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Despite extraordinary success, Franco Harris never changed

By Ron Rossi

For the Mirror

When Altoona Mirror managing Editor Neil Rudel reached out to me in December to ask for comment on the sudden passing of my good friend, Franco Harris, I simply responded by texting him, “There are no words.”

Now, after reflecting more than two months, the words are slowly coming.

In the fall of 1968, as a 17-year-old freshman at Penn State, the first new friend I made was Lydell Mitchell. The second was Franco Harris.

Lydell had an outgoing personality and was a member of the freshmen football team. We initially got acquainted over a smack-talkin’ game of 8-ball on the Waring Commons pool table in West Halls.

I wound up shooting on the 8-ball first, but missed, and Lydell promptly ran the table and won the match.

Soon after, he introduced me to Franco, another football player, who was as quiet and soft-spoken as Lydell wasn’t.

It never occurred to me then that they might both be destined for gridiron greatness, but hey, they were cool, and they were my new guys.

Some relationships come and go; others remain treasured forever. That game of pool my first week at college sparked friendships that have lasted a lifetime.

So, here we were, 54 years later, still hanging out and working in business together.

There are times when I find myself spontaneously reaching for my phone to call Franco to talk about a pending business matter or just to update him on PSU basketball.

Or, as happened the other week driving to Pittsburgh, I found myself intuitively expecting Franco to call me, as usual, just to see where I was on Route 22 and to see how my drive was going.

Then abruptly, reality crashed through the window of my daydream, flashing me back to images of the funeral, faintly hearing the melody of the song “Memory Eternal,” which concluded the service.

When people ask me what Franco was really like, I tell them that he was basically the same guy I knew when we were teenagers in college, a time when we had little material well-being.

At his core, Franco had a big heart with a deep soul and compassionate spirit. He cared. I honestly think fame, and all that comes with it, never fundamentally changed who he was as a person.

I believe this is the highest tribute I could pay him.

So generous, whether it be with his time, resources, or simply his attention, Franco was one of the best listeners I have ever known.

When in a room with him, he always made everyone else feel important. He looked at you, listened intently with genuine interest, was slow to speak, never interrupting.

Vintage Franco — he didn’t see himself as being all that important; others were.

In the late 1970s, I introduced Franco to the DelGrosso family of Tipton, dear friends of mine whom I have known since childhood.

At the time their company was known as DelGrosso Packing, and they had just constructed a new plant to increase manufacturing and expand distribution of “The Finest Sauce Made.”

Despite their age differences, Franco and Mr. DelGrosso (Fred, Sr.) seemed to form an instant connection.

Both were “dreamers” with a vision of building prosperity through hard work and business success, and both would go on to do just that.

At the time, I was working as an in-house advertising agency for DelGrosso, and Franco agreed to come on board to help me promote the DelGrosso sauces in Pittsburgh.

I set about creating television, radio and newspaper ads featuring Franco (and even his mom, who was from Italy). We highlighted the uncompromising quality and authenticity of the products with the catch phrase “Benissimo … DelGrosso!”

It was fun and meaningful work.

Today, the DelGrosso Foods company is the oldest family-owned pasta sauce maker in the United States.

Although Franco never verbalized it to me, I sensed that he saw similarities between Mr. DelGrosso and “The Chief,” Art Rooney, Sr., owner of the Pittsburgh Steelers.

Both were humble men, born to immigrant families, “underdogs” who made good but always helped the less fortunate.

After a Hall of Fame career with the Steelers, in the mid-1980s Franco started his first business, Franco’s “All Naturel,” distributing high-quality natural foods.

Lydell and I both pitched in to work alongside an old friend, as we learned the business together.

In 1990, Franco founded Super Bakery, and for the past 30 years we’ve traveled across the country selling and marketing Super Donuts, a nutritionally fortified donut with no artificial colors, flavors, or preservatives, along with many other Better for You bakery options.

We attended numerous trade shows, meetings, special events and multiple Super Bowls together. Along the way we celebrated business milestones, personal accomplishments and lots of birthdays.

I spoke with Lydell on the phone the other day, and like me, he said that sometimes it just doesn’t seem real.

Franco was a faithful friend, a rare treasure, and we dearly miss him.

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