Game Over

by Bill Moushey

  GAME OVER

  JERRY SANDUSKY, PENN STATE, AND

  THE CULTURE OF SILENCE

  Bill Moushey and Bob Dvorchak

  Dedication

  Dedicated to the young men and their advocates who had the courage to speak out and who now know that they are not alone

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 - Birth of a Legend

  Chapter 2 - The Age of Paterno

  Chapter 3 - Sandusky Makes His Mark

  Chapter 4 - The First Clues

  Chapter 5 - Independent Allegations

  Chapter 6 - Paterno’s Impact

  Chapter 7 - The Beginning of the End of Sandusky

  Chapter 8 - The Investigation Widens

  Chapter 9 - Cover-up

  Chapter 10 - The Arrest

  Chapter 11 - Insularity and Isolation

  Chapter 12 - Sandusky Speaks

  Chapter 13 - The Court of Public Opinion

  Chapter 14 - The Great Pretender

  Chapter 15 - Preliminary Hearing for Curley and Schultz

  Chapter 16 - Penn State’s Reputation

  Chapter 17 - A Coach’s Farewell

  Chapter 18 - Civil Lawsuits

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Photo Section

  About the Authors

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  The journey to Penn State University is challenging even when the weather is ideal. The drive from Philadelphia, two hundred miles to the east, or from Pittsburgh, a hundred fifty miles west, takes three hours and requires the crossing of mountain ridges and rivers to reach a campus situated in the middle of the state and seemingly in the middle of nowhere. The trip was even more arduous for Penn State football fans traveling there on October 29, 2011, because of a surprise snowstorm pummeling the northeast from Washington, D.C., to Maine. But this was a football Saturday tinged with history. Pilgrims making the trek to the game shared the roads with snowplows and salt trucks while keeping tabs on weather advisories. University officials alerted fans about the closure of grass-lot parking areas and scrambled to make shuttle buses available to service paved lots too far away to slog through six inches of snow to Beaver Stadium, where a 3:30 kickoff was scheduled.

  Despite the headaches posed by the weather, the fans arriving in Happy Valley, the nickname of the idyllic setting surrounding the town of State College, Pennsylvania, were in a festive mood. Coach Joe Paterno, a man revered by the Penn State faithful, was one game away from the 409th win of his career. A victory over Illinois, the opponent that day, would distinguish him as the winningest coach in the history of Division I college football.

  Sixty-one years had passed since Paterno, an octogenarian, first set foot on campus in 1950, two years after Penn State played its last season in leather helmets. An outsider at first, the Brooklyn-born Paterno arrived as an assistant coach under Charles “Rip” Engle, who came to Penn State after coaching Paterno as a quarterback and defensive back at Brown University.

  At Brown, Paterno majored in English literature and took courses preparing him for law school. With his thick-rimmed black glasses, he looked more like a professor than a play-caller. He was fond of quoting the English poet Robert Browning: “A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?” But football was in his blood, and he set down roots after falling in love with Penn State. When Engle retired in 1966, Paterno took over with an ambitious plan to make Penn State a football powerhouse by stressing academics and athletics. His blueprint came to be known as the “Grand Experiment.”

  Forty-six years after his first win in his first game, Paterno had become the face of Penn State. No other coach had built such all-encompassing power at one school and kept it for so long. No other coach had more winning seasons, more postseason appearances, and more bowl victories.

  JoePa, as he was affectionately called, was already enshrined in the College Football Hall of Fame in South Bend, Indiana. Winning so much for so long made him seem larger than life, larger than the seven-foot-tall statue of him outside the university’s football stadium. The monument includes his words: “They ask me what I’d like written about me when I’m gone. I hope they write I made Penn State a better place, not just that I was a good football coach.”

  Paterno’s success had enriched the school as well. The coach had grown Penn State’s football program into a moneymaker that turned a profit of $53 million a year, the third-largest moneymaking machine in college sports. The profits were enough to finance every other sports program at the university. Penn State’s endowment was flush with cash from alumni donations, corporate sponsorships, and TV revenue. Beyond that, Paterno and his wife, Suzanne, a Penn State grad who majored in English literature and the matriarch of what she called the “Penn State family,” had donated $4 million of their own money and helped raise $13.5 million more to fund a five-story expansion of the main library on campus. Suzanne had a legacy of her own: her name adorns the Suzanne Pohland Paterno Catholic Student Faith Center at the center of campus. Penn State may be the only university in the country where the library is named after the football coach and the football stadium is named after a former administrator. It made perfect sense at Penn State.

  Approaching State College from any direction, one can see Beaver Stadium, a massive, imposing monolith as recognizable as Mount Nittany, the landmark geographic feature that dominates Happy Valley. With a capacity of 106,572, it is twice as large as the new Yankee Stadium in New York. In fact, it is the second-largest stadium in the Western Hemisphere and the fourth largest in the world. During Paterno’s reign, the stadium was expanded six times and held double the number of fans from when he first became head coach. The latest expansion, completed in 2001 at a cost of $94 million, added 11,000 seats, including sixty high-end and enclosed skyboxes. The extra seats, however, caused some dismay for ticket buyers because new construction obscured the view of Mount Nittany for some inside the stadium.

  Paterno and football were so popular that students arrived the night before a game, sometimes days before, to get in line for a crack at the choicest seats in the student section. These fanatics erected tents as shelter against the elements and unrolled sleeping bags on the concrete sidewalk outside the stadium. The encampment was called Paternoville, and students abided by rules of conduct established by the self-styled Paternoville Coordination Committee. To keep their spirits high, Coach Paterno was known to stop by with pizza from time to time. While the older alumni were more apt to bundle up in parkas and foul weather gear on a snowy Saturday, some occupants of Paternoville slathered their bare upper torsos with blue and white paint to show their team spirit, no matter how much discomfort they had to endure. Others donned Paterno masks to pay homage to the coach. Their wake-up call on this snowy Saturday was the whir of snowblowers clearing the playing field. Grounds crews equipped with snow shovels fought the battle in the seating areas.

  Penn State players had a one-mile journey of their own to get to the stadium. They donned their uniforms at the Lasch Football Building, which houses the locker rooms and showers and adjoins the fields where the team practices during the week. Then they rode four blue university buses to the arena. Fans lining the route shouted encouragement and waved Penn State flags as the buses passed. At the main gate more fans formed a human tunnel, so the players made a hero’s entry through the cheering admirers and into the packed stadium.

  Because of the snowstorm, only an estimated 62,000 zealots occupied the seats for the game against Illinois, which, like Penn State, competed in the Big Ten Conference. Conforming with pregame tradition, fans rose to si
ng the Penn State alma mater.

  As the game got under way, Paterno watched the action from a glass-enclosed viewing box high above the field. No longer did he prowl the sidelines during games; he was limited by shoulder and hip injuries incurred when a player ran into him at a preseason practice the previous August. Assistant coaches on the sidelines were handling the nitty-gritty chores associated with running today’s game, aided by direction from Paterno. One of those assistants, a State College native and former quarterback named Mike McQueary, relayed plays from Paterno transmitted into his headset and sent them into the offensive huddle.

  Snowy conditions and sloppy play kept the teams scoreless in the first half. Illinois had a 10–7 lead going into the final quarter, but Penn State rallied and capped an eighty-yard drive to take its first lead with sixty-eight seconds remaining. The Fighting Illini counterpunched and were in position to tie the score with a field goal. But as the game clock ticked down to zero, Derek Dimke’s forty-two-yard attempt caromed off the right upright. The right bounce at the right time preserved the 10–7 lead. Game over. Just as Zeus ruled the world from Mount Olympus, Joe Paterno reigned supreme over the world of college football from Mount Nittany.

  In a postgame ceremony that was broadcast from a media room to the fans remaining in the stadium, the coach was given a plaque that read, “Joe Paterno. Educator of Men. Winningest Coach. Division One Football.” Making the presentation were the university’s president Graham B. Spanier and athletic director Tim Curley. It was validation for Paterno in more ways than one. Seven years earlier he had had several meetings with Spanier and Curley about whether it was time for him to retire. At the time Penn State had languished through four losing seasons over a five-year span, a period that Penn Staters called the Dark Ages. Paterno thought about ending his storied career, but eventually decided to stay on to restore the program to its winning ways. When the time came for him to leave, he wanted to go out on his own terms.

  After the brief ceremony, alumni returned to their blue-and-white recreational vehicles for their postgame tailgate parties. Having begun the day with morning mimosas, they now toasted Paterno’s 409th victory with cocktails and beer. Students adjourned to the campus parties and taprooms along Beaver Avenue in State College, where beer flowed freely from numerous kegs. Paterno returned to his house on McKee Street for dinner with family and select friends.

  One more laurel loomed on the horizon, and it was a significant one. By appearing in one more game, which was scheduled after a weekend off, Paterno would surpass the record for number of games coached, a milepost he currently shared with Amos Alonzo Stagg. Stagg was a college football pioneer at the University of Chicago, which was a charter member of the Big Ten Conference. The names of Stagg and Paterno were already etched together on the Big Ten’s new championship trophy. With one more coaching appearance, Paterno could claim top billing. But he was never one to get ahead of himself; from lessons learned in literature and on the football field, he liked to say, “Just when you think you have it made, disaster is right around the corner.”

  This time he was right. A deep, dirty secret that had been festering in the muck for fifteen years would rise to the surface and explode before Paterno would get the chance to coach again. Over the past year, Paterno, along with Spanier, Curley, and McQueary, had testified before a statewide grand jury investigating criminal complaints against one Jerry Sandusky. A former Penn State football player, Sandusky had once been considered Paterno’s heir apparent, but he had retired suddenly in 1999. Paterno had let him slip away without much fanfare, and Sandusky never sought a job anywhere else, which seemed curious for such a celebrated talent. A member of the coaching staff for thirty-two years, he had been the defensive coordinator in the two seasons culminating in national championships, so most people found his retirement quite surprising. Even after his departure Sandusky could be found in the VIP section at almost every home game. He and his wife, Dottie, had been seen happily socializing in an area of the stadium reserved for those holding club and private box seats the day the Nittany Lions had given Paterno his 409th victory.

  Within a week, however, Sandusky would be arraigned on charges of sexually abusing children under his care, and Joe Paterno would be fired, accused of whitewashing knowledge he had of Sandusky’s heinous behavior on the grounds of Penn State University. The allegations, and rumors of an alleged cover-up, were shocking. The legendary Paterno would never get the chance to coach again.

  The final verse of Penn State’s alma mater, always sung with rousing spirit right before kick off, is this:

  May no act of ours bring shame

  To one heart that loves thy name.

  May our lives swell that fame,

  Dear Old State, Dear Old State.

  The acts of Jerry Sandusky and the inaction of Joe Paterno, Mike McQueary, and Tim Curley would ruin lives, damage the university, and dislodge the peaceful isolation of Happy Valley.

  Chapter 1

  Birth of a Legend

  The Friday afternoon shadows were lengthening as Charles “Rip” Engle drove his dark blue Cadillac onto the campus of Penn State University on May 26, 1950. He and his young passenger had started out before dawn from Providence, Rhode Island, for the 342-mile trip. Engle had just left his job as the head football coach at Brown University to take the same position at Penn State, and Joe Paterno, his travel mate and one of his star players was going to be his assistant coach. The two men were eager to see their new home field.

  Engle, forty-four and already graying, was returning full circle to his native Pennsylvania. A no-nonsense, organized man who didn’t smoke or drink, he had been a coach at the high school and college levels for twenty-one years, the previous six as head of the Brown University Bears. His new superiors at Penn State hoped he would bring some stability to a football program that had gone through four coaches in four years.

  Engle was allowed to bring only one person to join him at Penn State. He was thrilled that young Joe Paterno had said yes. Joe, a native of Brooklyn, had just graduated from Brown and had already enrolled at Boston University School of Law for the fall semester. His plan was to become a lawyer like his father. But when Rip Engle dangled the prospect of an assistant coaching job at Penn State, Joe had decided to try it, telling his parents he was going to save a little money for law school. Joe’s mother, Florence, had been heartbroken when he told her he was going to put law school on hold for a career she thought was rather frivolous. She wanted him to practice law and maybe wear a judge’s robe one day. She told him that he had wasted his time going to college if he was just going to be a coach.

  Joe’s father, Angelo, also wasn’t enamored with the idea, but he wanted Joe to find his own path. The dark-haired twenty-three-year-old had been Engle’s star quarterback at Brown and had also played cornerback. This would be his first real coaching job. Most of what he knew about the nuts and bolts of coaching he had just learned from Engle on the five-hour drive from Providence. He wasn’t yet sold on coaching as a career, but when he stepped out of Engle’s Cadillac into his new surroundings, he felt at home.

  Joe brought a lot of Brooklyn with him to pastoral Pennsylvania, starting with an accent delivered in a high, scratchy voice that sounded like the screeching wheels of a New York subway train. He was born on December 21, 1926, the oldest of Angelo and Florence Cafiero Paterno’s three children. The Paterno family made their home among the two-family dwellings, row houses, and tenement apartments of Eighteenth Street in Brooklyn’s Flatbush neighborhood, and family meant everything to them.

  Joe never tired of telling people that his grandfather, Vincente Paterno, had crossed the Atlantic Ocean on a passenger ship in the 1890s. He even mentioned his grandfather in his postgame news conference following his 409th win. Vincente was born in Cosenza, Italy, and found work in New York as a barber to support his family. Joe’s father was the man Joe respected most in life because he had worked and sacrificed for everything he had. Angelo had d
ropped out of high school to join the army and fight in France during World War I. After the armistice he returned to Flatbush and worked by day to get his high school diploma at night. Then, while working as a clerk in the Appellate Division of the New York State Supreme Court, Angelo attended night school to become a lawyer. Joe remembered the nights his father stayed up until three in the morning to study for the bar exam, which he had to pass in order to practice in the New York City court system.

  Angelo taught his children to respect others. “He instilled in us the notion that religion shouldn’t matter, color shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter if you were Italian or Irish or Jewish or black, all that matters is what kind of person you are,” Joe once told an audience of the NAACP. Angelo also taught his children to be forthright when they made a mistake. A problem would solve itself if it weren’t compounded by a lie, he told them. A tireless worker, he somehow found time to play on a semipro football team that competed in the New York metropolitan area. He passed along that passion for football to Joe and his younger son, George.

  George was twenty-one months younger than Joe and a constant companion. Their little sister, who was named Florence after their mother, was eleven years younger. As the baby of the family, she was pampered. Another brother, Franklin, had died in infancy. Angelo was a devoted Democrat, and the baby was named after Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

  Joe’s mother was a telephone operator and homemaker known for her Sunday dinners of heaping portions of manicotti and lasagna. She inspired her children to think big. Said Paterno in his 1989 autobiography, Paterno: By the Book, “Mom never took a back seat to any one, any place, any time. If she couldn’t be at the head of the pack, she wouldn’t go. So, as the first son, in anything I did, I had to be at the top.”