The Lion in Autumn (25 page)

“We've had a little fun,” he said when asked about Monday's practice, “and hopefully we'll be able to do some things that will help us go from where we are just losing to where we are just winning, because we are not going to dominate anybody.”

The more he looked at film of the Purdue game, however, the worse his demeanor became. He snapped constantly at Mills and at his aides. And he was particularly incensed at the offensive line, whose performance against Purdue, he said in a very un-Paterno-like assessment, was “horrible.”

The Nittany Lions' running game had picked up an unthinkable 18 yards on seventeen carries, the worst performance in his Penn State career. A blocking assignment was forgotten on the faked field goal, the game's pivotal play. And Mills had been pummeled by Purdue's pass rush.

“Coach was on them probably the most out of everybody,” said Mills of the linemen.

That testiness lingered at his October 19 press conference, especially when he was asked how he planned to utilize Robinson, who had been cleared to return.

“You can ask all the questions you want about how I am going to use Michael Robinson and I'm going to give everybody the same
answer. You'll find out on Saturday. I'm not going to get up here and tell you what I am going to do with Michael Robinson. Why should I? Michael Robinson is going to be in the football game and in a lot of different ways. Hopefully, he will be a strong factor in the outcome of the game. I'm not going to be explicit as to what he is going to do and where he is going to be. Why help the other guy?”

The reporter, ignoring the one-question rule at his own peril, persisted, reminding the coach that it was a logical question and that he wasn't “asking for state secrets.”

“What
are
you asking for?” Paterno said. “I don't know whether he is going to play wide receiver, tailback, or quarterback. I know where he is going to play, but I am not going to say. It's possible he could play any one of those places, so what are you asking? Tell me what you are asking. Do you want me to tell you where he is going to play? Is that what you want me to tell you? I'm not going to tell you.”

One last query on the subject set him off further: Could Paterno offer a few reasons why he continued to call Robinson one of the nation's best players?

“He can do everything,” Paterno shot back. “He's a great football player. I have coached great football players for fifty-five years. If I tell you that Michael Robinson is one of the best football players I've ever coached and one of the best in the country, don't question me.”

On the day before the Iowa Game,
Cold Pizza,
ESPN's morning show, came to State College for a live segment on Penn State and Paterno. If school officials had hoped the nationally televised piece might provide a boost to their ailing football program, they must have been disappointed.

Cold, gray, and misty, the morning's weather hid the still colorful mountains from TV viewers. The human backdrop for cohost Thea Andrews's outdoor interview with the coach—band members and cheerleaders in neat rows outside Beaver Stadium—looked cold and artificial. And Paterno, apparently baffled by its name, came across as an antique on a show aimed at a young, hip, and edgy audience.

“What are you?” he asked Andrews on the air in an incredulous tone,
“Cold Pizza?”

Assured that, yes, that indeed was its name, Paterno remained uncomprehending.

“
Cold Pizza? Cold Pizza?
My father would kill you all. He never ate a cold pizza in his life!”

The odd exchange was, in the eyes of his critics, just what you'd expect from a seventy-seven-year-old coach out of step with a changing world. He was so old that in the Iowa game, Paterno would pass one name from football's ice age—Pop Warner—and move into second place behind another—Amos Alonzo Stagg—in games coached all-time.

Paterno did offer an interesting theory for Happy Valley's powerful appeal during the interview. He gave credit to State College's size and isolation.

“Homecoming is special at most universities, but it's especially special here because of the fact that, you know, we're a small town,” he said. “We're not a big city. The kids come to school here and they have to be together. There's no outside activity, really. It's university life. And they get so close they really look forward to coming back to school and revisiting with friends.”

And then came the inevitable question from Andrews about his job status.

“People say, ‘Why do you stay in coaching?' and I say, ‘Well, what are you doing on Saturday?' Tomorrow morning I'll get up early and I'll twitch and do some other things and won't let anybody talk to me. And then I'll come over here and walk out on the stadium with a hundred and seven, a hundred and eight thousand people and it's exciting and it's fun to be part of. . . . [I'll be here] as long as I'm healthy and as long as I think I can do the job.”

In these difficult times, Penn State's spectacular football tradition didn't always help. In fact, the glorious past often served only as a painful counterpoint to a troubled present.

That night, for example, Penn State honored Lydell Mitchell, the ex–running back from the Class of 1971 who had just been elected to the College Football Hall of Fame, with a dinner at the Nittany Lion Inn. More than one hotel guest, passing by the basement ballroom
where it was held, noted that when Mitchell played, the Nittany Lions usually rushed for more than 17 yards.

Penn State AD Curley greeted Mitchell's guests, many of them big-time donors, at the ballroom door. Later he and his Iowa counterpart, Bob Bowlsby, walked down the hall to the weekly media reception. A representative from the Outback Bowl was there as well. Paterno was not.

The light rain continued into the night, soaking those students and alums who packed College Avenue for the Eighty-fifth Homecoming Parade. All day long, sorority pledges sat atop the cold sidewalks, a tradition by which they held the best viewing spots for their older “sisters.” By early evening, they had been joined there by fellow students, middle-aged alumni, State College residents and their children, and the merely curious.

Occasionally, small groups of students carrying plastic cups filled with beer or some undetermined clear liquid weaved through the crowds. Sometimes the raindrops falling on their heads were enhanced by beer or water dumped down—intentionally or inadvertently—by those occupying the balconies of College Avenue apartments. No one seemed to mind.

The floats and marchers from 170 university organizations passed in a sentimental fog. When the parade concluded, spectators walked to Old Main for a rally at which Sue Paterno, the event's grand marshal, spoke briefly.

“Welcome back,” said the coach's wife, “to the home where your heart was and always will be.”

Then they all joined together to sing Penn State's fight song.

In the mismatched voices of the wet alumni, it wasn't difficult to detect a longing for the past.

Penn State had scored 27 points in its three Big Ten losses. During the two off weeks, the offensive coaches continued to be the focus of criticism, particularly by those still reluctant to point fingers at Paterno.

New speculation bubbled to the surface. Returning graduates said they'd heard from this player or administrator, from that parent or
booster, that Galen Hall, trapped between a pair of Paternos, was terribly unhappy. The
Centre Daily Times
even felt the need to publicly address—but not debunk—a rumor that Hall already had decided not to return in 2005.

“Hall has been called an offensive genius and has been successful at both the major college and NFL levels. Something tells me he could handle this Penn State gig all by himself,” Wilkes-Barre's Kellar wrote that week.

Observers wanted to know why Hall, unlike the majority of college football's offensive cordinators, was stationed on the sideline during games and not up in the press box. Shouldn't it be the coordinator and not quarterbacks coach Jay Paterno who benefited from the lofty view?

“We've discussed that as a staff,” Paterno told the press. “And I think it's up to Galen as to whether he thinks he can do a better job upstairs or downstairs. I've left it up to him. I have tremendous faith in Galen Hall. There isn't a finer offensive mind anywhere in the country. We've talked about maybe just changing the whole operation and that might be something we do even as close as this Saturday.”

Those who liked to blame Jay for all the program's ills saw Hall as a victim. Nepotism or not, the son made an inviting target. From the time he'd been named quarterbacks coach before the 2000 season, Penn State's offense had never placed higher than 54th nationally (out of 117 schools) in passing yards. Four years later, the Lions' attack was now more inept than ever.

But when the game with Iowa began on Saturday, Hall and Jay Paterno remained in place.

That cold, foggy morning a scalper stood at the corner of Park Road and McKee Street, silently flashing his tickets, a desperate gesture that unwittingly mocked the coach whose home was so close by.

Other scalpers were stationed all around Beaver Stadium, trying to unload tickets. Big SUVs, their bumper stickers betraying their political allegiances, rolled past without stopping.

Alongside most of the seventeen hundred RVs in the parking lots,
tailgating parties were under way. Penn State grad Jason Mahla of Belcamp, Maryland, hosted sixty guests at his, serving them shrimp, ranch burgers, lamb, and deep-fried Oreos. He had begun setting up at 2:00
A
.
M
.

Once inside for the noon game, this crowd appeared even older than normal. Fans cheered politely when a host of paunchy Blue Band alums in white T-shirts—D'Elia had called for yet another “White Out”—marched onto the field.

Some spectators who had not been back for a Penn State game in several years were disappointed that they could no longer see Mount Nittany from inside the stadium. Had they been able to, though, they'd likely have been dismayed by the sight of new housing developments creeping up its sacred slopes.

When Paterno and the players emerged for the pregame workout, the old coach walked over to the student section and again tried to rouse them to noise. Then he turned back toward the field, from which one of his grandchildren ran toward him for an embrace.

Despite another sea of white shirts forming in the student section, these spectators were much more subdued than before the Purdue game. Despite the weekly hopes for a season-turning victory, there were limits to how often optimism could be summoned and renewed.

Iowa's players walked out of a tunnel at the opposite end of the stadium and were greeted by the small contingent of yellow-and-black-clad supporters stuck in the stadium's northeast corner. Despite their 4–2 record and No. 25 ranking, the Hawkeyes came into the game a damaged team.

Iowa had lost its two top running backs—Marcus Schnoor and Albert Young—to early-season knee injuries. The Hawkeyes were down to their Nos. 5 and 6 backs for Penn State. Still, it was somewhat surprising that the oddsmakers had made scuffling Penn State a 2 1/2-point favorite.

This homecoming matchup contained a little extracurricular interest too. Iowa coach Kirk Ferentz, a forty-nine-year-old who had played high school football in western Pennsylvania, was often mentioned as a possible successor to Paterno. Smart and articulate, Ferentz possessed a well-groomed, razor-cut image that counted for so much
at Penn State. His eighty-four-year-old father had passed away the previous Friday and he had been back in Pennsylvania since Wednesday night. He didn't accompany Iowa to State College, but instead joined the team there on Friday night.

When his visiting Hawkeyes last defeated Penn State, 42–35, in 2002, they had run the ball forty-nine times. But now, without his best runners, Ferentz had transformed Iowa into a passing team. Nimble sophomore QB Drew Tate had thrown eighty passes in routs of Michigan State and Ohio State over the past two weeks.

Paterno was more concerned about Iowa's defense. End Matt Roth was a terrific pass rusher, and even two weeks later Mills was still sore from all the hits he'd taken against Purdue. Unhappy with the play of the right side of his offensive line, the coach had shifted sophomore tackle Levi Brown to right tackle in place of junior Andrew Richardson and inserted senior Scott Davis at right guard in place of Reed. Brown, said Paterno, might fare better against Roth.

Before the game, Anthony Adams, the ex–Penn State defensive tackle now with the San Francisco 49ers, addressed the Nittany Lions defenders, many of whom he'd played alongside. His speech suggested that the locker room might be separating along an offensive–defensive fault line.

“He said we should go out there and go all out,” said defensive lineman Tamba Hali, “we shouldn't worry about the offense. [He said] the game is really in our hands because we have to play the game, too, and we should not really be too concerned about what our offense wants to do on the field.”

The opening series offered an immediate glimpse of what was to follow.

Iowa failed to move the ball and on fourth down, a snap sailed over the head of punter David Bradley and into the end zone. Bradley retreated rapidly and intentionally kicked the ball out of bounds, the safety giving Penn State a 2–0 lead after just 1:26.