“I love you too,” Paterno instantly shouted back. “And I love these guys!”
Paterno, who insists his players dress in suits and ties on road trips even though their chartered-jet itinerary rarely brings them in contact with the public, removed the dinner jacket and donned a wrinkled Penn State T-shirt, tugging it over his head in such a forceful manner that it appeared to be a defiant gesture. He didn’t care that his hair, finally graying, was a mess, that the tight shirt accentuated his belly, or that his high-pitched speech to a crowd peppered with tiny children was sprinkled with hells and ain’ts.
He had even abandoned his infamous pregame caution. While veteran observers had long been amused by his tendency to ennoble even the weakest of Nittany Lions opponents, this time he boldly predicted Penn State was going “to beat the hell out of Purdue!” He urged the fans to yell so loudly tomorrow that they’d drown out Orton’s signals and audible calls and the “next time Number—what’s his number?—next time Number 18 goes back there in the huddle, he ain’t gonna change any plays!”
It was odd to see Paterno like this, so out of character, sputtering and shouting like some beer-soaked undergraduate. Sure this was a pep rally where a certain level of hyperbole was expected, but did he really believe the very un-Paterno-like things he was saying?
“I don’t really look at it in a sense of something I like to do or don’t like to do,” Paterno explained later about his pep-rally persona. “But there just comes a time when a team needs to get a bunch of people to rally around them. That’s what a rally is. To go there and say, ‘Well, I hope we can win. The other guys are good and we’ve had tough luck.’ What’s that gonna do? I think you’ve got to make yourself go into those things and say, ‘Hey, we’re going into battle.’ Not just the football team but the whole Penn State community.”
“We got, what, six games left?” he now asked the crowd. “We can win ‘em all. We’re as good as anybody in America! . . . There’s only one Heisman Trophy winner who’s going to be on the field tomorrow and his name is Zack Mills.”
Players smiled, bemused by their coach’s violation of one of the rules he constantly harped about. He was guilty of an emotional outburst in public.
Now Paterno slammed his fist on the podium like some enraptured preacher and screeched at the top of his lungs to the delighted crowd:
“You know I’m frustrated. I really am. Because these guys are working their tails off. They’re on the verge of being something, but they lick themselves. Tomorrow we ain’t gonna lick ourselves, all right! Tomorrow we’re gonna beat somebody! We’re tired of losing! You’re tired. I’m tired. And”—pointing to his players, who sat behind him—“they’re more tired!”
Penn State’s students, reminded by omnipresent advertisements and by D’Elia’s designated dormitory criers, who roamed the halls early Saturday rousing them from sleep, responded heartily to Paterno’s midseason pleadings. The following day, more than thirty thousand of them entered Beaver Stadium wearing the same kind of white T-shirts Paterno had put on at the rally, purifying large swatches of the east and south grandstands.
The sartorial togetherness enlivened their spirits. They stood and noisily shouted long before the 4:30 P.M. kickoff. That’s not to say there weren’t cynics among them, those more colorfully attired who felt the “White Out” theme was aptly symbolic of a program trying to obscure its recent past.
The wildly positive atmosphere brought to mind the glory days. Smiling, eager fans took early laps around the outside perimeter of the stadium, glancing occasionally at the fall colors illuminating Mount Nittany. Tailgaters were plentiful and loud. Among those stopping at the Paterno statue for photographs, the anticipation was as thick and redolent as the barbecue sauce some of the tailgaters smeared on ribs and chicken.
Happy Valley was, if only for a day, happy again. That’s why several spectators and State College residents had been upset that morning when they picked up the Centre Daily Times and found the special pregame Penn State insert had Purdue’s Orton on its cover. The perceived slight was minor when compared to everything that had been written about Paterno and his teams in recent years. But on this day, for those trying to restore Penn State spirit, it seemed inappropriate.
“I was shocked and disappointed to see the front page covered with pictures of Purdue’s quarterback Kyle Orton,” wrote Bernie Ryan of State College in a letter to the newspaper. “I realize he is one of the top quarterbacks in the country and a Heisman contender, but why would Penn State’s hometown paper highlight him on the cover? I would expect to see pictures like that on an inside page. Granted, Penn State has had a rough couple years, but why not highlight some of our stellar student-athletes on the front page, as you have done in the past? These young athletes are not professionals and need our encouragement.”
The answer was simple and likely not the one Ryan and his fellow boosters wanted to hear.
“The decision to feature Purdue quarterback Kyle Orton on the cover of the pregame edition,” explained an editor’s note that followed, “was necessitated by the fact that several Penn State players, with whom interviews had been requested, were not made available.”
Homemade signs had virtually vanished from Beaver Stadium in recent seasons. But amid the white background several could be spotted. PURDUE PURDON’T, read one, while another was a message for the Boilermakers’ quarterback, ORTON: WELCOME TO LINEBACKER U. OUCH!
As the old coach led his team from the stadium tunnel minutes before the game, he veered unexpectedly toward the students. With raised arms wildly flailing in an attempt to pump them up further, Paterno resembled an aged cheerleader. He prompted even louder shouts as he slapped hands with students in the front row.
Later, during the game, when his younger self might have been knee-deep in strategic calculations, he frequently turned to whip up the crowd. That action, captured by ESPN’s omnipresent cameras, disillusioned at least one Purdue fan.
“On October 9, I tuned in to the Penn State–Purdue football game,” L. Robert Smeltzer of Carol Stream, Illinois, wrote the Chicago Tribune. “Ignoring the fact that I am a Purdue alum, I wanted to watch one of the finest field generals in my seventy-plus years. I was inundated with shots of coach Joe Paterno inciting the Penn State students to make enough noise to prevent Purdue quarterback Kyle Orton from turning his superb talents for defensive assessment into audible calls at the line of scrimmage. Paterno continued this exhortation during the game with frequent arm motions to solicit even more noise from the spectators. His apparent motive was his assessment that his team was not as well coached and able as Purdue, and the only way he could win was to employ unsportsmanlike conduct. I would like to see the Big Ten censure Paterno’s conduct and establish a rule against such practices.”
The behavior showed how much Paterno had invested in this game—his time, his energy, his talents, his voice, his heart, his soul, even his dignity. He felt it was all worth it because he knew Penn State would beat Purdue, work like hell during the bye week, and come back strong for the final five games.
He had drawn a line in the sand. The turnaround would start here.
The excitement surrounding the game had caused a mental “White Out” of sorts among many Penn State fans. In their enthusiasm, they had managed to overlook the gigantic performance gap between these two teams. Penn State was still 2–3 and hadn’t beaten a good team yet. They would be without Michael Robinson again. They couldn’t pass the ball. And because of that, they couldn’t run it either.
Purdue, led by Orton, was 4–0. The ninth-ranked Boilermakers had annihilated Notre Dame in South Bend, 41–16, the previous week. They had the nation’s No. 1 offense, averaging 47 points a game. They had outscored Syracuse, Ball State, Illinois, and Notre Dame by a combined 189–53. And, incredibly, they had not yet committed a single turnover.
“They are a great football team,” said Paterno, using virtually the same words he had employed to describe Minnesota a week earlier
. “They are one of the better football teams we have played since I have been at Penn State. . . . They are averaging [549 yards] a ball game. . . . If we give him [Orton] three or four turnovers, they will beat us 50–6. You just have to play solid football and hang in there, go to the ball and tackle the receiver when he catches it, try not to let him beat you deep, keep everything in front of you and pray.”
It looked like his prayers may have been answered when on the game’s second play, Mills hit Hunt on a 20-yard pass. But a false-start penalty wiped it out and the Nittany Lions soon punted.
Penn State’s game plan for Purdue was overloaded with passes. Paterno understood that, given his team’s virtually nonexistent aerial game, Purdue, like everybody else, would be geared to stop the run. So he rode his wide receivers hard all week, telling them Mills might throw fifty passes and that it was about time they caught a few.
“I think it’s basically the fact that if you have an extra guy to block,” he said of the front-loaded defenses the Nittany Lions had faced, “and you don’t have a man to block him, then you have to throw the ball . . . it’s either that or go back to the single wing.”
Tom Bradley’s defense, which had Connor now in the middle in place of the injured Shaw, was doing a good job of limiting Orton to short throws. With 5:57 left in the first quarter, Ben Jones’s 50-yard field goal gave the Boilermakers a 3–0 lead.
Following a few more costly Penn State penalties, Purdue made it 10–0 when, with nearly ten minutes remaining until halftime, Brandon Jones scored on a 2-yard run.
Paterno’s sideline performance quickly turned frantic. He became even more animated and irritable than usual. He looked disgusted at Penn State’s penalties and, particularly when Purdue had the ball, beseeched the crowd to make more noise. When a first-quarter punt return was nullified by a block-in-the-back penalty, he was livid, running down the official during a time-out to deliver a stern, hands-on-the-hips lecture.
Then, on the Nittany Lions’ drive that followed Purdue’s touchdown, Austin Scott was tackled after a 1-yard gain when a wide receiver missed a block. Paterno lunged toward receivers coach Mike McQueary and screamed at the first-year assistant who, arms folded across his chest, stoically accepted the public rebuke.
Two plays later all was forgiven. Mills, who looked healthier and more accurate than against Minnesota, finally hooked up with a wideout for a big play—even if it came as a surprise to Paterno.
On a first-and-10 at Purdue’s 37, the Lions quarterback retreated and lofted a deep floater toward Terrell Golden, who was racing toward the end zone. Cornerback Brian Hickman had the receiver blanketed but the ball sailed just beyond his reach. Golden, dropping to his knees as he did, made the touchdown catch.
Penn State’s bench and the enormous crowd erupted. Golden, caught up in the spirit that had been building on campus all week, violated one of Paterno’s best-known principles, performing a brief and relatvely subdued celebratory shuffle.
The end-zone dance prompted a 15-yard penalty on the ensuing kickoff. Paterno, visibly angry again, grabbed Golden as he passed and chastised him. Golden stood still until the coach was through, then broke away and resumed his celebrating with teammates. He would not get back into the game until the final minutes of the fourth quarter.
“He was not punished because of that,” Paterno insisted several days later. “Having said that, that’s none of your business. If I felt he should not have been in that game because he hot-dogged and cost us fifteen yards (that’s my business). . . . He’s a young kid and he’d better learn, but that’s not the reason I kept him out. . . . I kept him out because he hadn’t even been in the plans.”
Actually, the coach said he hadn’t even been aware Golden was in the game. The redshirt freshman from Norfolk apparently entered when another wideout pulled himself for a breather.
“I was shocked when he was in there [and] when we threw the ball to him,” said Paterno.
The touchdown energized the Lions, who then tied the game at 10–10 on Gould’s 38-yard field goal with under a minute left in the half.
During the intermission, Paterno cautioned his team about their habit of permitting long scoring drives to start the second half. And then Purdue became the fourth straight opponent to do it. Orton finished off a nine-play, 80-yard drive by hitting Taylor Stubblefield, left wide open on a mistake by cornerback Anwar Phillips, on a 40-yard touchdown pass four minutes into the third quarter.
“I can’t explain it,” said Bradley of the start-of-the-second-half syndrome. “We even played a couple of defenses we hadn’t played in the first half, thinking maybe they were onto something we had been doing.”
Before the quarter ended, Gould added a second field goal, a 27-yarder, cutting Purdue’s advantage to 17–13.
A brief rainstorm arrived early into the fourth quarter, just as Orton threw his first interception of the season. That pass, intended for Kyle Ingraham, was picked off by Lowry and returned to Penn State’s 43. The Lions, with Mills connecting on five passes, moved to the Boilermakers’ 6. There, on a fourth-and-5, came the most important play of the game, perhaps of the Nittany Lions’ season.
Paterno sent out the field-goal unit, hardly an illogical decision at the time, since Penn State at last looked capable of moving the ball. Mills took the snap but arose, pulled the ball into his chest, and rolled right. Guard Tyler Reed missed a block on linebacker Stanford Keglar, who lunged and dragged Mills down at the 3, 11⁄2 yards short of a first down.
“We thought we had it,” Paterno said of the faked field goal. “We had practiced it all week. They gave us a look, and I thought we had it. And it would have given us a chance to score. Obviously, if it works it’s a great play.”
Still, Penn State got the ball back quickly when Phillips intercepted another Orton pass at Purdue’s 42. This time, Paterno called for the field goal and Gould missed a 45-yarder. An uneasy hum spread through the stadium. These fans had seen this all before.
Sure enough, Purdue marched downfield in a time-killing drive (5:34) that concluded with a 46-yard field goal by Jones. With only 2:48 to play, the Boilermakers led by a touchdown, 20–13.
A comeback still seemed possible when Kinlaw returned the ensuing kickoff 65 yards to Purdue’s 33-yard line. But four straight Mills incompletions wasted his effort.
One more stand by Penn State’s defense got the Lions the ball back at their own 30 with 1:15 to go. This time they could manage just 20 yards before a fourth-down Hail Mary pass from Morelli—inserted on this play for his arm strength—was batted down near the end zone.
It was over. Another defeat.
Penn State had gotten production and plays from the passing game. Mills (twenty-nine of forty-nine for 293 yards, a TD, and no interceptions) had been sharp. Wideout Gerald Smith caught five more balls, Rubin three, and the scuffling Phillips two for 53 yards. Tight ends Smolko and Hunt had seven receptions apiece. And there was Golden’s TD.
The defense had been impressive again, limiting Purdue to 348 net yards (200 below its average) and 20 points (27 under its average). The kicking game had improved, except for the long field-goal miss. Paterno had done all that he could.
And yet here he was again, hoarse, frustrated, and weary, dragging himself off the field after another loss. His tenth in eleven Big Ten games. His eleventh straight against a ranked opponent.
As he entered the postgame news conference, Paterno’s dark, downcast eyes averted the roomful of reporters. His optimism was spent and wasted after what he would call “one of the most disappointing losses in my coaching career.”
Already, while slouching into his chair behind the podium, he had declared his players off-limits for interviews, soliciting groans from sportswriters who, facing two long weeks until the Nittany Lions’ next game, had hoped to fill up their notebooks.
“They’re emotionally drained,” he explained. “I know I am.”
Paterno was as transparently disheartened as he had been buoyant t
he previous night. People who had been observing him for three, four, five decades said they could not recall seeing him so low after a loss.
“Yeah, we played better in spots,” he allowed at one point. “We played a really good football team. And Wisconsin was a really good football team. And Minnesota was a really good football team. But we’re Penn State. We’re supposed to win those football games. Yes, we’re better today than we were a week ago. But we’re not good enough. And I’m tired of not being good enough. It’s as simple as that.”
The postgame scene inside Penn State’s locker room was just as dreary. The players had been buoyed by Paterno’s enthusiasm all that week. Now they and their coach had disappeared beneath the surface.
“Guys were upset,” said Mills. “There were guys crying in the locker room—very, very down. This was a game we felt we should have won. [Coach Paterno] was very upset. . . . I haven’t seen him like that too much.”
When the stadium finally had emptied, Paterno and son Jay decided to walk back to the head coach’s home. As they passed through the dark Beaver Stadium parking lots, the bravest of the thousands of dedicated but disappointed tailgaters who lingered there shouted out to them.
“Good game, Joe. We’re getting better.”
If the words were meant to soothe the devastated coach, they instead had the opposite effect. He felt like shouting angrily at the well-wisher. This is what my program has become, he thought. Expectations are so low that a tough loss is good enough?
“Where do you vent your anger?” Paterno said when recalling the incident. “You know what you want to do, and you’re working like a dog to get it done, and it doesn’t happen. What do you do, sing songs? You’re angry. If you had said to me after the game, ‘Hey, you sound like you are angry.’ You’re damned right I was angry. Who was I angry at? I was angry at you and everybody else. I was angry at my wife. People wanted to talk. . . . I felt like [cursing them].”
The Lion in Autumn Page 22