“There’s a Steelers fan,” the guy in the black and gold knit cap and Ben Roethlisberger jersey roared as he swallowed a mouthful of scrambled eggs and pointed his empty fork at me. I had just walked into the breakfast area at the Marriott Residence Inn in Denver, Colorado.

The guy, sporting one of those two-day-old beards you could sand a hardwood floor with, was seated with about five others – guys and girls – most wearing black. I’d put the bunch of them in their late 20s/early 30s each sporting a wide grin and similar facial hair, except for the women.

They all looked at me and I looked down at myself. I was wearing a blue shirt and a pair of jeans.

“What makes you think I’m a Pittsburgh fan?” I asked.

“I can spot a Pennsylvania boy anywhere,” the guy said dragging a piece of sausage off his fork with his teeth. “And I’m right, ain’t I,” he added confidently.

“Yeah, you’re right,” I answered and as I did, I could feel this warm sensation rising within me. Though it took me by surprise, I recognized the feeling immediately. It was pride.

Yes, pride. Being pegged a “Pennsylvania boy” on my looks alone 1500 miles from home somehow seemed right and felt good.

And while, truth be told, I’m a die-hard Green Bay Packers fan, I was certainly going to root for the Steelers last Monday night. My brother, Bill, who had suggested the trip last June, probably wouldn’t let me on the plane back if I didn’t.

Kibitzing with the Pittsburgh group – it turned out one of them was a Fahey who said he has ties to Inkerman and is sure he is related to Joe Fahey of Duryea – I opened myself up to a little good-natured abuse from “Roethlisberger” who, I soon suspected, may have had an eye-opener or two before coming down to breakfast. Looking me up and down he said, “You’d better be wearing black and gold underwear, buddy.”

“It’s my brother’s turn to wear them,” I said which seemed to satisfy him.

“You wouldn’t want to babysit him for us, would ya?” one of the women said to which I responded, “Does he have a leash?”

“Oh, you mean my wife,” he shouted. “Nah, she’s back home.”

As you’ve certainly figured out, my brother and I were in Denver for the Monday night Football game between the Steelers and Broncos. My wife was along too. But the game was the secondary reason for our trip. The first was to visit my kids, Greta and Michael, both of whom live and work in Boulder, Colorado, for the advertising firm Crispin, Porter and Bogusky.

Denver, Boulder and that whole section of the country are positively beautiful. You can’t take your eyes off the snow-covered Rockies and the sky’s bigness is only surpassed by its blueness. But the thing that struck me last weekend – the thing, actually, that struck everyone from the ESPN announcers, to Denver Post sports columnist Woody Paige, to just about every shopkeeper, waiter and waitress – was how for one three-day period, Denver wasn’t Denver any more.

It was Pittsburgh.

If you watched the game on TV, you know what I’m talking about. More than 25,000 Steelers faithful showed up an Invesco Field, their Terrible Towels overwhelming the little orange pom-poms given free to the Broncos fans.

Steelers fans were all over town. We walked into an REI outdoors store Monday morning and the greeter, spotting my brother’s Steelers cap, bellowed, in a cowpoke kinda accent, “Come right in, fella, most of your buddies are already here. I never seen so many Pittsburgh people.”

The thing I noticed wherever we went, including the game, and the thing that caused my sense of pride to grow even stronger, was the way all these “Pittsburgh people” conducted themselves.

We – as a Pennsylvanian, I’m taking the liberty of including myself – were fun. We were friendly. We were courteous. We were full of life. And the folks in Denver welcomed us with open arms, which says a whole bunch about them too.

Even the gal selling programs inside the stadium couldn’t help but remark, “You Steelers fans are something.” She meant it as a compliment.

All last weekend and all week long I’ve been thinking about what went on out there in the shadow of the Rockies. What did that guy at breakfast see in me? And what did the people in Denver see in all of us?

I’ve concluded it can be only one thing: we’re real.

There’s nothing phony about Pennsylvanians. We have no pretense. We have no guile.

We are who we are.

That’s our style.

And, man, it sure played well in Denver.

About the Author

Ed Ackerman is the editor of the Pittston Sunday Dispatch. He can be reached at 602-0175.

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