The people of this quaint college town nestled in the valley of the rolling Alleghenies bear the weight of the world.
STATE COLLEGE, PA. -- The sculpture of a turtle with a large sphere mounted on its shell stands on the terrace of Penn State's historic "Old Main" administration building, near splotches of wax from last week's candlelight vigil for victims of sexual abuse by one of its own.
Greek mythology has it that when Atlas grew tired of lugging the world on his shoulders, he would rest it on a turtle's back. The piece was a gift from the Penn State Class of 1966 -- the year Joe Paterno took over the football program and began building one of the most respected programs in the country.
Now, amid accusations that Jerry Sandusky, his former top assistant coach and once a pillar in the community, sexually assaulted young boys, the people of this quaint college town nestled in the valley of the rolling Alleghenies bear the weight of the world -- with no turtle to rest it on.
The scandal has already taken down the 84-year-old Paterno, icon, philanthropist and communal grandfather, and university President Graham Spanier. The school's athletic director and vice president of finance resigned. An assistant coach who testified he saw Sandusky in the act in the university's football complex is on leave while authorities scramble to sort out truth and responsibility.
Investigations have been launched. Lawsuits that could take years to resolve will follow. Moody's Investors Service is reviewing Penn State's credit rating over the possible decline in student enrollment and donations, and the expense of potential lawsuits. Several corporate sponsors, including Cleveland's Sherwin-Williams, have already yanked their support.
"This," said Matt Herb, a lifelong Penn State fan, alum and editor of Blue White Illustrated magazine, "is something this [football] program might never recover from."
Nudged aside in all of this is that Penn State also happens to play Ohio State on Saturday in Columbus. Win, and it sets up the Nittany Lions for a possible trip to the first Big Ten championship game in the league's new two-division format.
"It's still Ohio State-Penn State. It's still football," interim head coach Tom Bradley reminded a media throng twice the norm at the team's weekly press conference.
Bradley, a defensive coach thrust in charge when Paterno was abruptly fired by phone call, was like a sea captain fighting to keep his ship upright in a wicked, swirling storm. In an awkward volley, questions ranged from play-calling and starting quarterbacks to whether any of his staff had reservations about using the coaches' locker room shower, where Sandusky was allegedly seen raping a young boy in 2002.
For Penn State players, practice has been a welcome escape. They have not been made available to the media.
"I'm trying," the coach said, "to keep things as close to normal as I can for them."
A full range of emotions
Normally, the reward for a successful football season is a bowl bid to a place more tropical than central Pennsylvania in winter. Even that's uncertain now, given the baggage.
Those who make up this tight, insulated community -- Penn State faculty and staff, students, residents and Paterno fans since birth from nearby towns -- say the scandal has raked them through a color wheel of emotion -- confusion and rage, pain, guilt and shock, embarrassment, horror, hurt and betrayal.
Almost two weeks since the Sandusky allegations blew up into a fluid national story, the place affectionately branded "Happy Valley," wasn't.
"I don't even like football, but this is all we're talking about," said a graduate student who didn't want her name published because her parents work for the university. "It's just sad. I think everyone is sad."
"It's definitely not back to normal," said Ernie Lehman, a Penn State junior from Navarre, Ohio, just south of Massillon. "I don't know how long it will take to get back to normal."
Then looks are deceiving. A week before Thanksgiving break, students in dark blue and white Penn State ball caps, T-shirts and sweat shirts -- some with "Joe knows football" across the front -- walked the campus plugged into headphones and talking or texting on cell phones.
At the "HUB," the bustling student center, a folk duo entertained upstairs as scholars were buried in books and laptops.
At the campus-run Berkey Creamery, customers were buried in Alumni Swirl and Rum Raisin. His name may have been stripped from the Big Ten Trophy this week, but Peachy Paterno, peach ice cream with peach slices, was still being served. A banana-flavored concoction called Sandusky Blitz had been quietly pulled from the menu.
Perky students with umbrellas backpedaled as they led parents and their high school sons and daughters on campus tours in a steady rain.
Not back to normal? The line of television trucks and satellite dishes and news crews under tents set up along the sidewalk of College Street with Old Main as the backdrop won't allow normal.
"Go home!" a coed screamed at them from a passing car. Another, buried in headphones, just shook her head in disgust as she walked by.
The Penn State football yearbook boasts that more media members follow the team on the road than any other Big Ten school. But that's attention on their terms.
Long-timers describe a community with a deep sense of place, pride and priorities. Under Paterno, "success with honor" not only became the football program's mantra, but was backed up by high graduation rates and few NCAA violations.
Off the field, Penn State is known for one of the largest student-run philanthropic organizations in the world. "Thon," short for the dance marathon that began the effort nearly 40 years ago, counts more than 15,000 volunteers and nearly $80 million raised to fight childhood cancer.
A campus philosophy betrayed
Campus-wide, the ideals are everywhere. "The Penn State Principles" are posted on a wall in the HUB: "I will ... respect the dignity of others ... practice academic integrity ... demonstrate social and personal responsibility..."
Some students are distressed that the university's tarnished reputation might devalue their diplomas. They say employers are asking their opinion of the mess during interviews for internships and jobs.
Scandal and scrutiny have pierced the institution's value system to the core.
"A great university has lost respect and the press and the public have painted a broad brush," said biochemistry professor James Ferry, interrupted while reading a newspaper in front of the Osmond Laboratory.
He described the mood as "somber." While not as raw as the week before, when the mercurial reaction went from TV truck-flipping riot over Paterno's firing to refocused vigil for Sandusky's alleged victims, the cloud of collateral damage hangs like the morning fog over the foothills along the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
"Every minute in the back of my mind," Ferry said. "I feel a sadness for the victims and the students, like I'm being dragged down."
Locals talk of a State College that's very insular. People come to get educated, fall for its beauty and wholesome embrace, and stay. Acting AD David Joyner earned bachelor's and medical degrees from Penn State, wrestled and played football and, until his emergency appointment, served on the board. Interim President Rodney Erickson has been with the university since joining the faculty in 1977.
Many on the Penn State coaching staff have been involved in the football program for decades, including Bradley, who played for Paterno and has served on his coaching staff for 33 years. Sandusky, who has denied the charges against him, retired from coaching in 1999 after 32 years on Paterno's staff.
The result is the comfort of continuity and tradition, down to the simple blue and white uniforms with no names on the back and no logos on the white helmets.
For home games, the football team always arrives at Beaver Stadium in three buses -- the offense first, the defense second and special teams third. The starting quarterback sits in the first seat on the driver's side; the head coach in the first seat on the passenger's side. Until last week against Nebraska, that seat was occupied for 46 years by Paterno, the winningest coach in Division I college football and the most reliable constant of all.
Many here believe Paterno was used as a scapegoat, and that the media has misdirected its focus on him rather than Sandusky. One student in communications professor Michael Poorman's "Joe Paterno, Communications & The Media" course called the blitz a "media lynching."
It's not unusual, students say, to see Paterno on campus, around town or doing yard work. They refer to his wife simply as "Sue."
At his modest brick ranch-style home, signs reading "We love you Joe Pa" and "Penn State forever" were stuck in the front lawn. A woman standing in front of the open garage door turned away a reporter with a firm, "The family will have no comment."
Some here refer to living in a "bubble," one that's partly dictated by geographic isolation. The town, technically a borough, is mid-state, three hours from Pittsburgh and a little further from Philadelphia, with none of their big-city problems. Psychology Today rates it the lowest stress city in the country. Places Rated Almanac ranks it the seventh safest. Princeton Review has annually ranked Penn State among the nation's top party schools.
By any definition, the university, with 42,000 students and more employees than any other enterprise in Centre County, is State College. Drive five miles in any direction and you're into silos and red-sided barns.
The bubble's downside, said one university employee: "Everything's kept in the family."
Paterno hasn't been charged with anything, but amid questions about who knew what, when and whether there was an institutional cover up, trustees chose not to wait until he retired after the season as he had announced as the story heated up.
The decision to fire Paterno triggered a knee-jerk student riot downtown, but even he lamented before hiring a lawyer, "I wish I had done more."
The financial implications are immense.
Robert Egan, a 2002 Penn State grad who works at the Peoples Nation custom T-shirt shop, predicted the fallout will affect donations and research grants, "especially for the next year or two because nobody wants to be associated with this."
University spokeswoman Lisa Powers said in an email that applications are up about five percent from last year, families are keeping appointments to tour the campus and acceptance letters for next year are already being sent.
"We, of course, can't speculate on what effect the Grand Jury presentment and ensuing fallout will have in the coming months or years," she wrote, "but we are concerned."
Outside Beaver Stadium, random visits -- pilgrimages really -- are paid to a bronze statue of Paterno, his right arm raised and index finger pointed skyward.
"Are they takin' this down? I heard they were takin' this down," said Barbara Mitchell, who drove 20 minutes from Snowshoe, Pa., to take pictures of her four kids with the statue just in case.
"I can't believe it, I can't believe they got rid of him," she said. "I think he did what he was supposed to do."
Football, which first put State College on the map and now under a microscope, has been a source of healing. Students and others in the Penn State family say the Nebraska game last week, despite a 17-14 loss, was cathartic and unifying. As fans swayed and sang the alma mater, many choked up over one line in particular: "May no act of ours bring shame."
Truth is murky. Perception is no clearer. Time heals, but some scars run deep.
"They ask me what I'd like written about me when I'm gone," reads Paterno's words immortalized on the wall behind his statue. "I hope they write I made Penn State a better place, not just that I was a good football coach."
Source: http://www.cleveland.com/osu/index.ssf/2011/11/under_the_shadow_of_scandal_an.html
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