I Was Wrong....At First

I made a big mistake. 

It started off rather harmless, really. I just had sympathy for the scenario, so I thought. 

I was weighing the options where this Penn State debacle was concerned. In case you've been living under a rock, here's the skinny:  Joe Paterno, the legendary Penn State football coach, was fired after a story broke that his former defensive coordinator, Jerry Sandusky, was arrested and charged with 40 counts of sexual molestation of eight minors. As if this weren't bad enough, the grand jury investigation (which went on for three years) referenced a particularly disturbing story. 

According to the report, Mike McQueary, then a graduate assistant, allegedly walked in on Jerry Sandusky sexually assaulting (read that "raping") a TEN YEAR OLD BOY in the shower at the Nittany Lion's facility. McQueary stated that he left and, later that evening, spoke with his father, who advised him to inform Coach Paterno of what he saw.  

Once given the info, Paterno informed the administration of what he was told. Sandusky (who was retired at this time and had an office in the facility as a professional courtesy, it would seem) was admonished not to return to the campus and had his keys confiscated. 

Here comes my mistake...

MY initial thought was this:  Well, Paterno notified the administration and it WAS their responsibility. And McQueary WAS only a graduate assistant. What was he, 21 or 22?  He was scared. That's only natural. Paterno said he would retire at the end of the year. That's good enough, right?

How wrong I was. 

Let me begin by explaining exactly who Mike McQueary is. 

McQueary was a high school standout at quarterback for State College High School, the "Baby Lions" whose campus was a few blocks away from Penn State University.  He was a Penn State quarterback from 1994 to 1997. The redhead still holds records in the annals of the Nittany Lion's history. After a failed stint in the NFL (Oakland Raiders) and NFL Europe (Scottish Claymores), McQueary came back home to Happy Valley as a graduate assistant.    In other words, he was groomed to be a leader for the Nittany Lions. 

By the way...in 2002 when this particular assault allegedly happened, McQueary was 28. 

Let me say that again: when this 6 foot plus, 200 plus pound MAN walked in on a grown man raping a ten year old boy, he was twenty-eight years old. Think about that for a second. 

Now, back to Coach Paterno.

Initially, I thought it was reasonable that he spoke to the administration. After all, he passed it up through the proper channels, right?

But let's stop for a bit. Joe Paterno had been the head coach at Penn State for 46 years. He WAS Penn State. There was no more powerful man on that campus than him. Possibly no more powerful man in the state of Pennsylvania. And all you could do was report to the administration?  No report to the police?

Why not get five of your biggest offensive linemen to go with you to Sandusky's office, then beat him within an inch of his life? Or at least ask him straight up what the deal was?  

The answer, it would seem, is that football teams are closed societies. They handle things internally, like police departments, military groups or churches. 

I believe McQueary saw what he saw and KNEW it was wrong, but thought about his career first. Had he turned Sandusky in immediately, or physically stopped him from raping the boy, he would have ostracized himself from the Penn State football family. His coaching career would have been over, or at least severely stalled. So he did what many weak-minded people do:  he did nothing. And NOW he says that he stopped Sandusky from continuing the assault. Here's my effortless refutation of his claim:  Hey, Mike. You stopped Sandusky from raping the boy, but you left the boy with him afterwards?  You're a liar, Mike McQueary. A BAD liar and a coward.

Joe Paterno chose his longtime friendship with Jerry Sandusky and his allegiance to football over the safety of a little boy. Shame on you, Joe Pa. Shame on you. 

Had Mike McQueary come into your office and said, "Coach, I saw Sandusky in the shower with Jay Paterno, III, your grandson. It just didn't look right. In fact, Sandusky had him in a compromising situation...", would you have behaved the same way?  No, Coach. I don't think you would have. I think you would have knocked over chairs and tables as you scampered out of your office to get your hands around Sandusky's throat. And that is the problem, isn't it?  These kids just didn't matter enough to you. 

I put my children's names in the place of these anonymous victims. I couldn't imagine, but I know there would be blood on my hands. With no remorse. Where was your outrage, Joe?  Where was your compassion, Mike?  It's missing. In favor of your allegiance to your precious institution. Your football program. 

God grants mercy to everyone. Be grateful for that. I personally don't have much for you. You shame yourselves. You shame us all. 

Say My Name

I was only four years old, but I have never forgotten it. 

I was blessed to meet my maternal great-grandparents, and to carry vivid memories of them.  My Mama Page was a sweetheart of a woman, making me feel safe and loved when I was around her. She was full of style and grace, a rather elegant lady who effortlessly commanded respect (and she could out dress ANY living being!!).

Now, my Daddy Page?  He was a CHARACTER!!  His shiny bald head and in your face style challenged my four year old sensibilities. Where my Mama Page's energy was soft and warm to me, Daddy Page's energy was frenetic and all over the map (sound like anyone you know?). 

My family and I drove from Alabama to Columbus, OH to see my mother's people that summer.  I have memories of playing with my cousins, piggyback rides from my uncles, and love from my grandparents.  I also have memories of Daddy Page getting me in trouble. LOTS of trouble!  Once, he sat in front of me and drank a tall glass of buttermilk, smacking his lips and behaving like it was the tastiest thing he'd ever drank. 
"Oooh, Daddy Page!  Can I have some?". "Well, I don't know," came the gruff reply, "I don't have much left.  And it's really good!". 
"Please!!" I pleaded.  Finally, he relented. 

Now, if you have ever tasted buttermilk, you know it's an acquired taste. Thick, and salty, it's certainly not a delight to the average child's taste buds. 

"EWWW!", I cried.  "Daddy Page, this tastes nasty!  I don't want it!"

"You better drink it all, or we're not going to the fair tonight!", was his sinister reply. I later learned that while I wept in the kitchen corner, he went into another room with my aunts and uncles and laughed hysterically at my predicament. 

But it was a particular moment I shared with my Daddy Page that is forever etched in my memory. 

The entire Page clan had gathered at my great grandparents' house. Too many cousins to count were everywhere!  I was so excited. I could not WAIT to play with them all!

Running out of the front door, I raced down the porch steps to the tree where my older cousin Keith was spraying my other cousin Ron with a water hose.  What fun we were about to have!

My Daddy Page, sitting on the porch in a chair next to my father, called for me. "Come here, boy!  Now, which one of Neicey's boys are you?"

"I'm Dion, Daddy Page."

"Oh yeah!  That's right. How ya doin' there, Leon?"

LEON? That's not my name.   Maybe he just didn't hear me. I spoke up. 

No!  My name is DION!

"Yeah, I heard ya there, Leon!"

From inside I heard my Mama Page's voice, filled with concern. "Hank, you leave that baby alone and let him go play with the other children."

"Aw, Mel Lee!  I'm not hurtin' this boy!  He's fine!", was my great grandfather's non-compliant reply. 

I repeated, "My name is Dion!"

That's what I said, Leon. 

Furious, I took a swing at the old man. My father started to move towards me, ready to punish me for my insolence toward the patriarch of the family. With an easy hand, Daddy Page waved my father away, as if to say, "He's fine.  If I were him, I would have taken a swing at me, too."

It went on for what seemed like hours.  I never got to play with my cousins.  He kept me on that porch all afternoon.  I was beyond livid.  Then.

I hear this moment in my head now, whenever I think of my Daddy Page. But as a grown man with a wife and children of my own, I can now hear the unspoken conversation he had with me. The dance we shared. 

My name is Dion! 

That's what I said, Leon. (Son, there will be people in your life who will try to define you. Don't let them.)

It's DION!

Yeah.  Leon! (That's right, my son. Maintain your identity in the face of the obstacles that will surely darken your doorstep in the future)

My NAME is DION!!   (You're angry now, but I'm speaking to the man inside you, Son. The man I'll never get to meet. Never forget who you are. You are made of strong stuff. Great stuff. Make this family proud. Honor where we've come from. Take your children further than I ever dreamed I could take mine. I'll be connected to you forever, My Son. You'll think of this moment, one day. This little dance between a man in his seventies and a four year old man-child, and you'll see it. You'll see and you'll understand how deep my love is for you.  Go well, My Son. I'm watching over you. Always.)

It was one of the greatest gifts I have ever received. And my great grandfather, MY Daddy Page, gave it to me. 

Thank you, Daddy Page. I now realize what you knew all along. You knew before I did. You found an ingenious way to impart your strength into a four year old.  You made him stronger than he ever could have imagined. I will always love you for that. Oh....and one more thing:

My. Name. Is. Dion. 

Be Well...