the corners of their eyes,” he wrote in his autobiography forty years after he left Brown. “No, I never forgot what it felt like to walk into that room,” he said in the hospital in his last days.
In some ways, those penetrating stares and hushed snubs molded his outlook on life even more than his success as a Brown football player. He was a marvelous player. The sportswriter and editor Stanley Woodward purportedly wrote, “Paterno, the Brown quarterback, can’t run. He can’t pass. All he can do is think—and win.” Woodward’s pithy line, which later seemed exactly the sort of thing someone would write about Paterno, was quoted often after Paterno became head coach at Penn State and ad nauseam after his teams won. It’s likely, however, that Woodward never wrote the line. Paterno never knew of anyone who had actually seen the quote, and though his family had clipped many of the stories written about Paterno as a player, no copy of Woodward’s quote was found.
Sometimes, though, myth has its place. Stanley Woodward certainly could have written the line. Paterno couldn’t pass, but he could run pretty well and his teams did win. Engle’s Brown teams had thirteen wins, seventeen losses, and four ties before Paterno’s junior season. That year Paterno starred on defense and as a punt returner—he set what was then the school record for most yards returned on punts—and Engle often put him in as quarterback to spark the team. Brown won seven of nine games that year. The next year, with Paterno entrenched as the starting quarterback, Brown went 8-1, its best season in decades.
“There was something particularly close about that coach-quarterback relation,” the Providence Bulletin columnist Jerry Prior wrote days after Paterno graduated in 1950, “for the latter had comeclose to the ideal as a coach’s player, loyal, quick-witted, inspirational and a hard worker. The last line is especially true, for Brooklyn Joe was always working to make himself deserving of the confidence Engle had in him.”
Paterno’s football career at Brown ended with perhaps his most illustrious performance, in a game against Colgate. Before that game, Joe’s brother, George—a bigger and better athlete than Joe but, by his own admission, not nearly as driven—told a reporter that he thought he still had his best game left in him. Joe overheard. When Colgate, a team that had lost seven games in a row, took a 26–7 lead early in the third quarter, an enraged Joe Paterno turned to his younger brother and said, “We’re going to have to do this.”
The Paternos led Brown on a remarkable comeback. George broke through for a 37-yard touchdown run. Joe ran for 42 yards and threw a touchdown pass. Joe intercepted a pass and raced 40 yards. George ran hard for a 15-yard touchdown. And so on. George ended up rushing for 162 yards, by far the most productive game of his career. Brown scored 34 points in the last seventeen minutes of the game for a rousing and overwhelming victory that clinched one of the best seasons in the school’s history.
And Joe? He didn’t score a touchdown. He didn’t put up impressive statistics. When the season ended, he did not get picked for the All–Ivy League team. Maybe this troubled him a bit at the time; the young Joe was not averse to seeing his name in the newspaper. But he would not remember feeling troubled. “You know what I liked best about Aeneas? He was a team player. He didn’t care for individual glory. He didn’t care about getting the credit. He simply wanted to be a part of something larger than himself. That appealed to me.”
THE STORY OF HOW JOE Paterno became a football coach was told so many times through the years that in time it lost its power and honesty. The story evolved into something of a folktale that went like this: Joe Paterno had intended to go to law school to fulfill his parents’wishes. But then Rip Engle offered him a job as an assistant coach at a cow
In some ways, those penetrating stares and hushed snubs molded his outlook on life even more than his success as a Brown football player. He was a marvelous player. The sportswriter and editor Stanley Woodward purportedly wrote, “Paterno, the Brown quarterback, can’t run. He can’t pass. All he can do is think—and win.” Woodward’s pithy line, which later seemed exactly the sort of thing someone would write about Paterno, was quoted often after Paterno became head coach at Penn State and ad nauseam after his teams won. It’s likely, however, that Woodward never wrote the line. Paterno never knew of anyone who had actually seen the quote, and though his family had clipped many of the stories written about Paterno as a player, no copy of Woodward’s quote was found.
Sometimes, though, myth has its place. Stanley Woodward certainly could have written the line. Paterno couldn’t pass, but he could run pretty well and his teams did win. Engle’s Brown teams had thirteen wins, seventeen losses, and four ties before Paterno’s junior season. That year Paterno starred on defense and as a punt returner—he set what was then the school record for most yards returned on punts—and Engle often put him in as quarterback to spark the team. Brown won seven of nine games that year. The next year, with Paterno entrenched as the starting quarterback, Brown went 8-1, its best season in decades.
“There was something particularly close about that coach-quarterback relation,” the Providence Bulletin columnist Jerry Prior wrote days after Paterno graduated in 1950, “for the latter had comeclose to the ideal as a coach’s player, loyal, quick-witted, inspirational and a hard worker. The last line is especially true, for Brooklyn Joe was always working to make himself deserving of the confidence Engle had in him.”
Paterno’s football career at Brown ended with perhaps his most illustrious performance, in a game against Colgate. Before that game, Joe’s brother, George—a bigger and better athlete than Joe but, by his own admission, not nearly as driven—told a reporter that he thought he still had his best game left in him. Joe overheard. When Colgate, a team that had lost seven games in a row, took a 26–7 lead early in the third quarter, an enraged Joe Paterno turned to his younger brother and said, “We’re going to have to do this.”
The Paternos led Brown on a remarkable comeback. George broke through for a 37-yard touchdown run. Joe ran for 42 yards and threw a touchdown pass. Joe intercepted a pass and raced 40 yards. George ran hard for a 15-yard touchdown. And so on. George ended up rushing for 162 yards, by far the most productive game of his career. Brown scored 34 points in the last seventeen minutes of the game for a rousing and overwhelming victory that clinched one of the best seasons in the school’s history.
And Joe? He didn’t score a touchdown. He didn’t put up impressive statistics. When the season ended, he did not get picked for the All–Ivy League team. Maybe this troubled him a bit at the time; the young Joe was not averse to seeing his name in the newspaper. But he would not remember feeling troubled. “You know what I liked best about Aeneas? He was a team player. He didn’t care for individual glory. He didn’t care about getting the credit. He simply wanted to be a part of something larger than himself. That appealed to me.”
THE STORY OF HOW JOE Paterno became a football coach was told so many times through the years that in time it lost its power and honesty. The story evolved into something of a folktale that went like this: Joe Paterno had intended to go to law school to fulfill his parents’wishes. But then Rip Engle offered him a job as an assistant coach at a cow
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