The last of the Super Steelers classes reunites today at Heinz Field for their 25th anniversary, and most of the old gang probably thought Steve Courson would never live much longer than their 10th.

"I know they all wondered it, and with good reason," he began. "When I was sitting there at 330 pounds with a beeper for the heart-transplant list, I definitely understood. I was a sick puppy. I didn't look good. I didn't feel good. It was hard getting out of bed every day. It was a very humbling experience."

Today, he joins the silver celebration for the team's fourth silver Lombardi Trophy, and he's a new man.

A completely healthy man.

Two-hundred forty-five pounds. Trim. Fit. A corporate wellness trainer. Gives seminars to school kids about combatting obesity and steering clear of performance-enhancing drugs. And, most important, possesses a heart he healed through diet, exercise and a doctor's care.

Yes, that Steve Courson. The very same steroid-injecting, NFL-whistle-blowing, massive mess of a onetime-Steelers offensive lineman who, 16 years ago this month, was diagnosed with such a serious form of heart disease -- an enlarging and weakening of the muscle called cardiomyopathy -- that within six months Allegheny General Hospital put him on the transplant list. Humbling, indeed.

"It has at times been a very lonely road," he said. "But I've always believed good things happen to people who don't give up."

That is the message of his story today: Courson's scary tale is all about heart.

On Oct. 1, on his 49th birthday, he arose before the sun, drove from his Farmington home in Fayette County to the North Side's AGH, and took a treadmill stress test that showed an amazing result. The heretofore sickly left side of the muscle is restored to normal efficiency. The heretofore heart patient is basically as hale as he was at 27 and an overly vital Steelers player.

No, this isn't anywhere close to an endorsement of steroids. Cautioned Courson, "That's definitely not the point." Never take them, kids.

Rather, this is a testimony to correcting obesity, overcoming a less-than-exemplary lifestyle, surviving stupid decisions people make early in their lives.

"In my case, I don't think there was a direct link" between steroids and the heart disease, said Courson, who continues to believe that the drug isn't deadly to professional-sports users, as if longball-loving, crunching-hit-crazed society truly cared about athletes' health. "But they certainly enhanced my body mass, no question."

Too much body mass equals obesity. Throw in an improper diet -- heavy on sugars, breads, pastas -- plus such vices as smoking, drinking or inactivity, and you have a recipe for a blood-pumping disaster.

"It was one thing to get off the transplant list" in 1993, he said. "But it's another to get to where your heart is functioning at a normal capacity. I guess the way to put it is: I've been able to achieve what most people didn't think I'd be able to achieve. Other people can benefit from that.

"A lot of people look at cardiomyopathy outside of a transplant as a death sentence. It doesn't necessarily have to be."

His rehabilitation started in the early 1990s, when the Trinity High offensive linemen he coached in turn helped to inspire him to climb from bed every morning. Along came Barry Sears, author of "The Zone Diet" and a nutritionist who taught him insulin control, a regimen found not only in diabetics' lifestyles but in the popular South Beach Diet. What followed was a workout schedule that completes what Courson considers his health triangle: resistance training (free weights, pushups, situps), low-impact cardio training (hiking, biking, swimming, "walking my two knucklehead Labs") and diet (to control blood sugar).

"I mean, it's not rocket science," he said. "But all of that together works."

The evidence arrived on his 49th birthday, when he reported to AGH and informed his physician, Dr. Judith Orie: "Get ready to witness medical history." His heart's performance improved from 18 percent upon his 1988 diagnosis to a normal rate of 53 percent. Of the 21-minute, treadmill test max, the patient lasted 15 minutes at increasing speeds and inclines, barely behind the 16 1/2-minute test he endured on Feb. 15, 1982, for Steelers strength coach Jon Kolb, who looked it up.

Yesterday, he delivered his message in a childhood obesity presentation in Uniontown. Saturday brings another seminar in Brownsville. Next on his list of heart-healthy goals: Correct the muscle's arrhythmia, either through a new medication (which would get him off an old one) or a defibrillation treatment.

Life takes funny turns, and Courson has gone from the altar of steroids to the pulpit of good-hearted, healthy living, via a whistling walk through the graveyard

"I make no bones about that," he said. "I never would have attempted the compliance I have over the years if I didn't have -- how should I say this -- extra incentive. Like, I may not be around otherwise.

"I know where my path is now."