Craig Wolfley can tell you what Tunch Ilkin sang in the shower on game-day mornings throughout the 1980s.
Forty years of friendship comes with a war chest of memories, one that can be weaponized at a moment’s notice. And so the Steelers' old left guard begins to paint the scene of his longtime teammate lathering up hours before kickoff with steam rising and lyrics pouring from the hotel bathroom.
“Before every game, Tunch would be in there singing the Turkish national anthem,” Wolfley said.
A smile cuts across the face of the 62-year-old Ilkin. He’s standing within earshot of Wolfley in the parking lot of the iHeart Radio studios Tuesday in Green Tree, following their Steelers talk show that airs daily during football season on ESPN Pittsburgh.
The Steelers' old right tackle, a native of Istanbul, Turkey, makes no effort to deny the story. Instead, he warbles through a few lines of the patriotic song the way former pro wrestler Nikolai Volkoff used to belt out the Russian national anthem before his matches with sidekick The Iron Sheik.
Tunch and Wolf have become Pittsburgh’s longest-running tag-team partners. It’s hard to remember a time when they weren’t together, either pass blocking for quarterbacks or broadcasting games on the Steelers Radio Network.
This spring, it took a global pandemic to keep them apart for the first time since they ended their careers on different teams in the early 1990s. Wolfley’s kids refer to Ilkin as “Uncle Tunch.” The Ilkins consider Wolfley extended family. Listeners to their radio show hear them call each other, “Chalooch,” a nickname lifted from one of their favorite movies, “The Pope of Greenwich Village.”
On this humid afternoon, they are percolating with energy and counting down the minutes to the Monday night opener against the Giants in New Jersey. It’s a game they will call from a Heinz Field broadcast booth because of COVID-19 restrictions. Normally, they would fly with the team the day before the game — always sitting next to each other on the plane — and then drop off their luggage at the hotel and find a bench to smoke cigars.
“That’s important because you have to have your mojo right for Sunday,” the 62-year-old Wolfley said. “We would be abusing our position as mojo-nators if we didn’t do that.”
Ilkin is wearing a pair of shorts with a black Steelers T-shirt and a backpack slung over his shoulder. Wolfley is wearing a pair of shorts with a black Steelers T-shirt and a backpack slung over his shoulder.
“By the way, we did not organize this today,” Wolfley said of the look.
Steelers insiders who have known Ilkin and Wolfley since joining the club might cast a suspicious eye at that statement.
“They are like an old married couple,” said Bob Labriola, longtime editor of Steelers Digest and Steelers.com. “They finish each other’s sentences. They bicker. They know how to push each other’s buttons. But you can tell how much they care.”
NFL players often speak of a brotherhood among teammates — men of locked arms and unbreakable bonds. Time has a way, however, of eroding even the best intentions. While they will reminisce at reunions and catch up through holiday phone calls, how many still pal around like they did in their 20s? How many still comfort an old teammate in times of grief? How many will literally take a punch in the face to advance the other guy’s post-football career? How many visit homeless shelters together and walk miles for charitable causes in the same community?
Tunch and Wolf remain inseparable. They still break down film, live for black-and-gold autumns, strengthen each other’s faith and bust each other’s chops.
“Just remember, I am the college graduate,” Ilkin said. “Wolf was only a college attendee.”
MENTORSHIP, FELLOWSHIP
In the summer of 1992, visitors to Peterswood Park in Peters Township were treated to an astonishing sight. Two 35-year-old men armored in helmets and pads were ramming each other like some Medieval Faire gone horribly wrong.
Ilkin was heading into his final season as a player with the Steelers, but couldn't participate in training camp because he remained unsigned. Desperate to hone his pass protection skills, he summoned Wolfley out of retirement.
Wolfley had dropped 30 pounds from his 265-pound playing weight and was using his quickness to occasionally beat the right tackle in one-on-one drills. Ilkin grew frustrated and started throwing Wolfley to the ground. Cheap shots ensued. Families who came to the park to enjoy a quiet picnic watched as the two men screamed and whaled away on one another.
“It was a spectacle,” Wolfley recalled. “I’d look around and see people 40 yards away staring at us thinking, ‘What is wrong with these guys?' ”
It was not an isolated incident. Wolfley and Ilkin carpooled to the airport for road games. During the throes of a 5-11 season in 1988, the two linemen nearly came to blows in the terminal as a round of good-natured barbs grew heated.
“I told him he was crumpled up and looked like yesterday’s newspaper,” Ilkin said.
Added Wolfley: “I remember a woman turning to her husband and saying, ‘No wonder they're losing. They don’t like each other.’ ”
Nothing was further from the truth. Wolfley and Ilkin became best friends from almost the moment they met at training camp in Latrobe. It was 1980, and there was still a whiff of empire about the place. The two rookies were surrounded by future Hall of Famers who had led the Steelers to four Super Bowls in the 1970s.
What they couldn’t have imagined at the time was they were joining a dynasty in decline. There was still so much talent on the club: Terry Bradshaw, Franco Harris, Rocky Bleier, John Stallworth, Lynn Swann, Mike Webster, Joe Greene, L.C. Greenwood, Jack Ham, Jack Lambert, Mel Blount, Donnie Shell.
“I was not great, but I saw greatness up close,” Wolfley said.
Wolfley was a Buffalo native and fifth-round draft pick. Ilkin, who grew up in Chicago after moving from Turkey at age 2, had been selected in the sixth round.
When Chuck Noll called the Ilkins to inform them their son had been chosen, Tunch’s mother, Ayten, momentarily panicked.
“She thought I was drafted into the Army and freaked out.” Ilkin said.
Boot camp might have been easier than those grueling two-a-day practices in Latrobe. While Wolfley and Ilkin evolved into long-time starters, neither saw regular duty until their second and third seasons, respectively. Ilkin was cut in his first training camp only to return midway through his rookie year.
“Those veterans were tough on us, but they also mentored us,” Ilkin said. “When I was practicing at center, Joe Greene would kick my butt every day. Late in the season, he said, ‘Tunch, you’re getting better.’ I couldn’t wait to get home to call my dad and tell him, ‘Joe Greene says I’m getting better.’ ”
The Steelers' legends not only taught the rookies football, but also the importance of faith. Ilkin converted from Islam to Christianity in 1982, and now serves as the men’s pastor at The Bible Chapel in Pittsburgh.
When Wolfley’s father died, Stallworth and Shell spent time with him praying for his family. Ilkin experienced a similar moment when he was trying to gut out a season, playing with a partially torn rotator cuff.
“Shell and Stallworth came into my room and laid their hands on me and prayed for my soul,” Ilikin said.
DON'T 'DO ANYTHING STUPID'
Wolfley’s world was crumbling. He came home one day in the 1990s to discover his first wife had left him. She also had taken the couple’s two children. The first person to arrive on the scene was Ilkin, who calmed his distraught teammate and volunteered to shelter the kids during the ensuing custody battle.
“He was there for me the day that it happened,” Wolfley said. “He was there doing the things that a brother does. He was telling me, ‘Be careful what you are about to do,’ because I was very angry. He constantly was calling and checking in on me, making sure I didn’t do anything stupid.”
Years later, as Ilkin’s first wife, Sharon, was losing her battle to breast cancer, Wolfley attended to his friend’s every need. He sat at Sharon’s hospital bedside during her final days in 2012. Wolfley picked up some of Ilkin’s broadcast duties as the old right tackle grieved and he served as an invaluable resource to him during the funeral.
As Ilkin began to rebuild his personal life, it was Wolfley who introduced him to his future wife, Karen.
“Those two can always depend on each other,” said Kyle Wolfley, 34, an Army major now teaching at West Point. “I try to model my friendships on the relationship between my dad and Uncle Tunch."
Ilkin baptized Kyle before the young soldier departed for a tour of duty in Afghanistan.
“Those two have the same value system,” Kyle said. “They always put God first.”
Ilkin has been supportive of his gridiron buddy no matter the endeavor. Wolfley participated in World’s Strongest Man events and placed second in the first professional sumo wrestling tournament held in North America in 1985.
“The sumo was a bad visual,” said Wolfley, who holds a black belt in Jiu Jitsu. “You wore the Mawashi (the sumo world’s equivalent to the thong). I can still see my mom’s face in the crowd when I took off my sweats. She went, ‘Oh, no.’ ”
Wolfley and his current wife, Faith, were long-time owners of a martial arts center in Bridgeville, where athletes of all variety trained.
After his football career ended, Wolfley took up boxing and found himself in a tournament with former NFL players dubbed “Geezers and Wheezers at Caesars.” His success landed him an unlikely 2002 bout with Eric Esch, the 360-pound sideshow act better known as Butterbean.
Wolfley was 43 years old and outweighed by more than 100 pounds. In need of a sparring partner, he tabbed Ilkin, who already was working out at the gym.
It was just like old times at Peterswood Park.
“We would box and beat the crap out of each other,” Wolfley said. “It was an adult playland.”
In the buildup to the four-round bout, Wolfley told reporters: “It's my Andy Warhol 15 minutes of fame, but in my case, it might last 30 seconds. The real fight will be at the buffet table.”
Wolfley gamely battled his way into the fourth round before the referee stopped the fight. “No regrets at all,” he said. “I had a great time — and a great sparring partner.”
WALK OF LIFE
Joe Gordon remembers the disturbing phone call he received from an Amtrak employee in the early 1990s. The voice on the other end of the line informed him that Mike Webster, the center who embodied the toughness and work ethic of the dynastic Steelers, had spent the previous night sleeping in a Pittsburgh train station.
There had been whispers of erratic behavior and financial hardships. But it wasn’t until after his 2002 death that a more complete picture of what haunted the Hall of Famer came into focus. Webster became the first NFL player diagnosed with Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE), a degenerative brain disease linked to depression, dementia and personality changes.
When Gordon, the Steelers' former publicity director, got the call all he wanted was to ensure Webster had a place to stay. The club temporarily booked him in a hotel. Former teammates began offering support. Gordon recalls Wolfley and Ilkin volunteering to pay the rent for an apartment.
“He was our brother, and we loved him dearly,” Wolfley wrote in a text message.
Ilkin and Wolfley were part of four Steelers teams to reach the playoffs in the 1980s. But many fans consider it a lost decade in the franchise’s modern history — the only one in the last 50 years to end without a Super Bowl appearance. Ilkin and Wolfley were good offensive linemen on a franchise in transition between the Super Steelers and the Blitzburgh eras.
Gordon hopes fans see the two players for having made a greater contribution than just wins and losses.
“Those two have given more to this community than just what they gave to the Steelers in their playing days,” Gordon said.
Each has lent his name and industry to charitable efforts. They have raised money and awareness for the plight of Pittsburgh’s homeless population. In recent years, their 10K walk has attracted roughly 1,000 participants and generated more than $100,000 annually for the Light of Life Rescue Mission, now in its 18th year. It had 12 participants in the inaugural walk.
Ilkin got involved with Light of Life in 1987, eventually joining its board of directors. It wasn’t long before he solicited the help of his trusted teammate.
“I went down there on a Thanksgiving to serve dinner and I saw a homeless family coming through the door and it broke my heart,” Wolfley said. “I knew I had to do something.”
Ilkin has lost track of how many times Wolfley has come to his aid over the years. He might not still be in the broadcast booth without his friend.
SUPER BOWLS AT LAST
In the fall of 1990, Ilkin received a package from the Minnesota Vikings. He opened the parcel and found a T-shirt inscribed with the words: “Where Is Wolf?”
It was funny and heartbreaking at the same time. Ilkin was nearing the end of his run with the Steelers and felt a bit lost without his friend, who spent his final two seasons with the Vikings.
As Ilkin’s broadcast career gathered momentum, he began to harbor similar feelings in 2005. He loved calling games, but had no one from his past to pal around with at training camp and on the road. Ilkin phoned Wolfley and asked if he would consider joining the broadcast team as a sideline reporter.
“I’m a walking concussion,” Wolfley said. “What did I know about doing that kind of stuff?”
The Steelers thought it was worth a shot, and Wolfley has been providing analysis and insight with his unique and colorful lexicon the past 15 years.
Unable to reach the Super Bowl as players, Ilkin and Wolfley have given voice to the Steelers’ renaissance. They called a pair of championship victories alongside play-by-play man Bill Hillgrove, and passionately promote the franchise brand. A year ago, Missi Matthews joined the game-day crew as an additional sideline reporter.
“My dad has such an amazing enthusiasm for it,” Kyle said. “Football makes him feel alive. He loves being on the sidelines.”
Due to COVID-19 concerns, Wolfley will work home games from the front row of the Heinz Field stands.
“I better have my own personal vendor,” he said during their talk show Tuesday.
Nobody knows what to expect from a season like no other in NFL history. But Wolfley is comforted in knowing his favorite “Chalooch” will be along for the ride.
Forty years later, Ilkin and Wolfley are still locking arm, the bond as unbreakable as the day it formed. Maybe they can’t smoke cigars on the road this season, but don’t be surprised if they still find a bench somewhere in Pittsburgh to burn a couple of stogies on the night before games.
Gotta keep that mojo working.
