Sunday, March 02, 2008
By Bob Smizik, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette


Peter Diana / Pittsburgh
Myron Cope, 1929 - 2008

Actual proof that a secret can be kept in today's society, even among the media, is this: At a private funeral service Friday for Myron Cope about 160 invited people were in attendance, about 10 more than expected

Had the secret of the service and its site not been kept, had the invited relatives, friends and colleagues of the great Cope been blabbers, tens of thousands would have descended on the Slater funeral home in Green Tree. Such was the affection for Cope, who died Wednesday after a long illness, that the parkway in both directions would have been clogged. Greentree and Cochran roads, the two main arteries leading to the funeral home, would have been parking lots.

The mark of a man is not just by the lives he has touched, because that's only the half of it. The greatness of Cope, as a journalist, as an entertainer and as a human being, was how the other half of the equation played out. He reached back to those adoring fans. And they loved him for it.

Through all the zaniness that made him famous and admired, the Cope's impeccable character could not be hidden. He was a child of another era, born in 1929, raised in the hardscrabble 1930s. He had old-world manners that he would not relinquish. He was kind and courteous. He did not abide profanity in the presence of women. He said please. He said thank you. When people wrote or called, he responded. He was adored by the public and basked in that adoration. He was a ham with a large ego. But larger than that ego was his heart.

How big that heart was we've only just begun to learn. After his death came word that about $2.2 million, proceeds from his trademarked Terrible Towel, went to the Allegheny Valley School, a private, non-profit that cares for children and adults with intellectual development disabilities. Because his son Danny was so afflicted, the school was close to Cope's heart for decades.

Much has been made in the days since his death of Cope's love for print journalism. It's where he began; it's where thought he'd end. He drifted into broadcasting almost by chance and eventually had to give up writing. The praise of his writing that has appeared was not exaggerated. As both a newspaper reporter, covering Pitt for the Post-Gazette, and later as a magazine writer for Sports Illustrated and other national publications, he was a master of the craft.

My fondest recollections of Cope are not for the way he put words on paper or even for the way, as a rank amateur, he become first a radio and then a television star of the first magnitude in Pittsburgh. As strong as Cope's writing skills were, as gifted as he was at running a talk show, it was his work ethic that most stood out.

My profession, the print media, is full of workaholics -- men and women who won't call it a day until the last phone call has been made, the last fact checked, the last rumor run down. In his prime, Cope outworked everyone in the print media. He was a one-man staff who often out-scooped entire newspaper staffs.

At the height of his radio and television career, he did 19 commentaries a week. They were thoughtful pieces, sometimes humorous, sometimes provocative and always superbly crafted.

He didn't report for work at 5 p.m. for his 6 p.m. talk show. He was out in the field in the morning or afternoon talking to the people who made the news. If there was a news conference, he was there. If there was a media luncheon, common in the 1970s and '80s, he was there. When that work was done, he'd head to the WTAE studio in late afternoon to prepare for his talk show. Nor was he finished when he signed off.

If there was a hockey or baseball game, there's a good chance Cope would be there. Because of his 8 p.m. signoff time, he'd arrive in the second period of hockey games. The guys in the media lounge saved him a sandwich. That was his dinner. When the game was over, he'd head for the locker room where everyone knew him by name.

In baseball season, he'd make a point to come to at least one game in every home series. When the game ended, he headed to the clubhouse where he cast aside his celebrity, even if the players wouldn't have it, to be a reporter. Once finished interviewing, he'd repair to the press lounge for a toddy. He'd then sit by himself in the back, pecking away on his typewriter and composing his commentary for the next morning.

Although he might have become best known for his connection with the Steelers as the color commentator of their radio broadcasts, it was the talk show and the commentaries that brought Cope the most early attention and allowed his talent and personality to shine.

It was here he endeared himself to listeners and made them laugh.

At the funeral Friday, Steelers president Dan Rooney, one of five speakers, said, "My favorite Christmas carol is 'Deck The Broncos They're Just Yoncos.' "

Indeed, who can forget this immortal Cope line: "Pete Rostosky show 'em who's boss-ky."

He lived life hard. He liked a toddy, or two, and he wouldn't give up his cigarettes. He loved a good time and didn't mind chasing it into the night.

At his funeral Rooney; Sally Wiggin of WTAE; Bill Hillgrove, his long-time broadcast partner; Franco Harris and Elizabeth Cope, his daughter, spoke. They recalled the man, the friend, the father.

His hundreds of thousands of fans across the country, members of the Steelers Nation he helped popularize, will recall him as their heart chooses. An era has ended, a legend has left us.

Bob Smizik can be reached at bsmizik@post-gazette.com.
First published on March 2, 2008 at 12:00 am

Cope fans say 'Bye, now' in towel-twirling tribute

Saturday, March 01, 2008
By Moriah Balingit, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette


Andy Starnes/Post-Gazette
Mark McEwen holds up his "D-Fence" sign during yesterday's "Terrible Towel Wave" farewell to late Steelers broadcaster Myron Cope on the steps of the City-County Building, Downtown.

The man who is synonymous with the official flag of Steelers Nation was given a send off by its citizens yesterday in a ceremony that could only be characterized as Terrible.

A Terrible Towel twirling tribute seemed a fitting farewell for Myron Cope, the famed Steelers broadcaster and sports journalist who died Wednesday.

So yesterday, in the midst of a winter snowstorm -- "Steeler weather," Mayor Luke Ravenstahl called it -- about 350 fans and friends gathered with their Terrible Towels outside the City-County Building to pay tribute to the man who became their leader, sporadically erupting into cheers of "Let's go Myron!" and his trademark "Double Yoi!"

Addressing the snow-drenched fans, Mr. Ravenstahl recalled watching Steelers games with the television turned down and the radio turned up to hear Mr. Cope's broadcasts.

Dan DelBianco, the executive director of the Pittsburgh Vintage Grand Prix, recalled Mr. Cope's lesser-known contributions to the community, including co-founding the charity car race that benefits the Autism Society of Pittsburgh and the Allegheny Valley School. Mr. Cope's son has been a resident at the school for people with developmental disabilities since 1992. He donated the Terrible Towel trademark to the school 11 years ago so that royalties from towel sales go to the school.


Andy Starnes/Post-Gazette
Sharon Cubarney, of Morningside, grasps her Myron Cope memorabilia during the ceremony.

"He became known across this country as the voice of the Steelers ... but Myron had another voice. It was one that was softer and it spoke for thousands of those who cannot speak for themselves," Mr. DelBianco said. "I'm talking about individuals and families in the region dealing with the challenge of autism and developmental disabilities."

Much like the Terrible Towel he named -- which he once called "a positive force that lifts the Steelers to magnificent heights" -- Mr. Cope's impact on Steelers football eludes definition.

"Myron did so much for the Steelers it can't be put into words," Steelers chairman Dan Rooney told the crowd. "The biggest thing he did was to keep us loose, brought humor to it."

"I remember when we went to play Super Bowl IX, we were playing the Vikings. We were there for the first time, but we were very loose."

Though he never played a game, Mr. Cope came to symbolize the Steelers Nation as much, if not more, than many of the players.

For Mike Scott, a teacher at Allderdice High School where Mr. Cope is a graduate, the fact that Mr. Cope never donned his own jersey does not diminish his importance in the Steelers Nation.


VWH Campbell Jr./Post-Gazette
First-graders Ryan Greer, left, and Max Sybert cut out paper Terrible Towels during class yesterday at Connoquenessing Valley Elementary School in Zelienople, where teachers, students and staff honored Myron Cope.

"He never played a down, he never took a hit, but ... he's a Steeler," he said.

"He brought a sense of identification and a voice of all the fans and the hard-working attitude of the fans," said Marco Wuslich, a tech support engineer at the ceremony. "He was noticeable to everybody and he really brought us together."

For Sylvia Corcoran, a Pittsburgher and bank employee, he was more than that. Surrounded by raucous towel-waving fans, she stood and cried.

"He was Pittsburgh. I just loved him. I just loved hearing his voice," she said.

At the end of the speeches, Mayor Ravenstahl, Allegheny County Executive Dan Onorato and Mr. Rooney led a minute of silent towel-twirling, turning the rambunctious crowd startlingly solemn.

For a man who was known for his voice and stirring the passion of Steelers fans everywhere, it was an ironic tribute.

Moriah Balingit can be reached at mbalingit@post-gazette.com or 412-263-2533.
First published on March 1, 2008 at 12:00 am

Cope was a friend to all who met him

By Mike Bires, Beaver County Times Sports Staff
Published: Wednesday, February 27, 2008 11:52 PM EST



PITTSBURGH — Throughout the Steelers Nation, Terrible Towels are flying at half mast.

Everywhere we turn, those who knew Myron Cope are paying tribute to the raspy-voiced sportscaster who, in some way, touched the lives of so many associated in some capacity with the Steelers.

On one hand, it’s a sad time.

A local legend has died.

On the other hand, Cope has left us so many fond memories.

Bill Hillgrove, Cope’s long-time sidekick on Steelers radio broadcasts put it best by saying, “I don’t think Myron would want us hanging our heads. He’d want us to celebrate his life.”

By now, countless Cope stories are being rehashed by those who knew Cope or listened to him in the 35 years he broadcast Steelers games. Even a guy like me, who’s only been The Times’ official Steelers beat writer since 1999, has memories of the man, too.

Like most teenagers growing up in western Pennsylvania, I was an avid Steelers and Pitt fan who always got a kick out of Cope’s antics. For those too young to remember, Cope also got plenty of mileage out of Johnny Majors’ first stint at Pitt that ended with a national championship in 1976.

But by then, Cope had already given the Steelers the Terrible Towel and was just as popular as most of the players.

I had gotten the chance to deal with Cope on several occasions before I started covering the Steelers in ’99. But once I became a regular on the beat, I was fortunate to develop a good friendship with a guy who seemed to have countless friends.

After getting to know Cope, one of the things I admired most about him was his uncanny knack to find time to help all those who needed something from him.

Certainly, Cope was a wealth of information every time I ask him for insight. That typically happened when something significant was happening, like when the Three Rivers Stadium era ended or when Cope retired after the 2004 season or when the Steelers made it to Super Bowl XL.

It was thrill to be able to sit down with Cope for 30 minutes or so and listen to him give his version of so many stories and issues. He knew his football. He had an uncanny memory. He had a great sense of humor. He was a great story teller.

I remember once after I wrote a piece that included a bunch of Cope quotes, a female Steelers fan called me and said she could envision Cope speaking as she read the story.

The first time I actually met Cope was in January of 1980 in Newport Beach, Calif. It was at a party a few days before the Steelers beat the Los Angeles Rams for their fourth Super Bowl victory.

At this function, I brought along my two cousins and a few other friends living in southern California at the time. At one point in the evening, we got to talking with Cope, and immediately he befriended us.

Before long, we bought him a cocktail or two. Not long after that, my cousins and friends were picking up Cope and passing him around like he was body surfing at a rock n’ roll concert.

As Cope was being tossed about, he kept yelling, “I love you guys! I love you guys!”

No, Myron.

We loved you.

Everyone loved Myron.

Mike Bires can be reached online at mbires@timesonline.com.


Steelers broadcasting legend Myron Cope dies

By Mike Bires, Beaver County Times Sports Staff
Published: Wednesday, February 27, 2008 10:06 PM EST



Clif Page photo 10/31/2005
Steelers vs. Ravens Former Steeler radio broadcaster Myron Cope before the game.

PITTSBURGH — On a cold, wintry night in December of 1976, Myron Cope made good on a promise and jumped into the icy Monongahela River.

At that stage of his career, Cope was fast becoming a legend throughout all corners of Steelers Nation. A diminutive man of 5-foot-4 with a shrill, raspy voice, he captivated listeners on the team’s radio broadcasts with a unique and entertaining style.

But on this particular evening in ’76, Cope proved that he was also a man of integrity.

For the Steelers to make the playoffs that year, they needed Oakland to beat Cincinnati in a regular-season ending Monday night game. So Cope vowed, “If the Raiders beat the Bengals, I’ll swim the Mon.”

The Raiders, who had already clinched the playoff berth with a 13-1 record, had nothing to gain by beating the Bengals. But Oakland still went out and won, thus eliminating Cincinnati and allowing Pittsburgh to clinch a playoff spot.

So a few days later, Cope donned a wet suit and goggles and arranged for a camera crew from WTAE-TV to drop him off right in the middle in the Monongahela.

“I had not announced the date or time lest I create a traffic jam along the shore that would plunge the police department into a fit of rage,” Cope wrote in his “Double Yoi!” autobiography. “But Channel 4 would have film in time for the 11 o’clock news.”

Memories such as that are being rekindled throughout Steelers Nation since Cope died Wednesday at a Mount Lebanon nursing home after a long bout with respiratory problems and heart failure. He was 79.

Even though he didn’t turn to broadcasting until he was 40 — he was a renowned print journalist before that — he served as the Steelers’ color analyst from 1970 to 2004. That’s the longest run in NFL history for a broadcaster with the same team.

Known for his quick wit and quirky phrases, Cope is the guy credited with first using the term “Immaculate Reception” to describe Franco Harris’ historic game-winning touchdown catch in the Steelers’ 13-7 playoff win over the Raiders in 1972. He’s the guy who, before a 1975 playoff game, introduced the “Terrible Towel,” a lasting symbol of the Steelers’ proud tradition

“Myron was Pittsburgh,” former Steelers running back Rocky Bleier said. “He is somebody all Pittsburghers claim as one of our own. He’s a guy who will always be remembered in the Steelers Nation.

“Over the years, very few people could talk about Myron without imitating that voice of his. People would watch Steelers games on TV with the sound off so they could turn on the radio and get the full flavor of the game the way Myron would present it. His stories will always be part of us.”

Born on Jan. 23, 1929, as Myron Sydney Kopelman, Cope was a graduate of Allderdice High School in Squirrel Hill and the University of Pittsburgh.

He landed his first job writing for the Erie Daily News in 1951. He was such a brilliant writer that his story on sportscaster Howard Cosell was named one of the top 50 stories in Sports Illustrated’s 50th anniversary edition, which went to press in 2004.

But Cope’s life took a strange twist in 1968 when WTAE-AM radio hired him as a morning sports commentator. Two years later, he broadcast his first Steelers game.

From that point, Cope would become the conduit between the Steelers and their fans.

“Myron brought Steelers football closer to the fans,” team president Art Rooney II said. “More than any one person, he just made the fans feel part of it. Not just with the Terrible Towel, which was a big part of it. But his personality and the enthusiasm he brought to the broadcast, it was unique to say the least and made for a very special time.

“His memorable voice and unique broadcasting style became synonymous with Steelers football. They say imitation is the greatest form of flattery, and no Pittsburgh broadcaster was impersonated more than Myron.”

Mike Bires can be reached at mbires@timesonline.com.

Steelers broadcaster Cope dies at 79

SI.com
Posted: Wednesday February 27, 2008 11:07AM; Updated: Wednesday February 27, 2008 11:14AM


Few broadcasters are more closely associated with a team than Myron Cope was with the Steelers from 1970-2004.
AP

PITTSBURGH (AP) -- Myron Cope, the screechy-voiced announcer whose colorful catch phrases and twirling Terrible Towel became symbols of the Pittsburgh Steelers during an unrivaled 35 seasons in the broadcast booth, has died. He was 79.

Cope died Wednesday morning at a nursing home in Mount Lebanon, a Pittsburgh suburb, Joe Gordon, a former Steelers executive and a longtime friend of Cope's, told The Associated Press. Cope had been treated for respiratory problems and heart failure in recent months, Gordon said.

Cope's tenure from 1970-2004 as the color analyst on the Steelers' radio network is the longest in NFL history for a broadcaster with a single team and led to his induction into the National Radio Hall of Fame in 2005.

"His memorable voice and unique broadcasting style became synonymous with Steelers football," Steelers president Art Rooney II said Wednesday. "They say imitation is the greatest form of flattery and no Pittsburgh broadcaster was impersonated more than Myron."

Beyond Pittsburgh's three rivers, Cope is best known for the yellow cloth twirled by fans as a good luck charm at Steelers games since the mid-1970s. The towel is arguably the best-known fan symbol of any major pro sports team, has raised millions of dollars for charity and is displayed at the Pro Football Hall of Fame.

"His creation of The Terrible Towel has developed into a worldwide symbol that is synonymous with Steelers football," Steelers chairman Dan Rooney said Wednesday.

"You were really part of it," Dan Rooney told Cope in 2005. "You were part of the team. The Terrible Towel many times got us over the goal line."

Even after retiring, Cope -- a sports talk show host for 23 years -- continued to appear in numerous radio, TV and print ads, emblematic of a local popularity that sometimes surpassed that of the stars he covered.

An announcer by accident, Cope spent the first half of his professional career as one of the nation's most widely read freelance sports writers, writing for Sports Illustrated and the Saturday Evening Post on subjects that included Muhammad Ali, Howard Cosell and Roberto Clemente. He was hired by the Steelers at age 40, several years after he began doing TV sports commentary on the whim of a station manager, mostly to help increase attention and attendance as the Steelers moved into Three Rivers Stadium.

Neither the Steelers nor Cope had any idea how much impact he would have on the franchise. Within two years of his hiring, Pittsburgh would begin a string of home sellouts that continues to this day, a stretch that includes five Super Bowl titles.

Cope became so popular that the Steelers didn't try to replace his unique perspective and top-of-the-lungs vocal histrionics when he retired, instead downsizing from a three-man announcing team to a two-man booth.

"He doesn't play, he doesn't put on a pair of pads, but he's revered probably as much or more in Pittsburgh than Franco (Harris), all the guys," running back Jerome Bettis said. "Everybody probably remembers Myron more than the greatest players, and that's an incredible compliment."

Cope and a rookie quarterback named Terry Bradshaw made their Steelers debuts on Sept. 20, 1970.

Just as Pirates fans once did with longtime broadcaster Bob Prince, Steelers fans began tuning in to hear what wacky stunt or colorful phrase Cope would come up with next. With a voice beyond imitation -- a falsetto so shrill it could pierce even the din of a touchdown celebration -- Cope was a man of many words, some not in any dictionary.

To Cope, an exceptional play rated a "Yoi!" A coach's doublespeak was "garganzola." The despised rival to the north was always the Cleve Brownies, never the Cleveland Browns.

He gave four-time Super Bowl champion coach Chuck Noll the only nickname that ever stuck, the Emperor Chaz. For years, he laughed off the downriver and often downtrodden Cincinnati Bengals as the Bungles, though never with a malice or nastiness that would create longstanding anger.

Many visiting players who, perhaps upset by what Cope had uttered during a broadcast, could only laugh when confronted by a 5-foot-4 man they often dwarfed by more than a foot.

During the years, it seemed every Steelers player or employee could tell an offbeat or humorous story about Cope.

He once jammed tight end Dave Smith, fully dressed in uniform and pads, into a cab for a hectic ride to the airport after Smith missed the team bus for an interview. He talked a then-retired Frank Sinatra into attending a 1972 practice in San Diego to make him an honorary general in Franco Harris' Italian Army fan club. He took a wintertime river swim in 1977 to celebrate an unexpected win, and was sick for days.

Cope's biggest regret was not being on the air during perhaps the most famous play in NFL history -- Franco Harris' famed Immaculate Reception against Oakland in 1972, during the first postseason win in Steelers history.

Cope was on the field to grab guests for his postgame show when Harris, on what seemingly was the last play of the Steelers' season, grabbed the soaring rebound of a tipped Bradshaw pass after it deflected off either the Raiders' Jack Tatum or the Steelers' Frenchy Fuqua and scored a game-winning 60-yard touchdown. As a result, play-by-play man Jack Fleming's voice is the only one heard on what has been countless replays over the years.

"He ran straight to me in the corner, and I'm yelling, `C'mon Franco, c'mon on!"' said Cope, who, acting on a fan's advice, tagged the play "The Immaculate Reception" during a TV commentary that night.

Remarkably, Cope worked with only two play-by-play announcers, Fleming and Bill Hillgrove, and two head coaches, Noll and Bill Cowher, during his 35 seasons.

Cope began having health problems shortly before his retirement, and they continued after he left the booth. They included several bouts of pneumonia and bronchitis -- he smoked throughout his career -- a concussion and a leg problem that took months to properly diagnose. He also said he had a cancerous growth removed from his throat.

"Wherever I go, people sincerely ask me how my health is and almost always, they say `Myron, you've given me so much joy over the years,"' said Cope, who also found the time to write five sports books, none specifically about the Steelers. "People also tell me it's the end of an era, that there will never be an announcer who lasts this long again with a team."

Among those longtime listeners was a Pittsburgh high school star turned NFL player turned Steelers coach -- Cowher.

"My dad would listen to his talk show and I would think, `Why would you listen to that?"' Cowher said. "Then I found myself listening to that. I (did) my show with him, and he makes ME feel young."

Copyright 2008 Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.

Myron Cope dead at 79

By The Tribune-Review
Wednesday, February 27, 2008


His high-pitched screech was the most unlikely to serve as the voice of Steeler Nation.

Yet for more than three decades, Pittsburgh's football faithful muted their televisions and turned up the radio to hear the beloved icon known simply as Myron.

Hall of Fame Steelers broadcaster Myron Cope died this morning at a nursing home in Mt. Lebanon, said Joe Gordon, a former Steelers executive and a longtime friend of Cope's. Cope had been treated for respiratory problems and heart failure in recent months, Gordon said.

He was 79.

The diminutive creator of the "Terrible Towel," Cope entertained and informed fans with his manic style of color-commentary on the Steelers Radio Network from 1970 until June 2005.

"Myron touched millions of people throughout his life, first as a tremendous sportswriter and then as a Hall of Fame broadcaster," Steelers chairman Dan Rooney said. "Myron was also a very close friend. His contributions and dedication to Steelers football were incredible. His creation of The Terrible Towel has developed into a worldwide symbol that is synonymous with Steelers football. He also helped immortalize the most famous play in NFL history when he popularized the term 'Immaculate Reception.'

"Myron was a very passionate person who truly cared about others and dedicated much of his personal time to help numerous charities."

Cope is survived by two grown children, Danny and Elizabeth. His late wife, Mildred, died Sept. 20, 1994, after a long illness.

"Myron symbolizes everything that is great about Southwestern Pennsylvania, and my thoughts and prayers go out his to family," Allegheny County Chief Executive Dan Onorato said this morning. "Today, the entire Steeler Nation mourns the loss of great man and a great Pittsburgher."

An acclaimed newspaper and magazine writer who hosted his own nightly sports talkshow on WTAE Radio for 22 years, Cope said he wanted to be remembered as a writer.

He blended a knowledge of the game with an endearing sense of self-deprecating humor, once quipping that his nasal voice "falls upon the public's ears like china crashing from shelves in an earthquake."

Through the Steelers' first four Super Bowl championships, the listening public celebrated Cope's quirky on-air expressions -- "Yoi!" "Double-Yoi!" and "Hmm-hah!" are entrenched in the local lexicon.

"Myron is Pittsburgh," former Steelers coach Bill Cowher once said. "I remember when I first got the job here in 1992 having to go down to his studio and do his show that night and thinking, 'I remember listening to this guy when I was in my kitchen in Crafton.'

"My dad would be out there at night listening to his talk show, and I would be thinking, 'Why would you listen to that?' Then, I found myself listening to that."

Cope invented the best-known symbol of Steelers' pride, the Terrible Towel. The idea came before a playoff game in December 1975, when his boss at WTAE wanted a gimmick that would get the crowd at Three Rivers Stadium more involved.

Fans still wildly wave the black-and-gold cloths at Heinz Field and in bars and living rooms across the country. Cope sold the trademark for the towels in 1996 to Allegheny Valley School, an institution for the mentally and physically challenged. The school has brought in almost $1 million from sales of the towel.

"It became something that everybody in Pittsburgh could rally around," Noll said of the invention's impact.

Cope was born Myron Sydney Kopelman on Jan. 23, 1929, in Pittsburgh. He graduated from Taylor Allderdice High School -- briefly boxing at the age of 16 -- and the University of Pittsburgh before launching a career in print journalism.

He started out in newspapers, working first at the Erie Times. In the summer of 1951, Cope was hired by the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, where an editor suggested that his last name sounded too Jewish and that he shorten it. As Cope recounted in his autobiography "Double Yoi!", the editor began shuffling through the phone book and stopped at "Cope."

In 1960, Cope left the Post-Gazette to try his luck at freelance writing. He would always remember what his editor at the newspaper, Al Abrams, told him before he left: "Kid, you'll starve. You'll be back in six months."

Instead, Cope became a successful writer for Sports Illustrated and the Saturday Evening Post. During his time at SI, he wrote widely acclaimed pieces on the likes of Cassius Clay (later Muhammad Ali) and sportscaster Howard Cosell. Cope was one of only two writers under contract for SI, the other being George Plimpton.

In 1968, Cope changed courses again and took a part-time job at WTAE Radio. He parlayed that into his job with the Steelers broadcast team in 1970 and into his career as a radio talk-show host.

Cope battled health problems for the last several years of his career, including severe arthritis, a chronically bad back, pneumonia and throat problems. He missed the team's first three exhibition games of the 2004 season while recovering from throat surgery and pneumonia. Then, he had to leave a game that season because of the after-effects of a concussion he suffered at home the night before, the result of a fall.

Prior to that, Cope had missed only five quarters of Steelers football: One quarter of a game early in his career to attend his brother-in-law's funeral and a game in 1994 after his wife died.

Steelers play-by-play announcer Bill Hillgrove said in 2005 it was hard to see his longtime broadcast partner struggle near the end of his career.

"We're going to have to work harder because nobody worked harder than Myron," Hillgrove said when Cope retired. "We're going to have to assume the responsibility of having his eye for news and knowledge of the game's history."

When Cope conducted his last radio show in 2005, the final caller was a first-time caller who had been waiting 13 years to say what Cope meant to her family.

One night, she said, her family was sitting at the dinner table and Cope was signing off. He began his familiar closing with, "This is Myron Cope " and the woman's 8-month-old son chimed in "on sports." They were the child's first back-to-back words.

"That was perfect," Cope said after the show. "The kid's first words -- 'On sports' -- I never could have planned such a perfect last call."

Obituary: Cope's career spanned newspapers, magazines, radio and TV

Wednesday, February 27, 2008
By Gene Collier, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette


Tom Ondrey/Post-Gazette
Myron Cope works his WTAE final radio show in 1995.

Myron Cope, the much-decorated master of the written word, the ever-celebrated sand-blaster of the spoken word, and a pre-eminent Pittsburgh symbol of not only our selves but of our hopes and our innate joyfulness, died today.

Mr. Cope was 79. He had been in declining health since even before his 2005 retirement from the Steelers broadcast booth, where he spent 35 years. The cause of death was given as respiratory failure.

One of the last of the great sports characters, a genuine oasis in a sea of ever homogenizing media-ocrity, Mr. Cope's life and career were nothing less than book-worthy, even if he had to write it himself. Twice.

"Double Yoi" it was called both times, the second an updated version of the original 2002 volume, the title immortalizing one of Cope's signature exclamations, which, along with "Okle-dokle," "Dumbkopf!", and "How do?", became go-to standards of a singular TV and radio language that often seemed entangled in an impossible dichotomy: it was uniquely Cope and yet it was intrinsically Pittsburgh.

"Donair, huh?" an acquaintance once asked of Mr. Cope. "I'll have to check that out; I'm not familiar with a Dallas restaurant named Donair."

Mr. Cope looked confused, perhaps because he himself was the source of the confusion.

"Oh Dallas, yeah," he'd just finished telling the acquaintance. "We went to the great restaurant dahn 'ere!"

National writers and broadcasters all but outdid themselves trying to describe not only Mr. Cope's voice and dialect but his wit, wisdom, and everyman genius, and not even their best attempts delivered the reliable magic of whatever it was Mr. Cope was delivering at the time.

"I've lost the most creative person I've ever known, a loyal and generous friend, and joy to be with," said Joe Gordon, the retired Steelers executive. "His accomplishments were just incredible. The characteristic that I most admired was his intensity to get things done, his durability to hang in there with his book, the DVD, the piece that he did for the City Paper; he really had to labor for those.

"He was such a perfectionist. I'd say to him, 'Myron, all you're doing is changing one sentence and it's taken four days.' "

He was best known as the squawking talisman of Steelers football and had the good fortune of arriving on the scene just as the ballclub was escaping some four decades of losing. Cope hit the glory road sprinting in 1970 and never lost momentum for the next 30 years. Locally, his celebrity dwarfed many of the players, even those of Super Bowl pedigree, and was surpassed by only a very few.

"He was a true celebrity," said Roy McHugh, the former columnist and sports editor of the Pittsburgh Press. "In the '70s, he and I went to closed circuit telecasts of big fights at the Civic Arena. One night as we were leaving we fell in step with [former world light-heavyweight champion] Billy Conn. We couldn't get three or four paces without people wanting Cope's autograph. Conn they ignored."

Regardless of the ever-more-corporate-imaged NFL he'd walked into, Mr. Cope remained a wag and raconteur of a sporting era from the other side of that transition. Though he was riding the new Pittsburgh wave of Dan and Art Rooney Jr.'s strictly business acumen and seasoned football calculations, he still had both feet in the smoke-filled rooms and occasional "toddy's" of Art Rooney Sr.'s world, which thrived on seat-of-the-pants adventurism.

Once at halftime in Cleveland, Cope found his intermission routine interrupted by an occupied restroom on old Municipal Stadium's roof, which is where the radio booths were situated. His long-standing para-military ritual of urinate, get a hot dog, and get back to the action now jeopardized, he improvised. Without being too graphic, let's just say that anyone walking by Municipal Stadium near that portion of the roof in the ensuing minutes had to wonder from where that sudden shower had come.

Born Myron Kopelman in Pittsburgh on Jan. 23, 1929, Mr. Cope lived all but seven months of his life here, the short period in 1951 when he took his first job after graduating from Pitt at the Erie Times, where an editor changed his byline to Cope. His next job was at the Post-Gazette, where his immense writing abilities soon dwarfed his salary, and Myron Cope quickly got the idea that he could do better himself as a free-lancer in the burgeoning sports magazine industry.

"Kid, you'll starve," an editor told him. "You'll be back in a six months."

Mr. Cope's magazine writing took its inevitable place among the nation's very best. In 1963, he won the E.P. Dutton Prize for "Best Magazine Sportswriting in the Nation" for his portrayal of Muhammad Ali, then Cassius Clay.

"Cope's columns in the Post-Gazette were in contrast to what had ever been in the paper, they were dazzling," said Mr. McHugh, himself a writer of immense skills. "In the '60s, there was a certain type of magazine style that no one was ever better at than Myron. He could talk to someone and extract all the humor possible from that person."

In 1987, on the occasion of the Hearst Corp.'s 100th anniversary, Mr. Cope was named as a noted literary achiever, among them Mark Twain, Jack London, Frederick Remington, Walter Winchell and Sidney Sheldon.

His style, simultaneously elegant, robust, and humored, landed him on the original full-time staff of Sports Illustrated, which, with the Saturday Evening Post, became the primary conduits of his work. At its 50th anniversary, Sports Illustrated cited Mr. Cope's profile of Howard Cosell as one of its 50 all-time classic articles. Only Mr. Cope and George Plimpton held the title of special contributor at that magazine when Mr. Cope left due to the demands of his burgeoning radio career, and in no small part due to health insurance concerns as they related to his son, Danny.

Mr. Cope's legendary charitable work, which ultimately led to his being awarded the American Institute for Public Service's Jefferson Award in January 1999, began with his son's enrollment at the Allegheny Valley School, an institution for the profoundly mentally and physically disabled. He served for many years on the board of the Pittsburgh Chapter of the Autism Society of America and the Pittsburgh Vintage Grand Prix, the charity auto race he co-founded, along with the Myron Cope/Foge Fazio Golf Tournament for Autistic Children.

The Terrible Towel, long since a worldwide symbol of Steelers passion and often the Steelers artifact with which Mr. Cope is most identified, is now a trademark that benefits the Allegheny Valley School.

"He was always concerned that his legacy would be the Terrible Towel rather than his writing," said Mr. Gordon, "but his legacy is the joy and pleasure he brought to thousands and thousands of people for 35 years. My brother was dying of cancer in 1977, in really bad shape; that was when Myron had his talk show for only an hour each night. The only thing that would bring a smile to my brother's face or brighten his days was that hour with Myron, and that was still relatively early in his broadcast career."

Though his literary skills were muscular and his broadcast aptitudes somewhat initially debatable at best, Pittsburgh grew to know Mr. Cope far more through the airwaves than from his pristine prose. His WTAE talk show aired for more than 20 years, dominating its time slot. When the Steelers added his voice to their game broadcasts, Mr. Cope thought the only issue was whether he'd have the latitude to be an objective observer. But the only real question was whether there was a frequency that could deliver his signature irascible rasp, gentle and shrill, squeaky and yelpy, often in high emotion fueled by sometimes illogical bursts of excitability.

"He's a horse; he can fly!"

Pegasus?

Mr. Cope wound up broadcasting five Super Bowls and was the only broadcaster appointed to the Pro Football Hall of Fame's Board of Selectors, which he served for 10 years. He became the first pro football announcer elected to the National Radio Hall of Fame, which he considered his greatest broadcast honor, as its honorees include Bob Hope, Edward R. Murrow, Orson Welles and Vin Scully. At the enshrinement dinner in November 2005, he was presented by Steelers Hall of Famer Franco Harris.

It was his broadcasting that opened the many facets of his persona to what grew to be an adoring public. His one-of-a-kind creations, songs and skits and admittedly goofy promotional gimmicks played as though Mr. Cope were Rodney Dangerfield in the late comedy great's Manhattan club. Mr. Cope's annual Christmas Carol, written around the year's general Steelers story line to the tune of Deck the Halls, included unforgettable passages such as "Deck the Broncos; they're just Yonkos," and "Pete Rostoski show 'em who's bosski," all followed with the beloved and routinely inexplicable, "Fug-a-gah-gah-gah, Guh-ga-ga-gah!"

"Another thing about him was his modesty," Mr. Gordon said. "It was unbelievable for a guy as popular and successful as he was, the way he related to people. He always had time for people, always was patient."

For all of this sometimes spastic public theater, Mr. Cope kept his journalist's eye and social critic's perspective on his experience and ours. His beloved wife Mildred, who died in 1994, once asked him after a Steelers playoff loss in Oakland if it was all just too depressing sometimes.

"No," he said. "It's just the way it goes. By the way, what did the vet say about the dog?"

"Gonna need surgery," she reported. "Probably cost $700."

"Now that's depressing," Myron said.

Mr. Cope's final months depressed many of his friends. He'd overcome some misdiagnosed back trouble a few years ago and was able to extend his Steelers career, but his health began failing in stages not long after he retired. Until his final weeks, which he spent in intensive care, it was confidently said of Myron Cope that he enjoyed life immensely and had little patience for those who didn't.

In its collective ear today, Pittsburgh can virtually hear his signature sign-off.

"Bye now!"

Mr. Cope is survived by two children, Daniel and Elizabeth A. Cope. Another daughter, Martha Ann, is deceased.


More details in tomorrow's Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.

First published on February 27, 2008 at 10:02 am