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c. 2023 Rod Ice
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(12-23)
I had been in the Icehouse home office long enough to finish my pot of morning coffee, when the landline telephone began to ring. This antiquated device was on top of my desk, and hadn’t actually been used in many years. Though the service line still existed, now tasked with delivering a DSL signal. The technicality of being unplugged did not keep it from sounding off repeatedly. So, the electronic link made a chirping noise that was familiar only in memory. I rubbed my eyes and yawned loudly. Who could possibly be calling that number after such a long period of neglect?
When I lifted the receiver, a husky voice filled my ear.
“Hey, buddy! Are yinz busy right now? I want to talk, okay? Mama Luccioni is in the kitchen, making a batch of kielbasa spaghetti. I’m getting bored sitting here, watching replays of the Stiller Super Bowls. And all those Penguin victories, on the ice. I need something different. How’ve you been, kiddo?”
My erstwhile mentor, from the old neighborhood in New Kensington, Pennsylvania, sounded as alive and ornery as ever. He had once been a boxer, and later became a regional icon for hawking Iron City beer and pizza kits. But I had known him as a grandfather to his brood, who lived next door.
“Al, I’m not a kid anymore. As a matter of fact, I’m in my 60’s now...”
He did not sound convinced.
“What, yinz graduated from high school already? Hoo boy, I’m losing track of time. It ain’t too hard when the trophy case here keeps getting fuller and fuller every year. I quit remembering which ring came when, a long time ago. Capiche?”
My stomach had started to ache. I had to hold my belly while listening.
“Is that why you called? Just to brag about all the championships won by your franchises on the three rivers?”
My former neighbor laughed with good-natured ease. I imagined him sitting in his favorite lounger, wearing an old-man undershirt that exposed his broad shoulders and big arms.
“Nah, I don’t wanna rub dirt in your face. Yinz know I don’t treat people like that, Mama would make me go to confession. I hate sitting in that little box! But it was on KDKA the other day, news from up there by the lake. I put a gum band on my finger, to remind me to call. What happened with your guy, the one who got all that freaking dough to play quarterback? He can’t play, won’t play, then he’s hurt or something, what gives? I’d throw him out of the haus, trust me! He’d go right dahn if I had to punch him, myself!”
I shook my head and snorted quietly.
“I’s not so simple as that, Al! Our Haslams gave away the store already. They signed off on a guaranteed contract. That puts us in a tough spot at the moment...”
Luccioni laughed until his lungs were depleted.
“The only guarantee I know is that the Stillers will get another Super Bowl ring, by God! Yinz know Coach Tomlin will handle the job. Anybody who don’t agree is a jagoff!”
I wanted to hang up and go to my refrigerator for a cold brew. But in a nod to civility, continued listening instead.
“The owner here was trying to jump start our Cleveland Browns. I guess his heart was in the right place, though it seemed like too much of a gamble to me, personally. Injuries happen, it’s part of pro football. Staying healthy keeps a team in the hunt...”
My bygone neighbor nearly shouted with condemnation.
“YINZ NEED TO REDD UP THAT PLACE! CLEAN HAUS, GET IT STRAIGHT FOR A CHANGE! WHAT, PEOPLE UP THERE DON’T KNOW HOW TO WIN ANYMORE? WHAT A SHAME, I’LL SEND A TERRIBLE TOWEL IN THE MAIL. IT’LL WORK FOR MOPPING TEARS TOO! TRUST ME! LOSERS CRY LOTS OF TEARS BY LAKE ERIE!”
I struggled to keep my arm from reaching for the telephone base.
“Al, the only time your boys in black-and-gold have ever won anything is when you got help from the Buckeye State. Chuck Noll was a native of this area, and played for Paul Brown. Bill Cowher played here and coached here. In his speech at the Canton hall of fame, he thanked Marty Schottenheimer for making him a real man, and a success in the league...”
Luccioni lost his cool. He began to boil over like a kettle on the stove.
“TAKE THAT BACK! TAKE THAT BACK! YINZ ARE TALKING CRAZY, KIDDO! DON’T BE SO NEBBY ABOUT ALL THAT BEHIND-THE-SCENES HOOPLA, IT DON’T AMOUNT TO ANYTHING! SO WHAT IF THEY GOT OUT OF OHIO, I’D SAY THAT WAS A GOOD MOVE, RIGHT? I WOULDA GOT OUT TOO!”
I could not help offering one last observation to send him off the emotional cliff.
“Big Ben Roethlisberger was from Lima, in my state. There’s another plug for us, you owe this territory a lot really. We made your team what it is today...”
I could tell that my friend had once been a boxing champ. He began to throw verbal punches over the telephone connection.
“HORSE HOCKEY! I’LL WORSH YOUR MOUTH OUT WITH SOAP, KIDDO! SHOW SOME RESPECT! MAMA LUCCIONI WILL RUN UP THERE WITH A WOODEN SPOON AND CRACK THAT POINTED HEAD, BUT GOOD!”
I shrugged and switched hands with the receiver. My arm had begun to cramp.
“Sorry, old fellow. I apologize, I apologize! Don’t get your boxers in a bunch...”
I could tell something had gone wrong in the other room. His wife squawked curses while scattering utensils around their countertops.
“Heyy, I gotta go, kid! Mama burnt the spaghetti sauce, I don’t know what happened. She’s losing her marbles I think! We’re going to Primanti’s for a change, I need a sammich. Maybe we’ll get some chipped chopped ham on the way home, in case I’m still hungry. Maybe I’ll have an Imp n Arn to slosh it dahn! It’s turning slippy outside. They said on KDKA that a snowstorm is coming. Be good and don’t get yinzself into trouble, okay? We’ll talk again later!”
Just as the call had seemingly come out of nowhere, our conversation ended abruptly. I sat staring at the vintage receiver for a long time, with the dial tone blaring in my ear. Finally, I hung up and slouched in my seat.
I had left the ‘Burgh in 1978. But somehow, my connection with Al Luccioni remained intact.
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