When Jerome Bettis fumbled in the last minutes of last week's playoff game, and an Indianapolis Colt grabbed the ball and ran downfield, a collective horror seized all of Western Pennsylvania. Hearts stopped -- sometimes literally. At a bar on the South Side, 49-year-old Terry O'Neill, an engineer with Local 95 of the International Union of Operating Engineers, had a heart attack as he watched the ball sail into the air. It took a defibrillator to bring him back.

		Paul Kengor is associate professor of political science at Grove City College and author of "God and Ronald Reagan: A Spiritual Life" (pgkengor@gcc.edu).

"Jerome is my hero," explained Mr. O'Neill later, as he recovered in his hospital bed. "I wasn't upset that the Steelers might lose. I was upset because I didn't want to see him [Bettis] end his career like that." Yes, of course.

There is more to the story: Terry O'Neill went to the other side.

As he approached the white light, he told Sheldon Ingram of WTAE-TV, he noticed that the glow was obfuscated by a Steelers banner. Just then, he was called back.

What to make of this lovely soul who inadvertently offered himself up as a near-martyr to Steelersdom, to Jerome Bettis's flirtation with football Armageddon?

The pathetic reality is that a large contingent of unhealthy individuals in this part of the country can relate to Mr. O'Neill -- including yours truly.

My wife had observed that I myself appeared to be in acute distress after the escaped lunatic/blind-man masquerading as a referee reversed Troy Polamalu's clear interception of Peyton Manning when the score was 21-10, thus prematurely halting a certain Steelers victory. Later, she and her friend stared at me with a mixture of bewilderment and pity as I pounded the floor in rapturous joy and then ran to the porch and howled like an animal when the Steelers stampeded Manning at the two-yard line -- an apparent finish to the roller-coaster nightmare of a football game.

But then, one play later, when Jerome Bettis almost ended his career with a fumble, Ben Roethlisberger saved us when he tripped the sprinting Colts defender, stopping a 99-yard touchdown return and miraculous Colts comeback. A T-shirt now on sale proffers a supernatural explanation: "Touched by God: On the 7th Day, God Said, 'Let There Be Ben.' "

Here, too, embarrassingly, I can relate. At church on Sunday, I made my regular prayers. But I had this nagging feeling that I needed to request a Steelers victory. Should I? Could I? I did.

I felt guilty for this petition, but was later relieved at the end of Mass when the priest strolled down the aisle and -- I'm serious -- waved a Terrible Towel as he offered his benediction, bathing the Steelers faithful in this bizarre black-and-gold substitute for holy water.

When I got home, I carefully balanced my own Terrible Towel above the TV, holding it in place with another sacred relic: a 27-year-old Iron City beer can with a team picture of the 1979 Steelers. I mumbled something to my 7-year-old about how I should have had the towel blessed before we left church. The boy was confused.

What explains such kookiness?

There is something about football in Western Pennsylvania that drives us over the edge. It begins in high school. Some of the very best to ever play the game hail from this area, raised in the shadows of the steel mills and the hills that hide the coal mines. Fans everywhere argue over the best quarterback to play the game. Most, however, agree on the top three: Joe Montana, Dan Marino and Johnny Unitas. All three are from Western Pennsylvania, as are other greats like Joe Namath, Jim Kelly, George Blanda, and on and on.

This obsession with football reaches its apogee with the Steelers, which I cannot adequately explain to outsiders. It is so embedded in the local culture. Other cites, like Cincinnati, have strange names for their football team: What does a Bengal have to do with the city of Cincinnati? In Pittsburgh, however, the Steelers are a tribute to the men who made the steel and built the city and much of America, who won wars. And as far as football is concerned, what could be manlier than iron and steel?

Moreover, most football pundits agree that the Steelers of the 1970s were the greatest team. That team could not have come at a better time for the Pittsburgh region, as the mighty steel industry was bellowing its last gasps. The Steelers were a rallying point for a depressed city, a source of secular salvation. That pride has never left.

There really exists here a kind of religious devotion to the Steelers.

Perhaps that's an excuse to try to justify this ridiculous lingering thought:

Would it be wrong to pray for a Steelers victory again this Sunday? Is God a Steelers' fan? We must admit: The Colts were denied an Immaculate Fumble Recovery last Sunday -- His day.

Of course, I learned in 1992 that He is undeniably not partial to the Pittsburgh Pirates. He does, however, seem to be a fan of Terry O'Neill. And I'm glad Terry and I are on the same side.