Scandal should not define Joe Paterno

They say he died of complications from lung cancer. Others insist he died of a broken spirit. One is physical, one is metaphysical, neither adequately explains the tragic end.

Joe Paterno is gone, three months after his last milestone victory, weeks after his most crushing defeat. As everyone reflects on the life and complicated demise of one of America's sports legends, it's important to remember this: A person is the totality of their good deeds and misdeeds, and one doesn't have to obscure the other.

Paterno's impact on Penn State and the players he coached for 46 years is unimpeachable. He won, he stressed academics and he helped turn a school in the Pennsylvania hills into a national institution. He was generous and loyal and immovable, based on where he lived (the same modest house for 46 years), how he coached and dressed, and how much he contributed — in dollars and reputation — to the Penn State community.

It's also true that Paterno responded horribly to a crisis nine years ago, out of fear or arrogance or abject stubbornness. That allowed one of his former assistant coaches, Jerry Sandusky, to allegedly continue committing acts of child sexual abuse on campus, an awful story that rightly led to Paterno's firing on Nov. 9.

Sandusky will get his chance to defend himself in court. Paterno's last defense will have to be a matter of parsed record. He made one attempt in a recent lengthy interview with the Washington Post. The newspaper's photographs showed the 85-year-old withered Lion in a wheelchair, wearing a wig to hide the ravages of the cancer treatment. His already-raspy voice was even lower, which made it sound even sadder.

Paterno didn't offer much new, and his weak explanation probably didn't change opinions of the scandal. He claimed he was confused by what his graduate assistant, Mike McQueary, told him he saw in the alleged 2002 shower-room rape of a boy by Sandusky.

"I just did what I thought was best," Paterno told the Post. "I talked to people that I thought would be — if there was a problem — that would be following up on it."

The iconic leader lost his ability to lead at that very moment, and again, it's impossible to know if it was because of age or ego or selfish protection of the program's image. He was 75 then, and calls for his retirement had periodically surfaced.

Rapid decline

Men of absolute commitment to a cause — and yes, college football can be a cause — can lose perspective in their isolation, and lose the will to live in their exile.

Paul "Bear" Bryant died of a heart attack a month after he retired from Alabama as the then-winningest coach in college football history. He was only 69. Paterno died about 10 weeks after he was fired, and his last victory was the record-breaking No. 409.

Cancer wins most battles against 85-year-old men, but the rapidness of Paterno's deterioration is stark. The shame, the guilt, the public uproar. Everything was crumbling in front of him, and all he could do was acknowledge there was more he could have done, and how many times could he reiterate that?

"This is a tragedy, and it is one of the great sorrows of my life," he had said in a statement. "With the benefit of hindsight, I wish I had done more."

What a sad, devastating thing to have to say late in a life filled with so much accomplishment. That's where the spirit surely snapped, and although his family said he fought the illness to the end, Paterno had to know he was facing multiple unwinnable battles.

Paterno, the institution

My encounters with Paterno were brief and enlightening. I was there for Michigan's first trip to Happy Valley in 1993, when Paterno called four straight running plays from Michigan's 1 and was stuffed, and lost, 21-13. Was that just stubbornness, or was it belief and commitment to a simple ideal, that if you outwork and out-execute, you will outperform?

Happy Valley is a unique place and Paterno carried the airs of a special man. The school would hold an informal Friday night gathering for media and others, and amid coconut shrimp and cocktails, Paterno would happily sidle from table to table. I recall him flipping over a napkin and scribbling out plays for us, a genuine attempt to make visitors feel welcome.

What Paterno did for 62 total years at Penn State was build two institutions — the football program and himself. What he didn't do for 10 years with the Sandusky information is inexcusable, and it's how some will remember him. It was especially disturbing because the charges were so damning and the inaction so damaging.

It seemed for years the end would never come for JoePa, and then it came so suddenly and shockingly, it's hard to digest. Ultimately, you focus on the sum of the man, a coach like no other and a human being like most. He did plenty of good things, and also had flaws. It ended with his own haunting words — "I wish I had done more."

What a terrible regret to take to your grave. It can't be ignored, but it shouldn't be the epitaph for a life defined by much more.

bob.wojnowski@detnews.com

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