By Frank Parlato
From 1969 to 1999, he was a coach at Penn State. He spent the majority of that time as defensive coordinator, holding that position from 1977 until his retirement.
Linebacker U
His name was Gerald Arthur Sandusky. For thirty years he coached at Penn State. He taught defense. He taught young men to stand their ground and not back down. He made them into linebackers who could see the play before it happened and hit like thunder when it did.
They called the place Linebacker U. He helped build that name. The men he coached played hard and clean. His defenses were proud and sharp. For three decades, they made Penn State feared.
He believed in work and in discipline. He believed that a team could be better than any one man.
Between the legend and the ruin, there was still the man who had built it, now sitting in prison for 13 years.
The Second Mile
He started a charity called The Second Mile. It came from the words of Jesus — If a man asks you to go one mile, go with him two. Sandusky said it meant giving more than was asked. Doing more than expected.
He built it for boys who had no fathers or luck. He gave them something to do, somewhere to go.
A field, a game, a man who watched them and cared if they showed up. He taught them to run, to hit, to stay the course.
For a time, The Second Mile meant hope. It meant someone saw you. There were dinners, camps, coaches, and men who believed they could help.
But the same name that once meant kindness came to mean something else. The Second Mile became the distance between what a man said and what the world believed he had done. The second mile was longer than anyone could walk.
And somewhere along that road, the story changed.
The Fall
In 2011, he was accused of crimes that ended his life as he knew it. The trial came fast. The headlines came faster. Somewhere between truth and hysteria, his name crossed over — from symbol of victory to symbol of shame.
One day he was the beloved coach who had helped build Linebacker U and taught boys to keep their word. The next day he was accused of the worst thing a man can be accused of.
The papers said it went on for thirty years – in locker rooms, in camps, in daylight and crowds. They said it happened again and again. But no one had ever said a word. Not one man. Not one child.
No one had ever said it happened when it happened.
That was strange. Normally, you cannot live that long in the open and hide something that dark.
The headlines told a story of horror stretched across three decades—dozens of boys, hundreds of chances, not one cry for help.
Memories
They forgot, That’s how the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania said it happened. By the time they became men, they forgot they were abused.
In most of life, you don’t forget the thing that hurts you. You remember. Brains are built that way. Pain teaches you what not to touch again.
They’ve debunked repressed recovered memory everywhere but in the Sandusky case.
But for Sandusky to be guilty, everyone had to forget. They had to forget what happened when they were thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. And remember it only when the police told them it had happened . And if they couldn’t remember, there were therapists to help them. There were civil lawyers ready to guide them.
What everyone forgets—or never knew—is that the accusers were adults. Grown men remembering boyhood. They didn’t go to the police. The police went to them.
Look at the police reports. Then look at the grand jury testimony after the therapy. Then watch it change again at the criminal trial, with the civil lawyers beside them.
After that, read the intake forms at Penn State when they asked for money. How it changed.
From Jerry is innocent to he raped me— and seven million dollars later, the story was complete.
You want the big picture on Jerry? Here it is.
No one complained. Then they all made millions.
To explain the gap, the therapists said repressed recovered memory.
Eight accusers at trial. Each one remembered more as time went on.
They got between a million and a half and twenty million.
The more they remembered, the more they got.
Jerry Sandusky was no match for the avalanche. For the bandwagon. For the gold rush.
Eight men testified that Jerry Sandusky abused them – and the awards they got from Penn State.
The Sentencings
In 2012, when the verdict was done, they brought him back to face the judge. The courtroom was silent. He stood there— an old man with a coach’s posture, hands clasped behind his back. There was no tremor, no appeal for mercy.
“I feel I need to talk,” he said. “Not from arrogance, but from my heart. I did not do these alleged disgusting acts. In my heart, I know I did not do these alleged disgusting acts.”
Judge Cleland sentenced him to 30-60 years. He was 68.
Seven years later they brought him out again. By then he had spent six of those years alone, twenty-three hours a day in a concrete box, one hour a day out for air. A higher court had ruled his sentence improperly imposed
He could have said what the world wanted to hear—that he was sorry, that he had learned, that he repented. He was 75.
They might reduce the sentence of an old man, if he showed remorse. He might get out of prison alive.
Instead, he said:
“I apologize that I’m unable to admit remorse for something that I didn’t do.”
The judge listened, frowned, then handed down the same number: thirty to sixty years, minus the seven already served.
Outside, the sky over Bellefonte was the color of iron. Reporters packed their notes and left. The old man was led away, shoulders still straight, the walk, with the leg shackles and the handcuffs, more of a hobble.
His lawyer Al Lindsay called it “the worst injustice in the history of American jurisprudence.”
Maybe it is.
And maybe what remains of Jerry Sandusky is not the coach, or the prisoner, or the symbol—but the figure disappearing down that corridor, still walking, as if somewhere ahead there was one more yard to gain, one more mile to go.
Frank Parlato is an investigative journalist, media strategist, publisher, and legal consultant.
