My Unforgettable Glimpse of JoePa

(Related Column: Five years later, Jay Paterno reflects on eulogizing his late father and remembering a deceased parent.)

My first face-to-face meeting with the legendary Joe Paterno was just a quick handshake and a polite word or two. Not “unforgettable.” A second face-to-face contact with JoePa took place three years later, and it could also be described as ordinary — a pleasant exchange of greetings.    

So how does the word “unforgettable” find its way into a description of my contact with Penn State’s late, great football coach? It’s because of the mind-boggling connection that Joe constructed between the two brief exchanges. I’m still amazed, more than 40 years later. I still wonder how he did it.

Sadly, JoePa is not here to comment on this narrative or, more likely, to visually shove it away with one of those self-deprecating gestures he used to dismiss embarrassing praise. But as I pondered the fifth anniversary of Joe’s passing last Sunday, I felt a burden to tell this story as a mini-tribute to him.  

INVESTIGATING FUMBLES

My first encounter with Joe Paterno took place when I was a Penn State freshman and serving as an intern for the Sports Information Department. In later years, I worked in the press box during football games; as a frosh in 1970 I stood on the Nittany Lions’ sideline. My job was to investigate certain details — the nature of an injury or the identity of a player who recovered a fumble — and then transmit that information to the press box. (Perhaps I gave a tiny boost to the All-American candidacy of a certain linebacker named Jack Ham. When a fumble was recovered by the Lions in a pile of bodies, I would always find Ham on the sideline and ask, “Who got the ball?” And he would always say, “I got it.”)   

It was just prior to Penn State’s opening game that year when I first met Joe. Kickoff was approaching in just 20 minutes or so when Sports Information Director John Morris casually said that he needed to introduce me to the head coach. I was shocked. Why, I asked my boss, would Coach Paterno want to visit with a lowly freshman intern just before kickoff of the season’s first game?

“Joe needs to know who you are,” said Morris. “You’re going to be behind his bench all year, and he needs to know you’re not a spy.” Well, that made sense, so I dutifully followed my boss to meet Happy Valley’s most famous resident. We exchanged a quick handshake and a greeting, and life went on.  Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so concerned about bothering the coach right before a game. Paterno’s Lions destroyed Navy that afternoon, 55-7.

Three years went by, and when I next encountered Joe, he amazed me by knowing exactly who I was, for no good reason. But first, let’s set the stage.

PLAYERS WITH A REAL FAITH

I had become acquainted with some highly-committed Christian athletes on the Nittany Lion team. Not the type who glibly thank God for their heroics — as if the Almighty might like to bask in a little of their glory. And not the type who hope that a superficial connection to God might bring good luck on the field. No, I could sense that these were men were the real deal, and I was fascinated by their stories.

So I asked John Morris if I could write a feature about these faithful footballers for the Beaver Stadium Pictorial, the glossy game program. After hesitating a couple weeks — Morris knew that Penn State wasn’t in the gospel business — he gave me the green light. And so I wrote about such Lion stalwarts as Charlie Getty (who later played 10 pro seasons for the Kansas City Chiefs and the Green Bay Packers) and Chris Devlin (veteran of three NFL seasons and now a dentist in State College). 

My goal was to show that these players not only professed faith but lived it out. In order to do the story, I wanted to get Paterno’s perspective. He was willing to talk, but he was busy. So I settled for a 10-minute interview. And here’s the key point:  it was a phone interview, meaning that Joe never saw my face. Nor did I risk boring him by mentioning that I was the freshman flunky who stood behind his bench in 1970. 

The story was published in the Pictorial for a 1973 game that brought West Virginia into Happy Valley.  As things turned out, it was a happy day for everyone but the Mountaineers and their coach, Bobby Bowden. It was certainly a happy occasion for the alumni and Joe. The 62-14 win provided a key step toward an eventual undefeated season. Also for Heisman Trophy-winning tailback John Cappelletti, he scored four touchdowns as a birthday present to his leukemia-stricken little brother, Joey. And for me, I appreciated the chance to offer some inspirational reading to Penn State football fans.

The author, pictured present day with the issue of the Beaver Stadium Pictorial in question.

CROSSING PATHS WITH JOE

But “happy” turned into “amazing” for me while walking home from Beaver Stadium that day. I needed to help clean the press box, so my departure was delayed for several hours. As I made my way across the semi-deserted stadium parking lot, I happened to cross the path of Coach Paterno, headed toward his home in College Heights.    

“That was a great story you wrote,” he said to me. “Thanks so much,” was my simple response. But as I processed what had just happened, I felt surprised, then stunned, then dumbfounded. “How did he do that?” I wondered. And indeed, I still wonder the same thing.

How in the world did Coach Joe Paterno know that I was the person who wrote that story? He saw the byline, but how did he connect my face to that name? We had met only once — with a quick handshake just before a kickoff three years before. At best, he heard my name for a split-second in a very distracting situation. And our recent phone interview wouldn’t have helped him make the name-to-face connection.

Most of us aren’t so great at remembering the names of new acquaintances. “It’s hard for me to put a name with a face,” we might say. But we rarely acknowledge the reason — we just don’t care enough to really listen to a name. We meet someone, shake a hand, mumble a polite greeting and then focus on our real priorities.  Somehow, Coach Paterno did much, much better than that.

I was living in Texas when Joe passed away. I simply couldn’t make it to the events that honored his contributions. I did see the Internet coverage of his memorial service, and I heard the powerful eulogies of former players, friends and of course, his son, Jay (see his column today).    

Somehow, I wished I could have offered my memory of Joe that day, though I realized that time did not permit the telling of stories from all who were blessed by him. And so, five years later, I finally found this opportunity to share my little snapshot. The timing seems right to me as the good memories of this man have been overwhelmed by negative reports — right or wrong, explicit or exaggerated — of failure by him.

All I can say is that JoePa heard the name of an unknown college freshman in a situation that would have prevented any ordinary person from retaining that name. Somehow, he cared enough to store that name away and remember it three years later. I’m that freshman — now 64 years old. And I promise you that I’ll never forget Joe Paterno.