Patty Kleban: Joe Paterno: The Loss of a Father

Professionals in the field of psychotherapy call it transference. The unconscious redirection of feelings from one person to another.

I left town for a business trip last Monday and missed the celebrations of Joe Paterno’s life. I can’t describe how hard it was to be away. As I looked at updates on Facebook, searched for videos on the Internet and read about the incredible strength and grace demonstrated by the Paterno family, I was overcome by deep sadness.

Joe Paterno died on my dad’s birthday. My dad would have been 83 years old.

As contemporaries, my dad and Joe Paterno took different paths in their life journeys but were similar in the way they chose to live. 

My dad didn’t grow up in Brooklyn and wasn’t Italian. He came from a family with strong German roots who had moved from rural Centre County to Altoona before my dad was born. My grandfather’s work ethic and my grandmother’s hearty cooking as well as her emotional distance defined my dad’s childhood. We used to say my dad — and his mother — learned how to show affection from us.

My dad was a big kid who wasn’t allowed to play football because his father didn’t want his youngest son to get hurt. At age 14, my dad started working in the family dairy that bore his mother’s maiden name.  He was a good student who played in the band and who, like many of the children of his era, grew up in a neighborhood where everyone knew each other and the kids walked to school. My dad was a diehard Altoona Mountain Lion fan. He later became that fan of Penn State football and looked forward to tailgates, Saturdays in front of the TV and Wednesday Quarterback Club.

He valued education but never finished the degree that he started at what he called Bath House U — now the Altoona campus of Penn State. (As the Altoona undergraduate center expanded after World War II, it purchased land that had been the world's largest concrete swimming pool). That all of his children eventually earned their degrees from Penn State was a source of pride.

In later years, when I tried to encourage him to go back to finish, he would smile impishly and say, “What could they teach me over there that I don’t already know?” He liked to say he had earned his degree from the School of Hard Knocks.

He met and married my mother after he came back from the service. She had been hired at the family dairy while he was away. Six years his junior, we used to tease him about marrying a child bride.

I was 4 when we moved to State College when my dad left his uncle’s business. After realizing that as a nephew he would only ever get so far, he decided to find success on his own. With three young children, my parents made the decision to move to a new job, a new house and a new town that could offer all of us more opportunities. My dad somehow knew that decisions about what is best are not always attached to one’s salary.  

He worked at and later owned that business for more than 35 years. He got up every morning at 6, was at work by 7:30 and spent his evenings watching sports, the news and MASH on TV. He tolerated vacations because he knew we liked them. We used to wonder what would happen when he retired because his only interests were work and family.  

Each and every one of his seven grandchildren has a picture, as an infant, sleeping on his chest as my dad slept in his favorite recliner. We all knew that he loved us unconditionally.

Some people found his “my way or the highway” attitude to be somewhat gruff. Those who took the time to get to know my dad found out that behind that bark was someone who would and did give of himself to others. 

We learned after he died that he had made annual donations to the church in Altoona that he had attended as a child for one family to “have a good Christmas” each year. He didn’t want anyone to make a big deal about it.

Because of his upbringing, he didn’t talk about certain things. I remember calling my dad to pick me up one night from a high school dance. When he got there, he could see that I was crying.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

I told him that the boy I liked was interested in someone else. I smile now when I think of my dad’s response. With a pat on my shoulder, he said, “I know your mother will help you when we get home.” That was my dad.

For my dad, there was no gray — there was only black or white. He believed in hard work, commitment to family and doing the right thing. 

My dad and Joe Paterno were of another generation.   

I know that if someone had told him that a colleague of 30 years had been seen doing something so horrible that it couldn’t be put into words, my dad would have told who he needed to tell and then never speak of it again.   

With reports of Coach Paterno’s final struggle, I was reminded of the pain and helplessness we felt when my dad fought that same agonizing battle. Final days spent with his children and grandchildren, his wife of almost 50 years as caretaker, sad good-byes and the image of my then-4-year-old son reaching into Papa’s hand one last time have become comforting memories of an incredible man.

He passed away less than two months after being given the diagnosis of brain cancer.

I started writing these pieces after we lost my dad. He never got to read my columns or see my name in print.  Several summers ago, as my son was helping me unpack my new office on campus, the phone rang.

“This is Mary from the football office. Will you take a call from Coach Paterno?”

With my heart beating out of my chest, I calmly said, “sure” but started frantically pointing at the phone and mouthing, “It’s Joe Paterno on the phone!” to my kid.

After reading one of my columns, Coach Paterno had taken the time to find me and to tell me that he liked the way that I write.

“Keep up the good work,” he said. It was one of those top 10 moments in a person’s life and somehow felt like a missing puzzle piece.

For people outside of the Penn State family, it’s hard to understand. Joe Paterno was like a father to all of us. His constant presence and his willingness to teach us life lessons have been a part of our collective growing up. 

We heard the lectures about putting academics first. He reminded us to keep our excitement with our wins and our disappointments at our losses in perspective. Like teenagers, we sometimes rolled our eyes at his old-fashioned ways and his sometimes public scolding of reporters or players or people with whom he disagreed. His consistency and his obvious love for his wife and family felt, to many, like home. 

I miss my dad’s humor. I miss his common sense. I am so sad that he didn’t get to see my children grow into the incredible young adults they have become. I’m sad that my parents didn’t get to spend their twilight years together.  

I don’t think it is a coincidence that I found myself missing him more this week than I have in some time.

Thank you to the Paterno family for letting us be a part of your family this week. Thank you for sharing your husband, father and grandfather with all of us. We will miss him.