The Towel That Built Steelers Nation: The Origin of Myron Cope’s Terrible Towel
Long before the Pittsburgh Steelers became a national brand, before six Lombardi trophies turned black and gold into one of football’s most recognizable color combinations, Sundays in Pittsburgh already carried a feeling of permanence. Football in western Pennsylvania was never simply entertainment. It belonged to mill towns, factory shifts, neighborhood taverns, church basements, and families who gathered around radios long before games filled television screens. Steelers fandom was built around loyalty because for much of the franchise’s early history, loyalty was all fans had. Losing seasons came more often than championships. Generations of supporters endured disappointment while waiting for something worthy of belief.
When belief finally arrived during the 1970s, it came with a football team tough enough to reflect the city that supported it. Terry Bradshaw, Franco Harris, Mean Joe Greene, Jack Lambert, Lynn Swann, and the Steel Curtain defense gave Pittsburgh an identity that felt inseparable from its working-class spirit. Yet one of the most enduring symbols of Steelers football did not emerge from the locker room. It came from the mind of a broadcaster with an unmistakable voice and an unusual instinct for understanding fans.
The Terrible Towel was born in December of 1975, though according to Myron Cope, the idea began not with football strategy or fan tradition, but with pressure from radio executives who wanted proof of influence. Cope, already one of Pittsburgh’s most recognizable voices through his eccentric delivery and deep emotional connection to Steelers football, later explained that station management wanted their broadcasters to dream up crowd pleasing promotions that demonstrated audience reach and value to advertisers during contract negotiations. Cope resisted at first because, in his own words, he was not a “gimmick guy.” Yet as Pittsburgh prepared for a playoff showdown against the Baltimore Colts at Three Rivers Stadium, he reluctantly began thinking through possibilities. Oversized signs felt cumbersome. Novelty props seemed impractical. Then the answer arrived in the form of something almost laughably ordinary. A dish towel. Nearly every household already had one. Fans could carry it easily into the stadium, wave it overhead, wipe rain from seats, or use it during cold December football. Better still, Pittsburgh already lived inside a world of black and gold. Cope settled on yellow or gold towels because they would stand out dramatically against the stadium backdrop. Before committing fully, however, he worried about football superstition and whether players might view the idea as a distraction or jinx. Cope later recounted walking through the Steelers locker room to gauge opinion, discovering that backup players in particular embraced the concept enthusiastically as something fun that could energize the city and create attention for the team. With majority approval secured, Cope went on the air repeatedly during the week leading up to the playoff game, urging fans to bring yellow towels and wave them when the Steelers took the field.
When December 27, 1975 finally arrived, Cope feared he had embarrassed himself. Standing inside Three Rivers Stadium before kickoff with binoculars pressed to his eyes, he scanned the crowd and later remembered seeing barely a handful of towels scattered throughout the stands. The idea, he assumed, had flopped. After days spent talking about towels on Pittsburgh radio, after convincing himself this odd little experiment might actually work, the stadium looked mostly unchanged. Then introductions began. Somewhere between anticipation and emotion, something shifted. Suddenly the crowd erupted and towels began rising seemingly all at once across Three Rivers Stadium. What moments earlier looked like failure transformed into a sea of spinning gold as an estimated thirty thousand Terrible Towels appeared overhead. Pittsburgh moved together, section by section, in a rhythm that felt unified and unmistakably powerful. The Steelers fed off the energy and defeated Baltimore 28 to 10, but the result almost felt secondary to what had been born in the stands. What started as a reluctant promotional idea pitched by a broadcaster who insisted he disliked gimmicks suddenly felt like something much larger than football. Steelers fans had discovered a ritual that reflected the spirit of their city, and without fully realizing it, Pittsburgh had just created one of the most enduring traditions in sports history.
The brilliance of the Terrible Towel rested in how naturally it reflected Pittsburgh culture. This was not flashy fandom. It was not glamorous or polished. A towel felt practical, ordinary, and honest, exactly like the city that embraced it. Pittsburgh in the 1970s still revolved around steel mills, industrial labor, and neighborhoods shaped by resilience. Fans did not need elaborate props to celebrate football. They needed something simple enough for everyone to own and meaningful enough to feel personal. The towel fit naturally into the personality of Steelers Nation because it mirrored the city itself.
By the late 1970s, Cope formalized the idea by introducing officially licensed towels carrying the words “Myron Cope’s Official Terrible Towel.” He trademarked the concept in 1978, helping transform what had started with kitchen towels into an official symbol of Pittsburgh Steelers identity. Soon towels appeared everywhere. They hung in living rooms, waved at away games, traveled overseas, and became family heirlooms passed between generations. A Steelers game without Terrible Towels gradually became unimaginable. More importantly, the towel escaped Pittsburgh entirely and became visual shorthand for Steelers fandom no matter where the team traveled. Television cameras sought them instinctively because one flash of spinning gold instantly told viewers exactly who had arrived.
As decades passed, the towel moved beyond merchandise and entered mythology. In Pittsburgh, disrespecting the Terrible Towel slowly evolved into football superstition. Opposing players who mocked, stomped on, or ridiculed towels before games often found themselves blamed for later failures. Fans still tell stories about opponents who waved towels sarcastically only to watch seasons collapse afterward. Whether coincidence or football folklore, Steelers supporters embraced the so called “Curse of the Terrible Towel” because it reinforced something sacred about the symbol itself. Steelers culture treated the towel less like fabric and more like ritual. You waved it during kickoff. You carried it to road games. You respected it. In Pittsburgh, the towel became emotional territory.
Yet the most meaningful chapter of the Terrible Towel story happened far away from stadium lights. In 1996, Myron Cope quietly transferred ownership of the Terrible Towel trademark to the Allegheny Valley School, now known as Merakey Allegheny Valley School, an organization supporting individuals with intellectual and developmental disabilities. The connection was deeply personal. Cope’s son Danny, who lived with autism, had been cared for through programs connected to the organization, giving Cope firsthand appreciation for its mission. Instead of keeping the profits from one of football’s most recognizable symbols, Cope redirected its future toward helping vulnerable people. Every officially licensed towel and related Terrible Towel product suddenly carried a philanthropic purpose alongside football pride.
The results have been staggering. Since 1996, royalties from officially licensed Terrible Towel merchandise have generated millions of dollars for Allegheny Valley School, funding residential programs, facility improvements, and long-term support services for individuals with disabilities throughout Pennsylvania. Reports connected to the school estimate that proceeds have surpassed roughly ten million dollars, helping fund infrastructure upgrades, programming, and direct care for residents. For Steelers fans, buying a towel became something larger than fandom. It became participation in Pittsburgh’s wider community.
That charitable legacy explains why the Terrible Towel feels different from so many modern sports traditions. Most fan rituals stay confined to stadiums. The towel crossed into everyday life. Families display them in homes. Fans bring them to weddings, funerals, graduations, military deployments, and hospital visits. Stories regularly surface of towels signed by deceased relatives, carried through life as symbols of memory and family connection. The towel became a piece of Pittsburgh identity because it represents belonging as much as football itself.
Today, nearly fifty years after Myron Cope first told Pittsburgh fans to grab dish towels from their kitchens, the image remains unchanged. At Acrisure Stadium, black and gold whirl through the air before kickoff just as they did at Three Rivers Stadium in 1975. Children learn the ritual before they fully understand the game itself. Grandparents still hand towels down with stories attached. Steelers fans traveling to opposing stadiums announce themselves instantly with gold fabric spinning in distant sections of hostile crowds. The towel has outlived players, coaches, eras, and stadium names because it was never really about football alone.
What Myron Cope created was never simply merchandise or even crowd participation. He created a language of belonging. A towel gave Pittsburgh fans a way to recognize each other, celebrate together, mourn losses together, and carry a piece of home wherever football happened to take them.
That is why the Terrible Towel still matters. It reminds Steelers fans that the strongest traditions are never manufactured. They emerge naturally when a community sees itself reflected inside something simple and decides together that it belongs to them forever.