Andy Russell: A Steeler Odyssey

By Andy Russell and Rocky Bleier

Andy Russell, two-time Super Bowl champion and seven-time Pro Bowler with the great Pittsburgh Steelers' teams of the '70s, writes about his career and his teammates on those great teams. Russell writes, "The stories about my teammates are not a recounting of their many records, awards, and other sporting achievements, but instead recollections of some of my personal interactions with them." Lynn Swann, Mel Blount, Terry Bradshaw, Joe Greene, Chuck Noll, Jack Ham, Rocky Bleier, Jack Lambert, Franco Harris, and others are included.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sports Publishing
• Release date: Jun 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781613211595

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

My original intent was to write a series of nonfiction short stories that described adventures I have had with my friends in the wilderness or in traveling to various parts of the world. I didn’t want it to necessarily be a book about football, but I soon realized that each of these experiences involved one or more ex-teammates who had accompanied me. Friends suggested I write a number of short, two-paragraph profiles of some of 70s Steelers that could be placed in between the longer travel adventure stories.

My first effort to write about the team was to try to capture my thoughts and feelings about Chuck Noll, and I wrote wrote ten pages before I even looked up. I soon realized that it was impossible for me to try to capture in two or three paragraphs my feelings about these people, because they have played such a meaningful role in my life—they all deserved much more. I also realized how much respect and affection I have for these men, despite so many years having passed.

These were driven men who not only had enormous talent but also were extraordinarily good people. All the players, assistant coaches and the organization’s staff that I have not profiled are just as important in my mind as the superstars—everyone on those teams of the sixties and seventies had a specialness about them that I will forever cherish. I think the reader will feel my respect for these men. I feel very blessed to have had the opportunity to participate with them on such a challenging and rewarding journey.

The stories about my teammates are not a recounting of their many records, awards and other sporting achievements but instead recollections of some of my personal interactions with them. The reader will note that I frequently start with my first introduction to these players when they were rookies and I was the older veteran. Since the events I have written about happened over 20 years ago I cannot say for sure that my memory is perfect, and I realize that my teammates may remember these stories differently. I have tried hard to reconstruct the events and conversations as accurately as possible. If, on occasion, I showed these players getting angry or being somewhat eccentric, my intent was always to affectionately show their human side and not to be critical. I have great respect for all of them and I hope that shows. I also admit that these player profiles probably have more to do with my own recollections about my Steeler experience than about those players.

In the chapter about myself, I describe my family background and some details about those people and events who influenced my journey to becoming a professional athlete. It does not describe the championship years, because the other stories about Chuck Noll and my teammates will, I think, give the reader my impression of what it felt like to be there, with all those great people and the challenges we faced.

It also doesn’t describe in any detail my experiences in becoming a businessman and the many wonderful people I have met along the way and the good fortune I have had in that endeavor. My personal life is also not discussed, other than to say that my ex-wife, Nancy, and I had an extraordinary journey, full of wonderful experiences, the best of which is the birth and growth of our two precious children, Andrew Keith and Amy Esther.

Both good athletes, they have grown up to be fine adults— Andy, graduating from Dartmouth College where he played football, worked on Wall Street with Goldman Sachs, worked in Germany for a venture group, got his MBA and married his German sweetheart, Brigitte. He now is doing well in the managerial consulting business and lives in Santa Barbara, California while Brigitte gets her masters. Amy, a fine, strong athlete herself, the first to summit when we climbed Kilamanjaro, graduated from Ohio U., and is now living in Columbus, Ohio with her husband, Dave Zemper, a fine young businessman, with their two beautiful girls, Molly Marie and Jackie Joy.

My current, hugely talented, business partners, Don Rea, Jeff Kendall and Sam Zacharias are terrific, putting up with the large amount of time I spend outside of business, (such as the amount of time it took to write this book). I now spend much of my free time traveling, mountain climbing, and golfing with my significant other, Cindy Ellis.

The journey to my current age of 56 has been blessed with the good fortune of having met and worked with outstanding people and of having had many diverse and rewarding experiences. These short stories are my effort to capture some of the athletes and coaches that climbed the mountain of team achievement along with me.

1

Steeler Profile

ANDY RUSSELL

Iwas born in Detroit, on October 29th, 1941 to Esther Blackinton and William Mair Russell, who had immigrated from Glasgow, Scotland in 1922 when he was eleven years old with his mother, father and younger sister. My mother came from an old line family in Flint, Michigan. My brother, Will, had been born three years earlier.

My grandfather, the open hearth furnace operator at the Glasgow steel mill, had moved to Flint, Michigan to avoid the union movement starting in Scotland—the Russells were always independent and no one was going to tell him what he must join. Granddad always teased me to the point of tears, believing he was doing his duty, trying to toughen me up, helping me learn how to cope with the jungle out there.

Dad dropped out of school in the eighth grade to work on a farm on the upper peninsula of Michigan, sending half of his meager pay back to his parents in Flint. At age 19, he returned to Flint and his life took a turn for the better. While singing in the church choir he discovered that he was a very good singer—so good, in fact, that he was offered a scholarship to train for the opera in New York, an opportunity his father quickly rejected. No son of his was going to be something so frivolous as a singer. At the church he became friendly with a fellow choir member, Esther Blackinton, who was literally from Flint’s other side of the tracks.

Esther’s family was upper middle class, as compared to the immigrant Russells, and rich from a cultural and heritage standpoint. Esther’s ancestors had come over on the Mayflower. Family tree members had fought in the Civil War, had been early investors in General Motors and one had been governor of Michigan. Her father was a respected banker and board member of Flint’s largest hospital. Her mother an early woman’s libber.

After Esther, the valedictorian of her high school and a fine swimmer, completed her degree at Oberlin, they were married. Honeymooning in Europe, they camped out, rare in the 1930s, in farmer’s fields, with no tent, (just a umbrella). Despite taking frugality to a new level, they still managed to see much of Europe.

Upon returning home, Esther taught school while Dad looked for work, eventually taking a job with Monsanto Chemical Co. in St. Louis, Missouri. He rose through the ranks, from door to door salesman to officer manager, to finally, the head of the overseas division.

As our father was promoted to new jobs at Monsanto we moved frequently, from Detroit, to Chicago, to New York, to St. Louis, Monsanto’s Corporate headquarters, and finally to Brussells and Geneva. They assured my brother and me that we would benefit from moving so often, as it would require us to learn how to make new friends, which it did when we went off to college, a big adjustment for some but relatively easy for us.

When I was six, my father decided he should teach my brother and me to defend ourselves, setting up a boxing ring in the living room every Wednesday night. My nine-year-old brother, bigger, smarter and tougher, just wailed away at me. Despite our age difference, I was quicker and more agile, and quickly learned how to avoid my brother’s blows. I became an expert in evasiveness, a champion of avoidance, and a nabob of nonconfrontation—not exactly traits for an aspiring young athlete, or maybe they were, helping me avoid bigger people.

Despite Will administering those humiliating defeats, I know he was just trying to please our Dad. Will, being the first born, was always the most responsible, the most serious and dutiful child. Will, now divorced and living in D.C. near his two sons, is a great person—someone I’ve always loved and looked up to.

Our mother’s family owned a cottage on Lake Huron, and we would visit each summer. Mom worked hard to teach us to swim but I balked at going it alone, where the water was over my head. Dad’s solution was to take me out to a floating dock, in deep water, and leave me. As he swam away, he called back to me, You’re going to have to swim to shore on your own, unless you want to spend the night out there. Knowing he meant it, I finally took the plunge an hour later, easily swimming to shore. Dad smiled, smug in his belief that he was a great teacher. He explained that his Dad had taught him to swim by just throwing him into a deep pond. He was told, swim or die. Scotland is a hard land.

Dad would take us for long drives on the back roads through the forest, trying to make us lose our sense of direction. When we admitted to being lost, he’d say, We’re not lost, we’re right here.

He would then find his way back through the maze, enjoying that we thought he was a genius. It was some time before he taught us about the moss on the trees and the positioning of the late sun. To this day I am very good at finding my way in the wilderness. Finding my way in life has been complicated.

Like his father, Dad believed his major family responsibility was to make money and keep his boys in line. I was spanked with a belt but rarely and only when I had done something very bad, like stealing some change off his dresser (to buy candy).

My worst whipping came after I had confided to my mother that I hated my father (probably because he had forced me to eat my spinach the night before). When she told him, probably trying to get him to be more understanding with me, his response was to use the belt again and with each stroke of the belt he said, You will love me. The look on his face told me that that experience hurt him more than it did me.

Naturally, I did love him and I certainly don’t want to give the impression that I had a tough life growing up or that I was abused in any way. Dad was doing the best he could, trying to make a life in a foreign land, and doing a pretty good job of it, raising his children under a stern eye, as his father had. My brother and I grew up with lots of love in fine homes and good schools, spending our high school years in a community called Ladue, St. Louis’ finest suburb.

Like most of our friends, we were required to accomplish daily chores, such as washing the dishes, mowing the lawn, raking leaves, picking weeds, putting out the trash, hanging up our clothes and making our beds—granted, not exactly backbreaking tasks. Home was a place where we were expected to contribute, to learn the value of work.

After our Saturday morning of doing chores, Dad, fancying himself a cook and not wanting to waste anything, would take all the week’s leftovers and create a truly awful soup. Making it even worse, he would insist that we sit at the kitchen table, eat his soup and listen to the Opera. It took many years before I learned to like soup—one out of two isn’t bad.

Perfection was a goal. It was thought that we needed discipline and toughness to help us meet the challenges of the journey in front of us. We were not allowed to argue or disobey our parents. Complaining was not tolerated. Being dishonest in any way was forbidden. Crying was out. Emotions were to be held within.

My mother always emphasized that it didn’t matter what I looked like and placed no value at all on nice clothes or dressing up. She reminded me often that the only thing that mattered was what I accomplished, what I achieved.

Despite my tendency to avoid aggressiveness, I quickly became immersed in sports. I played everything possible and loved it, probably because I was good at it. Being bigger, stronger and faster than most of my classmates, I came to understand that I had been born with an athletic gift. When I bragged to my father he said, The woods are full of talented people. The key will be what you do with it.

Sports became my bliss—the place where I might be special, different from the crowd. Never getting enough praise (do any of us get enough?) in the family, I pursued the activity where I could get it and the games were where I was most happy. Sports became an exhilarating and seductive experience, and I wanted more.

My father taught me gamesmanship. When I would make a mistake, playing him in ping pong, he would say, in a very irritating voice, Thank you for that nice gift. When I finally started getting better, and the games got closer, he’d tell me that I was about to choke—that I didn’t have the guts to beat him. After years of proving him right, I began beating him regularly. When I finally got so good that I beat him 21-2, left handed (I’m righthanded), he refused to ever play again, saying that he hated to lose—a trait he passed on to me.

Looking back now, I’m sure I was moderately dysfunctional: certainly an emotional withdrawal (a walling off of my feelings); conflict avoidance, independence taken to the extreme, a running away from any criticism. Criticism, I thought, could only undermine my confidence. I was in my own little world, oblivious to other people, moving toward a very uncertain future but one that would be all mine.

This neurosis was channeled unrelentingly toward athletic achievement. All my energy went into trying to be the best player I could be. It seemed much more important to me than to most of my friends. It became my existence. Athletics defined who I was. There was no other world. I lived for the contests, the races, the competitions—it consumed me. Granted, I was just a little kid, trying to make the little league team but I couldn’t sleep the night before any competition, just lying there worrying about being beat.

Being so narrowly focused, I gave very little energy to my studies in school. Today they would undoubtedly diagnose me as having an attention deficit disorder—and probably give me pills to slow me down. I rarely even listened to the teachers, daydreaming instead about scoring touchdowns—positive imaging before I even understood the concept. I had no idea whether I was smart and worried that I wasn’t.

My parents believed in allowing their sons experiences that would create responsibility, independence and confidence. When I was fifteen, for summer vacation, they suggested that I go to Europe and bicycle from Glasgow to Naples, where I would catch the boat home to New York.

Incredulous, I asked, You mean, all alone, by myself?

Yes, it’ll make you more independent, my mom answered.

Can I take a friend?

Sure, if you can convince his parents, my Dad said, looking doubtful.

Well, I went on that quintessential coming of age journey with my pal, Jack Schneider. As we boarded the boat in Montreal, my father handed me $200 and said, Here’s money for your room and board. You’ll be there almost three months—try not to splurge!

We bought the most inexpensive bikes ($20 each) we could find in Glasgow and bicycled from Glasgow to Milano, crossing the alps without gears. In Milan we auctioned off our bikes in a city market and then hitchhiked to Naples, (stopping off in Venice, Florence, Pisa and Rome on the way) from where we took the boat to New York. Upon arrival I proudly, handed Dad $50. He had taught his son well—Scots are frugal. The next summer I worked in a St. Louis factory, paying my father back his $ 150.

Somehow, Jack and I had found our way through all those little villages in Scotland, England, Holland, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy, learning as we went; about local customs, buying our food in the small, open markets, sleeping in youth hostels and even farmer’s barns on occasion, and all the myriad challenges of finding one’s way through a foreign land. Granted, we did have some help from Amsterdam to Milan, having teamed up with Jan Hein Vlasman, the son of a wonderful Dutch family that my grandparents and parents had helped provide for during and after World Warll.

Looking back now, I now believe that that trip significantly increased my confidence, helping me find my own way and make good decisions. I came back a different person, one who did his own thinking, with a confidence that somehow transcended the challenges of that trip—I felt like a new person.

Despite my new attitude, things didn’t always go my way. Returning to St. Louis, badly out of shape for football, despite having bicycled from Glasgow to Milano, I nearly passed out in the 100 degree heat the first day of fall practice. Our head coach at Ladue High School, Bob Davis, fearing I might have a serious heat stroke, sent me home. The next day, demoted to second team, I was further embarrassed when Davis posted on the locker room bulletin board that the Horse, (my high school nickname) had become the Pony. I reacted angrily that next day, (as I’m sure Davis wanted), fighting for every yard and tackling more aggressively and I was soon back in the starting lineup.

Davis had concentrated on teaching us sound techniques, something that helped me throughout my career. Losing only two games my three years in high school, we went undefeated my senior year, beating most of our opponents by 40 or more points.

In our last game as seniors, we beat our big rival, Clayton, and I scored five touchdowns and an extra point to win the St. Louis scoring championship, nudging Jon Mars of Burroughs by a single point. With one game to go, I had been four touchdowns behind Mars, who, playing against Burrough’s big rival, Country Day, had scored only one touchdown.

Afterward, my teammates, who had done the hard work, opening huge holes, hoisted my jersey up onto the flag pole outside the high school, right up there next to the American flag. I saw my father standing there, looking proud, staring up at the jersey. When I approached him he said, You missed a block in the third quarter. Clearly seeing the pride in his eyes, it was then that I knew his negativism was just an act—trying to push me to do better.

I was proud when coach Davis named me, as part of his postseason awards, as one of the hardest workers, as well as the team MVP. With my teammates effort, (football is a team game) I had averaged 12 yards a carry and made All-State and All-American, landing scholarship offers from a number of schools.

After much discussion, I chose to play for Dan Devine‘s Missouri Tigers, but not before the university met my mother’s (an Oberlin grad) exacting standards. To this day, Missouri’s recruiters claim that Esther is the only Mom to ask the exact number of books the library held. Having no clue, the assistant coaches were forced to drive over to the library to inquire—it was some time before anyone could come up with the number.

Before leaving high school, Coach Davis had urged me to concentrate on my defense, which had never been up to my offensive game. Davis said, Andy, you must improve your defensive skills— Devine loves good defensive players. You’ve got the ability, just focus on the technique and get the job done. Don’t be so darn nice. Sometimes you got to have the killer instinct. I knew he was right but feared missing tackles—fear of failure, and its accompanying humiliation, was always much greater than fear of getting hurt.

In one of my first scrimmages as a Freshman, carrying the ball around end, I knocked a tackler over backward and then attempted to leap over him. The tackler, lying on his back, staring up at me, grabbed my foot and pulled it down towards his chest but my foot moved forward. Seeing my metal tipped, cleated shoe fit right underneath his face mask, I was left with a tough decision—did I fall down or did I step on his face and continue on down the field. After all, it was only a scrimmage. Well, I pushed off on that foot (granted, somewhat gingerly) and went on down the field—so much for being too nice. Fortunately, my teammate was left with only a macho sabre-like scar on his cheek.

Scoring two touchdowns, on runs of 85 and 84 yards, my first freshman game versus Iowa State in Ames, I returned feeling pretty good about myself. Coach Devine requested that I come up and visit the varsity, a team that was about to go to the Orange Bowl (vs Georgia) and led the nation defensively against the run. Working on goal line defense, Devine gave me ten carries from the one-yard line, and I never made an inch. Smiling, without saying a word, he then sent me back to the freshman team. It was a humbling experience, one that Devine apparently felt I needed.

My sophomore year, working hard to be better at defense, I started at linebacker for a very good team and we won the Big Eight championship, and beat Navy in the Orange Bowl, where I had two interceptions. I was in a state of bliss for weeks.

My junior year, I led Mizzou in pass receiving and rushing. The summer prior to my senior year I went to military training, and then, at age 20, got married to my high school sweetheart, Nancy Tussey. Neither the military experience nor the honeymoon allowed me any time to condition myself prior to training camp, and I arrived horribly out of shape. That year, elected a co-captain by my teammates, Devine made me a defensive specialist at linebacker where I led the team with ten interceptions. We lost only four games my entire three years at Missouri, the Division 1 school with the best won/loss percentage for the decade of the 60s. Dan Devine was a tremendous motivator and his teams always played better than their talent dictated.

My father, perhaps remembering his father denying him the Opera scholarship, not wanting his son to be so frivolous as someone who would play a game for a living, had asked me to promise that I would not play professional football. Not anticipating the opportunity very seriously, I had agreed halfheartedly and began returning the pro football questionnaires I received from most teams with the answer to their first question, Are you interested in playing professional football?, with, No, I am not.

During finals, totally unaware that the NFL draft had occurred, I took a few hours to work out. As I entered the locker room, a teammate yelled, Hey, Russell, congratulations!

For what? I asked.

For being drafted.

What are you talking about? I went through ROTC and am already assigned to Germany.

Amazed that I didn’t know, he continued, No, you were drafted by the Pittsburgh Steelers in the NFL.

The Steelers had been one of the few teams that hadn’t sent me a questionnaire. They didn’t know about my promise to my father and had drafted me. I was thrilled that a pro team had considered me good enough to draft into their organization but remembering my military commitment, I realized that there would be no chance to play pro ball.

The following week, I had a visit from Jack Butler, a Steeler rep and former star player, who had seemed unconcerned when I explained that I had no intention of playing pro ball and that they had wasted a draft choice. Probably figuring I was just negotiating, he had left, telling me someone would call soon to see if I had changed my mind.

Weeks later, while in Houston for Missouri’s game against Georgia Tech in the Bluebonnet Bowl, I received a call in my room. The caller said, in a deep baritone, Hi, this is Will Walls. I’m with the Pittsburgh Steelers and I’d like to talk to you about playing for us.

Stumbling slightly, wondering how to handle this, trying to be polite, I said, Look, I don’t want to waste your valuable time. As I explained to Mr. Butler, I can’t play pro ball because I have an Army commitment.

When do you have to go in?

Next January, for two years.

What are you going to do until January, after your June graduation? You’ll need a job of some kind. Maybe you ought to give pro ball a shot. Why don’t I come up to your room and we can discuss why pro football may make sense for you?

Curious, I said, Oh, all right—come on up, but there’s not much chance that I will sign a contract.

Moments later, opening the hotel door, I was surprised to find a huge individual, staring down at me, wearing a baggy brown suit, with a black shirt and a white tie. He looked like one of the hoods in Guys and Dolls.

Showing him the only chair in the room, worrying that he might break it, Walls got right down to business.We think you’re a real fine player and like that you’re always around the ball—you just don’t get knocked off your feet.

Realizing he was using flattery as a technique, I still couldn’t help but feel good about his comment. I had always thought that I was a better athlete than I had shown in my college career and this man was asking me to prove it. Remembering my promise to my father not to play, I said, Look, I’m too small to play linebacker and too slow to be a safety. Do the Steelers really believe that I can play for them?

Will Walls, a salt of the earth kind of guy, gave me this long, very sincere look and said, Look kid, we think you’ve got the right stuff to be a pretty good pro. You can gain the weight. You’d be making a mistake not to sign.

I’ve got a military commitment for two years—there’s no way I can have a professional football career.

Well, as I mentioned, you could play this coming fall and then go do your military service. If you’re as good as we think you are you can come back after the military and start up playing again.

You mean the team might take me back after a two-year lay off?

Sure, why not? We’ll sign you up tonight with a $10, 000 salary and a signing bonus of $1, 500.

What’s a signing bonus?

The Steelers will give you the $1, 500 just for signing. If you don’t make the team you keep it.

Having little money, my interest had just peaked, but, feeling totally out of my element but knowing intuitively that I should negotiate, I somehow mustered the gumption to say, Look, for me to sign I’d have to have a no-cut contract and the team would have to up that offer substantially.

I swallowed hard, as Walls, who had to know I was bluffing, took a moment to think through his answer. Probably thinking me hugely naive, knowing that the Steelers never gave no-cut contracts (even to Bobby Layne or Ernie Stautner) and realizing that being a 16th-round draft choice I probably wouldn’t even make the team, he nevertheless said, "I think you’re absolutely right—that’s exactly what you deserve.’

I am forever indebted to Will Walls. If he had said what he was thinking, I might have said no thanks and gone right into business, wondering the rest of my life if I could have made it in the pros. Will Walls had a job to do, which was to sign me to a contract, and he knew what he was doing. Flattery will go a long way and few of us are immune to it. By asking for more, I was in effect in the show room, and only the details remained. It was a huge and unexpected step for me, in a direction I had never considered, and one that I will forever cherish. Will Walls had changed my life!

Promising to take my demand to the Steelers and get right back to me, Walls got up and wished me luck in the game. The next day we beat Georgia Tech and I made two interceptions, one on the final play of the game at the goal line to seal the victory. As I walked off the field, I was picked up in a big bear hug by my new friend, Will Walls, who seemed genuinely happy that I had played well.

Will said, Hey, Steeler, great game. The Steelers are real pleased you’ve agreed to sign. He hesitated for only a second, probably thinking his assumed sale tactic too obvious, and then, winking at me, said, If, of course, we can reach terms.

I realized at that moment that I didn’t want my career to be over. Will was right. I should try the next level. I had crossed the bridge and made the right decision—to play pro football. He promised to get back to me within a couple of weeks.

The following week, I played in a postseason game, called the Southwest Challenge Bowl, pitting the Southwest Conference All Stars against our National All Stars. We were coached by Sid Gillman, the Charger’s coach and his staff. Giving it all I had in practice, wanting to impress Gillman, not having been drafted by the AFL, I caught his eye. In front of me Gillman said to one of his assistants, Al, I want you to sign this boy to a contract before this week is over—he’s definitely Charger material.

That Al, as it turned out, was the current Raider owner, Al Davis, known for his tough, street-smart style, who proceeded to sit next to me each day on the drive from the hotel to the practice field. Al, using negative selling, would badmouth Pittsburgh (its smoke stacks, bad weather and lousy stadium, Forbes Field), all the way to practice. After intercepting another pass and recovering a fumble in the game (the Nationals crushed the Southwest All-stars), Al tried even harder. Look, Russell, don’t be stupid—San Diego has great weather and gorgeous babes. I found Al’s style annoying and he cemented my decision to go with the Steelers.

Back in school the following week, working on my degree, but finding it difficult to concentrate, wondering when Walls would call, I rushed to the phone on its first ring. It was Will and he said, I’ve got someone here who would like to talk to you.

Who is it?

Your new coach, Buddy Parker, he answered.

I felt a twinge of fear. Buddy Parker was a coaching legend, having taken the Detroit Lions to an NFL Championship. I was surprised that he wanted to talk with me. How could I possibly negotiate with the man who would decide my fate?

Coach Parker came on the line and in a tough, no-nonsense voice, said, Russell, you going to sign or what—we don’t beg and we only got so much time. What do you want?

Unnerved by his brusque manner, amazed that the coach would discuss terms, having no clue what to ask for, too gutless to mention the Chargers, I said nervously, Well, Sir, I think a $ 12, 000 salary and a $3, 000 signing bonus would be fairer than the original offer.

There was

Reviews for Andy Russell

[scottcholstad · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

This much wanted book was a HUGE disappointment! I feel really upset about it. I've been wanting to get this book for two years, but it's been out of print. I saw I could get a used copy via Amazon and put in on my Wish List some time ago, but recently decided to just go ahead and buy it for myself. It was only a penny, plus shipping. I waited eagerly.For those of you who don't know, Andy Russell, two-time Super Bowl Champion and seven-time Pro Bowler, was one of the all time great Steeler linebackers. Maybe the first in a long line of great Steeler linebackers. Drafted in 1963 out of Missouri, he played his rookie year, served in the army for two years, came back and was able to rejoin the team, played on some terrible teams in the 1960s and then on some incredible 1970s teams before retiring midway through the decade. He was a ten time team captain. He was a great player, a great leader, and a great person. And it just so happens that as I moved to the Pittsburgh area as a very young child in 1971, I grew up loving the Steelers and I remember hearing about him, but I really don't remember seeing him play that much. I don't remember many of those great early '70s teams. I guess I didn't really start watching until the mid-70s. So I pretty much missed out on his career, even though I had heard so much about him. And therefore I've always wanted to learn something about him. Thus, when I found he had written a book (actually two books), I had to get it. And here it is and I just finished it.Let me tell you what I was expecting. I was expecting to hear about his great college career at Missouri, his rookie year with the Steelers, the army years, trying to make the team again when he returned from the military, becoming a starter, playing on all those losing teams and then playing on all of those amazing winning teams and the differences between them, stuff about the players from both decades, the coaches, opposing players, maybe the fans, the city of Pittsburgh, the media, what it was like to be selected for playing in the Pro Bowl, and even year by year details on important games. That's what I expected. That's not what I got.What I got was a chapter about him that touched on his college career, where he got a lot of interceptions for a very successful coach and team, where he was drafted low but made the team, went to Germany, came back and made the team again, negotiated his own contracts, terribly, suddenly fast forwarded to winning a Super Bowl and then retirement. That was pretty much his life. He kind of left a shitload of stuff out. I have no idea why.The next chapter came as a shock. It was about a 1968 USO tour to Vietnam with four other NFL players where they arrived in Saigon on the eve of Tet and everything got blown to hell and they got shot at and they got flown around to bases surrounded by Viet Cong and had to run from helicopters into the bases, where they got mortared, where they were driven around by maniacs intent upon not being killed by VC snipers, etc. When he went, he was a conservative hawk. When he left, after seeing all the senseless carnage and deaths, he was a dove and thought maybe all of those disgusting long haired hippies were right after all. It was an interesting chapter. It would have made an excellent chapter in another book. But not this one.The next chapter began a series of player profile chapters with his best friend, center Ray Mansfield. It was interesting and I enjoyed it, like I enjoyed all of the player profile chapters. Those were the best chapters in the book. The players profiled in the book included Mean Joe Greene, Terry Bradshaw, Jack Ham, Rocky Bleier, Jack Lambert, Franco Harris, and coach Chuck Noll. The best one may have been on Noll, whom he respected more than just about anyone else he ever met.After the Mansfield chapter comes another USO chapter, from the same tour, this time in Thailand with a group of American pilots. One night. A whole chapter about one night. He gets really introspective and thinks that instead of these men worshiping him and his NFL colleagues, they should be bowing down to the pilots and their colleagues, who are giving their lives daily. An interesting chapter, again, but for another book.And then begins the most disappointing aspect to the book. Aside from the few player profile chapters, each chapter is basically about Russell and his post-retirement business partner traveling to mostly Asian and third world countries looking for investment opportunities. They hit the Middle East, where they're basically laughed out of town by the super rich Arabs, and they finally strike it rich in Germany at the end of the book, but each chapter is about trying to do business in Japan, Singapore, Calcutta, and so on and so on. Like I give a holy shit about that! Honestly, does anyone buying this book, virtually all of whom are undoubtedly Steeler fans, give a shit about Russell's post-retirement investment business opportunities?There's NOTHING about the teams and players from the 1960s, almost nothing about the teams and players from the 1970s, a little bit -- just a little -- about the first Super Bowl, nothing about his second Super Bowl, nothing about the fans or media, nothing about the city of Pittsburgh, virtually nothing at all about the Pro Bowls, practically nothing about opposing players, virtually nothing at all about specific seasons or even big games in his career!!! I mean, WHAT THE HELL???!!! What kind of football biography is this? What the hell does he think he is writing? How dare he? Why does he think people are even buying this damn book? What an asshole.The only thing that saves this book from getting a one star review are the last two chapters. The next to last chapter is simply a chapter detailing information about other players he played with who he didn't profile, including Hall of Famers like Mike Webster and John Stallworth, as well as lesser known players like JT Thomas and Mike Wagner. It was interesting to read the synopsis on each of the players and that was the type of stuff I had been waiting for throughout the whole book. The last chapter was his outlook on "today's," game, bearing in mind that this book was published in 1998. First, Russell states that current players, with their larger size and faster speed, could undoubtedly beat the better teams of the old days. But then he goes on to say what I've been saying for years. Despite their talent, they're basically glory seeking, asshole fuckups. He doesn't use those exact words, of course, but he bemoans the players who have to celebrate like idiots every time they make a damn tackle, saying -- like me -- isn't that their job? Why are they celebrating for doing what they're paid to do? Maybe if it was a big touchdown or something, okay, but just a simply tackle or a simple first down run? Seriously? Idiots. And they don't know how to tackle anymore. They've lost their technique. They go for the big time tackle and simply miss half the time, and my wife knows I'm always screaming at players on TV to "wrap up." For the life of me, I don't understand why players don't realize that the easiest way to make a sure tackle is to wrap up, but instead, these dolts, going for the big shots, lead with their heads or even their shoulders and the runners or receivers evade them or bounce off of them and keep going ... because the stupid defender didn't WRAP UP! It's called tackling technique. And today's players don't have it. Russell also gets annoyed with the attention seeking players who get "injured," lying on the field for five minutes, having to be helped or carried to the sideline, only to be back in the game three plays later. Frauds. He states that Mean Joe or Lambert would have never put up with that shit. When he was a rookie, Hall of Fame defensive lineman Earnie Stautner got a fractured hand where his the bone was sticking out through the skin of his hand and he just went to the sideline, after making two more tackles, wrapped some tape around the fracture, and went back in and played. A real man. It's different now. Russell admits that every generation says the previous generation was better and he sounds like an old fogie, but that's just the way he feels and I can't help but agree with virtually everything he writes in this chapter. I despise most of today's players and I hate the way they go nutso when they make a play or taunt their opponent after a play, etc. It's pathetic. It's not football. The 1970s Steelers played football. And so did Andy Russell. It's just a shame he didn't write about it in his book. One more thing. The publisher sucks. This is the worst excuse for a professionally edited and published book I've ever seen. There are so many grammatical mistakes and typos, it's unbelievable. I can't believe they apparently decided not to hire an editor. One example from a late chapter. Something should have "seemed" apparent, but in the book, it "seamed" apparent. Stupid mistakes like that are all over this book. And the few photos in this book are a joke! All black and white, the photos and text accompanying them bleed over each other on back to back pages, so when you're looking at a page of two photos, you're actually seeing four from two pages, with four paragraphs sitting on top of each other. It's beyond unprofessional. It's an embarrassment. As a former editing and publishing professional, I'm appalled. I've deleted his other book from my Amazon Wish List. If you're a Steeler fan, don't waste your time and money on this book. It'll be a major disappointment. Definitely, definitely not recommended.