On Paterno, McQueary, and the Rest of Us

The strangest part of the backlash of the Penn State scandal is that no one is talking about Jerry Sandusky.

But then again, I guess, what is there to say about him? Assuming he's guilty of what he is accused of, there's not much analysis to be had. He deserves to be locked up forever, and worse. He's free on bail, and frankly, I'm surprised he hasn't committed suicide.

Also not very notable are those that, in connection with the Sandusky case, are being charged with perjury. This is perjury of the sickest kind imaginable. It's bad enough that so many people knew about the allegations, and did no more than what the letter of the law required them to do. Gary Schulz and Tim Curley went one sickening step further, lying to protect a child rapist. In doing so (and I'm certain they realize this), they abetted Sandusky in continuing his depraved shattering of lives.

The other two big players in this sordid tale are Mike McQueary and Joe Paterno. Well, there's also Graham Spanier, the president of the university who has already stepped down, but for this column, I want to focus on McQueary and Paterno.

Mike McQueary is not an unknown name to college football fans, even those of us who are not Penn Staters. He was Penn State's quarterback in 1996 and 1997, and immediately afterwards, joined the Penn State coaching staff, where he has been a fixture ever since and is easily identified by his fiery red hair.

McQueary is a gutless coward of the highest order. How he lives with himself, I will never know. He actually saw the abuse take place. Did he intervene — he, a recent college athlete of the highest order — against a then-58-year-old man doing the unthinkable before his very eyes? He did not. He turned tail and, presumably, the act of rape continued.

Did he at least call the police? No, he called his dad, who advised him to speak to Joe Paterno. Such is the institutional sickness of a place like Penn State and, sadly, countless other institutions and organizations of all stripes and sizes. McQueary's first instinct, his first and overriding consideration, was not to the little boy he saw being abused, but to the institution, and himself, and the best way to protect those things. He then went on to see Sandusky in the facilities of the Penn State campus for years after that, and said no more.

That makes him especially culpable. Others involved in the case, whatever it says about them now, could have refused to believe something that undoubtedly seemed implausible and exceedingly unpleasant to contemplate.

Not McQueary. He saw it with his own eyes. At any time at all in these last nine years, he could have gone to the police, followed up vigorously with authorities at Penn State until they had done the right thing, he could have even called a press conference. That could have backfired and turned him into a pariah, but at least it might have protected other kids from the same fate as the one he saw in that shower.

He did none of those things. He's not going to be charged with any criminal wrongdoing, but I find it unlikely that he will ever be able to find a job in college football again, and he should thank his lucky stars if that's the extent of his tangible punishment.

But of course, the face of the university is Joe Paterno. It's really difficult to convey how deified he is in college football annals, if you don't know. I cannot think of a more respected — revered, even — sports figure than Paterno.

Before this all came about, I was telling my girlfriend that even though I'm an ardent supporter of a Penn State rival (and if you read this column regularly, you know how disdainful and mocking I can be of sanctified institutions), I just could never bring myself to hate Paterno. He's just too nice of a person. Not only has he had tons of success on the field, but he keeps his players (mostly) out of trouble and (mostly) gets them graduating. Before this, Penn State was widely considered the standard as how a major public football program should conduct itself.

And he accomplished this without resorting to the totalitarianism of a Bobby Knight or Mike Krzyzewski. What's more, so very much of his earnings went right back to the university. His donations doubled the size of the main student library.

He wasn't crass and he wasn't aloof. He was, to me, impossible not to like. And again, I'm not even a Penn State fan — far, far from it. So I can't even imagine what the fans and the supporters of the program must be feeling right now.

But, as is the case all too often, we discover in the most jarring possible manner that the emperor has no clothes. He's no hero. He, too, is a coward, a coward who worships at the altar of Penn State, setting it even higher than the altar of a child's innocence.

But what I find most unsettling and even frightening about Paterno's inaction is not what it says about him, but what it says about us.

For it's the bravery and courage to do what's right that is the uncommon trait in all of us. What is common is complacency, cowardice, and looking out for yourself beyond all else. If we can't count on Joe Paterno to do the right thing, who can we count on?

Paterno didn't see the abuse take place and it's safe to assume that Sandusky was a close friend of his for decades. This complicates Paterno's role in this immeasurably in a way that does not apply to McQueary. Did he believe McQueary's distraught allegations? Would you if it was one of your best friends for 30 years?

We would struggle mightily with it, as I'm sure Paterno did. On one hand, (and allow me to speculate pretty freely here) he knows McQueary is not making this up out of whole cloth. On the other hand, when and where would you more desperately seek some plausible deniability? I think it would be very hard to come to grips with this — especially without firsthand knowledge, and very easy to handle the matter perfunctorily. The tragedy is, if there's one guy we thought we could count on to rise above the human condition in all its misery and failure, it's Paterno. It turns out he's no hero at all. Depressingly, he's just like the rest of us.

Drew Magary, the main writer of Kissing Suzy Kolber, encapsulates my feelings on Paterno better than I did:

Blowing the whistle is the exception to the rule. The fact that Paterno, deemed by many to be the Gold Standard for how a football coach ought to conduct himself, isn't immune to it should tell you something. Because I'm fairly certain that despite all this, Paterno remains a good and decent person. It's not like he's gonna rip off a mask to reveal that he's John Wayne Gacy underneath. All the charming things you read about JoePa in the past aren't suddenly all lies.

We'd all like to think we'd do the noble thing when faced with such a seemingly obvious choice. The truth is, we might not. It's impossible to read the Sandusky allegations and not get a vivid mental image of what took place. It's enough to make you want to throw up, and I say that as someone who had a near miss with this sort of thing. It's enough to make you cry out for blood and ask why no one did anything. The outrage comes naturally. But underneath that outrage, there is a real sadness and fear, the idea that "good" people can still be hard-wired for self-preservation, even when faced with the ugliest truths. Even JoePa. Even you.