The Lion in Autumn (30 page)

Lincoln's words, curiously, could have been applied just as easily to Joe Paterno's situation.

For Paterno, one of the most difficult defeats of the 2003 season had come at Northwestern.

The coach believed many Big Ten schools took liberties—in recruiting or with academics—that he would not permit at Penn State. To friends, he frequently pointed to the Maurice Clarett mess at Ohio State as an example of doing things the wrong way. Clarett, a sensational freshman running back on Ohio State's national 2002 national-championship team, had been suspended after accusations that he received preferential academic treatment and no-work jobs. He also
pleaded guilty to lying to police about an alleged theft of $10,000 in merchandise from his car.

But Northwestern, in his view, was a program very much like his own. Three times since 1998 the Evanston, Illinois, school had been awarded the American Football Coaches Association's academic achievement award for a hundred-percent graduaton rate. Maybe Penn State wasn't always going to play at the level of an Ohio State or Michigan, but Northwestern ought to be a different story.

“Northwestern is a school that does it the way we do,” Paterno said. “We have to be able to compete against that. There are some schools that you can step back and say, ‘Well, that's a whole different program than what we have.' You can't do that with [Northwestern].”

That challenge provided him some motivation for what was otherwise a meaningless game.

In what was becoming a weekly ritual, Paterno on Monday again sought to lift his players' heads. He told them to ignore all the negativity swirling around State College. He said they ought to approach their final three games the way the Irish, and not the Italians, approached a wake.

“At the Irish wake, at least you have a little fun,” he said. “At Italian wakes, all of the women are crying all day. We're playing football in the fall. The leaves are out. Everything is great. It's such a beautiful day and you're young. Let's go out and play a football game. Have some fun and forget about what the media is saying.”

Paterno had been encouraged that week when the father of a recruit visiting campus told him he still “had something special here.” He also knew by then that he had a good shot at landing Justin King and Derrick Williams. While he couldn't tell his team the recruiting specifics, he let them know help was on the way and urged them to keep the faith. The program's difficulties were overblown. Penn State, he told them, was this close to a turnaround. And it could start with the Lions' final three games, against Northwestern, Indiana, and Michigan State, all of them winnable.

Outside Beaver Stadium on Saturday, fans hawked unused tickets right up until the noon kickoff. The crowd would be announced at
100,353, the smallest attendance for a Big Ten game since the latest stadium expansion. That total reflected tickets sold. In reality there were far fewer fans there.

In the face of the program's steep decline, Penn State continued to make every effort to maintain its base of support. Just that week, Greg Myford, an executive with the Palace at Auburn Hills, the Detroit Pistons' arena, had been hired for a new athletic-department position, associate AD for marketing and communications. And D'Elia, seeking to generate some excitement in the midst of another lost season, had declared a “Code Blue.”

Despite their disappointment over the season, most of the students arrived wearing that color, though some also brought beach balls, apparently as insurance against boredom. A few of them also had bags to place over their heads as a silent protest. And at least one female student, with sunshine and temperatures in the fifties, had written
MORELLI
across her bare midriff, a naked plea to see the youngster in action.

The game was being televised at noon by ESPN Plus on a regional basis. Penn State's record had made them unappealing for national audiences. As a result, as the season progressed, smaller regional telecasts and noon starts became the norm. While noon was somewhat early for college students' tastes, it was a boon to university police.

“We love the noon starts,” said Spanier. “Who's going to start drinking at nine
A
.
M
.? Games that start later, at, say, eight
P
.
M
., are far more challenging. With an eight
P
.
M
. kickoff, there's a lot more time to drink before the game and then afterwards everybody heads downtown to the bars.”

Even so, every campus police officer, as well as scores of state troopers and law-enforcement officers from the borough of State College and surrounding communities, were in or outside the stadium that day. With more than a hundred thousand fans on football Saturdays, the area surrounding Beaver Stadium became Pennsylvania's third largest city.

Also surveying that population from perches high atop the multilevel press box and the new suites on the stadium's east side were several plainclothes policemen.

“[Their] job, while everyone else is watching the game, is to look
out at the parking lots, checking around to see if there are any problems,” said Spanier.

Northwestern, at 4–4, 3–2 in the Big Ten, was no juggernaut, but the Wildcats didn't have to be to beat this Penn State team.

Randy Walker's team ran the kind of vanilla offense Paterno once had—a big offensive line opening holes for a talented running back. Senior Noah Herron was third in the Big Ten, averaging 111.6 yards a game, nearly as many as the Nittany Lions managed as a team.

Penn State would be without safety Andrew Guman, whose chest and rib injuries against Ohio State kept him out. That meant ten of the eleven defensive starters were underclassmen, an encouraging sign for a unit that already was one of just four Division I-A teams—Texas, Auburn, and Wisconsin were the others—to have limited all of their opponents to 21 or fewer points.

On offense, Mills was back at quarterback. That meant Robinson would be shifted all around again, a strategy that by this stage of the season appeared to be doing little but diminishing his effectiveness.

Paterno had upset all the Morelli backers further by implying earlier that Robinson would most likely be his quarterback in 2005. What was the use of recruiting high-school superstars, the thinking went, if they were going to languish on the bench? But this week the coach appeared to waver on his commitment.

“That [finding Robinson a permanent position] is a legitimate decision I'm probably going to have to make down the road,” he said. “I can't tell you what it is right now.”

Morelli was on the sideline as Robinson lined up as a flanker on Penn State's first play. For an offense that was under such fierce attack, things could not have started less encouragingly. On a pass play set up by a double reverse, Robinson, a right-hander, got the ball running to his left. Stopped by the defense, he reversed field and, while trying to elude a defender, heaved a weak floater toward Tony Hunt. Northwestern's Dominique Price easily picked it off. It was Robinson's fifth interception in just over one and a half games, and it was the Lions' twenty-fourth turnover in nine games.

This time there was no hesitation. Loud boos immediately rolled through the stadium even though the Lions had run just a single play. What kind of atmosphere would there be if they were trailing in the fourth quarter?

Northwestern responded immediately after the interception. A 51-yard pass from Brett Basanez to Jonathan Fields set up Terrell Jordan's 1-yard touchdown run and the Wildcats led, 7–0.

Penn State's next drive provoked more catcalls when fullback Paul Jefferson dropped a catchable third-down pass to end it. The game became a punters' battle until Paul Cronin, subbing for Guman, intercepted a Basanez pass and returned it 14 yards to the Wildcats' 22. Six plays later, with thirty-seven seconds remaining in the half, Mills found Smolko on a game-tying 2-yard scoring toss.

Early in the second half, in what had become another recurring theme, there was more confusion and anger visible on Penn State's sideline. Following cornerback Gio Vendemia's recovery of a fumbled punt at the Wildcats' 14, the offense huddled around McQueary and Kenny. Meanwhile, the twenty-five-second clock continued to run. Finally, Paterno rushed in to break up the gathering, but the Lions had to spend a time-out. In the chaotic aftermath, McQueary and Kenny screamed loudly at each other.

“The torture of watching this team is exceeded only by [the torture of watching the] players carrying out the marching orders—when they get them on time,” Rudel would write in
Blue White Illustrated
.

Herron, who would finish with 175 yards on thirty carries, and the Wildcats' offensive line began to weary the Nittany Lions' defenders. On the third play of the fourth quarter, Herron capped an 83-yard drive with a 1-yard plunge that put Northwestern in front, 14–7.

Penn State's last drive started at its own 20 midway through the final period. Mills's passing moved them downfield and, on a 24-yard strike to Robinson, got them a first down at Northwestern's 18. But there the pass-catching problems that had wounded the Lions all season resurfaced.

Kinta Palmer missed a pass on first down. Then, on third down, Robinson broke free near the Wildcats' goal line. Mills's pass hit him
in stride but the receiver could not hold on, squandering what would have been a game-knotting TD. On fourth-and-10, Mills inexplicably threw a short pass to a well-covered Hunt. It gained only four yards.

Spectators booed, screamed, and fled to the exits.

Northwestern took over with 3:27 left and Penn State out of time-outs. The Nittany Lions would not get the ball back.

Morelli had warmed up a few times on the sideline and fans, spotting him, began yelling that he be inserted. He never was.

“I was very close,” said Paterno. “It just didn't seem like the right time.”

Mills completed twenty-one of thirty-four passes for 183 yards, but could produce only seven points.

On the sideline, Adam Taliaferro, in street clothes and able to walk now with only a slight limp, shook his head in dismay. He joined his former teammates as they trudged into the stadium tunnel, heading for the locker room.

Many of the fans leaning over the tunnel walkway, even those regulars who generally did nothing more provocative than ask for a wristband, barked angrily at the players, particularly when Mills passed.

“You suck, Zack!” screamed one.

In the stands, just yards away from where he walked, a few students started a chant of “Joe Must Go! Joe Must Go!”

“As far as we know, he's staying,” said Smolko. “There's no reason for him to be leaving. I don't see it happening. And even if it is, we don't know. . . . He's about the same way we are. He just doesn't know what to think and what to expect and what the reasons for the outcomes of our games are.”

The person to whom many of Paterno's detractors continued to gripe was Graham Spanier.

Penn State's fifty-six-year-old president, as his university biography noted, was an unconventional administrator. A magician, musician, and pilot, Spanier believed in hands-on involvement. He had
performed with the school's marching band, its musical-theater group, and glee club. He even once made an appearance as the Nittany Lion mascot.

Spanier, the husband of a Hemingway scholar, also had run with the bulls in Pamplona. He had approached that 2001 adventure with an academic's precision. By studying the bulls' tendencies, identifying the safest route, and familiarizing himself with the event's history, he managed to dodge the rampaging bovines and the swarms of red-scarfed revelers who surged through the Spanish city's cobblestoned streets every year on the Feast of San Fermín.

Paterno's game-plan alterations earlier that morning hadn't helped. Penn State was minutes away from a sixth consecutive loss. Now, on the Northwestern possession that would conclude Penn State's 14–7 loss, Spanier again found himself scurrying from danger. Only this time, there was no way he could have prepared.

As he hurried along the Beaver Stadium sideline, directly in front of sections jammed with Penn State students in blue T-shirts, he was moving with considerably more dread than on his Spanish dash. And the horns of the dilemma that confronted him were every bit as threatening as those on a fifteen-hundred-pound bull.

“Hey, Spanier, get rid of Paterno!” yelled one student in Section EB. “It's over.”

As more among the disgruntled crowd recognized the Penn State president, they began bellowing their own complaints. Spanier, accelerating his unathletic stride, moved uncomfortably past the shouts, past the straggly back row of Nittany Lions reserves, past security guards and the ex-players and hangers-on who had wangled field passes for the game.

“Make a change, Spanier!” came a loud cry from the front of Section EC. “Make a change!”

His late-game jaunt through this gauntlet of frustration had been a mistake, like waving a red flag in front of thousands of irritated bulls. Spanier should have known better. For weeks, wherever he went, he had heard the same thing. He couldn't outrun all the negative buzz about Paterno.

Nine games into another disappointing season, Spanier still had no easy answers. That's why he had stopped discussing the issue in public.