PITTSBURGH — L ast Monday, there was no joy on the faces of the workers or the pedestrians who gathered around as contractors removed the two oversize Heinz ketchup bottles that had framed the scoreboard at the Steelers' football stadium since 2001.

In truth, as cranes lowered down the giant bottles, the procedure took on a slow, somber mood. Those gathered nearby were witnessing something that tugged at their heart, even if they couldn’t quite put a name to it.

There have been numerous posts and stories written about why Yinzers (western Pennsylvanians, that is) are stubbornly refusing to call Heinz Field anything other than Heinz Field — none as heartfelt and witty as the piece written by Pittsburgh writer Virginia Montanez , in which she explains why people in this region are so attached to its unique culture.

The Heinz company said in a statement that it was vastly outbid for the naming rights by a Michigan-based fintech company with ties to Steelers minority owner Thomas Tull.

Twenty-one years ago, I was there as an employee of the Steelers when those twin bottles were hoisted up above the end zone at the brand new stadium. I had been brought on to help season ticket holders transition from where they had been sitting for 30 years at Three Rivers Stadium to their new seats at the brand-new Heinz Field.

A lot of those Steelers ticket holders were not happy with their new seats, but their unhappiness was nuanced and complicated and had a lot more to do with community than where the actual seat was. Although they might have seen each other only nine times per year, the community many had formed at Three Rivers for decades was being disrupted.

They had shared several big moments, beginning in 1970 when the Steelers finished their inaugural season at Three Rivers with only five wins. They were together two years later when Franco Harris had his "Immaculate Reception" and three years later when Terry Bradshaw led the team to its first Super Bowl and "Mean" Joe Greene struck fear in the hearts of every offensive line that took the field.

The ticket holders of each section were a community, and people love to hold on to the communities that they form in life. It took a few days to figure out what their problem was. Once I did, I started grouping people in familiar clusters. Pretty soon, more folks were happy with their seats than not.

Which brings us to today. Technology and remote work and schooling have transformed us into a society that is less connected to each other physically. Fraternal organizations such as the Elks and the Rotary Clubs that once brought us together over shared concerns now struggle to attract new members — all the more reason why when we have communities, we cling to them furiously.

The cultural curators who run corporate America, including the NFL, are far less connected to the fans. They have had difficulty understanding the effects that social disconnection has had on society. It's no skin off their backs if a few fans are unhappy with a name change.

While many people would love to believe that the Steelers organization exists just to provide the fans entertainment, in truth, they exist to make money, and the franchise was going to make more money — much, much more money — than Heinz could give them.

They’ve made the gamble that the new generation won’t care because they’ve led a life of not forming personal communities in the way their parents and grandparents did.

Name change? No big deal. I had no cultural attachment to Heinz ketchup.

Seat change? No big deal. I was too busy watching my fantasy football team while at the game. I never talked to those other people around me anyway.

“Sports are a reflection of society, and the transience and placelessness that have become societal trends have become more prominent in various sports,” says geography professor Tom Maraffa. “Players have more mobility; it's easier for teams to relocate in response to market and profitability. Corporate naming rights have replaced place-based stadium and arena names."

Three Rivers vanished in favor of PNC Park for baseball and Heinz Field for football. Heinz Field is now Acrisure Stadium. Municipal Stadium in Cleveland became Jacobs Field, which in turn became Progressive Field.

“Some of these corporate names are from companies that have historical ties to the community," said Maraffa. "Progressive is a Cleveland company. Heinz is a Pittsburgh company. Others don’t. When they don’t, the connection between the stadium as a place and the fan base is weakened."

Last week, the forlorn faces watching the Heinz Tomato Ketchup bottles being unceremoniously dropped on their sides reminded me of the disappointment people felt 21 years earlier when they learned they were going to lose their Sunday friends at Three Rivers Stadium. Their desire to hold on to that community and fight to recreate it elsewhere in the stadium was an early lesson for me of how much connection means to people's health and well-being.

Our desire to join groups and form associations and be part of something bigger is truly, as Alexis de Tocqueville wrote centuries ago, one of America’s greatest strengths. When we stop fighting to hold on to them, that is when we should really start worrying about our society’s well-being.