A Letter to Joe Pa

Dear Joe Pa,

This morning I felt a rare pang of loss. A pang that sat deep in my chest, stifled only by my closing throat as I tried to remain stoic in the Pasquerilla sanctuary where I knelt in front of your casket. A pang that put me at a loss for words when I hugged your sons, Jay and Scott, rendering me so helplessly speechless, that the only verbal comfort I could summon from my mouth was also the most obvious: “Your father was a great man.” A feeling so striking, so unique, that I can only place it once before—at the death of my last remaining grandfather.

I am a nameless face in a sea of thousands of your admirers and mourners, just one Penn State student among countless who have experienced their college years under your omnipotent care. I never had the privilege of meeting you. I never passed you on the street or saw you driving your car. The closest I’ve ever been to you was high up in the student section, watching you pace along the sidelines of Beaver Stadium on Saturday afternoons for the past four football seasons.

And yet, for some reason that I can’t explain, I feel as if I have lost a dear, beloved grandfather. You didn’t know my name or even my face, but, somehow, I know you cared about me. You cared about all your students. Yes, we were your students, Joe Pa. Maybe not in class or on the football field, but each and every Penn Stater, past and present, belonged to you.

I remember the first time I heard you speak. It was at a freshman orientation, and I remember being surprised by how high your voice was. I expected a booming bass to overpower the cheering students, not a gentle, playful tenor telling us how excited he is for us and to make sure to take advantage of our Penn State years.

That was the last time I heard you speak in person. I never went to a Football Eve, and I missed your appearance at THON 2009 when you spoke on the stage…”For the first time in my life I’m speechless.” (I’ve replayed that YouTube video again and again.) Since Sunday, I’ve been asking myself, Ingrid, why didn’t you ever go to those rallies? Why didn’t you take every opportunity to see Joe Pa, if not for a chance to meet him, at least for the chance to hear that loving, passionate man apologize to the ladies in the audience for saying that the football players have been “busting their butts this year”?

I think, in a way, the thought of taking every opportunity to see you didn’t occur to me, because I just figured you would always be around. I know it’s illogical—and I know you would be shaking your head at me right now with a wry smile on your face—but I somehow always just thought you were invincible. Unwavering.

Immortal.

But the reality I was struck with on Sunday morning is that you weren’t immortal. You were a great man—one of the best men I’ve had the honor of having in my life—but still only a man. And I think the loss of Joe Pa hit Penn State and the world so hard because we were finally forced to admit that you’re only human, that you won’t be around forever, and that we have to keep being Penn State without you.

But we aren’t without you, Joe Pa. And we never will be. I’ve never even met you, and I still feel that you have touched my life in a way that nobody else can. While receiving my hug this morning, Scott said to me, “Pray for my mother. She needs it the most.” And all I could think was, that’s something you would have said. Your caring, selfless, wonderful legacy is being carried on through your sons. And not just your sons—but your players, students, and admirers.

Thank you. Thank you for not only teaching, but for demonstrating what it means to be Penn State. We love you, Joe Pa. You are Penn State. And you always will be.

Love,
Ingrid