To millions of football fans, Rocky Bleier is the legendary running back who helped propel the Pittsburgh Steelers to four Super Bowl victories in the 1970s. Vietnam veterans remember him as the Army infantryman who earned a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart, beat the odds by overcoming his combat injuries and returning to the gridiron, and won the recognition that made them proud they’d served.
I was drafted twice. The first time was by the Pittsburgh Steelers in February 1968. The second was by the U.S. Army the following December. I had no trouble making the cut with the Army, which sent me to Vietnam as an infantryman. I didn’t put on a Steelers uniform again until after I had served as a soldier. Both experiences shaped my life.
I didn’t spend much time with the Steelers on the first go-round. When you’re near the tail-end on the list of NFL draft choices, all you want to think about is making the team. My draft board had classified me as 1-A, but Bill Austin, the head coach, had assured me that the Steelers would be able to “take care of that.” So I didn’t think much about the war.
A few months later, both the Steelers and I realized that something had gone awry. Some congressman had been defeated, some general had retired, and, well, the long and the short of it was that I was to report to Fort Gordon, Georgia, for basic training. Five months later, I was carrying a grenade launcher in Chu Lai.
I won’t dwell on the details, but in August 1969, while our company was supporting another unit that was involved in a firefight, I was wounded twice—shot in the left thigh and, later, had my right leg ripped by a grenade. I spent three weeks at an Army hospital in Tokyo, where the doctor said I’d never play football again. I didn’t buy that.
The following month I was transferred to the U.S. Army hospital at Fort Riley, Kansas, where I underwent nine months of rehabilitation and worked out every day. The war was winding down then, and the Army was offering to discharge members of combat units five months ahead of schedule. I signed up, and in July 1970 I went back to Pittsburgh.
It took another two years for me to rebuild my strength sufficiently that the Steelers were ready to put me back on the field again. In the meantime, they kept me on as a reserve player and a member of the so-called taxi squad, whose members never got to play. They also paid for more operations and rehab. In 1972 I finally made the team.
The 11 years I spent in a Steelers uniform and the two I spent in the military taught me the same sorts of lessons, and they reinforced one another. Each stressed the importance of teamwork and the sacrifices you had to make to accomplish the mission. And each emphasized individual responsibility and accountability. I felt at home in both.
But the military infused me with some lessons that you couldn’t learn as quickly anywhere else. You were thrown together with people from such different backgrounds that it was an eye-opener for everybody—for kids from the South, from farm families in the Midwest, from the big cities such as New York and Chicago.
The Army showed me a lot about leadership that I’ve carried with me in business after retiring from football. As an acting platoon leader in basic training, I let a bunch of guys disobey orders by going into town to get ice cream, but I didn’t stick up for my men after they got caught. My platoon sergeant made sure it would be a lesson I’d remember.
I learned that sometimes you had to take on more responsibility than you wanted to, and did things you didn’t like in order to get the job done; that you couldn’t shirk your duty when it fell to you to take the lead; and that if you had the training and the inner character, you’d always react properly when a crisis arose.
There were some little things I’ve carried with me as well. Remember how you had to keep everything neat and spotless? Well, to this day, I make the bed at home—complete with square corners—and I keep my shoes mirror-bright. You can tell a lot about people by looking at the way they dress. I still use that as a measure.
Like a lot of Vietnam veterans, I didn’t go to military reunions. With short tours of duty and a lot of casualties, you never got to know the people you served with. You were sent to replace somebody. You knew nicknames, not real names. With the public so hostile to the war, returning vets felt used and abused, and repressed their feelings.
Ironically, that ended up giving me an important role to play. Without intending to do so, I became the guy who came back from Vietnam and won the acclaim most other vets never got—albeit as a football player. Veterans still catch me on the street and say, “You meant so much to me when you were playing because you’re our guy.”
So I guess I have kept in touch more generally—by working with veterans’ groups. During the 31 years since I left football, I’ve been a spokesman for the National Veteran-Owned Business Association, I’ve been active in the National Veteran Wheelchair Games, and I’ve done a lot of public speaking.
At 65, I have a lot to be thankful for. I’m president of Rocky Bleier Inc., and I own a construction company in Pittsburgh along with a couple of other businesses. Except for an occasional limp, I’m still strong and healthy. And I never forget my days in uniform—the black and gold of the Steelers, or the Army’s greens and camouflage fatigues.