Steelers Nation? It's more like Steelers United Nations.

Steelers Nation? It's more like Steelers United Nations.

OK, I know this is late and, to tell you the truth, I had my doubts when the stranger called and started telling this story of Steelers Nation opening yet another foreign office in the wee hours of a German morning.

There was something universal about the story that hooked me, though. So after hearing Bill Ringler tell what his son, Karl, had encountered, I drove to Coraopolis the next afternoon to meet the younger Mr. Ringler. We took a table in the back of the Montour Hotel bar in Coraopolis and, as a pool game rattled beside us, Mr. Ringler, 41, told me what happened in a smaller saloon across the ocean.

He'd first gone to Germany in 1982, going there to learn the tool-and-die trade after graduating from Mars High School. He spent seven years in southern Germany, then another 14 spanning the globe in the U.S. Navy, and finally settled back in the States for good a couple of years ago.

Mr. Ringler is now a technician for the Equipment Corp. of America, which had the gall to send Pittsburghers to Germany for maintenance training on Super Bowl weekend. The Coraopolis company is the dealer for a German company's drill rigs, and the Germans wouldn't understand a call saying the Americans couldn't make it until Tuesday.

So Mr. Ringler and sales manager Peter Rose flew out of Philadelphia on Saturday night, arriving in Munich on Sunday morning, and they were in the little walled town of Schrobenhausen by mid-afternoon.

Mr. Ringler and a guy named Tim from the Philadelphia office went for a walk and came upon an out-of-the-way pub boisterous enough to be heard from the street. So the Americans walked in.

"It got quiet really quick,'' Mr. Ringler said.

They found themselves in a Turkish sports bar, found themselves in one of those fish-out-of-water scenes you could lift from a thousand movies. Think of Eddie Murphy in "48 Hours'' or the Delta boys in "Animal House'' or the bar scene in "Star Wars.''

How do you say, "You're not from around here, are ya?'' in Turkish?

Mr. Ringler had known Turks when he'd lived in Germany, so he told Tim to head for a table in the back.

The Turks play a game like dominoes, a game that generally has the men slamming the tiles and yelling, but there was none of that, just whispers everywhere. A bartender served them beers and, maybe five minutes later, another guy pulled up a chair and asked them, flat out, what in hell they were doing there.

Americans in town for a training session, Mr. Ringler explained, and he added that he had Turkish friends when he lived in Germany. One had even taught him the language. He'd forgotten every word but one in the 20 years since, but his friend had told him that if he didn't remember any other word, he had to remember that one.

The word? the Turkish man asked in German.

"Arkadas,'' said Mr. Ringler.

That is pronounced "ark-uh-DOSH'' and means "friend."

"Arkadas!'' repeated the stranger, and his arms rose high in the air.

"Arkadas!" echoed every man in the bar.

"The whole bar went nuts,'' Mr. Ringler said. "Hands fly up in the air. Tiles are slamming. Everybody's talking.''

Soon enough, Mr. Ringler eyeing the large TV in the back, was saying, "There's a big football game tonight . . .''

And thus, after Mr. Ringler went back to the hotel to round up his countrymen, seven or eight Americans and as many Turks spent the hours between midnight and 4 a.m. watching the Steelers win the Super Bowl in a bar that stayed open just for them. There were cultural canyons to traverse, with Turks yelling "touchdown!'' at the opening kickoff and Americans wondering where the chicken wings could be, but Rose called it "the best Super Bowl experience I ever had.''

Every American somehow made the 8 a.m. training session the next day and, for the rest of his 10 days in Germany, every Turkish man in town greeted the 6-foot-6, bald-headed Mr. Rose with "Hey, Pete!''

When you're an arkadas, you're an arkadas for life.

"When we go back,'' says Mr. Ringler, "we're definitely taking Terrible Towels.''.

Brian O'Neill can be reached at boneill@post-gazette.com or 412-263-1947.