Penn State Football: A Game Defined

It wasn’t until Jan. 1 that I truly understood Penn State football.

In 2009, I thought I knew what it was all about. I was wrong.

First, some background:

The Caseys are a Northeastern Pennsylvania folk. All the men years ago worked in the coal mines, married and raised a family close to home. The go-to college for Caseys has for years been “the U” (and fuhgetaboutit, Miami; we’re talking the University of Scranton here).

Scranton’s football team was good, really good, but it also went the way of the dodo bird sometime in the 1950s. In fact, the U sells T-shirts today that read “Scranton Football: Undefeated Since 1955,” or some year close to that.

Needless to say, being raised a Scranton football fan was out of the question.

My father’s med school – Temple – didn’t offer much in the football department either. Scratch that.

As a rule of thumb for an Irish catholic family, we should have rooted for Notre Dame, but that Rudy was just too much of a wimp.

We grew up outside Philadelphia, but Villanova, Drexel, Penn, St. Joe’s and LaSalle aren’t exactly known for fan-supported football.

High school football was a big deal, but mostly because my school was very, very good when I enrolled.

In short (I know – too late – most of the football on the Casey household televisions was seen on Sundays.

Penn State football was unlike anything I had ever seen before when I went to my first game in 2005. This team had been in the dark ages, I was told, and yet students and alumni were screaming ‘til their lungs were sore and standing until their legs were numb. These people, I deduced, were crazy.

Fast forward to the January following that season. There I was in Miami, side by side with students and alumni, a two-day trip away from home, still enveloped in a sea of blue and white. My head was pounding, my heart racing. A man who must have been in his 70s scolded me for taking a cheering break. Man up and get back at it, he told me, as if I were Michael Robinson himself.

I thought I knew then what it was all about: the tailgates, the traditions, the cheers, the camaraderie. I was close, but I wasn’t there.

On Jan. 1, 2010, I found myself in South Philadelphia, at a place called Mad River. I planned on meeting some alumni friends there to watch the game on a quiet New Year’s early afternoon.

Silly me.

The place was packed – I mean wall-to-wall packed – with alumni from the Classes of 2009 to 1959, cheering until their lungs were sore, as though they could affect the snap count from the length of the coastline away.

Strangers were hugging and high-fiving throughout and after the close victory. Even some poor Flyers fans there to watch the Winter Classic got caught in the school spirit’s wake.

It didn’t matter that this crowd could afford the time or the money to take an Orlando vacation. They were as much a part of the Nittany Lion Nation, and South Philadelphia was going to hear it.

They didn’t all meet there for the great televisions (I could see the whole picture if I pieced together the three partial views I had); they came because they wanted to be back with their Penn State family.

Even the long-lost distant relatives.

Congratulations to the Nittany Lions on a great season.