We lose more than a former football star when somebody like Franco Harris passes away. We lose an essential piece of what sports mean in society and who best represents the goodness associated with sports.
Franco Harris was understated, acting like the guy who lives down the street. Indeed, I know people who live “just down the street,” and that’s what they said about Franco Harris. Harris wasn’t born in Pittsburgh but lived there following his days with the Steelers. He became woven into the city’s fabric and, in many ways, symbolized it.
It’s hard to imagine Franco’s personality fitting into today’s game, characterized as it is by exclamations of “Look at me!’ and all the bravado that goes with it. “Coach Prime” Dion Sanders does, but Franco Harris doesn’t. Harris would have had good reason to be boisterous, though, a history-maker as he was, with the “Immaculate Reception” and four Super Bowl rings. But Franco Harris didn’t specialize in bombast. He let his athletic performance speak for him.
Many fans remember Harris from his days with the Steelers and all he accomplished there. Franco was Offensive Rookie of the Year, a nine-time Pro Bowler, a member of the 1970s All-NFL team, and churned out over 14,000 yards over his career. Yet, the Steelers took a bit of a risk when they drafted Harris in the first round of the 1972 NFL Draft with the #13 pick overall. I say that because Franco Harris had a relatively modest offensive career at Penn State, and (truth be told) he was not the star of the show.
Much like the role Jim Braxton played for the Buffalo Bills and with O.J. Simpson, Franco Harris was asked to block at Penn State (in his case, for Lydell Mitchell), run a bit, and pass-catch. Franco Harris never rushed for more than seven hundred yards a season and averaged eight rushing touchdowns in his three years with the Nittany Lions. He caught only twenty-eight career passes (117-yard season average) and scored only one touchdown during his college years. On the other hand, Mitchell was a 3000-yard collegiate rusher at State College, and Charlie Pittman (the third running back in PSU’s stellar backfield and the one I most feared) gained nearly 2500 career yards.
PSU’s Franco Harris in 1971 v. TCU (photo, The Tribune-Democrat)
But Penn State and the Steelers had this in common: they had great teams with many great players and terrific coaches. They didn’t need a do-it-all player. Franco Harris learned how to fit in, contribute, and win; moreover, he did what was asked of him and excelled at assigned tasks. He was consistent, too. In Pittsburgh, he gained 1055 rushing yards as a rookie (1972) and 1007 rushing yards in 1983, his final year with the team.
Yeah, that was Franco Harris, the football player. He was a great one, too. But there’s much more to his life story and the legacy he leaves. We lose more than a football star when somebody like Franco Harris passes away. We lose an essential piece of what sports mean in society and who best represents the goodness associated with sports. In that regard, Franco Harris resides in the category of greatness.
