Game 16 Wrap up - The day I couldn't care less about a Phillies loss

Dad, in the tie, before I was born.

I remember the M&Ms in my tiny hands. I must have been about four-years-old. Maybe a year or two older. 
But the five M&Ms are distinct. Two browns, a yellow and two oranges. I'm fascinated by the lowercase "M" on each of the candies. I eat them one-by-one, asking myself different questions: Are there candies with other letters on them? Why aren't there any greens or blues?
A whistle blows. The players gather around their coach. I'm not paying much attention to the basketball game that's going on. The M&M's are what is important. I ask my brother if I can have more. He pours a few more into my hand. With them comes an answer. There are green ones. My brother squeezes the bottom of the paper bag so that the top opens up. He pours the rest of the M&Ms into his mouth.
Sneakers squeak on the hardwood floor. I turn one of the candies upside down and and decide, no, that's not a "W." These all have "M" on them. My grandfather and grandmother sitting nearby. I abandon my brother, who had just seemed so cool popping open the bag of M&Ms, to see them. My grandfather smiles at me. He always smiles at me. Well, one time he was mad when I crawled under the table during dinner at a restaurant. I was looking for a gun from one of my GI Joe toys. "Get off the floor," he said. "It's dirty down there. Don't get your hands dirty before you eat." That's as close as he ever came to yelling at me.
My father yells. I stop what I'm doing and turn away from my grandparents. I follow his voice to the other end of the gym. He's not yelling at me, but he's yelling to one of the players. I don't understand what he's saying. Realizing I'm not in trouble, I turn my attention back to my grandfather. I show him my new toy.


While I didn't really care much for sports as a kid, they surrounded me.
I remember my brother, who is 12 years older than me, looking so big in his high school shoulder pads. I would never be that big. My sisters played sports. Mary Jo, the oldest - 18-years-old when I was born, playing tennis on the courts near our house. Betsy and Janie played softball.
My father always seemed to have the Phillies games on the radio of his blue Volkswagen Beetle.
And there was Penn State, where dad coached and everyone was sports crazy.

Mike sees the steps that never end.

When I didn't have school, my mom would take me with her to the Worthington Scranton Campus, where I would explore the Multipurpose Building or take a trek up the seemingly never-ending stairs to the Dawson Building to see my dad in his office. There was a door that was cut in half. If Dad closed the top part of the door, I could walk through the open bottom half. Penn State was such a magical place. We rarely had chips or snacks at home - at least in places my childhood arms could reach - yet he always bought Cheez-Its or other goodies when we were on campus.
I was surrounded by college students, professors, coaches and staff. And I couldn't have been more safe.
That's why the Jerry Sandusky scandal has hurt so much. So many Penn Staters have meant so much to me over the years because the people I grew up with were the best people you could have a kid around. From when I was too young to understand the concept of an M&M candy to when I was struggling with young adulthood as a freshman and sophomore at that campus, the people at Worthington have made me who I am.
On Sunday, I had a chance to see some of them again. Sure, it meant getting up at 6:30 in the morning. Driving two and a half hours to Scranton, then two and a half hours back when it was done. But to see some of those people would be worth it.
I just missed meeting some friends, but did see Deb Johnson, who always has a smile and helps you remember why you care so much about the Blue and White. Then I saw Evelyn Miller. She made buying overpriced textbooks enjoyable. Then there was Maria Russoniello, Angela Schuback and Amy Gruzesky. It was good to see all of them.

Mike and the Lion had a good breakfast.

In the middle of our conversation, Deb mentioned that Coach Mallas might be down at the baseball field.
I had to see him. I don't remember when I first met Coach Mallas. It probably happened before I could talk or walk. But I remember how he helped bring the joy of baseball back to me. I was never a very good baseball player, but he gave me some chances at Worthington and I'll always cherish those memories. Getting a bases-loaded base hit in my first at-bat for him. Laying down a bunt single during a rain-soaked game. Him telling me that I had to choose the movies for our bus trips because I wouldn't pick movies that would offend our female scorekeepers. I guess he didn't trust my teammates. Or it could have been that none of the other teammates had parents who worked with him.
So I couldn't have been more excited when I found Coach Mallas at the gym.
"Who's this guy?" he said, as he shook my hand.
I introduced Michael.
Coach smiled.
We went into his office and talked. Michael made him laugh a couple of times. The inevitable subject - The Scandal - came up.
I said how much it bothered me that what happened tarnished a school that belonged to so many good people. I mentioned some of my favorite people on this planet.
That was when Coach said something that really hit home.
"We've had a lot of really good people here." He brought up some of the people from my childhood. 
"Sure, University Park had Coach Paterno," he said. "But we had our Coach Paternos. Mr. Rose, Mr. Simoncelli. Coach Abdalla, your father. Dr. Gallagher. Mr. Felton. They were good people. They made this place what it is."
I know Penn State's reputation has been tarnished. With what happened, it should be. Some of the people in charge made some terrible decisions. As has been said before, that was a very tiny portion of the Penn State community.
Penn State is not going to save its reputation through winning football seasons. Let's be honest, it's not going to do so through graduation rates either. It's going to take more than that.
It's going to do so through people like the people I saw Sunday. People who go beyond the classroom, the office and the playing field. People who do things the true Penn State way.
I kept seeing images of the Penn State way as I walked around campus.
I saw the lounge in the Study Learning Center, named after Dr. K. Bruce Sherbine, a man of very high integrity. I was a work study in his office and watched how he often stayed late, came out to answer students questions directly. I walked back up the stairs and into the SLC, past classrooms that were home to Paul Perrone's English 50 (Alternative Voices in American Liturature) classes. If everyone could just take that class, the world would be a better place. I thought about the many students I knew while at Worthington. They made you proud to be their classmates and friends.
If Penn State still has students like them, it's in good hands.
***
I'm standing in the middle of the gym, putting my sweatpants on over blue Penn State shorts. I'm a senior in high school who spent much of the past two years riding the bench. I'm sweating through my shirt. I work hard to get better, but never really progress that much. But it doesn't matter to my father. In his late 50s, he still hits me the grounders. Still applauds when I make a play in the gym in front of no one else. He tells me to keep at it. To have fun. "Enjoy it," is his most common refrain. He tries to keep me from getting down on myself as I throw fastballs that don't brake 70 miles per hour. He makes it seem like its his fault I don't have the ability to be a starter. Two years later, when I'm at Worthington and come home after pitching a couple of shutout innings, he quietly smiles. That's still in the future, though, when he pats my shoulder as he walks by, rounding up the balls scattered along the floor.
Over the years, my father would give me a lot of access to that gym. In high school and college, he would sneak me and my friends into the gym and we would play all hours of the day and night. Full court basketball. Wiffleball tournaments. Instead of drinking or getting into trouble, we spent our time there. I was never sure that he was allowed to do what he did, letting us play like that.
But we were safe.
I walk over to the table to pick up my coat. My father is by the door. He turns out the lights and walks out. My father was always first out. He always turned off the lights. I've always hated being in this gym in the dark. Sure, it's always been safe in the light. But with the lights off, the empty black space is too big. It's crushing in its vastness. I stand there in the dark, a 17-year-old young man and try to be brave for a moment. The moment doesn't last. I run from the darkness.
***
One of the worst things anyone ever said to me was that I would be a "Little League Dad." One of those guys who takes his children's games way too seriously.
My sister said that to me when I was in high school.
I remember thinking I'd never be like that. If Michael plays baseball, I want him to do it for one reason, and one reason alone, because he thinks its fun. If he doesn't enjoy it, I don't want him to play. If he plays, I'll be there to help pass along anything I know, but I'm never going to be one of those dads who shouts to or at his kids during the games.
I played for people who took the game too seriously. It squeezes the fun out of something that should be so beautiful.
When I helped my friend Chuck coach his son's Cal Ripken team for a couple of years, I took a lot of pride in being the "fun" coach. I tried to make each kid believe in himself, then add some wisdom if the kid wanted it. One day, Chuck said something that made me the happiest I ever was on a baseball field. "You really relate to these kids," he said. "I swear it seems like you take pressure off of them."
On our two-and-a-half hour ride back from Scranton, Michael and I listened to the Phillies-Padres game.
The Phils committed five errors in a 6-1 loss to the hapless Padres.
I tried not to get mad at them. Sure, they make millions. But its still just a game.
Halfway home, I stopped and picked up some M&Ms.