A few weeks ago, at the climax of the epic Boston Red Sox collapse, I wrote about the scapegoat, about the social tendency to heap blame onto an individual to absolve ourselves of any wrongdoing. With historical origins dating back to biblical times, this most clearly manifests itself in coaching firings and departures, specifically that of Terry Francona. The Red Sox needed someone to denounce for the slide and the clubhouse mess. Fans needed someone to shoulder blame upon. Upper management needed to save face.
This is all well and good. We've accepted this as a commonplace repercussion of failure. Coaches are expendable, figureheads who fill out the lineup card so the real money−makers can take the field. At the professional level, this is undoubtedly the case. Carl Crawford had a subpar year, but he still raked in money in ticket sales and jersey sales. He's the talent, Francona is not.
But at the collegiate level, the demarcating line between expendable figurehead and irreplaceable talent becomes less clear. Most college football programs have one or two big names — at least those known to a national audience — and that's it. Programs are built around coaches, not players, because the latter last only for a few years. Nick Saban. Urban Meyer. Les Miles. Bob Stoops. Mack Brown. These are the stable faces who lead the revolving door of players.
This dynamic is what makes the recent scandal surrounding Penn State so incredibly fascinating, not to mention nearly impossible to predict.
If the allegations are true, there's no debate that what occurred in Happy Valley was horrific and unbelievably illegal. There's no defending former defensive coordinator Jerry Sandusky, who was arrested on 40 charges Saturday, including felony sex crimes against children.
Nor is there really any defense for Penn State athletic director Tim Curley and university vice president Gary Schultz, who have been charged with felony perjury in their grand jury testimony, as well as failure to report Sandusky's behavior. Both vacated their positions late Sunday after an emergency meeting of Penn State's Board of Trustees.
That is not the intriguing part of the story. That is the saddening tale of an alleged child predator. What's so fascinating is where Nittany Lions coach Joe Paterno fits into the equation.
Paterno is the face of Penn State and, quite possibly, college football in general. He was born in 1926, which made him an adolescent during the Great Depression, and yet he still directs one of the game's most historic programs.
Well, maybe not for long.
The calls have come in. Paterno is said to have testified before a state grand jury that he knew of the allegations and informed Curley, but took no other steps to alert authorities. National columnists are calling for his ouster. He's just as culpable as anyone else. Joe Paterno would not be a scapegoat. It would be justifiable, because he is directly to blame for this not coming out sooner.
All signs point to a total house cleaning. Curley and Schultz will be gone; that much is certain. But the burning question is whether Paterno stays, retires or is unceremoniously fired. Paterno is a legendary coach and an even better person, but this ridiculous don't ask, don't tell policy billed as camaraderie is a colossal black mark on Penn State, college athletics and sports in general.
If we are to assume that Francona was culpable for his team's failings to win, then why not hold Paterno to the same standards for his personal failings to police his staff?
In fact, why not hold him to higher standards? This is about the safety and health of children. Not mere winning and losing.
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