Franco Harris will live on forever

If the "Immaculate Reception" happened today, most of us wouldn’t remember it for more than a week. Sad but true.

The most famous play in pro football history, as engineered by Franco Harris, unfolded 50 years ago this weekend. It’s an absolute tragedy that Harris died just days before what was to be a celebration of a magnificent moment, but thankfully he received all the acclaim he was due, from a berth in the Pro Football Hall of Fame to a life-sized, crouching, mid-Immaculate Reception statue in Pittsburgh International Airport.

As for the play itself, it lives on in football lore, thanks to its preeminent role in the smashmouth era of 1970s football, as well as that divinely inspired nickname. It altered the trajectory of an entire season, shaped the fortunes of several of the league’s most notable dynasties, and bestowed immortality on Harris. Not bad for a play we’re still not entirely sure was even legal.

Here’s a refresher on the play. The Steelers were trailing the Raiders 7-6 in a 1972 AFC divisional playoff game. This was pre-Steelers dynasty; Pittsburgh, to this point, had never even won a single postseason game, much less a Super Bowl. With 22 seconds remaining and the Steelers looking at fourth-and-10 on their own 40, Terry Bradshaw took the snap, dropped back and targeted halfback John Fuqua at the Raiders’ 35-yard line. Oakland brute Jack Tatum arrived in Fuqua’s personal space at the same time the ball did, and in the ensuing collision, the ball bounced up in the air and backward.

Right at that moment, who should come along but Harris, streaking upfield just in time to snare the floating ball and run it in for a decisive touchdown. It was a brilliant moment, a joyous moment, a transcendent moment … and it could have been blown dead right then and there.

If the ball hit Fuqua in the hands, or if it grazed the ground as Harris was grabbing it, the pass would have been ruled incomplete based on the rules at the time. In the famous video of the catch — the one you’ve seen a hundred times — you’ll note that the ball drops below the eye of the camera at the exact moment Harris snares it.

While one official signaled touchdown, others gathered and discussed just what the hell had actually happened. The NFL did not have an instant replay protocol back then, but the referees nonetheless conferred with their colleagues upstairs before rendering the final decision. (Raiders players of the day contend — maybe joking, maybe not — that the officials were trying to determine if there were enough police to protect them if they ruled the play wasn’t a touchdown.)

As soon as the referees signaled that the touchdown was good, Pittsburgh fans stormed the field, and the play ascended to legendary status. The Steelers would go on to lose to the famous undefeated 1972 Miami Dolphins the next week, but would win four Super Bowls over the rest of the decade. The Raiders and their fans still grumble about the “Immaculate Deception,” and the play only fed into the us-against-the-world mentality that defined the 1970s Raiders of Tatum, Ken Stabler and the immortal Al Davis.

Imagine if the same play unfolded today. First off, we’d know instantly if the ball touched the ground, because one of the dozens of cameras around the stadium would spot the blades of grass moving. We’d be able to isolate whether the ball hit Fuqua’s hands or shoulder pads. We’d watch the replay a dozen times on TV, and a hundred times over the next few hours on social media. There would be no uncertainty, nothing to debate. And then we'd move on to the next shiny object.

The mystery about the Immaculate Reception is what keeps it fresh in our minds, even 50 years later. Compare that to last week’s Patriots-Raiders lateral debacle, in which New England literally threw the game away. Replays of that one were everywhere Sunday night, digested and gone by Monday afternoon. (At least the Raiders ended up on the high side of that one.) The exact same thing would have happened to the Immaculate Reception — and yes, you just know that someone would pitch a Twitter fit about the nickname, too.

The closest competitor for Best NFL Play of All Time — excluding the Butt Fumble, of course — has to be Manning-to-Tyree in Super Bowl XLII. But even that lacks the essential mystery and controversy of the Immaculate Reception, since even the most diehard Patriots fan had to concede that, yes, David Tyree did actually catch that ball against his helmet. (Plus, let’s be honest, branding matters. “Helmet Catch” isn’t even in the same galaxy, nickname-wise.)

The perfect play, with the perfect name, in the perfect moment, executed by the perfect player to set off a perfect rivalry. That’s as immaculate as it gets.

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Contact Jay Busbee at jay.busbee@yahoo.com or on Twitter at @jaybusbee.