Wrestling with the Devil

by Lex Luger

  With football season over, I got ready for basketball. The schools that had expressed keen interest in me for my football talent continued to pursue me, inviting me for weekend recruiting trips, leading up to the National Signing Day in February. I had torn a ligament in the thumb of my shooting hand during a passing drill right before Christmas. Since I couldn’t play basketball while I was injured, it was perfect timing to attend the football recruiting trips. In the winter of my senior year, I narrowed my schools down to five NCAA campuses, all on the East Coast—Penn State, Boston College, Wake Forest, Annapolis, and the University of Miami. I was treated royally everywhere, and each school had something unique to offer. It was nice to have options.

  Penn State was a football powerhouse that churned out NFL-bound players year after year, but I liked the coaching staff at Boston College. Wake Forest had a small campus and was superb academically. The US Naval Academy at Annapolis attracted me because the idea of becoming a navy pilot appealed to my penchant for speed and could ultimately lead to a career as a commercial pilot.

  Annapolis was definitely my dad’s choice. During our visit, we had been guests at a formal dinner served by uniformed midshipmen decked out in white gloves. My dad was very impressed.

  Finally, there was Miami, with its balmy weather, even in winter. That was a no-brainer to someone from Buffalo.

  The night before the big collegiate decision, I was floored when Joe Paterno showed up at my high school basketball game to see me. My parents and I had met him during my official visit to Penn State. They had eaten dinner at Coach Paterno’s house along with the parents of other recruits who were on campus that weekend.

  I was finally getting back on the court after my injury when Coach Paterno decided to visit. He sat with my parents in the stands, causing quite a hubbub. He had never personally come to western New York to see anyone, and now he was coming to my house after the game to make his final pitch for the Nittany Lions. If the head guy was that interested, maybe I was supposed to go to Penn State after all.

  To say the least, it was an interesting evening with my parents and the coach. “You have an extremely talented son, Mr. and Mrs. Pfohl,” he said. “Every one of his high school coaches says he’s a hard worker and always gives 110 percent. It’s a rare athlete who can play as many positions as well as he has. He would be a boon to us, and we’d prepare him for a successful future.”

  My mom steered the conversation to academics, emphasizing that my future success would be determined there. I had clearly inherited my smarts from my parents, easily maintaining a 92 average throughout high school, enough to keep my parents from yanking me out of sports.

  “Penn State is a prestigious academic university with an outstanding faculty,” the coach said, changing tactics immediately. “Our graduates excel in every field they enter, and we look after our athletes. Lawrence has the grades to go far in whatever he pursues.”

  My parents continued to ask questions about everything except sports. When Coach Paterno got up to leave, he asked my parents if they wanted to join him for a picture.

  “No thanks,” my dad said politely. Maybe the coach found the lack of fawning on the part of my parents refreshing. Probably he was shocked. I imagine it was the first time he had ever been turned down for a photo op. I jumped on the awkward moment, saying, “Sure, I’ll get a picture with you,” just to make him feel better. We posed in front of the fireplace. When he left, my parents and I continued talking. My decision was made. That night I started thinking about how I’d look in Penn State navy blue and white.

  But I still had one more unforgettable event left in my senior year.

  I could definitely get a party started. Even though I was underage, getting beer was never a problem because my physical size fooled everyone. Wearing my Buffalo Bills sweatpants and T-shirt, I’d drive to the local Kmart and pick up a six-pack without being asked to show my ID. As I checked out, the cashier would often ask, “What position do you play?”

  “Linebacker.”

  It wasn’t a lie; I did play linebacker—for my high school team. The fact that I was often mistaken for a pro football player impressed my friends. We never drank to get drunk; just two or three beers each to get a little buzz. When we were really bored, we’d add some shooters like Bacardi 151 blue flamers. Light ’em up and drink ’em. And while we drank, I’d come up with another brilliant way to get in trouble.

  In one particular Buffalo neighborhood, residents competed against one another for the honor of owning the most distinctive handmade wooden mailbox. In March of my senior year, following an unusual ice storm that knocked out all the power, my friends and I were bored and decided it would be fun to whack as many of the mailboxes as we could with sledgehammers and axes. It would be a crowning touch to the previous acts of vandalism we had committed, such as breaking car windows and spray-painting graffiti on buildings.

  My parents were out of town when we came up with the plan to assault the mailboxes. Joining me were some of my best partners in crime—my teammates from the football team. This stunt would require some brawn, and besides, breaking the law was always more exciting when I shared the experience with others.

  So, with the headlights off, we went for a joyride in my dad’s car—drinking, driving, and swinging away at the unsuspecting mailboxes. We had mangled dozens of them and were pulling up to the last one. It belonged to one of our classmates, who was making out with her boyfriend in the car parked in the driveway. She saw us and ran inside the house, and her parents called the police. We were pulled over within minutes.

  It was a big news story because it involved me, the football team’s top wide receiver, the star tailback, and two other outstanding players. We were fortunate not to be hit with federal charges of destroying government property. Since it was the first arrest for all of us, we were fined and given a nine o’clock curfew. If we broke curfew, we were going to jail. It definitely put a dent in our partying for the rest of our senior year—we missed extracurricular activities and even some of our graduation celebrations.

  Fortunately, my brush with the law was minor enough not to affect my collegiate future.

  From Buffalo, New York, to State College, Pennsylvania, is a two-hundred-mile drive. “Happy Valley” is the nickname given to Centre County, and more often to Penn State University in adjacent University Park. The school sits in the shadow of Mount Nittany. This geographic landmark welcomes every student to the beautiful campus that stretches over hundreds of acres. From the Old Main building to the limestone statue of the Nittany Lion poised for the next photograph snapped by students and visitors alike, the sprawling university has a storied history academically and athletically. What became known in 2011 regarding Jerry Sandusky, Joe Paterno, and other football staff members is undeniably tragic. The whole sordid story is very sad, and I feel for the victims and their families.

  When I arrived at Penn State University in the fall of 1976, it was a culture shock to me. Since I hadn’t come from a football-crazy part of the country, I was stunned by how the sport transformed quaint State College into a place overrun by rabid fans. On a fall Saturday afternoon the trees were ablaze with seasonal color, and the atmosphere was electrically charged. Beaver Stadium was packed with more than sixty thousand fans, rallied by the university Blue Band that marched down the street to the field.

  My freshman class included future pros Bruce Clark, Matt Suhey, Matt Millen, and Irv Pankey, among others. I vividly remember walking into the team’s weight room for the first time. I considered myself a pretty good weight lifter, with muscles to show for it. Then I saw Bruce Clark. I thought he was an NFL player who had come to give the team a pep talk. He was bench-pressing 405 for a bunch of reps. I’m sure when he introduced himself as an incoming freshman teammate, my mouth dropped open in astonishment.

  The football facilities were on the far end of campus, opposite from where I was being housed. My roommate was Pete Harris, the younger brother of former Penn Stat
e star tailback and then-current NFL sensation Franco Harris of the Pittsburgh Steelers. Pete and I saw each other often when it involved football—and sometimes in our room when I was doing some cramming for a test. I had used last-minute study methods in high school and gotten As, so I figured it would work in college, too.

  Who needs to study every day when you can rely on short-term memory? Academic achievement was a necessary evil. I was on campus to play football, socialize, and occasionally go to class—in that order.

  I loved the sudden freedom to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. No more trips to the principal’s office or calls to my parents. As a college athlete, if I kept my grades up, no one checked my attendance in class. I’d find a fellow athlete or a friend who actually went to class to keep me posted on upcoming tests or papers I needed to prepare for. The only thing I had to attend, along with every other athlete, was a mandatory study hall two or three times a week.

  A few weeks after arriving at Penn State, I was “studying” when a friend came up to my table and said, “Hey, I met a couple of girls. One’s a cutie-pie. I asked them to stop by and visit if they’d like.”

  The two girls eventually came over and introduced themselves. The “cutie-pie” was Peggy Hall, a walk-on track star from nearby Unionville, Pennsylvania. I can’t remember a lot about our initial meeting, other than that I was captivated by her beauty. A stunning brunette with brownish-green eyes and high cheekbones, she looked exotic. (I would later learn that her mother was Japanese.) Peggy was a middle distance runner specializing in the 800 meter, which required a combination of speed, strength, and endurance.

  Surprisingly, I was pretty shy around girls. I hadn’t dated very much in high school, so girls were a mystery to me. But I was immediately comfortable with Peggy because she was so easy to talk to. More than anything, I wanted to impress her. When it was time to leave, I said, “You shouldn’t walk back to your dorm by yourself. Let me walk you home.” I was elated when she agreed. After that first meeting, I spent most of my study halls trying to find her.

  The next time we met, our conversation lasted more than a few minutes. We happened to run into each other at an off-campus party. As soon as I saw her, everything around me seemed to disappear. We found a quiet corner to talk while the party continued around us. I loved her quick wit and easygoing disposition. Time seemed to stop for us, so much so that we were surprised when the party broke up.

  We hadn’t really eaten, so we decided to stop at the McDonald’s near campus to grab a bite to eat before I walked Peggy back to her dorm. When we sat down with our trays, I realized that I had forgotten something.

  “Oh, man, I didn’t grab any napkins,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  But Peggy jumped to her feet before I did.

  “I’ll get them,” she said. “Just relax.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I just sat there quietly with a silly ear-to-ear grin plastered across my face, like some wily cat that had just raided the pantry. I was head over heels in love.

  From then on, we’d sit together in study hall and I’d walk her back to her dorm afterward. Peggy’s dorm was a half mile past mine, but I felt like I was walking on air every time I was with her.

  Sports had always been my faithful companion before I met Peggy, but she had stolen my heart. Her love and support meant a lot to me, especially when my debut at Penn State turned out to be less than stellar.

  I didn’t appear in any games my first year—not an unusual situation for freshmen at most major colleges and universities. High-profile programs had budgets to stockpile athletic talent. It was extremely rare to find standout athletes like my teammates Bruce Clark and Matt Millen, who were developed enough to start right away as freshmen at a big-time school like Penn State. Most of us supported the team from the sidelines, which was fine for me.

  In practice, the coaches and I locked horns on what position I was best suited to play. Penn State was Linebacker U, and with my height and speed, the coaches were determined to make me a pass-rushing defensive end or an outside linebacker.

  I thought it was a terrible idea.

  I had grown up idolizing the Buffalo Bills, with O. J. Simpson and his offensive line called the “Electric Company.” All-pro Joe DeLamielleure and Reggie McKenzie were the star pulling guards who helped open up lanes for O. J. I had met Joe D. when he worked with our high school team during the summer. I wanted to play offensive guard and be another Joe or Reggie.

  The Penn State staff tried to convince me otherwise. “Larry, you were made to be an outside linebacker. With your height, speed, pass-rushing skills, run-stopping abilities, and strength, you could be one of the greatest linebackers we’ve ever had.”

  I disagreed. I was determined to be an offensive guard, and, true to my nature, once I envisioned something, it was difficult to convince me otherwise.

  Rather than listen to me complain during the season, they moved me to offensive guard on the scout team before the season started. The offensive scout team emulated the opposing offense so that our defensive starters and other key personnel wouldn’t have any surprises in the upcoming game. We took our duties seriously.

  In the off-season, I continued to work out—adding muscle—in anticipation of eventually getting my shot. I now weighed about 250 pounds.

  A week into spring practice in 1977, I was playing offensive guard when I heard Coach Paterno call my name.

  “Hey, Larry Pfohl. Get in there at noseguard.”

  What’s going on now?

  I’d never played noseguard before, and now I was in a full-speed scrimmage. I did pretty well on my first couple of plays, even going out and breaking up an attempted screen pass. On the fourth play I broke through the line of scrimmage and into the backfield. I was pleased with myself and thought, Wow, this is easy.

  Then I heard it—a distinct growling sound. Nittany Lion offensive linemen intimidate their opponents by growling just before making contact. I was the target in a trap play. I remember turning my head and seeing a behemoth offensive lineman coming right at me, but it was too late. He went low on the outside of my left knee. The sharp pain was immediate. As I went down, I knew something was really wrong.

  My spring football camp was over.

  I was rushed to the hospital in nearby Harrisburg. My knee was X-rayed, and the orthopedic specialist determined that the medial collateral ligament in my left knee had been torn by the hit. Rather than immediate surgery, he advised a wait-and-see approach; once the swelling had subsided, he’d make a recommendation. I was glad not to go under the knife. My leg was put in an immobilizer, and I was on crutches for the rest of the spring.

  Peggy was with me as much as possible, even when I came down with a bad case of mononucleosis. She was an attentive and caring nurse. Flat on my back from the mono, there was no way I could go to class, and my grades reflected it. I was forced to drop some courses.

  In order to remain eligible for football, I had to go to summer school. I took my needed classes at Florida Atlantic University in Boca Raton, where my parents had recently moved.

  While I was enjoying the sunshine and palm trees, I mulled over my experience at Penn State and decided it was time to move on. The program wasn’t a good fit for me, and to be honest, the temperatures in Happy Valley my first winter had been brutal. I recalled that the recruiter I had met from Annapolis had since moved on to the University of Miami. So I contacted him and asked if the Hurricanes might be interested in me. He said he’d let me know.

  I was still awaiting word when I had to report back to Penn State in August for my sophomore year. Peggy, the bright spot in my life, was the only reason I wanted to go back.

  A week after I returned, I got the call from the Miami coach: the ’Canes wanted me. There was one hitch—I would have to transfer immediately. I met with my position coach at Penn State and explained the situation, saying that I wanted to be closer to my parents in South Florida. It wasn’t exactly the truth, but I kne
w Coach Paterno was a devoted family man and if the position coach gave that reason, it might make him sign my transfer papers more readily.

  It took a couple of weeks before Penn State released me, once they were finally convinced my heart to play football there was gone.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Peggy. Our relationship had become serious in the months since we’d met. We were already talking about running off and getting married rather than waiting until we’d finished college.

  “Why should we wait?” I’d say to her. “It’s obvious we love each other. There is no one else I want to spend the rest of my life with except you.” Peggy felt the same way. I hadn’t formally proposed and we hadn’t looked for rings, but it was a given that we were going to marry in the near future. Twelve hundred miles between us wouldn’t change anything. Peggy promised she would join me as quickly as she could. But as soon as I left, Peggy’s family, her friends, and her track coach began to talk her out of it.

  “How well do you really know this guy?” her coach asked. “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

  I believe the coach was more worried about how Peggy’s absence would affect his track team than about her happiness. She was a key leg on the Nittany Lions 4 x 800-meter relay team that had reached nationals the year before. He didn’t want to lose her. And he knew that it would be the end of her collegiate track career—Miami didn’t have a program to transfer to.

  Peggy’s family had their doubts as well, and they advised her not to rush into marriage. Everyone’s persistence finally wore her down. Peggy was apologetic and tearful on the phone when she broke the news to me: she wanted to slow things down. I was initially stunned by her unexpected change of heart, but that surprise soon turned into deep disappointment.