Interesting open letter to Narduzzi: (Link) . Included parts of it below.
Dear Pat,
“Dude…Pitt used to be good at football.
“Like, really good.”
As if my dog-eared special-edition “100 Years of Pitt Football” program I got at my first game wasn’t enough, I breezed right through the copy of Francis Fitzgerald’s book about the ’76 Panthers (as told by the staff of the Post-Gazette, for whom I am not a compensated endorser–I swear!) I acquired the following summer. More than ever, I wanted to make myself a Pavlovian dog to the history of that football team, learning more not only about when the Panthers “Roared,” as Fitzgerald dubbed it–but how.
That’s why I’m writing to you, Pat. My chief concern entering the 126th season of Pitt football is the growing number of loyal-to-a-fault folks who, like me, have always wished prosperity for this program and, like me, are having a harder and harder time remembering its relevance, and fathoming how and when it can be attained again.
Funny thing is, the team right down the block from where you’ll be Saturday afternoon used to have that same problem.
Several years ago, not only were the Pittsburgh Pirates trying to be relevant, but they were also trying to shed one of the worst stigmas in the history of North American sports. Clint Hurdle arrived and not only believed the Pirates could win, but psyched everybody else, including the Pirates themselves, into believing they could win. Suddenly, the wins started piling up, and PNC Park was the place to be–and not just because of fireworks, bobbleheads or the incomparable view, either. Then, those first couple years under Hurdle, the Bucs collapsed down the stretch, and things went back to the way they were on the North Shore, when the Pirates might as well not have existed.
But then, two seasons ago, everything changed. The merciful end of “The Streak.” The Blackout. Yada, yada, yada. I was at PNC Park for one of those playoff games, and it was unlike anything I had ever witnessed. It was like being present for a winner-take-all English Premier League soccer match. You would have thought every man, woman and child in the stands had skin in the game the way they hung on every pitch and every play.
Did they win the World Series? No. Did they win the pennant? No. Did they at least win their own division? No. Did it matter? No. By then, we were so intoxicated with happiness from seeing that team finally get over the hump and get a taste of success that the only thing irrelevant was the end result.
See the pattern here? I hope so, because I’ve seen the same atmosphere at Heinz Field with my own eyes, and it’s not necessarily ancient history, though it feels a little more like it every year.
Pitt is the Pittsburgh Pirates of college football, and you have a chance to be its Clint Hurdle. This offseason I have seen you take it and run with it like James Conner running in, around and over would-be tacklers. Please don’t lose it.
Fixing the attendance problem at Heinz Field on Saturdays once and for all isn’t as hard as many make it out to be. Give us a product worth watching, and we’ll give anything to come watch it, plain and simple.
To wit, I sincerely hope, for your sake and ours, that you won’t make your job any harder than it already is. Not that I don’t appreciate having a coach in town who isn’t allergic to expectations, but a part of me wishes you hadn’t raised the bar so abruptly with ambitions of conference and national championships. I’ve heard all that before from men before you who were long on such promises and woefully short on delivery, and being teased by people holding positions of authority over your team has grown rather tiresome.
There was that relatively soft-spoken Wisconsin guy just a while back, who was actually a pretty good coach, except for the one day of the week it counted.
The same could be said for the “Pitt Man,” who was supposed to tie up all the loose ends and rebuild all the burnt bridges and make everything all better. He had the opportunity of a lifetime to do just that and found a way to screw it up.
Then there was the guy in between those two, who was just a dick.
And before him, there was the guy who was here for, like, two seconds, who was also a dick.
And before any of those guys, there was the guy with the big glasses who rebuilt much of the credibility the program lost, despite trying to build a spread offense that was an absolute disaster. Still, like the “Pitt Man,” that guy could never seem to win when he absolutely had to.
And then there was that mild-mannered Southerner who was supposed to take us “Back to the Future.” Instead, he just took us back. His first time here was quite another matter.
I’ve had people much more qualified to appreciate that first time here tell me that you’re his spitting image. Same recruiting savvy, same tactful hiring of coaches, same energy, same belief. In retrospect, I guess I see it too, and as badly as anyone else who will patronize Heinz Field Saturday, I want to believe it’ll mean something this time. At this point, believing can’t happen without seeing.
I’ve seen a lot from those yellow seats. I’ve also seen a lot from the plush seats in the press box the last couple years. You won’t see me in those particular seats Saturday.
Why not? Well, for starters, I had the misfortune of being laid off by a media outlet that lowballed content providers, then I was compelled to distance myself from one that swindled them altogether. Perhaps the bigger reason, though, is that my heart has been broken more than my bank account.
You see, Pat, it’s not that I don’t care. My problem is, I’ve cared too much. Watching the same program I grew up rooting for constantly fall on its face was just too painful for me to do that job objectively and at the level of professionalism I expect from myself and my peers. The allure of those yellow seats, even after all those broken hearts, is just too strong, and, having gotten all that off my chest, I can’t wait to sit there and beat my chest while wearing a Script t-shirt the day you make Pitt “it” again.
I agree wholeheartedly with you that it can be done in year one, but again, it doesn’t need to be done with big, shiny trophies or trips to Arizona. You’ve inherited an intelligent fanbase. We’ve seen how sausage is made. We know the teams that prosper on a national level, by and large, are teams that cut corners to do so. We accept that the system is not designed for sprawling urban schools governed with Ivy League attitudes to succeed on a national level in a manner that is sustainable. The North Shore, on game day, will never be Happy Valley, Death Valley or the San Fernando Valley. We get that. But it doesn’t have to be in order for your first year here to be a successful one.
In other words, we don’t need you to put a team on the field that’s indomitable. We just need you to put a team on the field that’s tolerable.
I want a team that bludgeons lower-division teams like the one you’re playing Saturday.
I want a team that knows how to line up for game-winning chip-shot field goal attempts and execute extra points, regardless of the stakes.
I want a team whose offensive coordinator knows the difference between the whereabouts of collegiate and professional hash marks on an American football field.
I want a team that takes me back to the good ol’ days of 35-40 points being enough for victory.
I want a team that won’t come out looking like a Class A WPIAL outfit at its own homecoming game.
I want a team that knows how to protect a three-touchdown lead with four minutes left!
I want a team that won’t get pushed around all over its own backyard by freaking Akron. Or anyone else, for that matter.
(That reminds me, I wonder how the nachos are at InfoCision Stadium? But I dream…)
I want a team that makes the phrase “I’m watching the Pitt game” mean something more than “I’m checking to see what kind of stats their one or two NFL prospects put up today.”
I want a team that makes me unashamed to sit in those yellow seats and care too much.
In summary, I want a team that’s more than just “same old Pitt.” Or, as the kids say, hashtag: SOP.
Check off all those boxes, and I’ll be behind you 100 percent–to say nothing of the rest of us.
You and I are cut from similar cloth. We’re both proud of where we come from, we have both witnessed deplorable acts of disloyalty that affected our relationship with a sport we love, and we both want what’s best for Pitt football.
Even if Pitt football isn’t the best, you’ll still be the best in my book, as long as you make Pitt football better than its previous self.
Good luck this season, and, with any luck, I’ll see you in Charlotte someday.
Or, failing that, someplace hopefully a hell of a lot nicer than Birmingham or Fort Worth.
Oh, and by the way…
#H2P.
Dear Pat,
“Dude…Pitt used to be good at football.
“Like, really good.”
As if my dog-eared special-edition “100 Years of Pitt Football” program I got at my first game wasn’t enough, I breezed right through the copy of Francis Fitzgerald’s book about the ’76 Panthers (as told by the staff of the Post-Gazette, for whom I am not a compensated endorser–I swear!) I acquired the following summer. More than ever, I wanted to make myself a Pavlovian dog to the history of that football team, learning more not only about when the Panthers “Roared,” as Fitzgerald dubbed it–but how.
That’s why I’m writing to you, Pat. My chief concern entering the 126th season of Pitt football is the growing number of loyal-to-a-fault folks who, like me, have always wished prosperity for this program and, like me, are having a harder and harder time remembering its relevance, and fathoming how and when it can be attained again.
Funny thing is, the team right down the block from where you’ll be Saturday afternoon used to have that same problem.
Several years ago, not only were the Pittsburgh Pirates trying to be relevant, but they were also trying to shed one of the worst stigmas in the history of North American sports. Clint Hurdle arrived and not only believed the Pirates could win, but psyched everybody else, including the Pirates themselves, into believing they could win. Suddenly, the wins started piling up, and PNC Park was the place to be–and not just because of fireworks, bobbleheads or the incomparable view, either. Then, those first couple years under Hurdle, the Bucs collapsed down the stretch, and things went back to the way they were on the North Shore, when the Pirates might as well not have existed.
But then, two seasons ago, everything changed. The merciful end of “The Streak.” The Blackout. Yada, yada, yada. I was at PNC Park for one of those playoff games, and it was unlike anything I had ever witnessed. It was like being present for a winner-take-all English Premier League soccer match. You would have thought every man, woman and child in the stands had skin in the game the way they hung on every pitch and every play.
Did they win the World Series? No. Did they win the pennant? No. Did they at least win their own division? No. Did it matter? No. By then, we were so intoxicated with happiness from seeing that team finally get over the hump and get a taste of success that the only thing irrelevant was the end result.
See the pattern here? I hope so, because I’ve seen the same atmosphere at Heinz Field with my own eyes, and it’s not necessarily ancient history, though it feels a little more like it every year.
Pitt is the Pittsburgh Pirates of college football, and you have a chance to be its Clint Hurdle. This offseason I have seen you take it and run with it like James Conner running in, around and over would-be tacklers. Please don’t lose it.
Fixing the attendance problem at Heinz Field on Saturdays once and for all isn’t as hard as many make it out to be. Give us a product worth watching, and we’ll give anything to come watch it, plain and simple.
To wit, I sincerely hope, for your sake and ours, that you won’t make your job any harder than it already is. Not that I don’t appreciate having a coach in town who isn’t allergic to expectations, but a part of me wishes you hadn’t raised the bar so abruptly with ambitions of conference and national championships. I’ve heard all that before from men before you who were long on such promises and woefully short on delivery, and being teased by people holding positions of authority over your team has grown rather tiresome.
There was that relatively soft-spoken Wisconsin guy just a while back, who was actually a pretty good coach, except for the one day of the week it counted.
The same could be said for the “Pitt Man,” who was supposed to tie up all the loose ends and rebuild all the burnt bridges and make everything all better. He had the opportunity of a lifetime to do just that and found a way to screw it up.
Then there was the guy in between those two, who was just a dick.
And before him, there was the guy who was here for, like, two seconds, who was also a dick.
And before any of those guys, there was the guy with the big glasses who rebuilt much of the credibility the program lost, despite trying to build a spread offense that was an absolute disaster. Still, like the “Pitt Man,” that guy could never seem to win when he absolutely had to.
And then there was that mild-mannered Southerner who was supposed to take us “Back to the Future.” Instead, he just took us back. His first time here was quite another matter.
I’ve had people much more qualified to appreciate that first time here tell me that you’re his spitting image. Same recruiting savvy, same tactful hiring of coaches, same energy, same belief. In retrospect, I guess I see it too, and as badly as anyone else who will patronize Heinz Field Saturday, I want to believe it’ll mean something this time. At this point, believing can’t happen without seeing.
I’ve seen a lot from those yellow seats. I’ve also seen a lot from the plush seats in the press box the last couple years. You won’t see me in those particular seats Saturday.
Why not? Well, for starters, I had the misfortune of being laid off by a media outlet that lowballed content providers, then I was compelled to distance myself from one that swindled them altogether. Perhaps the bigger reason, though, is that my heart has been broken more than my bank account.
You see, Pat, it’s not that I don’t care. My problem is, I’ve cared too much. Watching the same program I grew up rooting for constantly fall on its face was just too painful for me to do that job objectively and at the level of professionalism I expect from myself and my peers. The allure of those yellow seats, even after all those broken hearts, is just too strong, and, having gotten all that off my chest, I can’t wait to sit there and beat my chest while wearing a Script t-shirt the day you make Pitt “it” again.
I agree wholeheartedly with you that it can be done in year one, but again, it doesn’t need to be done with big, shiny trophies or trips to Arizona. You’ve inherited an intelligent fanbase. We’ve seen how sausage is made. We know the teams that prosper on a national level, by and large, are teams that cut corners to do so. We accept that the system is not designed for sprawling urban schools governed with Ivy League attitudes to succeed on a national level in a manner that is sustainable. The North Shore, on game day, will never be Happy Valley, Death Valley or the San Fernando Valley. We get that. But it doesn’t have to be in order for your first year here to be a successful one.
In other words, we don’t need you to put a team on the field that’s indomitable. We just need you to put a team on the field that’s tolerable.
I want a team that bludgeons lower-division teams like the one you’re playing Saturday.
I want a team that knows how to line up for game-winning chip-shot field goal attempts and execute extra points, regardless of the stakes.
I want a team whose offensive coordinator knows the difference between the whereabouts of collegiate and professional hash marks on an American football field.
I want a team that takes me back to the good ol’ days of 35-40 points being enough for victory.
I want a team that won’t come out looking like a Class A WPIAL outfit at its own homecoming game.
I want a team that knows how to protect a three-touchdown lead with four minutes left!
I want a team that won’t get pushed around all over its own backyard by freaking Akron. Or anyone else, for that matter.
(That reminds me, I wonder how the nachos are at InfoCision Stadium? But I dream…)
I want a team that makes the phrase “I’m watching the Pitt game” mean something more than “I’m checking to see what kind of stats their one or two NFL prospects put up today.”
I want a team that makes me unashamed to sit in those yellow seats and care too much.
In summary, I want a team that’s more than just “same old Pitt.” Or, as the kids say, hashtag: SOP.
Check off all those boxes, and I’ll be behind you 100 percent–to say nothing of the rest of us.
You and I are cut from similar cloth. We’re both proud of where we come from, we have both witnessed deplorable acts of disloyalty that affected our relationship with a sport we love, and we both want what’s best for Pitt football.
Even if Pitt football isn’t the best, you’ll still be the best in my book, as long as you make Pitt football better than its previous self.
Good luck this season, and, with any luck, I’ll see you in Charlotte someday.
Or, failing that, someplace hopefully a hell of a lot nicer than Birmingham or Fort Worth.
Oh, and by the way…
#H2P.
