Steel-willed

Sporting News, The, July 27, 1998 by Paul Attner

I'm taking a roller-coaster ride with Bill Cowher. OK, so it's only imaginary. Do you really think I'd actually be nuts enough to climb into a roller-coaster car with this guy? He'd probably beg the ride operator to put the thing on max speed and then he'd sit in the very front seat and stick out that jaw of his and cut through the wind and defy the machine to go faster and meanwhile I would be saying my prayers and wondering how I was stupid enough to get myself into this situation in the first place.

No, my roller-coaster ride with Bill Cowher is gearing up in a much safer environment, in a Pittsburgh deli, a few blocks from Three Rivers Stadium. This is after a five-minute car ride in which Cowher sized up an oncoming vehicle and calmly took a lefthand turn despite the other auto being so close that I could detect the shock that immediately dominated the driver's face. Now, you need to understand that I am a relatively calm person by nature, susceptible to becoming unnerved perhaps by risky turns into oncoming traffic, but not particularly moved by motivational talks and sappy appeals. I'm disgusted by fans who paint their faces in team colors and decorate the interior of their houses with their favorite sports memorabilia. How can you be that smitten by a game, to make a fool of yourself voluntarily?

So here I am in this deli in the middle of what has stretched into a decently long conversation and suddenly I find myself on this roller coaster. I'm there because that is where Cowher wants me. We've been discussing emotions, because you can't even begin to understand what makes Bill Cowher tick if you don't probe this area of his personality and, wham, just that fast, his voice, which has stayed on a remarkably calm plane takes on a different rhythm and tempo entirely.

"The season is like a roller coaster," he starts, staring me square in the eyes, which is what he does almost without exception whenever he talks to you. There is no meekness in his manner. He faces you straight on, leaves nothing to guesswork. And, hey, do you want to make something of it?

"If you make the decision to be on the team, you strap yourself in at the beginning of the season," he continues. This is in the middle of the offseason, with the Steelers' opening 1998 game months away, and Cowher concedes he's still in recovery from exhausting every tidbit of emotion he could generate during the 1997 schedule. Yet, offseason or not, a twinge of excitement has entered the deli. I look at Cowher. His eyes, those penetrating, unbending, wickedly ingratiating eyes, are now huge. He bites off his words as if they were tasty snacks.

"And once you strap yourself in, you are going up that first hill, and regardless of what happens, you are going to go up and down a lot more times and regardless of what happens"--and here his voice takes on an intensity unlike anything I have felt from a fellow human during a simple lunch conversation--"you can't get off If,you are part of a team, there is no bailing out, not for 16 weeks. And if you don't want to make that commitment, if you can't handle the ride, then you better get off right now because we DON'T WANT YOU."

He stops and stares. The players see that stare, and they look for a blade of grass under which to hide. I realize he's daring me to bail out. I swallow hard. I have absorbed Cowher Power full blast, and I can feel the effects. His words were corny, and they reek of everything that I normally find mystifying about pep talks and their effect on players' hearts. Yet, I can't deny it. I've got the power bad, and it's driving me to do what I usually would never consider.

I weigh only 165 pounds, and Jerome Bettis would leave tread marks on my not-very-massive chest merely by breathing on me, but at that moment, if Cowher had asked me to sign on, I would have scrambled to find a pen. When does the Bus leave?

Without even trying--without even using his "A" material--Cowher has moved me.

Damn.

The good Lord blessed Bill Cowher. He gave him the ability to inspire others, and Cowher has used that gift well. Not since Lombardi haw we seen such a motivator in the NFL--a mesmerizing speaker, an emotional firebrand, a whirlwind of cliches and anecdotes who can seize the moment and devour it in one chunk.

"I don't think you can hang around Bill very long and not feel his energy," Bucs coach Tony Dungy says. There is admiration in his voice. Dungy, who served with Cowher under Chiefs coach Marty Schottenheimer, is as understated as Cowher is brazenly bold. Even if Dungy wanted to be, he couldn't be like Bill. "You don't see a gift like Bill's very often," he says, sighing.

Prodded by an obsession with winning that fills every minute dot of his body, Cowher can lift players by the power of his words, he can push teams beyond theft apparent limits with the drive of his soul, he can make caviar out of chicken eggs. If Cowher had been their manager, there would have been no 40-120 Mets in '62. If Cowher had been their coach, there would have been no 0-26 Bucs. If Cowher had been leading them, the '86 Red Sox would have won the World Series, even with Bill Buckner at first. If Cowher been in charge, do you think the U.S. soccer team would have lost to Iran, for cripes sake?