Sep 26, 2002 By Jim Kriek 4 min read

It was poet John Donne who wrote an epitaph that can fit any time for any person, when he said “Every man’s death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind.” The sports world in general, and the pro football writers who covered the Pittsburgh Steelers in particular (including this writer), all feel diminished today about Mike Webster, who died Tuesday at the all too young age of 50.

“Webby” was the keystone of the Steelers for 15 years, including their four Super Bowl seasons, and was as durable as Gibraltar in the center of the line. Centers have been the subject of countless jokes about the anonymity of their position. But that could well be the most durable spot in the Steelers’ lineup, for over a 35-year span they had only three – Ray Mansfield, Webster and Dermonti Dawson.

No lineman who ever played the game, no player period for that matter, ever had a stronger work ethic than the Hall of Fame center. In a decade of covering the Steelers for this newspaper, I saw him running the steps in the upper section of Three Rivers Stadium, and continuing to run long after some others had given up. His teammates commented on how Mike worked in the weight room, and his massive build, his thick arms and biceps, testified to their words that at times sounded envious. But not too many could keep up to him in the course of a day’s workout.

Webster was the leader on the team, but he wasn’t the vocal type of leader. He led by example. He never hollered and he never criticized his teammates. In fact one could think that he might not have known how to express a bad word. At least not where I could have heard him. He came out of the huddle, muscles bulging, and got over the ball, ready for the snap to the quarterback, then he would charge into the defense and help clear the way for the runner. At times, he might point to where he thought somebody should be on offense, then get ready for the play. But never being loud about it, never embarrassing anybody.

Chuck Noll was the head coach of the team, but Mike Webster was the respected leader of the players, the one a lot of them looked up to, the boss when they were on the field.

During the week, when writers would be at Three Rivers, or after games, win or lose, Webster was always open for comments. I don’t know of any time that he ever growled at a writer to get away from him, that he didn’t want to talk, etc., like some players of lesser ability and less respect from their teammates have been known to do.

One day in training camp at St. Vincent College, I wanted to talk with him, and was told by the PR man that Mike would meet with me in his room after lunch.

A rap on his door was followed by “come on in.” Doing so, there was Mike stretched out on his bunk, relaxing from his morning workout. I had the feeling that I might be intruding on his free time and said I could come back another time. He smiled, pointed to a chair, and said “sit down.”

When somebody with biceps as big as truck tires says sit down, you sit. There he was relaxed in bed, and me sitting there with my feet propped up, and we had a delightful chat.

But that’s the way he was. Never a bad word, never an excuse, soft spoken, and friendly with everybody.

Especially kids. There comes to mind a few times when his family would be at St. Vincent, and he would have lunch with his children, who you could easily see enjoyed the time together.

It was a great day personally when Webster went into the Pro Hall of Fame, and while I never saw some of them in their playing days, not one of the centers already in there ahead of him could have been better than Webster was in the center of the line. As good, maybe, but never better.

Webby had some personal troubles after his playing days ended, but that all too often happens. I will never stand in judgement of him, one way or the other, except to say that I never saw a better center, nor met any athlete for whom I had more respect, both in ability and as a man.

The world is diminished with his passing, and poet Donne continued with a pertinent postscript to the opening observation here when he added, “Therefore, seek not to find for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.”